Trump Praised as Jewish Americans Defy Terror, Light Menorahs Nationwide

Paul Riverbank, 12/15/2025Support and solidarity shone brightly as Jewish communities across the U.S. celebrated Hanukkah amidst recent violence. Leaders emphasized resilience and hope, showcasing that love and light can triumph over fear. Gatherings in cities like Detroit and Cleveland highlighted a collective commitment to tradition and unity in challenging times.

Rabbi Levi Shemtov took the microphone with a steadiness unusual for someone standing in the open air on such a bitter evening. The words came swift and heavy: “The darkness that came over our colleagues and across the greater Jewish community as a result, will be answered with strength, light, and resistance.” People bowed their heads; a moment of silence was held for the victims—including the man from Bondi Beach who ran toward danger so others might be spared. That brief hush, for a moment, rendered the capital city soundless.

It wasn’t a night void of celebration, despite the shadow hanging overhead. Security personnel formed a quiet border—present but never showy. High-ranking figures mingled with the crowd: Secretary of Commerce Howard Lutnick, Ambassador Stuart Eizenstat. Lutnick took time to note what he saw as President Trump’s commitments to the Jewish community, including hostages recently freed from captivity. Then, a message he repeated with force: “We should celebrate proudly, we should celebrate loudly, we should celebrate being Jews.”

Elsewhere, Detroit was sunk deep in January cold—temperatures skirting single digits early in the evening as families packed into Cadillac Square. If you weren’t wrapped in wool, you simply didn’t last. But even as nearby parking lots iced over and the wind seemed to chase small kids in circles, a sense of purpose anchored the celebration. Stine Grand, an attorney, brought her boys despite waking to bad headlines. “Am I nervous? Of course. But fear isn’t who we are,” she said, her words forming little clouds in the air.

There was no shortage of public officials—Governor Garlin Gilchrist, Senator Elissa Slotkin, Congressman John James, Mayor Mike Duggan—all mixing with the crowd. Rep. James didn’t dance around grief. Instead, he acknowledged how abruptly joy can be stolen in an age when evil sometimes finds a stage. “A joyous celebration turned into terror,” he declared. Nearly everyone nodded at that.

One of the night’s more arresting moments unfolded with Raz and Ohad Ben Ami, a couple just returned from Gaza after a nightmarish captivity. They stood on the raised platform, menorah looming beside them, and shared a memory most in the crowd could barely imagine: Hanukkah behind cement and barbed wire. “We had no physical fire,” Ohad said, voice tightening, “but we had fiery souls.” That lingered in the night air with the scent of toasted marshmallows.

Cleveland, meanwhile, cloaked in lake-effect snow, gave a different sort of answer to the season. More than fifty cars rolled through the streets, menorahs mounted on rooftops, their flames bobbing in the wind. If you were downtown, you might’ve heard Rabbi AJ Bulua tell the gathering that a little light goes a long way against this kind of darkness. It didn’t sound rehearsed, but rather something people needed, there and then.

Law enforcement kept a respectful distance at all these gatherings—watchful but never menacing, an unspoken agreement that security mattered, but not more than the reason these folks showed up. The organizers rarely mentioned logistics; their message stayed determinedly optimistic. “We’re here to bring light, not fear,” said Rabbi Kasriel Shemtov of Detroit, corralling a batch of children who’d broken free to chase after a runaway dreidel.

Jennifer Marden, who’d driven in from Midland County, glanced around mid-celebration, hands buried in her pockets for warmth. “I just needed this,” she said. “Needed to see that nobody’s giving in to the fear.” Nearby, children ricocheted between grownups, balancing marshmallow sticks and dreidels, laughter briefly scaling over the usual city racket.

By the time the last candle was lit in Detroit, even as reports of violence kept surfacing on the news, there was no question why people had come out in the cold. Rituals, yes, but something tougher too—the insistence that hate would not dictate the terms of this Hanukkah, nor smother its small, stubborn flames. The story this year was not just about keeping tradition. It was about reclaiming public space when history tries, again, to crowd it out.

In the end the evenings dispersed a little unevenly. Some stayed to sweep snow from menorah bases, others ducked into cars with cheeks bright from cold and something else—relief, maybe, or the comfort found in proximity. “We’ll keep coming back,” a woman near the fence told someone as she zipped her coat. And as the crowd thinned, a few candles still glowed, answering back against winter’s long stretch—not bravado, exactly, but resolve.

