Being Jewish was something I learned to whisper, not celebrate. But even then, even in the dull gray of Soviet life, there was one place that lived in my imagination with color and light: Israel.

As a Jewish immigrant from the the former Soviet Union, watching the events of Oct. 7, 2023, unfold was both heartbreaking and deeply personal. I was able to escape thanks to the existence of Israel. I grew up in a system that suppressed Jewish identity, where we were second-class citizens marked as “Jews” on our passports. Being targets of discrimination and cultural erasure, we were also targets of ridicule for being cowards.

Though I built a new life in America, embracing its freedom and its opportunity, my heart always held a place for the land where Jews walked tall, defended themselves, and shaped their own destiny.

That’s why Oct. 7, 2023, shook me to my core.

It wasn’t just the scale of the massacre—it was the feeling that Israel’s image of invincibility had cracked. The massacre shattered the sense of invincibility Israel carried for decades. And with that crack came a frightening question: if Israel wasn’t safe, where in the world are Jews truly safe?

I remembered the state-sponsored antisemitism and the silencing we endured in the USSR. Oct. 7, 2023,  stirred the old anxieties I thought I had left behind. The fear was not only for Israel’s physical safety, but for its very role as security for the Jewish people worldwide, including here in the United States.

From across the ocean, I watched the news with disbelief and horror. The sudden breach of Israel’s defenses, the brutality of the attack, the scenes of terror—these images cut deeper than I expected, pulling me back to a childhood shaped by anxiety and uncertainty.

For the first time since the Yom Kippur War, I felt the terrifying question arise: has Israel—the miracle of Jewish strength—lost its deterrence?

Back then, it was quick and ended in a decisive victory. This time, it took longer. But what followed reminded me what makes Israel extraordinary. Even wounded and shocked, the country refused to be broken. Israel rose united and acted with determination. The same spirit that transformed the desert into a home now surged through every corner of the nation.

And yes, I found myself moved by the Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s steadiness in restoring deterrence amid chaos, despite Israel’s often tumultuous politics. From my home in America, I watched a country reaffirm why it held status as a regional superpower, not through size, but through unity, courage, intelligence, and an indomitable spirit. It demonstrated again that Israel’s strength does not disappear in moments of darkness—it grows brighter.

As a Jewish immigrant to the United States, I carry a double gratitude: gratitude for the freedom and stability America gave my family and gratitude for the existence of Israel, the homeland that protects Jewish identity with a strength the Soviet Union never allowed us to imagine.

Oct. 7, 2023, was a tragedy. But the response was a revelation.

I felt my pride in Israel surge higher than it had in years—not because the country is perfect, but because it refuses to collapse under the weight of its pain. It rises. It rebuilds. It fights fiercely for its people.

That pride was felt in how quickly the people mobilized, how civilians stood together, how the IDF regrouped and struck back with determination and focus. Yes, there was a crack in the armor, but the spirit? Still unbreakable. The rebuilding that followed proved Israel doesn’t simply win wars–it survives even the moments that try to break it.

Because Israel is not just a country. It is a promise.

A promise that the Jewish people will never again be powerless.
A promise that even in the face of terror, the Jewish spirit will shine.
A promise that we are, and always will be, a people who rise.

For someone who grew up in a system that tried to erase Jewish identity, Israel’s survival and strength remain nothing short of miraculous. For a Jewish immigrant from the Soviet Union, Israel represents more than just a state; it is a miracle with roots in blood, struggle, and determination. Oct. 7, 2023, threatened to destroy that miracle, but it didn’t. Instead, it reminded us why Israel matters, and how far it has come.

From my home in America, I say with conviction and love: Israel, I am proud of you. Proud of your strength. Proud of your courage. Proud of your future.

Israel may have momentarily lost its deterrence, but it has not lost its spirit. And in that, I find hope.

Yakov Grinshpun was born in the Soviet Union at the end of WWII in a Nazi-controlled Jewish ghetto. He currently resides in Boca Raton and is the author of “A Man of Two Superpowers: From Russia with Hope,” a memoir. 

And many grandparents are younger than you might expect. The average age for a first-time grandparent is around 48 and many between the ages of 45 to 64 are still working.

Grandparents today spend generously on their grandchildren — school supplies and tuition head the list.

This is completely different from the grandmother I had. Today’s grandmother is different, but she still hasn’t chosen to get a tattoo. No, she hasn’t made that choice yet.

What’s in a name

There are many names for grandmothers. In Italy, she’s called Noni; in Greece, Yaya; in Israel, Savtah; and I’m called Bubbe, which is Yiddish. You might even have a special name that your grandchild loves to call you, perhaps Nana or some version of that.

