By Debbie Schlussel
As I write this, the Jewish holiday of Chanukah is soon to begin–as all Jewish holidays do–at sundown.
Chanukah, the Jewish Festival of Light, is the story of miracles on so many levels, miracles Jews remember during this eight-day holiday, every year. But, unlike other Jewish holidays, part of our observance of this holiday is to publicize the miracles of Chanukah to the public by lighting our menorahs (plural is actually “menorot”)–the Chanukah candelabras–in our window or front door for the world to see.
We celebrate and let the world know the miracle that a small band of Jewish warriors, the Maccabees, were able to defeat the Greek-Syrian soldiers of King Antiochus, who far outnumbered them. We celebrate that a jar of oil that would only last one day, lasted eight and lit the holy Jewish Temple that had been theretofore been desecrated, until a new jar of oil was ready to keep the Temple lit.
But the Menorah and the holiday mean even more to me and those I’ve met in my life. As a grad student at the University of Wisconsin, I became friends with a Russian Jewish immigrant, Dmitry. Dmitry, from a poor Jewish family near Siberia, was sold into slavery by a Russian businessman. As a student at a university, he was regularly beaten up by his fellow students for being Jewish. Soon, a Russian businessman promised his professors at the university that he had a great opportunity for him in the United States. When Dmitry reached the airport in America, he was met by a Wisconsin farming family who brought him to their house, only let him shower once a week and paid him $20 a month. The family constantly asked him if he was a Jew, but he never admitted it, fearing he’d be beaten like he was in the former Soviet Union.
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