This Is a Maccabee Moment

As this year comes to a close, the violence that struck a Jewish community in Sydney during a Chanukah celebration forces a clarity many have resisted. Chanukah is not just a holiday of light. It is the most Zionist holiday on the calendar, rooted in a moment when Jews refused erasure, refused forced assimilation, and insisted on living openly as who they are. That context matters, because what happened was not random. It was an attack on people gathered to celebrate identity, continuity, and belonging.

What should have been joy and togetherness became fear and loss simply because the people present were Jewish. This is not symbolic. It is lived reality.

We have seen this before. October 7 was not an attack on borders or policy. It was an attack on people because they were Jewish, carried out on a sacred holiday, in their homes and communities, at a moment meant for family and rest. What happened in Sydney is different in geography but not in nature. When Jews are attacked while celebrating who they are, the setting changes, but the intent does not.

Yet the reactions to these events reveal an uncomfortable truth. The attack in Sydney is broadly condemned as senseless violence. The attack on Israel is too often explained, contextualized, or even justified by questioning Israel’s right to exist in the first place. That distinction matters. It reflects a belief, held by too many, that violence against Jews is unacceptable only when it cannot be rationalized through politics, and that Jewish suffering becomes negotiable when tied to the existence of a Jewish state.

This is the heart of the virtue signaling we have been witnessing. Condemning antisemitism in the abstract while excusing it in practice. Mourning Jewish death in one place while questioning whether Jewish life elsewhere deserves protection at all. Expressing solidarity only when it requires no moral clarity.

For years, Jewish communities have tried to explain what this feels like. Hostile language toward Jews and toward Jewish self-determination was treated as acceptable discourse rather than as a warning sign. Accusations of genocide were repeated casually while real atrocities elsewhere drew little attention. Israel’s right to defend itself was questioned in ways no other nation’s right ever is. Jewish fear was reframed as political sensitivity instead of understood as lived experience.

When people tried to articulate this, they were told they were being dramatic. That it was not that serious. That it was just rhetoric, just protest, just young people fighting for justice. Now, after violence has made denial impossible, some of the same voices speak of light and unity as if reflection after the fact erases years of dismissal.

It does not.

Rhetoric does not remain abstract when it is normalized. When hostility is rationalized, it shapes the world people live in. It influences how danger is assessed and whose pain is taken seriously. The shock that follows tragedy often reveals not that warning signs were absent, but that they were inconvenient.

This is not about politics. It is about the right of a people to exist openly and safely as who they are. Jewish life has always been diverse in expression and belief, yet bound by shared history, peoplehood, and responsibility. Wherever Jews live, there is family, continuity, and strength. Jews are not powerless. We are resilient, capable, and enduring, with a deep commitment to contributing to the world rather than shrinking from it.

As the year ends, the question is not whether we can express sympathy after violence. It is whether we are willing to listen before it happens again. Whether we are willing to acknowledge Jewish experience as real rather than conditional. Whether we are prepared to recognize patterns while there is still time to interrupt them.

Chanukah reminds us that there are moments when survival requires resolve. The Maccabees did not fight to disappear quietly or to dilute who they were in order to be tolerated. They fought to live openly, to protect identity, and to pass something intact to the next generation.

This is such a moment.

We owe that clarity to those who came before us, and we owe it to our children. We cannot accept a world where Jewish identity is something to hide, where symbols are removed from doorways, or where being Jewish is treated as inconsequential. We must stay rooted. We must protect our traditions and our faith. We must insist on a world where Jewish life is not merely endured, but lived with pride, strength, and safety.

That is not defiance for its own sake. It is continuity.

And it is responsibility.