NC rabbi: On Hanukkah, an ancient warning on government feels especially close to home

Each year on Hanukkah, Jewish-Americans place Hanukkah menorahs in their windows — not only to celebrate a miracle of ancient oil, but to make a public declaration: we refuse to hide who we are, and we will not accept the abuse of power as normal.

At its core, Hanukkah is a story about government overreach — how a powerful state sought to control belief, erase identity, and crush a minority community through intimidation and violence. The Maccabees resisted, and in doing so, lit a flame that still burns.

That story has always been close to my heart. My grandparents came from Eastern Europe and Russia. They were citizens of their countries. They lived legally. They paid taxes. And yet the governments meant to protect them instead enabled antisemitic hatred — sometimes quietly, sometimes openly, sometimes violently. Pogroms were not random acts; they were tolerated, encouraged, and exploited by those in power. Every Hanukkah, as I light candles in a free America, I carry their memory with me.

This year, that ancient warning feels especially close to home.

Recently, I met Fernando Vazquez, an 18-year-old American citizen, born and raised in Cary, whose parents emigrated from Mexico. Despite repeatedly telling authorities that he was a citizen, Fernando was taken into ICE custody, detained, and treated harshly. In a video of his final moments with ICE that went viral, one sees an officer throw Fernando’s documents onto the ground. By the time I sat with him, the legal facts were clear — but the emotional damage was still raw.

When I asked Fernando what had hurt the most, his answer brought me to tears. While he was detained, all he could think about was his father, who was working at the same job site. His father is a legally documented worker — but Fernando feared he, too, would be taken and harassed. Later, his father said words I will never forget: “Fathers are supposed to protect their sons. In this case, my son was protecting me.”

For Jews, this is not abstract. We know what it means when the machinery of the state begins to treat people as categories instead of as sacred human beings. We know what happens when fear becomes policy and suspicion becomes procedure. Our tradition does not permit silence in such moments.

The Torah commands, “Do not stand idly by while your neighbor bleeds.” That command is not limited to Jews. It is not limited by citizenship, immigration status, or political party. It is a universal moral demand — especially when the source of harm is institutional power itself.

Hanukkah teaches that resistance does not always begin with armies. Sometimes it begins with a candle in a window — a small light that says: we see what is happening, and we refuse to normalize it.

This holiday season, when North Carolinians see Jewish homes lit with Hanukkah menorahs, I hope they understand what that light truly represents. It is not only a symbol of Jewish survival and pride. It is a declaration of shared civic courage. It says that legality is not always the same as justice. It says that when neighbors are harmed by the very systems meant to protect them, conscience must be louder than comfort.

The Maccabees resisted an empire. My grandparents survived state-sponsored hatred in Eastern Europe and Russia. Fernando faced the terrifying weight of a system that failed him. The lesson connecting all of them is the same:

Freedom survives only when ordinary people shine their light on injustice. Rabbi Eric Solomon co-leads Beth Meyer Synagogue in Raleigh with his wife, Rabbi Dr. Jenny Solomon.