Rabbi Roodyn

Natan Scharansky recalls Chanuka in a Russian prison camp after he had successfully managed to light candles on the first five nights.

On the sixth night of Hanukkah the authorities confiscated my menorah with all my candles. I ran to the duty officer to find out what had happened.

“The candlesticks were made from state materials; this is illegal. You could be punished for this alone and the other prisoners are complaining. They’re afraid you’ll start a fire.”

I began to insist. “In two days Hanukkah will be over and then I’ll return this ‘state property’ to you. Now, however, this looks like an attempt to deny me the opportunity of celebrating Jewish holidays.”

The duty officer began hesitating. Then he phoned his superior and got his answer: “A camp is not a synagogue. We won’t permit Sharansky to pray here.”

I was surprised by the bluntness of that remark, and immediately declared a hunger strike. In a statement to the procurator general I protested against the violation of my national and religious rights, and against KGB interference in my personal life.

When you begin an unlimited hunger strike, you never know when or how it will end. Are the authorities interested at that moment in putting a swift end to it, or couldn’t care less? In a few weeks a commission from Moscow was due to arrive in the camp. I didn’t know this at the time, but the authorities, presumably, were very aware of it, which probably explains why I was summoned to Major Osin’s office two days later, in the evening.

Osin pulled a benevolent smile over his face as he tried to talk me out of my hunger strike. Osin promised to see to it personally that in the future nobody would hinder me from praying, and that this should not be a concern of the KGB.

“Then what’s the problem?” I said. “Give me back the menorah, as tonight is the last evening of Hanukkah. Let me celebrate it now, and taking into account your assurances for the future, I shall end the hunger strike.”

“What’s a menorah?”

“Candlesticks.”

But a protocol for its confiscation had already been drawn up, and Osin couldn’t back down in front of the entire camp. As I looked at this predator, sitting at an elegant polished table and wearing a benevolent smile, I was seized by an amusing idea.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m sure you have the menorah somewhere. It’s very important to me to celebrate the last night of Hanukkah. Why not let me do it here and now, together with you? You’ll give me the menorah, I’ll light the candles and say the prayer, and if all goes well I’ll end the hunger strike.”

Osin thought it over and promptly the confiscated menorah appeared from his desk.

He summoned Gavriliuk, who was on duty in the office, to bring in a large candle.

“I need eight candles,” I said. (In fact I needed nine, but when it came to Jewish rituals I was still a novice.) Gavriliuk took out a knife and began to cut the candle into several smaller ones.

But it didn’t come out right; apparently the knife was too dull. Then Osin took out a handsome inlaid pocketknife and deftly cut me eight candles.

“Go, I’ll call you later,” he said to Gavriliuk. Gavriliuk simply obeyed orders. He was a fierce, gloomy man, and this sight must have infuriated him.

I arranged the candles and went to the coatrack for my hat, explaining to Osin that “during the prayer you must stand with your head covered and at the end say ‘Amen.’” He put on his major’s hat and stood. I lit the candles and recited my own prayer in Hebrew, which went something like this: “Blessed are You, Adonai, for allowing me to rejoice on this day of Hanukkah, the holiday of our liberation, the holiday of our return to the way of our fathers. Blessed are You, Adonai, for allowing me to light these candles. May you allow me to light the Hanukkah candles many times in your city, Jerusalem, with my wife, Avital, and my family and friends.”

This time, however, inspired by the sight of Osin standing meekly at attention, I added in Hebrew: “And may the day come when all our enemies, who today are planning our destruction, will stand before us and hear our prayers and say ‘Amen.’”

“Amen,” Osin echoed back.

He sighed with relief, sat down and removed his hat. For some time we looked silently at the burning candles. They quickly melted, and the hot wax was spread pleasantly over the glass surface of the table. Then Osin caught himself, summoned Gavriliuk, and brusquely ordered him to clean it up.

Heroes are part of our identity.

We have all grown up with heroes, some real, some from a fantasy world, some from Hollywood.

Superheroes are part of our childhood, Superman, Spiderman, the Incredible Hulk, Popeye!  They are so much a part of our culture.

Depending on your Jewish background and hashkafa you will have grown up with different Jewish heroes, be they the soldiers who liberated the Kotel, Sara Schneirer, the Ponovezher Rav, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Hannah Szenesz, Natan Scharansky. Heroes force us to confront our values.

What makes a hero and why are we attracted to them?

A character who, in the face of danger, combats adversity through feats of ingenuity, courage, or strength.

All heroic episodes have common themes, we invariably talk about Actions that are performed voluntarily in the service of others who are in need, whether it is for an individual, a group, or a community. The individual recognises and willingly accepts the potential risk or sacrifice they are making by taking these action and they engage in these actions without any expectation of reward or external gain.

Heroes are people who do the impossible and more importantly show us that we can become so much more because we know that in some way we can emulate their noble traits.

• Moral integrity
• Bravery
• Conviction
• Courage
• Self-sacrifice
• Selflessness
• Determination
• Inspirational
• Helpful
• Protective
• Honesty
• Determination

Heroes both force us to evaluate our lives and inspire us to greatness.

What would we become a hero for?

Or in other words, are there values, ideas or people that we would give our lives for?

Because if we can figure out what we are willing to die for, we can then live for those values with renewed passion and vigour as we just said in Hallel לא אמות כי אחיה ואספר מעשי י-ה.

The Maccabim were improbable heroes. They had no military training whatsoever and all the odds were stacked against them. They only had one advantage. They knew that there was no choice. They were fighting for the future of the Jewish People and they gave it their all. The miracle of the military victory is a neis nigleh, hidden miracle, fuelled solely by mesirus nefesh, self-sacrifice. They used what they had and gave it their all or as they say in the army זה מה שיש ובזה נלחם.

But there is an even deeper secret and another attribute to add to the list…

They weren’t fighting for themselves or their own glory.

The letters of the word Maccabi spell out מי כמוך באלים ה’, who is like you among the strong ones, Hashem?

Which brings us to this week’s sedra.

Yosef is the hero, he saves the day by interpreting pharaoh’s dream and implements an economic strategy to save Egypt from ruin. At the climax of it all, when he could have taken all the credit for himself he says the crucial word, biladai – it’s not me, it’s all Hashem.

A real hero is humble, he or she may have talents, but they realise they are a gift from Hashem.

This, I believe is the secret of the Maccabim which in turn created the Chanuka miracle that we still celebrate today, despite the sad reality that we no longer have the Beis Hamikdash that they rededicated.

The Mishna says in Pirkei Avos לא עליך המלאכה לגמור ולא אתה בן חורין להבטל ממנה   it is not for you to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.

Normally we explain that to mean, you can’t finish it, but at least do something. However given our introduction we can understand this Mishna in a new light. Lo Alecha, you can’t finish the job, why? Because you can’t even start it. We are totally dependent on Hashem for all of our faculties, the moment He desires us to stop functioning in whatever way, for whatever reason, we are powerless. So one we have that realisation of biladai, its nor upon us, rather it’s all Hashem, then of course we aren’t free to desist, once we are aware of Hashem’s power, there is no limit to what can be achieved, as Hashem, so to speak is working through us.

That’s the secret of a true Jewish hero, of Yosef who says biladai, of the Maccabim who say mi kamocha ba eilim Hashem, and this is the realisation that can, with Hashem’s help propel each and every one of us to become heroes in our own unique way.