But whatever she’s called, what the grandchild will receive from a loving grandparent is unconditional love.

More grandparents equals more love

An important component of a loving family is the grandparents, something children today have more of.

Many people were not fortunate enough to have four grandparents in the past. A lot of grandparents were lost in world conflicts or due to their children relocating to this new world of scattered people. My grandmother didn’t have a phone, but today, no matter where you live, you can still reach out and be close to your grandchild. In fact, 75 percent of grandparents are currently online, so times are changing.

A grandparents role in the lives of their grandchildren

Some grandparents don’t think they should spoil their grandchildren, but many do just that.

I met Alex Haley, the author of the best-selling book “ROOTS,” and he said, “Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do. Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over the lives of little children.”

An Oxford University study indicated that children whose grandparents are involved in their lives show fewer behavioral and emotional problems.

Today, due to longevity and scientific discoveries, grandparents can, and should be, a vital part of their grandchildren’s lives. Even if they don’t live close by, they can talk to and see their grandchildren via video calls. Additionally, family visits on holidays or birthdays give the grandchild the opportunity to form a loving relationship with their grandparents and this connection will offer a sense of stability and a shield of love that will make them feel secure as they go forward in life.

Keeping grandparents close

The respect and caring for the grandparents that the child’s parents offer will be a model that will mirror and reflect how they behave in later years. As they say, “as you sow, so shall you reap.” Good examples teach a child more than words can ever say.

Framing a picture of the grandparents with their grandchild and putting it on the dresser in a child’s room is an excellent way to keep the grandparents who live a distance away close to their grandchild. A grandparent can watch a program the child likes and then call the youngster and talk about it. Receiving mail from a grandparent with some stickers in the envelope is always fun and something to look forward to. Keeping up the connection with your grandchild is vital.

Remember that grandparents and even great-grandparents have an important role in the family. Share your love and family history with younger generations. They will remember that all their lives and someday those lessons will be passed on to their grandchildren, thanks to you.

Reaching out the hand of love is a gift that will be treasured now and forever and your place in the child’s heart will be secured for a lifetime. Each hug and each compliment will help make your precious grandchild someone to be loved and proud of. So do it and do it today — the sooner, the better. It’s always the right time for a hug.

Judith Levy is the New York Times best-selling author of “Grandmother Remembers,” which has sold 4 million copies to date. Her newest illustrated book, “Great-Grandmother Remembers” is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

He was known to help others every day, not only when fire alarms rang. He would try to save animals, no matter how big or small — including the kittens he found on the job. At night, he pushed to ban boots in the sleeping quarters so his coworkers could rest more comfortably. That was Joshua. Even in the smallest moments, he was looking out for others.

So, when he renewed his driver’s license, it was no surprise that he not only said “yes” to registering as an organ donor, but made it his mission to convince everyone at the fire department to register, too.

“Why is this so important to you?” they would ask. I always knew the answer. It was who he was at his core; Joshua was a giver.

When Joshua’s life was taken in an off-duty accident at just 26 years old, my world shattered. There is no way to prepare a mother’s heart for that kind of loss. But because of the way he talked about organ donation — and how determined he was to get others to join him — it felt as though he always knew he would be able to give in a way that would impact the future.

In the years since, I have found my strength in my family, my faith, and our community. Together, we hold annual gatherings to honor the angelic ways that Joshua gave so much in life, and continues to give even now.

Our family has been deeply moved by the letters from people whose lives Joshua touched. We have received tributes from his fire department family, witnessed trees planted in his memory, and were deeply moved by four of his friends whose children now carry his name. Each note, each gesture, each story reminds us that Joshua’s spirit lives on in the lives he saved and the people he inspired.

The most powerful way to honor Joshua, and to honor so many families who have walked a similar path, is also one of the simplest: registering as an organ donor.

Saying “yes” to organ donation is a decision most of us will hopefully never have to think about again. But that one “yes” can mean everything to someone else. Joshua’s “yes” saved four people’s lives and helped more than 200 others through tissue donation. It brings me comfort to know that he is no longer just “my” Joshua, but “our” Joshua.

Joshua’s Judaism was very important to him, and in our faith, the highest value is “pikuach nefesh” — saving a life. It is considered so sacred that it overrides nearly every other commandment. Joshua lived that value from his work at the fire department through his final act as an organ, tissue, and bone donor.

One of the greatest gifts any of us can give is the gift of life. By registering as a donor, one person can save up to eight lives, restore sight through cornea donation, and improve the health and quality of life for many more through tissue donation.

Joshua is still a giver of life, even though he no longer is here with us. Now it is my turn — and the turn of his friends, our family, and the countless people who have been touched by organ donation — to carry his mission forward.

