Hanukkah Under Fire: Jewish Defiance Ignites as Trump, Cruz, Abbott Rally

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025Hanukkah menorah lighting unites defiant community amid global threats, echoing hope, memory, and resilience.

Under a canopy of breath and city light, Rabbi Levi Shemtov took the microphone. There was a pause as people settled, and for a moment, the scene belonged to him. This wasn’t his first time speaking at a moment when joy and sorrow collided. “Let’s remember Ahmed al Ahmed,” he began—words weighed with care, “the shop owner from Bondi Beach who simply refused to yield to hate.” Not everyone had heard the story yet, and whispers rippled through the crowd. Shemtov’s message—darkness breeds solidarity if nothing else—felt heavier than the December air.

If the festivities were meant as normalcy, the guestlist told a deeper story. Dignitaries lined up, including Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick and Ambassador Stuart Eizenstat, close-pressed but distinct in their solemn suits. Lutnick, at once formal and oddly personal, quoted former President Trump: “We should celebrate proudly, we should celebrate loudly, we should celebrate being Jews.” There was a trace of defiance in the applause, or maybe relief—something between the two.

Yet menace wasn’t confined to one continent. Headlines ticked by: U.S. forces killed in Syria, shots fired at Hanukkah symbols in California, two dead and nine wounded at Brown University. From the crowd, a middle-aged woman shook her head: “Every year, it feels closer.” Calgary’s mayor, Jeromy Farkas, spoke up from afar: “Calgary rejects hate,” his statement read. “We will speak out, stand up, and defend the right of every person to live openly, worship freely, and gather safely.” In Alberta, Premier Danielle Smith’s words weren’t just perfunctory; she emphasized the connective tissue of family and community. Her note—likely scribbled in haste amid a barrage of security briefings—reminded: “You’re not alone.”

The shadow of history ran deep beneath the surface of the evening. The crowd—some who remembered past attacks firsthand, a few who barely remembered the last election—carried an ancestral memory of persecution. The menorah’s glow, after all, has always been less about decoration and more about declaration.

Oddly enough, it was less the speeches and more the small gestures that stayed with many. An older gentleman, his lapel heavy with campaign pins from elections past, distributed homemade latkes from a battered tin. “Take two,” he urged a nervous college student. “One for you, one for someone who can’t be here tonight.” Nearby, parents adjusted their kids’ earmuffs and lifted them onto shoulders for a better view—not of the politicians, but of the candles themselves.

Senator Ted Cruz, Governor Greg Abbott—they weighed in from their own stages, echoing support for Jewish safety and religious liberty. But on the Ellipse, policy pronouncements seemed to drift into the night. What landed was much simpler: the act of lighting a candle, knowing that gathering was, in itself, a kind of resistance.

The newer tradition—placing menorahs in windows—felt particularly charged this year. “It’s not just about us,” a retired teacher said, nodding towards families she didn’t know. “Anyone can shine that light, anyone can say: I won’t be intimidated, not this week, not ever.”

Throughout, security mingled visibly, but the crowd didn’t shrink. Some lingered, chatting quietly long after the formal ceremonies wound down. “May the light of the menorah illuminate the path before us,” Rabbi Shemtov intoned for the final time. His words didn’t banish the threats, but for a brief hour, hope and resolve—ancient as the festival itself—burned as steadily as the candles in the cold.

Behind each gathering, each potato pancake and flickering flame this year, there’s the stubborn hope that light—communal and fiercely guarded—might be enough to hold the darkness at bay. Whether that faith is justified or not, only time will tell.

There’s always a hush in the capital when winter’s chill cuts deep, but that evening—the first night of Hanukkah—the Ellipse felt especially exposed. Folks, young and old, huddled in scarves and conversational clusters, the sort of impromptu gathering where cold hands clutch coffee and stubborn resolve. The recent tragedy half a world away loomed large: news had already reached the crowd—sixteen gone after a Hanukkah attack in Sydney. Despite it, or perhaps because of it, the annual menorah lighting pressed on.Under a canopy of breath and city light, Rabbi Levi Shemtov took the microphone. There was a pause as people settled, and for a moment, the scene belonged to him. This wasn’t his first time speaking at a moment when joy and sorrow collided. “Let’s remember Ahmed al Ahmed,” he began—words weighed with care, “the shop owner from Bondi Beach who simply refused to yield to hate.” Not everyone had heard the story yet, and whispers rippled through the crowd. Shemtov’s message—darkness breeds solidarity if nothing else—felt heavier than the December air.If the festivities were meant as normalcy, the guestlist told a deeper story. Dignitaries lined up, including Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick and Ambassador Stuart Eizenstat, close-pressed but distinct in their solemn suits. Lutnick, at once formal and oddly personal, quoted former President Trump: “We should celebrate proudly, we should celebrate loudly, we should celebrate being Jews.” There was a trace of defiance in the applause, or maybe relief—something between the two.Yet menace wasn’t confined to one continent. Headlines ticked by: U.S. forces killed in Syria, shots fired at Hanukkah symbols in California, two dead and nine wounded at Brown University. From the crowd, a middle-aged woman shook her head: “Every year, it feels closer.” Calgary’s mayor, Jeromy Farkas, spoke up from afar: “Calgary rejects hate,” his statement read. “We will speak out, stand up, and defend the right of every person to live openly, worship freely, and gather safely.” In Alberta, Premier Danielle Smith’s words weren’t just perfunctory; she emphasized the connective tissue of family and community. Her note—likely scribbled in haste amid a barrage of security briefings—reminded: “You’re not alone.”The shadow of history ran deep beneath the surface of the evening. The crowd—some who remembered past attacks firsthand, a few who barely remembered the last election—carried an ancestral memory of persecution. The menorah’s glow, after all, has always been less about decoration and more about declaration.Oddly enough, it was less the speeches and more the small gestures that stayed with many. An older gentleman, his lapel heavy with campaign pins from elections past, distributed homemade latkes from a battered tin. “Take two,” he urged a nervous college student. “One for you, one for someone who can’t be here tonight.” Nearby, parents adjusted their kids’ earmuffs and lifted them onto shoulders for a better view—not of the politicians, but of the candles themselves.Senator Ted Cruz, Governor Greg Abbott—they weighed in from their own stages, echoing support for Jewish safety and religious liberty. But on the Ellipse, policy pronouncements seemed to drift into the night. What landed was much simpler: the act of lighting a candle, knowing that gathering was, in itself, a kind of resistance.The newer tradition—placing menorahs in windows—felt particularly charged this year. “It’s not just about us,” a retired teacher said, nodding towards families she didn’t know. “Anyone can shine that light, anyone can say: I won’t be intimidated, not this week, not ever.”Throughout, security mingled visibly, but the crowd didn’t shrink. Some lingered, chatting quietly long after the formal ceremonies wound down. “May the light of the menorah illuminate the path before us,” Rabbi Shemtov intoned for the final time. His words didn’t banish the threats, but for a brief hour, hope and resolve—ancient as the festival itself—burned as steadily as the candles in the cold.Behind each gathering, each potato pancake and flickering flame this year, there’s the stubborn hope that light—communal and fiercely guarded—might be enough to hold the darkness at bay. Whether that faith is justified or not, only time will tell.