By Jonathan Greenblatt
NEW YORK — Twenty-four years ago, a friend and I built a menorah for my wedding.
Not only was it enormous, but it was heavy, unwieldy, and undeniably amateur. We weren’t craftsmen, but we were determined. While not a typical wedding DIY project, it was fitting for my wife and me. We married on the eighth night of Chanukah, and we lit that menorah during our ceremony.
I think about that menorah often during this season, especially in this time. Building it required faith that all the pieces would hold together, and that most importantly, it wouldn’t fall over.
This is the season when darkness falls earliest and lingers longest. The winter solstice approaches, the nights stretch out, and this year, the metaphorical darkness feels as heavy as the literal kind.
According to a recent survey ADL conducted with Jewish Federations of North America, 55 percent of Jewish Americans experienced at least one form of antisemitism in the past year. Nearly one-in-five were victims of physical attack, threatened with attack, or verbally harassed.
The crisis extends beyond our borders. On the first night of this Chanukah, two gunmen opened fire on families gathered for a menorah lighting at Bondi Beach in Sydney, killing at least 15 people and injuring dozens more. This horrific event did not happen in a vacuum, antisemitic incidents in Australia are at nearly five times pre-October 7 levels, with arson attacks against synagogues and Jewish schools reaching historic highs.
Here in the U.S., over half of American Jews report feeling worried about their personal safety. Perhaps most chilling: 14 percent have developed plans to flee the country if antisemitism continues to worsen.
The incidents pile up. The data paints the picture. The isolation intensifies. And unfortunately, Jewish history means this moment feels both urgent and familiar.
And yet we have something our adversaries do not: institutions built over generations, knowledge accumulated across centuries, rituals that scaffold life’s milestones, and the ability to adapt, pivot, and push back. We have power — not the authoritarian kind, but the kind communities build through solidarity, persistence, and an unwillingness to let darkness define our destiny.
At ADL, we see this every day. We see Jewish students are organizing, not retreating. We see community leaders building coalitions, not cowering. Jewish families are placing their menorahs in windows, visible to the world, declaring: here we are.
And that same survey that documented so much pain also revealed something remarkable: 84 percent of those who experienced direct antisemitic harm responded not by withdrawing, but by engaging more deeply. Nearly one-third of American Jews say they are participating more in Jewish life today than they were before October 7. Jewish Federations call this “the Surge” — a marked increase in Jewish engagement.
Chanukah isn’t only a story of military victory. It’s a refusal to hide Jewish life. After the Maccabees reclaimed Jerusalem and defeated their oppressors, the heart of the holiday began: they cleansed and re-dedicated the Temple, found only one day’s worth of oil, and lit the menorah anyway. And as we all know, while that oil should have lasted one night, it miraculously burned for eight.
Chanukah literally means “dedication.” It reminds us that Jewish survival has never been just about fighting enemies, but about rebuilding what’s ours and refusing to let our light go out.
That is what we are doing now. Rebuilding. Reasserting. Rejecting the idea that antisemitism is simply the price of Jewish existence.
We at ADL are expanding our legal efforts, filing more cases than ever. We are strengthening campus infrastructure so students are never isolated. We are forging new partnerships across faiths and political lines—anyone genuinely committed to fighting hate.
That work requires the same faith my friend and I had with that unwieldy wedding menorah: recognizing that if we don’t build the light, it won’t exist.
Twenty-four years later, as I light Chanukah candles with my family, I see the same truth on a larger scale. The institutions that should protect us often don’t. The allies who should stand with us often disappear. The politicians who promise support often stay silent.
So we build our own protection. We create our own infrastructure. We forge our own partnerships.
But we cannot do this alone. We need leaders to be better. We need institutions to live up to their stated values. We need allies who understand that silence in the face of hate isn’t neutrality – it’s abandonment.
ADL was founded from the understanding that Jewish safety requires Jewish action. That was true in 1913. It’s true today. But it also requires something from everyone else: the willingness to actually mean it when they say hate has no place here. To call out antisemitism even when it’s politically inconvenient. To show up when it matters, not just when it’s easy.
Twenty-four years later, my wife and I still light Chanukah candles together with our children. Every year, as we add the final candle, I remember: the point was never to wait for someone else to bring light. The point was to build it ourselves.
That’s what we’re building now. Imperfect, but purposeful; rough, but resilient; created by people who refuse to accept darkness as permanent.
The nights are long. The threats are serious. At the same time, we are not powerless, and our light shines bright. But history will remember who helped light our spirit and who tried to put it out.
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Jonathan Greenblatt is the CEO of the national Anti-Defamation League.