Gal Gadot and Adam Sandler Lead Detroit’s Defiant Menorah Lighting After Sydney Tragedy

Max Sterling, 12/15/2025As Detroit lights its menorah amid rising tensions, community leaders and families gather in defiance of recent violence in Sydney. The event becomes a powerful symbol of resilience, unity, and hope, highlighting the ongoing struggle against hatred and the significance of tradition in challenging times.

Australia, of all places, had crashed the party—or rather, its violence had. A Hanukkah celebration in Sydney interrupted by horror, leaving sixteen dead, dozens wounded, and the rest of the world’s Jewish communities unsettled right out of bed. What was supposed to be a day for doughnuts and spinning dreidels, turned heavy; but still, folks showed up. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of stubborn resolve.

Hanukkah’s menorah—it’s no longer just a piece of sacred décor. These days, it reads like protest art. More beacon, less ornament. One Detroit mother, Stine Grand—a lawyer by trade, all steel in her backbone—clutched her family close and declared she wasn’t about to be bullied out of tradition. Not now. No chance. Rabbi Kasriel Shemtov, voice steady and worn a little thin perhaps, didn’t mince words before striking the first match: “We have to do good and bring light and warmth to the world. We’re going to move forward.”

Security was everywhere—staring back in blue coats and through the dead eyes of metal scanners, forming an uneasy but familiar backdrop. Jewish gatherings know the drill by now; vigilance isn’t a luxury, it's a genre. After Sydney? The stakes felt raised, though nobody said it above a whisper.

But funerals, this was not. Cadillac Square glistened in its own odd way. There were children ricocheting between benches, capped in Oak Park school colors, marshmallows crisping on open flames. Cider steamed, briefly cutting the cold. Joy wasn’t careless—it was carved out with effort, reckless only because hope in times like these always is. Jennifer Marden, fresh from Midland County, summed it up in a way that sounded almost like a benediction: “It’s nice to be able to come and be amongst everybody. Especially during this time of year and with everything going on.” Sometimes there’s not much more to say.

Politicians appeared, naturally, each lining up on stage—Lieutenant Governor Gilchrist, Senator Slotkin, Congressman John James, Mayor Duggan. Oddly bipartisan, at least for one night, reciting variations of the message: unity, resilience, a heavy-handed rebuke of hate. James, no stranger to sharp words, condemned those who’d “turned a joyous celebration into terror,” calling back to Sydney’s vivid wound. Yet for all the rhetoric, the night really belonged to the Ben Ami family, who carried scars no speech could paper over. Raz and Ohad Ben Ami—recently freed from Gaza’s clutches—stood beneath Detroit’s menorah, Ohad insisting, “We had no physical fire, but we had fiery souls.” The point wasn’t subtle, nor did it need to be. Sometimes, survival is the only statement that matters.

Washington’s Ellipse, meanwhile, shed its usual ceremonial stiffness, morphing into something resembling a fortress on the night of its menorah lighting. Here, the ritual is spectacle—an American menorah, hemmed in by Secret Service and history. Rabbi Levi Shemtov didn’t bother with pleasantries, opening his prayer for Ahmed al Ahmed, the Australian fruit-seller who’d run toward danger in Bondi Beach, rewriting the archetype of heroism for a modern, jagged world.

The words carried weight. “So that the darkness that came over our colleagues and across the greater Jewish community as a result, will be answered with strength, light, and resistance.” Revanchist, perhaps, but then again, what’s Hanukkah if not the world’s original comeback story? Secretary Lutnick, somewhere between Wall Street and Washington, echoed the message—albeit filtered through the static of cable news and a pre-election buzz: celebrate proudly, celebrate loudly, celebrate being Jews.

Still, beyond the ceremony, something rougher brews. The menorah cannot shake its origin as a rebel’s torch—a relic of insurgents, not just priests. Mattathias didn’t light candles for tranquility; he lit the wick for war. Back then, Jewish resistance was armed, messy, improbable. Today’s threats slip from boardrooms to street corners with unsettling dexterity. Numbers don’t flatter: Jews make up just over 2% of the U.S. population, yet nearly 70% of all religion-based hate crimes have a familiar target, if the latest FBI round-up is to be believed. No one’s pretending it’s all peace and “Shalom Aleichem.”

Fault lines don’t only run between communities. Inside them, too, the tug-of-war continues—over identity, assimilation, making one’s window display a gentle invitation or an act of resistance. There’s an ongoing debate about slogans like “from the river to the sea”—some call it hope; others, a threat of erasure. Rhetoric runs hot, consequences hotter.

Put simply? Resistance isn’t tidy. It's rarely as cinematic as the textbooks like to promise. History’s filled with last stands—Masada, Warsaw, ghettos and basements and burnt-out shuls scattered from Bialystok to Baghdad. Winston Churchill, never one to sip his tea quietly, put it with his usual bite: “Nations that go down fighting rise again, but those who surrender tamely are finished.”

Yet the light refuses to dim. Someone—whether on a cold plaza, in a locked cell, or before a Capitol surrounded by barricades—keeps reigniting hope, even when the rest of the world would rather pull the shade down.

The menorah stands as more than ancient hardware; it’s ritual turned resistance, nostalgia sharpened into a weapon—a flickering dare scribbled against oblivion: not tonight. Not ever.

