My reflection for this Purim

A traveler once arrived at the court of a renowned Hasidic Rabbi and, with a trembling voice, with the urgency of one desperate to grasp the incomprehensible, asked: “Rebbe, explain to me—how is it possible that the Jewish people still exist despite the countless empires that have tried to destroy them?”

The Rabbi held his gaze, with the depth of one who has seen suffering and redemption intertwined throughout the history of his people. Without saying a word, he led the traveler into a dark room. “Strike the wall”, he commanded. The traveler, bewildered, obeyed. He put all his strength into each blow, felt the vibration beneath his knuckles, heard the echo reverberate through the silence—but the wall remained firm, immovable, indestructible.

Then, the Rabbi lit a candle. The thick, impenetrable darkness vanished as if it had never been. “That”, he whispered, his voice resonating across time, “is Am Yisrael. We have been struck, beaten, and nearly erased, but we have never been destroyed—because it is not strength that sustains us. It is the light. It is faith. It is history. It is the promise that as long as that flame burns, as long as even a single Jew still breathes, we cannot be extinguished.”

The story of Purim is living proof of this truth—the story of a nation that has stood on the precipice of annihilation countless times, marked for destruction, feeling the blade of the sword against its neck, hearing the decrees that sought to erase its name from history, and yet, time and time again, prevailing. Just as Mordechai was paraded through the streets on the royal horse, clad in the king’s robes, led by the very enemy who sought his downfall, the Jewish people have transformed humiliation into greatness, condemnation into redemption.

Haman, the Persian minister, did not merely seek to destroy the Jews—he sought to uproot them, to strip them of their identity, to make the world forget they ever existed. As it is written: “All the king’s servants at the palace gate would kneel and bow down to Haman, for the king had so commanded. But Mordechai would not kneel and would not bow.” (Esther 3:2). Mordechai’s defiance was not just an act of rebellion—it was the essence of our people encapsulated in a single moment. It was the refusal to surrender. It was the conviction that there are things greater than physical survival, that dignity is not negotiable, that when history has given us only one choice, that choice will always be to resist.

Centuries have passed, and Esther and Mordechai are no longer among us—but the story remains unchanged. The massacre of October 7, 2023, was not just another attack. It was the same decree, uttered over and over again, under different names, with different faces, in different uniforms. It was the echo of the cursed Haman reverberating through time—the same hatred that burned in the fires of the Inquisition, that was stamped onto the yellow stars of the Nazis, that whispered in the shadows of the pogroms, that filled the gas chambers with the illusion that, this time, they had finally succeeded. But what Haman, in all his forms, and his perpetrators fail to understand is that every time they have tried to erase us, we have returned—stronger, more determined, with the unwavering certainty that hatred cannot defeat those who refuse to be defeated.

And yet, the greatest danger today is that antisemitism no longer needs armies or weapons to be lethal. It wears new disguises. It infiltrates the language of social justice. It hides behind banners. It normalizes itself in elite universities. It marches through the streets of cities where past generations swore “Never again.” At Harvard, at Stanford, at Columbia, in Paris, in Berlin, in every corner where voices rise to justify extermination under a different euphemism, the echo of the same ancient threat resounds. But just as in the days of Esther, when despair seemed absolute, when the decree had been signed and the fate of the Jewish people seemed sealed, history shifted course—and those who had plotted destruction were forced to witness their own downfall.

Today, the streets are still loud. Life carries on. But there are homes where the light has gone out. Families who count the days, who hold their breath in a limbo of uncertainty, who stare at an empty chair and feel as though the world stopped on the day their loved ones were taken from them. There are mothers who no longer know how to sleep without hearing the screams in their minds, fathers who have forgotten how to breathe without feeling a lump in their throat, siblings who hold onto photographs because that is all they have left.

But we know they will return—sooner or later. Just as in those days when sorrow turned to joy and mourning to celebration, when the threat was overturned, darkness is never eternal. The light always returns. The danger has not disappeared. Hamas is not the only Haman of our generation. (Vehi She’amda.) Beyond Gaza, beyond the tunnels and the weapons, hatred has an even more insidious face—one that declares its intentions with chilling clarity, one that finances death and preaches destruction.

But history has already spoken. Just as Haman’s own advisors saw his fate and understood that his fall was inevitable, those who rise against the Jewish people today have failed to grasp that plans for destruction are nothing more than the prelude to their own collapse. (VeHaKadosh Baruch Hu matzileinu mi’yadam.)

Purim is not merely a reminder of Jewish survival—it is a testament to the struggle, to the dignity, to the unyielding resistance that burns in every generation. As it was written for eternity: “The Jews had light, and gladness, and joy, and honor.” Because the Jewish people do not merely survive—we illuminate the world with our very existence. From the soldiers who defend every inch of our land to the students who stand tall against antisemitism in universities, the spirit of Esther and Mordechai lives on.

Every generation has its Haman. But every generation also has its answer. And ours is clear: We are still here. We are still breathing. We are still building. We are still living. And so, returning to the Rebbe’s story, making the same reflection I now share with you, the traveler finally understood the answer. It was not just a wall. It was not just a candle. It was the history of his people, his nation, his blood, his destiny—everything that is ours.

The story of a Nation that has been beaten, humiliated, exiled, massacred—and yet still stands. Haman fell. And with him, all who came before and after him. The world has changed. Empires have risen and crumbled. Oppressors have disappeared into the dust of history. And the flame still burns. In every Jewish home that celebrates Purim. In every soldier who defends life. In every student who refuses to bow their head. In every hostage we still await. In every family that still dreams of a reunion. The story of Israel is the story of a light that not even the deepest darkness has been able to extinguish. As in Purim, the darkness will once again fade. We will not bow before those who seek our disappearance. We did not do it before. We will not do it now. We will not do it ever. We will prevail. Am Yisrael Chai!