I got a text from my dear friend Dakota a couple hours ago, wishing me a happy Chanukkah. My eyes darted to the window, a wall of pitch black. The sun had already set, and I had completely forgotten that Chanukkah started tonight.
Dismay. How could I have possibly forgotten the first night of Chanukkah? This had never happened to me before. Living in the U.S., it would've been impossible to forget. My family and I would've been making plans to make latkes together weeks in advance, and my college besties and I would drive to the local donut shop to pick up Sufganiyot. I would've dug through my sock drawer to find a Dreidl and stocked up on gelt from the grocery store. I would've already been planning what to buy with the Chanukkah money from my grandparents (thank you grandparents!).
Frustration. The internal Jewish clock in my body that reminded me to buy Chanukkah candles and take the menorah down from the mantelpiece (or to bug my parents to buy chanukkah candles and take the menorah down from the mantelpiece) betrayed me this year. The truth is, I completely lost track of time and have no Jewish community here to ground me in who I am and where I come from. Does really no one here in Germany know about Chanukkah? How did everyone in my life here fail to wish me a happy Chanukkah, even if they don't celebrate themselves?
Grief. Of course, it's easier to place the blame on those around me. What hurts the most is that I forgot to wish me a happy Chanukkah.
I called my parents and they recited the prayers with me as I lit the candles (My Nana and Papa brought me Chanukkah candles when they visited back in October. The menorah I bought for myself back in May. I sent gratitude to my past self, who already had in mind that I would be celebrating the first five days of Chanukkah in Germany without my family.) My grief settled a bit, overcome by the urge to philosophize. How Jewish could one possibly be without a community to be Jewish with? My dad made an excellent point: to be Jewish alone is explicitly forbidden according to Jewish law. You need a Minyan for services to take place.
Needless to say, I am very much missing my Jewish community right now. Especially living in a Christian country, where everyone's high on tacky lights and cheesy music and Santa Claus for weeks on end. I'm not saying the U.S. is any different - I actually think the U.S. is more unbearable when it comes to Christmas spirit (the cookies are worse). But at least in the U.S. I had community who understood what it felt like to be surrounded by joy and chaos that wasn't ours. A community who had joy and chaos of our own to tend to. Not to mention the occasional house we would pass with strings of blue and white lights draped across bare braches, a menorah in the window. The excited shouting: "Look at that house! To your left! No, other left! Jews!!"
I can't end this post without acknowledging the shooting in Sydney. As much as I crave community and congregation, as much as we need to gather to keep our traditions alive and stay connected, there is the deeply troubling reality to contend with that antisemitism is on a steady rise. I hope to one day find Jewish community here in Germany, though I'm daunted by how difficult it seems to be. How hidden are the synagogues? How careful must they be about their digital presence? It saddens me, the thought of us not being to be able to find each other as a consequence of merely trying to stay alive. Again, the question. How Jewish can one possibly be, alone?
I haven't texted Dakota back, but I will. I'm grateful that he reached out. I suppose his text is an important reminder for me. Even if no one in my immediate vicinity knew what day it is, I've got a friend abroad who's got my back. And he's not even Jewish! Take notes, Goys.
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