In Joshua’s memory, and with the voice he helped me and so many others find, I ask you to take a moment today to consider registering as an organ donor. I hope you will choose to learn more and register at DonateLifeFlorida.org.

My visit from Nov. 17-20, 2025 highlighted not only the significance of the event itself but also the profound connection between past and present. Six decades after Nostra Aetate rejected antisemitism, recognized the shared spiritual heritage of Jews and Catholics, and opened the way for honest and respectful dialogue, my participation served as a humble reminder of how much progress has been made, and how much responsibility still lies ahead.

Organized by Abarbanel University of the Seminario Rabinico Latinoamericano in Buenos Aires and the Pontifical University of the Holy Cross in Vatican City, the program explored the impact of Nostra Aetate, the evolving roles of religious leaders, and the challenges of intercultural dialogue. Our journey included visits to the Jewish Catacombs, the Fosse Ardeatine, the synagogue in the Jewish Ghetto, a Buddhist temple, the Great Mosque of Rome, the Vatican Museum and Library, and culminated with a private audience with Pope Leo XIV.

During various roundtables, we examined the remarkable transformation sparked by Nostra Aetate and engaged in vital discussions on how to deepen mutual respect and understanding among members of different faiths. Before 1965, centuries of Christian teachings had fostered suspicion and hostility toward Jews, resulting in persecution and theological misconceptions. The declaration’s call to respect, dialogue, and shared learning did more than amend doctrine; it transformed entire communities. I reflected on how these changes shaped my own rabbinic education, especially as an indirect disciple of Prof. Abraham Joshua Heschel through my teacher, Rabbi Marshall Meyer.

Few figures influenced Jewish-Catholic relations in the 20th century as profoundly as Prof. Heschel. A theologian, philosopher, mystic, and civil rights activist, he played a decisive role during the Second Vatican Council, especially in the development of Nostra Aetate. In the 1960s, after the horrors of the Holocaust, there was both moral urgency and historical necessity to rethink relations between creeds. Prof. Heschel brought intellectual depth and moral clarity to his extensive dialogue with Catholic leaders.

Prof. Heschel never sought theological agreement but rather honesty and reverence. He called for interreligious humility, shared moral responsibility, and a recognition of distinctiveness without hostility—values that echo throughout the final text of Nostra Aetate and continue to guide my own approach to interfaith work.

One particularly meaningful moment of the visit was presenting a gift from B’nai Torah Congregation to Pope Leo XIV. Artist Janette Kulvin Oren created a beautiful work symbolizing our shared desire for peace and understanding. It features a dove and an olive branch, the words Shalom and Pax, a palm tree representing Florida, and the verse from Psalm 133: “How good and how pleasant it is for brothers and sisters to dwell together in unity,” in both Hebrew and English, alongside B’nai Torah’s logo. Pope Leo XIV received it with admiration and gratitude.

Today, Nostra Aetate is recognized as a pivotal moment in Jewish-Christian relations. My visit to the Vatican stands as a testament to what can be achieved when dialogue is met with sincerity and mutual respect. It will remain one of the highlights of my rabbinate and will continue to inspire me to teach, build bridges, and advocate for greater understanding between faiths—for the betterment of our communities and our world.

Rabbi Hector Epelbaum is a rabbi at B’nai Torah Congregation in Boca Raton.

For many Jews, that ambience stirs a complicated mix: warmth and nostalgia, discomfort and distance, and the familiar feeling of standing just slightly outside the center of American life. It can also activate something older, an inherited reflex of vigilance. We have good historical reasons for that reflex. But here’s the question I find myself asking each year, as both a rabbi and a psychologist:

What if, rather than being only a source of alienation, Christmas could actually benefit Jews?

Not religiously, of course. Our beliefs and practices remain our own. I’m not suggesting we borrow or change our theology. I’m suggesting something more grounded and, in a way, more Jewish: that we notice the emotional wisdom embedded in the culture around us and use it to strengthen our own inner life.

Here’s my thesis: when approached thoughtfully, Christmas can function as a once-a-year invitation for Jews to rest, reset, soften our emotional guard, and rediscover our own light.

A national “Sabbath” for a nervous system that rarely gets to exhale

Christmas is one of the only times of year when America does something almost unheard of in our 24/7 hustle culture: it pauses. Stores close. Workplaces empty. Email slows. Even traffic softens.

From a neuroscience perspective, this matters. Most of us live in a low-grade state of sympathetic arousal; the “always on” mode that fuels stress, hurry, irritability, and the inability to fully exhale. We live in a culture that rewards hypervigilance and calls it productivity.

