Hanukkah and Purim have a number of similarities. They are both minor holidays that are outsize in the way we celebrate them. Another is they are both about anti-Semitism. On Purim the villain, Haman, wants to destroy the Jews. On Hanukkah the enemy are the Greeks. Both stories have great drama with the aim of eliminating the Jews almost succeeds but, in the end, after much pain and near failure, the enemy is vanquished and we are free.
In Dara Horns’ People Love Dead Jews, there is a chapter on the anti-Semitism where she distinguishes between what she calls “the Hanukkah version of anti-Semitism” and “the Purim version of anti-Semitism.” Hanukkah anti-Semitism is that which destroys Jewish civilization from the inside by pressuring Jews to gradually become non-Jews, while Purim anti-Semitism is a little bit more direct: kill all the Jews.
In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries we have witnessed both forms of anti-Semitism. They are each insidious and seek to eradicate us from the earth. It is a lesson we would rather avoid confronting which is why we go to such great lengths to change the import and practices of the holidays. Purim has become a time of revelry and drinking (without recalling that the reason for getting intoxicated is to forget the pain of those who tried to murder us). Hanukkah has morphed into a mimicry of Christmas with gifts being exchanged and eight “crazy nights” preferring to put aside the whole idea of assimilation to the point of our disappearance.
There is nothing wrong with either practice so long as we do not forget the primary reason we observe these holidays. And so that these words are not misunderstood, the lesson is not “they tried to kill us, let’s eat”; it is listening to the “still small voice” of G-d and acknowledging our place in the great chain of tradition that spans the epochs. We are not Jews because of anti-Semitism: there is anti-Semitism because we are Jews. It is tragic if we forget this.
I have learned from survivors that there were two reactions to the Nazi assault on our people. One was utter bewilderment. “Why is this happening to me? I am a proud German (or other nationality) and have served my country patriotically.” That they were Jewish was incidental to their lives, hence their confusion why they were being slated for death. The other was an understanding. “I know why they hate me.” Both types were filled with horror but the latter understood that living Jewishly was why they were being afflicted. They grasped and accepted the meaning and import of Hanukkah and Purim.
Traditionally, on Hanukkah we read psalm 30. One line reads, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Hanukkah’s epic tale contains deeply emotional aspects of assimilation and hatred. The psalm undergirds the meaning and hope that we express on the festival of lights. The twin hopes we aspire to integrate on the upcoming holiday are to live an authentic Jewish life in consonance with what G-d has given and to know that doing so will infuse those tiny wicks with new meaning; flames, sparks and embers that can lift our spirits and elevate our souls.
