Chanukah is one of the most relevant holidays to what I do. It is all about spreading light and what better way than by showing films to the public. But beyond the literal illumination that films provide, there is of course the simple symbolic concept of spreading stories that enlighten. If it is by making people laugh, or touching people, or by sharing new perspectives, I believe in dark times, it is crucial to engage in the spreading of a story.
I am not a big follower of religious law, and definitely do not believe in the miracles of the Chanukah story. But I am a strong believer in sharing stories and light. Some say Christmas is commercial, but the Talmud actually commands to light Chanukah candles publicly and to "Pirsume Dnisa" which in Aramaic means to advertise the miracle. The word "pirsum" is the modern Hebrew word for advertising. According to Jewish law, one is commanded to make Chanukah commercial -- or to share the light.
My personal tradition is to share a story on Chanukah. Not the classic story of Chanukah of the rebels overcoming the forces of darkness (or is that Star Wars?) but every year, I tell my own story of a no less heroic feat. Some legends of Chanukah might be exaggerated or flat out not true. And although time and re-telling might have embellished this story, I promise that all the details in this story are true.
When I was 20, I was serving in the Israeli Military as a film producer. Definitely a cushy job for the IDF, but still, I was often on "mission" and working long hours. It was Chanukah, and I returned on a Friday afternoon to my family's home in Jerusalem after a particularly sleepless couple of days. All I wanted was to sleep.
Just as I fell asleep my mother's shrill yell shook the house. "COME DOWN FOR CANDLE LIGHTING!" I was furious. All I asked for was to sleep. Despite my protest, she would not give in and I was forced to join the family candle lighting which on Friday afternoons happens before night fall as not to impede on the rules of Shabbat which include not lighting fires. (It's a complicated religion...)
Family candle lighting in my house was no short event. It was only later in life that I realized that many families just light one Chanukah Menorah together. How economical. We had a dozen menorahs cramped together on a table. Everyone had to light their own and that included guests and children. Each member was also forced to sing the blessings individually, even if they were not fluent in Hebrew or even knew how to sing the songs. My mother would make sure that each individual lit.
I quickly got the show on the road and lit my candles while saying the blessings at a record breaking speed. But this was not good enough, I had to wait until everyone in the house had finished lighting. I aggressively pushed everyone else to move our ancient ceremony forward so I could sleep. But nothing could shake my mother. She sang her blessings as slowly as possible, ignoring or possibly defying my need for sleep. At that moment I cursed the flames. "I hope this all goes on fire!" I was steaming with exhausted anger.
My mother was also the self-elected fire marshal and would practice drills throughout the eight nights of Chanukah as we lit literally dozens of candles in a very small space. She would make everyone stand back away from the flames as she would take one small lit menorah and place it in a metal encasement that my grandfather put together and then put this on our front entrance porch in order to keep with the rule of advertising the miracle.
The lighting ceremony was finally over, as was the required post lighting singing and I was finally permitted to go back to sleep. I went back upstairs to my room, and just as I was about to fall asleep I heard the loud continuous buzzing of our front doorbell. I rolled over in my bed and covered my ears, but the buzzing frantically continued. This could only be the work of a maniac. I jumped furiously out of bed and ran out of my room ready to strangle whoever was buzzing the doorbell. I reached the top of the stairs, just as my little sister was opening the front door.
As the door opened, I saw it was a neighbor who was a major respected Orthodox Rabbi in Jerusalem ringing the bell. But why was he ringing it so incessantly? He was dressed in his long black coat and black hat. He must have been on his way to synagogue as Shabbat was about to begin. As the door continued to open, almost in slow motion, I saw my sister's eyes light up and reflect. A huge flame blazed from the menorah my mother put on the front entrance porch. The Rabbi was trying to alert us! My sister was frozen in fear. She finally got the words out - "FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE!"
My father ran towards the front door. My mother flew in pushing him out of the way and grabbing her flower watering can. As she sprinkled the fire with her colorful little can, the flame somehow only grew. It was not helping. My brothers joined to stand helplessly by the fire. My father quickly grabbed the garbage pail by the entrance. He put a little water from the sink and ran towards the blaze. He was about to throw the bucket at the fire when my brother pointed out that the bucket was mostly filled with flammable paper and trash. He started to sort through the bin, selecting which pieces of garbage were wet enough to throw at the roaring flame. This too had very little impact on the fire.
I was finding this all amusing as I watched this useless family contend with a fire. My mother with her watering can, my father sorting through garbage, as my sister still stood frozen in fear. Just then, like a dark knight, the Rabbi returned with a bucket of water and in one splash the fire was out. There was no messing around with this rabbi. He glared at me, as if for a moment he knew that I was the one who cursed the flames. And then, as quickly as he appeared in his long black coat, he was gone. I went to sleep, the Jews rejoiced, and I lit the candles for years to come to commemorate this great fire event.
Now, it has become my family tradition to re-tell this story and advertise our own little miracle of Chanukah. Or maybe it is our way to simply share some light. As modern society evolves, I am watching a demise in basic storytelling. Big or small, old and new, no matter what religion or culture you come from, it is important take time to appreciate and share your stories.