Then Christmas arrives like a giant cultural cue to downshift.

You don’t have to observe Christmas religiously to benefit from its rhythm. When the world quiets, our bodies often follow. When the pace slows, our nervous systems finally get permission to shift into “rest and restore” mode. This isn’t theology. It’s physiology.

In a country that rarely stops, Christmas becomes a built-in day of rest for everyone, including Jews. And maybe we need that reminder more than we care to admit.

Christmas aesthetics remind Jews that beauty is not a luxury

Let’s be honest, Christmas does aesthetics extremely well.

The lights. The music. The warmth. The glow. These aren’t trivial. They are sensory regulation tools. Behavioral science shows that rhythm, light, color, and sound stabilize mood and calm the nervous system. In that sense, Christmas is a national-level mood intervention, sometimes commercialized, yes, but undeniably effective.

Many Jews, especially those with Eastern European roots, carry a cultural suspicion of aesthetic pleasure. Centuries of antisemitism taught us to be careful, modest, invisible. When the world can turn on you, you learn not to stand out. You learn to keep joy quiet.

Judaism, of course, is not anti-beauty. We light candles. We sing. We elevate wine and challah. We decorate sukkot. We wrap holiness in sensory experience. Yet many Jews live as if beauty is secondary to responsibility.

Christmas offers a gentle provocation: beauty is not frivolous. It’s nourishment.

When Jews see neighborhoods sparkling with holiday decorations, we often think, “This isn’t ours.” But maybe the deeper question is: what beauty do we need to reclaim as ours? Where can Jewish life invite more joy, color, and sensory delight? Not as performance, but as spiritual medicine.

Chanukah begins this work. Christmas, paradoxically, renews the reminder.

Joy is a psychological skill—and Christmas models permission

Christmas gives Christians social permission to express joy openly. Warmth, reunion, celebration; joy is the emotional tone of the season.

Joy is not something Jews always feel permitted to fully inhabit. Our history can make happiness feel risky, temporary, even guilt-laden. Many of us carry the belief that if we relax too much, something bad will follow. We brace. We scan. We prepare.

That isn’t weakness. It’s a survival strategy, that seems to be hard-wired from generational trauma.

But psychology is clear: joy isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity. Joy restores the nervous system, lowers stress hormones, widens creativity and hope, and strengthens human connection. In Jewish language, joy isn’t just a mood. It’s a spiritual resource.

As my rebbe, Rabbi Joseph Gelberman, of blessed memory, taught, one of the highest levels of spirituality is embracing the joy of being alive.

When Jews witness genuine Christmas joy, not the commercial frenzy, but the warmth and generosity, it can serve as a mirror: this is what it looks like when a community gives itself permission to feel good.

Maybe Jews deserve that permission too.

Not in imitation. In reclamation. Ivdu et Hashem b’simcha, serve with joy. Joy isn’t betrayal. It’s resilience.

Generosity, nostalgia, and belonging

One of the loveliest features of Christmas is generosity. People give more, volunteer more, and are more civil toward one another. Neuroscience shows that generosity activates the brain’s reward circuitry. Giving heals the giver.

Judaism has always known this. Chesed, loving-kindness, is a divine attribute and a pillar of the world. But Jewish generosity can sometimes feel dutiful rather than joyful. Christmas reminds us that giving can also feel expansive and celebratory.

Christmas is also built on nostalgia, the music, rituals, food, memory. Psychology now recognizes nostalgia as emotionally stabilizing. It reduces loneliness and strengthens identity.

Jews have nostalgia too: Shabbat melodies, family recipes, old siddurim, stories that became tradition. Ours is quieter, less reinforced. Christmas can prompt us to ask which Jewish memories soothe us; and which we want to pass on.

For some Jews, Christmas sharpens feelings of not quite belonging. That pain is real. But it can also remind us of Jewish resilience. We have lived among many cultures without losing ourselves.

When experienced thoughtfully, Christmas can ground us in belonging:

We are here.
We contribute.
We remain ourselves.

Letting Christmas benefit us without losing ourselves

Three simple suggestions:

1. Treat Christmas as a national day of rest. Read. Nap. Walk. Go to a park. Let your nervous system unwind.
2. Let beauty soften your guard. Notice the lights. Let warmth register.
3. Use the season as a mirror. Ask what Jewish joy, kindness, memory, and rest need renewal in your life.

Christmas does not diminish Judaism. Approached with maturity and boundaries, it can deepen our appreciation. Because the true gift of Christmas for Jews isn’t religious. It’s psychological. It’s a moment to remember that joy is not a betrayal of our past; it’s a blessing for our future.

