Hanukkah has always been my favorite holiday. It arrives at the darkest time of year, yet it brings with it so much light. The entire Hebrew month of Kislev is renowned as a time of miracles, and Hanukkah serves as a testament to the miraculous. This year, that ancient truth feels more profound than ever.
After more than two years of war, all of our living hostages in Gaza have returned home. This is nothing short of miraculous. As we continue to pray for one final mercy — that the body of Israeli Staff Sgt. Ran Gvili will be returned to his family for proper burial — we can finally gather around our Hanukkah tables knowing that those who survived captivity are back where they belong.
Since Oct. 7, 2023, every Jewish holiday has carried a weight we never imagined. At each festive meal, there have been empty chairs. For some families, those seats will tragically never be filled again. The beautiful souls we lost to this horrific war, their light extinguished too soon, leave a void that no celebration can repair. We remember them even as we rejoice.
But other families have spent these long months dreaming of a different kind of homecoming. They imagined their loved ones walking through the door, sitting at the table, lighting the menorah together. Throughout the war, even those hostages who were freed in earlier ceasefires or daring rescue operations spoke of feeling incomplete. They could not fully heal or truly celebrate while others remained in captivity. The joy of their freedom was tempered by the knowledge that brothers and sisters in suffering were still waiting for rescue.
This Hanukkah marks a turning point. For the first time since the war began, all of our living hostages are home. This will be the first holiday where families, long separated, can gather together in wholeness. The relief is palpable. The gratitude is overwhelming. And perhaps most remarkably, there is genuine joy.
The story of Hanukkah teaches us about perseverance in the face of overwhelming darkness. A small band of warriors faced an empire. A single day’s worth of oil burned for eight. The impossible became possible because people refused to surrender hope. This year, we have lived our own chapter in that ancient story. We have witnessed modern-day miracles.
As we light our menorahs this year, each flame will carry deeper meaning. The first night’s candle represents survival, and the second resilience. By the eighth night, we will have kindled a blaze of hope that seemed unimaginable on that terrible morning of Oct. 7. The tradition of adding light each night reminds us that even in the longest darkness, we can always find ways to increase illumination.
For the families reunited with their loved ones, this Hanukkah offers something they feared they might never experience again: a sense of normalcy wrapped in gratitude. The simple act of sitting together, passing the latkes, and singing “Maoz Tzur” as a complete family becomes a sacred moment. What once seemed ordinary now feels extraordinary.
And for those families who were finally able to lay their loved ones to rest with dignity and honor, Hanukkah brings a different kind of closure. The ability to fulfill the final mitzvah of Jewish burial, to gather as a community in mourning and remembrance, allows for healing to begin. It enables the living to move forward while keeping the memory of the fallen sacred.
WASHINGTON, DC, LIGHTS THE NATIONAL CHRISTMAS TREE
This year, as we enter Hanukkah, there is a festive and joyful attitude that has been absent for far too long. It is not a joy that forgets the pain we have endured or dishonors those we have lost. Instead, it is the deep, abiding joy of a people who have survived, brought their children home, and refused to let darkness have the final word.
The miracle of Hanukkah lives on. This year, we are living proof.
Jamie Geller is the global spokeswoman and chief communications officer for AISH. She is a bestselling cookbook author, Jewish education advocate, and former award-winning producer and marketing executive with HBO, CNN, and the Food Network.
