I stand in the burned ruins of the Siman-Tov family home in Kibbutz Nir Oz 446 days after Tamar and Johny were shot by Hamas terrorists who came into their home. They were shot while trying to keep the door to their safe room shut. The safe room where their three daughters, Shachar (6), Arbel (6), and Omer (4), were hiding. After Tamar and Johny were murdered, the terrorists set fire to the home and the girls are believed to have died from smoke suffocation in the fire.

This scene is a symbol of the unbearable pain and trauma that Israelis and Jews around the world are feeling.

And yet, in the window of this burnt-out home, someone has placed a menorah. Because tonight is the first night of Hanukkah. Tonight, someone will come and light the first candle in the Siman-Tov home—bringing light to the darkest place.

I have the privilege of being in Israel this week with CJP’s Spark: Solidarity mission trip, our most recent opportunity for members of our Greater Boston Jewish community to come to Israel to stand in solidarity, bear witness, and learn about the complexity of this moment.

As I reflect on Hanukkah in Israel, it became impossible to do so without acknowledging this is the second Hanukkah since Oct. 7. This is the second Hanukkah that over 100 people are still held hostage in Gaza. The second Hanukkah since 1,200 people were massacred and hundreds more have lost their lives since.

So, how do we celebrate Hanukkah? How do we bring light to the darkest place? How do we navigate the loss and trauma and make space for the hope and joy of this holiday?

Honestly, our group from Greater Boston was struggling with this as we pulled out of Kibbutz Nir Oz. How would we light the menorah in just a few short hours?

Even though the words and soundtrack of our people call us to find hope, I found it very hard to live out those words: “Od lo avdah tikvatenu”—”Our hope is not destroyed.” The words from our national anthem, “Hatikvah,” push us to remember that we are the people of hope; we are the voice of hope to humankind. Our sheer existence proves that.

And yet, amid this deep pain, the words did not feel enough to show me how to move to Hanukkah after bearing witness at Kibbutz Nir Oz, Kibbutz Nachal Oz, and the site of the Nova music festival.

Shortly after leaving Nir Oz, we arrived at an Israel Defense Forces base to light the first candle of Hanukkah with the young soldiers, ages 18-22, who are on the front lines of Jewish history, responding to the destruction we had just witnessed in the Siman-Tov home.

We exited the bus feeling trepidation about transitioning to Hanukkah. We were welcomed by dozens of bright, young faces, some of whom had left fighting in Gaza just a few minutes earlier. We didn’t rely on words; we simply followed their lead, matching their energy and hope. As the Hanukkah music started up, the young soldiers grabbed our hands to dance as the words of “Al HaNissim” (“Gratitude for the Miracles”), blasted to a techno beat—the soldiers’ joy was palpable. Through trauma and pain, these brave, young soldiers showed us how to reach for the light and let it in—how to find hope and believe in miracles.

As the music picked up and we ate and talked and shared our Boston sports apparel with the soldiers, we watched the shadow of darkness recede and the light spill in.

So, maybe this is the lesson of the second Hanukkah after Oct. 7. “Am Yisrael Chai” played over the speakers and these young soldiers danced and laughed and led us in making the blessings on the first candle of the menorah, and this lesson sunk in. The only way to bring light to the darkest place is to be the person who brings it. Don’t wait for it to come—be the person who reminds every corner of our community that we have hope, we have miracles, and we have joy. Even when it feels out of reach—as it must daily for these soldiers and every single Israeli—stretch to reach even further, find the light, and pull it forward.

I don’t know who put the menorah in the window of the Siman-Tov home, and yet I know they are just this kind of person. In a place where all you can feel is darkness, they found a way to bring light in. That is what I will take from this week—I will push myself to reach and bring the light, especially when it feels impossible.

Wishing everyone a Hanukkah sameach, a Hanukkah that brings hope and miracles, the return of our hostages, the safety of our soldiers, and a 2025 that brings peace and security for all.