And to our Christian friends and neighbors, we can say this wholeheartedly and without confusion: may your celebration bring you peace.

Rabbi Bruce D. Forman, PhD practices psychology in Weston and specializes in Behavioral Sleep Medicine. He is the author of “For God’s Sake, Go to Sleep: Insights About Sleep from Jewish Tradition & Modern Science.”

The horrific attack in Sydney feels painfully close to home. A moment meant to spread light and joy was shattered by darkness, taking the life of a beloved Chabad Shliach and 14 others – leaving families and communities broken.

It hit so hard because it was targeted at the very first public menorah lighting of the year – a moment when Jewish light was about to shine out into the world.

They wanted to send a message of fear.

They wanted us to hide, to shrink, to doubt the power of our flame.

But they don’t understand our story.

Our flame was born in darkness.

For over 2,000 years, it has survived every attempt to extinguish it, but it doesn’t break and it doesn’t disappear. It shines – sometimes even brighter because of the darkness around it.

As the Rebbe taught us, “Every blow meant to break us becomes a reason to grow stronger.”

So today, we mourn deeply, pray for the families who are grieving and for the wounded who are fighting to recover.

And at the same time, we reaffirm who we are as a people.

We respond to darkness with more light. We respond to hate with more love. We respond to fear with courage, unity, and Jewish pride.

There are many that are understandably scared to attend public menorah lightings this year. But the Jewish way is not to hide. That would be giving in to their terror. The Jewish way is to celebrate Chanukah together as a community and kindle the menorah together as one family.

At Chabad Chayil’s Great Chanukah Fair this year, over a thousand people came together and showed the world loud and clear that Am Yisrael Chai.

Please show up at a Chanukah event near you.

This year, even many non-Jews are setting up large display menorahs wherever possible.

We hope and pray for an end to all violence in the world and the eradication of all evil. We know that at the end, goodness and light will prevail, and that even though we are outnumbered, righteousness will endure.

We wish you and your family a very happy Chanukah. May our days be filled with light, warmth, joy and positive energy, and always increasing, just like the menorah lights that increase with each day.

May the memory of the victims be a blessing. May healing come swiftly to the wounded.

And may the lights of Chanukah bring comfort, strength, and hope to Jews everywhere.

Now it’s the turn for each and every one of us to be the light — now more than ever.

To join a South Florida Chanukah event near you, visit JewishFlorida.news/Chanukah.

Rabbi Kievman together with his wife are the ambassadors of The Rebbe to Highland Lakes. They are the founders of Gan Chabad Preschool, local CTeen & CKids chapters, CHAP – an afterschool program for Jewish children in Public Schools and direct Chabad Chayil. He’s the rabbi at The Family Shul and can be reached at 305-770-1919 or rabbi@ChabadChayil.org. You can also support the community with your partnership at ChabadChayil.org/Partner.

The shooting targeting a Chanukah observance in Australia is a stark reminder that Jewish visibility remains contested. Lighting candles in public, wearing Jewish symbols, gathering openly to celebrate—these acts still carry risk. That is not paranoia. It is history repeating itself with different accents.

Which means this moment demands more than mourning. It demands clarity—about contemporary antisemitism, and about what Chanukah itself actually commemorates.

Chanukah is not a story born of comfort, of safety or of tolerance. It is a story born of persecution. It marks a moment when Jews were forbidden by imperial decree to practice their religion, teach their children, or live openly as Jews. Jewish visibility itself was criminalized.

The response was not quiet endurance. It was defiance. The Maccabees were not symbols. They were warriors. They resisted enforced assimilation, fought a vastly stronger power, reclaimed their sacred space, and insisted—violently when necessary—on the right of Jews to exist publicly as Jews.

This was not a story about allies. No sympathetic Greeks intervened. No coalition of the concerned arrived in time. The Maccabees did not wait for permission or protection from others with power. They seized agency themselves. Chanukah celebrates Jewish strength, Jewish self-defense, and Jewish refusal to depend on others for the right to exist.

Yes, Chanukah also commemorates the rededication of the Temple and the miracle of oil that burned for eight days. These elements matter. But focusing only on the miracle while ignoring the conditions that made it necessary sanitizes the story. The oil burned because the Temple had been reclaimed. The Temple was reclaimed through armed resistance. The miracle we celebrate is not only supernatural—it is survival achieved through refusal to disappear.

That matters now.

For many Jews, especially in places like the U.S. where we have known safety, Chanukah has softened into something cozy: candles in the window, gifts for children, familiar foods. These rituals matter. But they can obscure the harder truth. Chanukah celebrates Jewish strength, not Jewish fragility; resistance, not accommodation; visibility, not retreat.