The menorah’s flames pushed back against Detroit’s biting December—defiant and fragile, flickering above a city that’s long since learned to hold onto the light when the nights get longer. Cadillac Square, usually the stomping ground of hurried commuters and lunchtime snackers, took on a kind of electric suspense. People braced themselves, not just against the nine-degree wind, but the chill that had crept in with the early morning headlines.Australia, of all places, had crashed the party—or rather, its violence had. A Hanukkah celebration in Sydney interrupted by horror, leaving sixteen dead, dozens wounded, and the rest of the world’s Jewish communities unsettled right out of bed. What was supposed to be a day for doughnuts and spinning dreidels, turned heavy; but still, folks showed up. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of stubborn resolve.Hanukkah’s menorah—it’s no longer just a piece of sacred décor. These days, it reads like protest art. More beacon, less ornament. One Detroit mother, Stine Grand—a lawyer by trade, all steel in her backbone—clutched her family close and declared she wasn’t about to be bullied out of tradition. Not now. No chance. Rabbi Kasriel Shemtov, voice steady and worn a little thin perhaps, didn’t mince words before striking the first match: “We have to do good and bring light and warmth to the world. We’re going to move forward.”Security was everywhere—staring back in blue coats and through the dead eyes of metal scanners, forming an uneasy but familiar backdrop. Jewish gatherings know the drill by now; vigilance isn’t a luxury, it's a genre. After Sydney? The stakes felt raised, though nobody said it above a whisper.But funerals, this was not. Cadillac Square glistened in its own odd way. There were children ricocheting between benches, capped in Oak Park school colors, marshmallows crisping on open flames. Cider steamed, briefly cutting the cold. Joy wasn’t careless—it was carved out with effort, reckless only because hope in times like these always is. Jennifer Marden, fresh from Midland County, summed it up in a way that sounded almost like a benediction: “It’s nice to be able to come and be amongst everybody. Especially during this time of year and with everything going on.” Sometimes there’s not much more to say.Politicians appeared, naturally, each lining up on stage—Lieutenant Governor Gilchrist, Senator Slotkin, Congressman John James, Mayor Duggan. Oddly bipartisan, at least for one night, reciting variations of the message: unity, resilience, a heavy-handed rebuke of hate. James, no stranger to sharp words, condemned those who’d “turned a joyous celebration into terror,” calling back to Sydney’s vivid wound. Yet for all the rhetoric, the night really belonged to the Ben Ami family, who carried scars no speech could paper over. Raz and Ohad Ben Ami—recently freed from Gaza’s clutches—stood beneath Detroit’s menorah, Ohad insisting, “We had no physical fire, but we had fiery souls.” The point wasn’t subtle, nor did it need to be. Sometimes, survival is the only statement that matters.Washington’s Ellipse, meanwhile, shed its usual ceremonial stiffness, morphing into something resembling a fortress on the night of its menorah lighting. Here, the ritual is spectacle—an American menorah, hemmed in by Secret Service and history. Rabbi Levi Shemtov didn’t bother with pleasantries, opening his prayer for Ahmed al Ahmed, the Australian fruit-seller who’d run toward danger in Bondi Beach, rewriting the archetype of heroism for a modern, jagged world.The words carried weight. “So that the darkness that came over our colleagues and across the greater Jewish community as a result, will be answered with strength, light, and resistance.” Revanchist, perhaps, but then again, what’s Hanukkah if not the world’s original comeback story? Secretary Lutnick, somewhere between Wall Street and Washington, echoed the message—albeit filtered through the static of cable news and a pre-election buzz: celebrate proudly, celebrate loudly, celebrate being Jews.Still, beyond the ceremony, something rougher brews. The menorah cannot shake its origin as a rebel’s torch—a relic of insurgents, not just priests. Mattathias didn’t light candles for tranquility; he lit the wick for war. Back then, Jewish resistance was armed, messy, improbable. Today’s threats slip from boardrooms to street corners with unsettling dexterity. Numbers don’t flatter: Jews make up just over 2% of the U.S. population, yet nearly 70% of all religion-based hate crimes have a familiar target, if the latest FBI round-up is to be believed. No one’s pretending it’s all peace and “Shalom Aleichem.”Fault lines don’t only run between communities. Inside them, too, the tug-of-war continues—over identity, assimilation, making one’s window display a gentle invitation or an act of resistance. There’s an ongoing debate about slogans like “from the river to the sea”—some call it hope; others, a threat of erasure. Rhetoric runs hot, consequences hotter.Put simply? Resistance isn’t tidy. It's rarely as cinematic as the textbooks like to promise. History’s filled with last stands—Masada, Warsaw, ghettos and basements and burnt-out shuls scattered from Bialystok to Baghdad. Winston Churchill, never one to sip his tea quietly, put it with his usual bite: “Nations that go down fighting rise again, but those who surrender tamely are finished.”Yet the light refuses to dim. Someone—whether on a cold plaza, in a locked cell, or before a Capitol surrounded by barricades—keeps reigniting hope, even when the rest of the world would rather pull the shade down.The menorah stands as more than ancient hardware; it’s ritual turned resistance, nostalgia sharpened into a weapon—a flickering dare scribbled against oblivion: not tonight. Not ever.