Hanukkah arrives this year amid a question that has haunted American Jews for longer than we care to admit: Should I display my menorah in the window?

The fear isn’t new. I wrote years ago about my own struggle with this decision and my choice to place inflatable Hanukkah decorations on my lawn despite the anxiety it provoked. What has changed is not the existence of this fear, but its pervasiveness — the sense that what was once an isolated worry has become a collective uncertainty rippling through Jewish communities across the country, and in particular here in New York.

Hanukkah requires us to participate in pirsumei nisa, or publicizing the miracle. We are commanded to place our menorahs in our windows where they can be seen by passersby, a beacon of our ancient survival and enduring faith. But today, many Jews find themselves weighing not just religious obligation but personal safety, wondering whether visible Jewish identity invites hostility. When a Jewish student can’t wear a Star of David on campus without harassment, when a family pauses before entering their synagogue, when speaking Hebrew on the subway feels like a calculated risk, the social fabric that makes pluralism possible is fraying.

This hesitation represents the most insidious victory our detractors could hope for: an invisible erosion of Jewish confidence in public space, achieved not through force but through accumulated fear.

The Maccabees didn’t fight simply for the right to practice Judaism privately; they fought against the erasure of Jewish distinctiveness, against the demand that we dissolve into the dominant culture. When the rabbis later mandated that the menorah be placed in a doorway or window facing the public, they enshrined a radical principle: Jewish identity must be an outward declaration, not a hidden practice. In America’s most diverse cities, that principle carries profound civic meaning. We have always thrived on visible differences, the multiplicity of languages, faiths and cultures sharing public space.

The miracle of Hanukkah wasn’t simply that the oil lasted eight days; it was also used to reconsecrate defiled space, to reclaim what had been taken away from the Jewish people. Our task this Hanukkah is similar: to reconsecrate the public square, to refuse to cede our place in American civic life. This cannot be done through individual courage alone. It requires infrastructure — the community security programs run by organizations like CSI, the coalition-building work of my organization, JCRC-NY — that make visible Jewish life not just possible but protected.

But the final act of lighting belongs to each of us. Every menorah placed in a window is a statement that fear will not dictate the boundaries of Jewish life, a refusal to let antisemitism determine where and how we express our identity.

The pervasiveness of the fear is real, and acknowledging it is not weakness. It is an honest assessment of the moment we’re living through. But the Maccabees understood that the greatest threat to Jewish continuity is not external oppression but internal retreat — the slow, quiet decision to make ourselves smaller. This Hanukkah, as we wrestle with these questions that have troubled us for years but feel more urgent now, let us choose defiance over diminishment. 

Light your menorah where it can be seen. Wear your Jewish symbols. Walk into your synagogue with your head held high. Let our small flames testify to something the world desperately needs to see: that the Jewish people remain undiminished, that our ancient light still burns and that no amount of hostility will make us disappear from the public square we helped build.

Sara Fredman Aeder is the vice president of Israel and Jewish affairs at the JCRC-NY.