Chanukah does not teach that hatred dissolves if we shine light gently enough. It teaches that survival sometimes requires the willingness to fight for who we are.

What does that mean today? It means several things, all uncomfortable—and all necessary.

It means physical self-defense: preparation, training, and security at synagogues and Jewish institutions. Not hoping someone else will protect us. Not assuming allies will arrive in time. The Maccabees’ lesson is not that the world saves Jews when conscience is stirred. It is that Jews often must save themselves.

It means political and legal resistance: challenging institutional failures, confronting incitement, and insisting that Jewish safety is not negotiable.

It means refusal to hide: mezuzot on doorposts, menorahs in windows rather than back rooms. Jewish life lived visibly, unapologetically.

It means cultural resistance: demanding Jewish history be taught honestly, resisting sanitization and rejecting narratives that recast Jewish self-defense as aggression.

The Maccabees did not prevail because they were numerous or powerful. They prevailed because they refused erasure—militarily, culturally, and spiritually. Contemporary Jewish survival requires the same multi-front refusal.

That refusal is the core of Chanukah.

Chanukah’s lights were meant to face outward—not to reassure the world, but to declare something simple and unyielding: We are still here.

That is not a gentle message.

It is a necessary one.

Todd L. Pittinsky is a professor of Technology, AI, and Society at Stony Brook University (SUNY). His forthcoming book is Antisemitism Online: An Ancient Hatred in the Modern World (Oxford University Press). He blogs semi-regularly at The Times of Israel Marketplace of Ideas.

“It’s Hanukkah tonight!” yelled my 4-year-old.

“It’s finally here!” my 6-year-old followed.

I felt elated. For Jews, it’s that Christmas morning feeling of having little ones so excited for a holiday. We had a big Hanukkah celebration planned for sundown and all day to prepare for it.

And then I opened my phone.

Immediately, it was flooded with news of Bondi Beach. An event for Jews celebrating the first night of Hanukkah ended in death. Jews were, once again, targeted and killed simply for being themselves.

And I knew right away that this was not just a crazy person who woke up that morning and decided to shoot his gun at this Australian beach. It was a planned attack on the Jewish community, meant to shake up Jews all around the world and prevent them from celebrating Hanukkah freely and openly.

And it almost worked.

My phone began to ring. “Talk me off a ledge,” said a friend who is a preschool director and had a big Hanukkah event planned for later that day.

Another text came in. “I was going to go to the Delray menorah lighting with the kids, but now I don’t know if I feel safe.”

My heart continued to drop with each message.

I wholeheartedly understood their feelings. Why would we bring our kids to an open, public Jewish celebration when a 10-year-old was murdered doing just that?

As I discussed adding more police presence with the school director and assured my friend that everything would be OK I didn’t fully believe the words I was saying.

As more details began to emerge, things just felt more and more grim. The lovely rebbetzin of my daughters’ preschool Chabad had a cousin murdered at Bondi. He was a rabbi who had recently posted a video displaying a menorah on his car to amplify Jewish pride.

It was then that the tears began to fall. I didn’t want to take away my children’s excitement for Hanukkah, but when my 6-year-old asked what was wrong, I told her the truth.

“Jews were celebrating Hanukkah in Australia and someone hurt them,” I told her.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t even shocked. Just last week, as we prepared to attend a Hanukkah party with Holocaust survivors, my husband and I made the decision to explain what the Holocaust was. We knew she may not have another chance to meet a survivor and we wanted her to understand how important that was.

So, she didn’t cry. Instead, she said, “This happens, Mommy, but we will still be proud Jews.”

This is the reality for Jews today.

While holiday celebrations occur around the world, we are left explaining to our young children that we are not offered the same luxury of safety as others. That we are not able to simply celebrate a holiday without fear, without sadness, without hate.

But, just as the Maccabees found their light — so do we.

That night, the first night of Hanukkah and just hours after news broke of the horrific attack in Bondi, Jews showed up.

“Eight hundred people came,” said the preschool director. “It was amazing.”

Celebrations all around South Florida and the country were filled with Jews, proving to everyone that no matter what, our light will not be dimmed.

We lit our menorahs and said a silent extra prayer for those we lost. And for the rest of Hanukkah, we will do the same.

May our lights never dim. Chag Sameach.

Chanukah also comes from the word Chinuch, which is the Hebrew word for education. During this holiday, we are meant to gather our families together and educate our children and ourselves about the miracles done for us. Together with recalling the original Chanukah miracles, we remind our families about the personal stories that we each have and the miracles that brought us to where we are today.

