"Our hanukiah is ridiculous. I love it precisely for its absurdity; a chunky, oversized piece designed by a dear friend and crafted from aircrete. It looks like a forgotten set piece from The Flintstones. In a family home that also contains challah covers, mezuzahs, kippot and Shabbat candles, our menorah is easily the most overtly Jewish thing we own. Its presence badges us immediately. Brash and proud."
"Up until last week, this never struck me as a problem. In my many overlapping circles of friends and collaborators, I am one of the only Jews they know. I spend a lot of time explaining our traditions to film directors, musicians, editors and producers. Why we fast on Yom Kippur. How often we observe Shabbat. How kashrut works, even though I am partial to pepperoni pizza."
"Like all Jewish festivals, it is a celebration of survival in the face of annihilation. But it comes with candles, doughnuts and dreidels. Much joy, minimal fasting. There are myriad reasons the Bondi attack feels like a desecration but this must be one of them; that it has transformed our most lighthearted religious ritual into something akin to Yom HaShoah, a day of mourning. I look at the joy of my daughters as we light the rainbow candles and sing the traditional Ma'oz Tzur."
The hanukiah is an oversized, absurd aircrete piece that marks the household as overtly Jewish. The narrator often explains Jewish practices to non-Jewish friends and collaborators, describing Yom Kippur fasting, Shabbat observance and kashrut, with Hanukah presented as the joyful festival. A recent Bondi attack has turned Hanukah into a day shadowed by mourning, likening it to Yom HaShoah and infusing the festival with grief. The daughters still find joy lighting rainbow candles and singing Ma'oz Tzur, but that innocence will be altered by later learning about the attack. The narrator attends state-provided therapy in a cordoned-off area.
Read at www.theguardian.com
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