It happened again. And again I felt the familiar combination of being heartbroken and not in the least surprised.

Jews have always been a target. And we always will be. It’s as simple as that.

From simple indignities to outright assaults and murder, being a Jew in public has always been dangerous.

Hanukkah is a holiday that’s meant to be public—we are supposed to place our lit menorahs in the window for all to see—so it is also an especially dangerous time.

And just to remind us that the deadly attack in Australia on the first night of Hanukkah wasn’t one deranged person who could (somehow) be excused, two men with rifles stood calmly on a bridge and tried to kill as many Jews as they could.

Commenting on how October 7 changed her, the Israeli writer Sarah Tuttle-Singer wrote today, “I understood, in my bones, something I’d previously only known intellectually: that there are forces in the world that are not confused, not misunderstood, not acting out of grievance — but are animated by annihilation.”

But here is the flip side. Just yesterday I opened an envelope that contained a check for $15.77. It represents my annual earnings from the musical Fiddler on the Roof.

I own a percent of a percent. But I have something far more valuable. I have a legacy.

My grandmother was one of the “Hadassah ladies” who funded the project. Of course it was them. Who else would want to give money to something as ridiculous as a musical play about Jews?

The play’s backers knew who. They went straight to the source — Jewish women who cared about making the world a better place for everyone. Women who weren’t afraid to stand up and be counted as Jews, even though the Holocaust had ended only a few short years earlier.

Despite everything that tells us otherwise, every nerve ending that tells us to run and hide, we continue.

In the face of every shooting and every act of hatred, we continue.

In these short December days, when night is longer than day, we continue.

In these dark times, when hating Jews for loving Israel has become the norm, we continue.

In a world that stubbornly sees us as Other rather than Neighbor, we continue.

In this world, in these times, we light our candles and remember that miracles happen when we continue.

We are taught that Hanukkah is about the miracle of the oil that lasted eight nights. No. The true miracle is that we still exist, that instead of running and hiding we build giant menorahs and gather outdoors to celebrate the Festival of Light.

“Be a light until the nations,” the Torah commands. We have obeyed, and we will continue to obey. We will light the candles tonight. And we will continue to shine brightly.