Chanukah (Hanukkah or Hanuka), which is also known as the Festival of Lights, begins this year on the evening of Sunday, Dec. 14, and concludes 8 days after, on the evening of Monday, Dec. 22. It recalls the victory of the militarily weak Jewish people over the military strong Syrian Greeks who had overrun ancient Israel and sought to impose restrictions on the Jewish way of life and prohibit religious freedom.

They also desecrated and defiled the Temple and the oils prepared for the lighting of the menorah, which was part of the daily service. Upon recapturing the Temple, only one jar of undefiled oil was found, enough to burn for only one day, but it lasted miraculously for eight. In commemoration, Jews celebrate Chanukah for eight days by lighting an eight-branched candelabrum known as a menorah (the ninth branch is to help light the other eight). Today, the holiday has become a symbol and message of the triumph of freedom over oppression, of spirit over matter, of light over darkness.

This year’s menorah lighting is done with the recognition of the crucial need for a message of hope during a difficult time for the people in Israel.

The menorah serves as a symbol of light and hope for us amidst the world’s craziness, as it did for generations before us. The flames of the menorah shine out into the night, reminding us that even when confronted with much darkness, a tiny light can dispel it all. Each additional act of goodness and kindness fills that corner of the world with light, slowly catching on and spreading like wildfire. One act of goodness and kindness can make all the difference.

Uniquely, at the core of Chanukah’s observance is sharing the light with others who may not be experiencing it.

Throughout the state of Florida, Chabad will be organizing scores of giant menorah displays and Hanukkah events. The 22nd annual street fair celebration in West Aventura is a free family-friendly event taking place on Dec. 14 at 3 p.m. There will be pony rides, a petting zoo, laser tag, a holiday boutique, and more. As a family man who is deeply involved in the community, I must say that there is no better way to spend the first night of Chanukah. Adults and children are welcomed to join the many dignitaries and community leaders for an enjoyable and a meaningful time for everyone.

Other local events include a grand celebration with the Miami Heat on Dec. 15 and a concert at Rick Case Arena, plus more. To find a local event, or anywhere throughout the world, visit Chabad’s international Chanukah event directory at ChabadChayil.org/Chanukah or the Jewish community’s local directory at JewishFlorida.news/Chanukah.

This year, Chabad-organized menorah parades will see over 7,000 Chanukah menorah-topped cars hit the road, bringing the Chanukah message of hope and joy through the city and into residential neighborhoods, allowing families to safely share the joy and light of Chanukah with pride. Chabad centers worldwide have prepared over 32 million Chanukah candles, more than 770,000 menorah kits and 3.6 million holiday guides in 18 languages.

Large display menorahs are available at many online sources. If you still need a menorah or candles for yourself, or need any help celebrating the holiday, please call your local Chabad or my office at 305-770-1919. We can also help you plan your own Chanukah event, menorah lighting or latke party.

We hope and pray for an end to all violence in the world and the eradication of all evil. We know that in the end, goodness and light will prevail, and that even though we are outnumbered, righteousness will endure.

We wish you and your family a very happy Chanukah. May our days be filled with light, warmth, joy and positive energy that is always increasing, just like the menorah lights that increase with each day.

Rabbi Kievman, together with his wife, are the ambassadors of The Rebbe to Highland Lakes. They are the founders of Gan Chabad Preschool, local CTeen & CKids chapters, CHAP – an afterschool program for Jewish children in public schools and direct Chabad Chayil. He’s the rabbi at The Family Shul and can be reached at 305-770-1919 or rabbi@ChabadChayil.org.

In my public school, teachers would smile in December and ask, “Your people have your holiday too, right? What’s it called again?” Classmates whispered cringeworthy jokes about Jews being “different,” but wondered aloud why we didn’t believe in Jesus. A neighbor once referred to our family as “those nice Jewish people,” in the same tone one might use for a family who kept a pet goat in the backyard. These were small moments, subtle, almost invisible, but they left an indelible mark on my psyche. They taught me early on that belonging is conditional, that safety is a negotiation, that identity has a shadow side, and that being Jewish means you’re somehow inferior.

Those memories have returned with disturbing clarity the past few years as antisemitism surges globally — from street assaults to campus intimidation to social media that turns ancient hatred into a viral emotion. But the Chanukah story, when understood deeply, offers not only spiritual guidance, but a framework that resonates powerfully with modern behavioral science. Together, they illuminate both why antisemitism persists and what tools are available to counter it.

Chanukah begins in the dark, and so does change

Chanukah is not a triumphalist holiday. Its root is fragility: a small cruse of oil, a small people, a small uprising against a cultural force determined to erase Jewish identity. It is a story about psychological resilience, not military might.