Snow tumbled through Washington, D.C., on the first night of Hanukkah, settling on coats and scarves as people trickled across the Ellipse. The wind didn’t cut so much as it trapped the crowd together, shoulder to shoulder, urging them closer not just for heat but something less measurable—solidarity, maybe, or that stubborn kind of hope that emerges under duress. The world hadn’t paused for Hanukkah, and news from Australia carried a bitter edge: violence at a celebration oceans away. Still, the menorah waited, the candles ready, so no one headed home.Rabbi Levi Shemtov took the microphone with a steadiness unusual for someone standing in the open air on such a bitter evening. The words came swift and heavy: “The darkness that came over our colleagues and across the greater Jewish community as a result, will be answered with strength, light, and resistance.” People bowed their heads; a moment of silence was held for the victims—including the man from Bondi Beach who ran toward danger so others might be spared. That brief hush, for a moment, rendered the capital city soundless.It wasn’t a night void of celebration, despite the shadow hanging overhead. Security personnel formed a quiet border—present but never showy. High-ranking figures mingled with the crowd: Secretary of Commerce Howard Lutnick, Ambassador Stuart Eizenstat. Lutnick took time to note what he saw as President Trump’s commitments to the Jewish community, including hostages recently freed from captivity. Then, a message he repeated with force: “We should celebrate proudly, we should celebrate loudly, we should celebrate being Jews.”Elsewhere, Detroit was sunk deep in January cold—temperatures skirting single digits early in the evening as families packed into Cadillac Square. If you weren’t wrapped in wool, you simply didn’t last. But even as nearby parking lots iced over and the wind seemed to chase small kids in circles, a sense of purpose anchored the celebration. Stine Grand, an attorney, brought her boys despite waking to bad headlines. “Am I nervous? Of course. But fear isn’t who we are,” she said, her words forming little clouds in the air.There was no shortage of public officials—Governor Garlin Gilchrist, Senator Elissa Slotkin, Congressman John James, Mayor Mike Duggan—all mixing with the crowd. Rep. James didn’t dance around grief. Instead, he acknowledged how abruptly joy can be stolen in an age when evil sometimes finds a stage. “A joyous celebration turned into terror,” he declared. Nearly everyone nodded at that.One of the night’s more arresting moments unfolded with Raz and Ohad Ben Ami, a couple just returned from Gaza after a nightmarish captivity. They stood on the raised platform, menorah looming beside them, and shared a memory most in the crowd could barely imagine: Hanukkah behind cement and barbed wire. “We had no physical fire,” Ohad said, voice tightening, “but we had fiery souls.” That lingered in the night air with the scent of toasted marshmallows.Cleveland, meanwhile, cloaked in lake-effect snow, gave a different sort of answer to the season. More than fifty cars rolled through the streets, menorahs mounted on rooftops, their flames bobbing in the wind. If you were downtown, you might’ve heard Rabbi AJ Bulua tell the gathering that a little light goes a long way against this kind of darkness. It didn’t sound rehearsed, but rather something people needed, there and then.Law enforcement kept a respectful distance at all these gatherings—watchful but never menacing, an unspoken agreement that security mattered, but not more than the reason these folks showed up. The organizers rarely mentioned logistics; their message stayed determinedly optimistic. “We’re here to bring light, not fear,” said Rabbi Kasriel Shemtov of Detroit, corralling a batch of children who’d broken free to chase after a runaway dreidel.Jennifer Marden, who’d driven in from Midland County, glanced around mid-celebration, hands buried in her pockets for warmth. “I just needed this,” she said. “Needed to see that nobody’s giving in to the fear.” Nearby, children ricocheted between grownups, balancing marshmallow sticks and dreidels, laughter briefly scaling over the usual city racket.By the time the last candle was lit in Detroit, even as reports of violence kept surfacing on the news, there was no question why people had come out in the cold. Rituals, yes, but something tougher too—the insistence that hate would not dictate the terms of this Hanukkah, nor smother its small, stubborn flames. The story this year was not just about keeping tradition. It was about reclaiming public space when history tries, again, to crowd it out.In the end the evenings dispersed a little unevenly. Some stayed to sweep snow from menorah bases, others ducked into cars with cheeks bright from cold and something else—relief, maybe, or the comfort found in proximity. “We’ll keep coming back,” a woman near the fence told someone as she zipped her coat. And as the crowd thinned, a few candles still glowed, answering back against winter’s long stretch—not bravado, exactly, but resolve.