There was a moment last week in the build-up to Chanukah that felt almost like a miracle. There on my TV I saw King Charles III down at JW3, dancing his crown off with Holocaust survivors. They were all throwing themselves about the floor with the most utter, the most complete joy.
It was glorious — and it was important.
It came around the same time that the editor of the JC asked me if I had anything I wanted to write about. And when the editor of the JC asks if you fancy writing, you don’t say no. My mum will go into hyper-kvell mode to see my name on these pages. (When I was growing up, you literally weren’t born, barmitzvahed or dead till the JC said so. You might have thought you were, but it was just provisional till it was in Announcements.)
Happily, seeing the King delighting in klezmer and waggling his royal groove thing at such a beautiful Chanukah party connected to what I’ve been thinking about a lot recently: the idea of simcha and joy. In fact, I’m doing a TED talk on this subject soon (I think tickets are still available).
Many in our community know the work that my wonderful mum and many other incredible people do in Holocaust education; it’s been my honour sometimes to be able to work with them. Some of you might also know that my own personal inspiration was my grandfather, who lost his parents, a brother and four sisters in the Shoah.
I’m often asked the same question about my grandfather and the other survivors I’ve had the privilege of meeting: “After all they went through, why don’t they hate?”
The answer is something between a very Jewish shrug (“what good would it do?”) and something infinitely deeper: a recognition that allowing such hatred into their lives would have squeezed all joy out of them, and that would have been the ultimate victory for the Nazis. I’ve got used to hearing this answer so much that I’ve almost stopped seeing the profundity of it.
But it’s magnificent. And truly Jewish.
When you stand with survivors at a party and watch them rejoice (jiggling monarchs optional), you understand the limitless power of being in the presence of celebration. It makes me think of my grandfather, and the fact that the time when he was most carefree was when he was dancing at a barmitzvah or wedding.
It just makes sense for us as Jews: it’s at the heart of our history, our community and our year. So many of our festivals contain within them the memory of oppression and violence — of survival through pain — yet at the end what is the ultimate edict? Celebration!
Eat! Drink! Be merry! You call that merry? Have another glass! You still didn’t eat enough. Have some more, I’ll wrap it up — where’s the good silver foil?
It’s a religion that makes parties so central that its laws suggest that — even in a period of mourning — if the simcha’s already booked, go and enjoy it. What other faith includes festivals like Purim where you’re obliged to get so drunk you mix up letters of the alphabet?
Reflecting on Chanukah, I truly believe there’s no better expression of Jewishness than this: when an oppressive world tries to remove us from our identity, we find the miracle of light. It’s an outstanding representation of the enduring hope of a people that have not been, and cannot be, extinguished. It becomes a perfect moment for us to share simcha with one another, and with communities outside the Jewish world.
What we must do is celebrate.
I’m an incredibly proud Jew from top to tip. It’s something that completely permeates my me-ness — the blue and white threads woven into the Spurs-coloured tallit that’s the backdrop to my family life. But I’ve often worried that we all too often tell the story of our rich Jewish life through the prism of “oy vey”. We must never forget to include the “oh yay” as well. Now more than ever, we’ve got to keep the “Jew” in jubilation.
Because it’s that — our limitless capacity for gladness — that allows us to thrive and has lit up the world for centuries. With that in mind, I wish a very Happy Chanukah to everyone — may it be a spectacular and happy simcha for you all.