Modern behavioral science affirms that meaningful change begins not from strength but from vulnerability. Neuroscience shows that the human brain pays heightened attention in moments of threat or uncertainty as sympathetic nervous system activity accelerates. It is precisely in moments of darkness that we form the commitments that sustain us. Chanukah teaches the same: the first step toward resilience is acknowledging the darkness, not pretending it isn’t there.

Today, Jews in every corner of the world face an unprecedented volume of darkness: online hatred, misinformation, political polarization, and open hostility in public spaces. Denial won’t help us. But neither will despair.

The Chanukah tradition begins with a single flame, small, insufficient, almost absurd in its optimism, and commands us to increase light each night. Behavioral science calls this the upward spiral: small, repeated positive actions that build psychological strength, collective identity, and strength over time.

The psychology of hate and of hope

Antisemitism is not merely a set of ideas; it is a behavioral pattern reinforced over centuries. Social psychology shows that prejudice thrives when three conditions converge: Perceived threat, group polarization, and dehumanization. We are witnessing all three today.

But Chanukah offers a response rooted not in fear but in identity. The Maccabees fought not for dominance, but rather to maintain cultural continuity. They asserted: We belong. Our story matters. Our presence is non-negotiable.

Positive psychology, the branch of psychology that studies human flourishing, echoes this sentiment. One of its most robust findings is that people who anchor themselves in meaning, purpose, and community can withstand extraordinary adversity. Jewish identity rich with history, ritual, humor, memory, and resilience is itself a psychological fortress.

Sleep, stress, and the fight against hatred

As a rabbi and psychologist, I cannot ignore another truth: stress and fear degrade our cognitive clarity. Sleep deprivation is amplified by threat perception, in turn reducing empathy, and increasing reactivity, exactly the conditions under which the impact of antisemitism grows.

Chanukah’s deepest message is menuchat hanefesh, rest for the soul. The Midrash (Tanhuma) describes the Temple menorah as a symbol of divine calmness, a light that continues even when our own strength falters.

At times like the present, caring for our nervous systems through rest, connection, and supportive communities, is not indulgence. It is strategy. A calm brain is harder to manipulate. A rested mind sees nuance. A robust nervous system resists fear-based narratives.

Jewish survival has always depended on both vigilance and vitality.

From personal pain to collective purpose

When I remember the quiet antisemitism of my childhood: the jokes, the assumptions, the polite exclusions, I realize something. What felt “mild” was actually formative. It taught me to pull back. To stay alert. To internalize the idea that safety is conditional.

The rise of antisemitism today carries those same emotional fingerprints, but louder.

We cannot withdraw now.

Chanukah teaches us not through bravado but through its very structure, that the only antidote to darkness is public light. That identity must be visible, ritual must be embodied, and dignity must be enacted.

Psychology tells us the same: people reduce prejudice when they encounter real humans, real stories, real relationships instead of stereotypes. Every menorah in a window is not only a Jewish ritual; it is an act of psychological de-biasing. It challenges the narratives that feed antisemitism.

Lighting the way forward

So, what do Chanukah and behavioral science together teach us about combating antisemitism on a global scale?

1. Identity must be practiced, not hidden.
Visibility increases resilience and reduces stigma, both individually and collectively.

2. Connection is a protective factor.
Belonging is the strongest buffer against fear. Communities that celebrate together withstand external hostility better.

3. Small acts compound.
Psychology shows that repeated micro-actions create durable change. One candle leads to eight.

4. Rest is resistance.
A community that sleeps, restores, and recharges is harder to intimidate or destabilize.

5. Narrative is power.
The Chanukah story reminds us that Jews have faced suppression before and we survived not through assimilation, but through illumination.

Eight nights, one message

In the Maccabean story, light doesn’t vanquish darkness in one dramatic moment. It grows, night by night, through persistence, ritual, community, and faith in the possibility of renewal.

The same is true today.

Antisemitism is rising. But so is Jewish clarity, Jewish solidarity, and Jewish purpose. The work ahead is not simply to fight hate. It is to cultivate meaning, connection, identity, and resilience so deeply that hate has nowhere to take root.

We fight antisemitism not only by opposing others’ darkness, but by tending our own light.

This year, as we kindle each candle, may we remember that Jewish resilience is not theoretical; it is historical, psychological, and profoundly human. It lives in our rituals. It lives in our science. It lives in our stories. And it lives in us.

Rabbi Bruce D. Forman, PhD practices psychology in Weston and specializes in behavioral sleep medicine. He is the author of the forthcoming book For God’s Sake Go to Sleep: Insights About Sleep from Jewish Tradition & Modern Science