BH In the wake of the horrific Sydney massacre, the Jewish world experienced a familiar and painful paradox: trauma alongside an almost inexplicable resilience. Grief, shock, and vulnerability were real and present. And yet, almost immediately, another reality emerged. Chabad centers around the world reported larger crowds than ever at public menorah lightings. Locally, we saw the same phenomenon—record numbers at all our Chanukah events, filling public spaces with light, song, and Jewish pride.
It is a pattern as old as our people.
Chanukah itself gives language to this moment. The miracle was not only that a small jug of oil burned longer than expected. It is that oil emerges only when the olive is crushed. Left untouched, an olive remains intact but unrevealing. Under pressure, something deeper is released.
Throughout Jewish history, moments of crushing—exile, persecution, violence—have not extinguished us. Instead, they have revealed our inner “oil”: an essential faith, identity, and connection to G-d that cannot be broken. When external layers are stripped away, something indestructible rises to the surface.
This week’s Torah portion, Parshas Vayigash, introduces us to the forerunner of this spiritual dynamic: Yosef. Few figures in Tanach were as relentlessly “crushed” by life as Yosef. Orphaned at a young age, betrayed and sold by his brothers, falsely accused by his master’s wife, and forgotten in prison—his life reads like a sequence of injustice and isolation.
And yet, when Yosef finally reveals himself to his brothers, he reframes his entire story with breathtaking clarity: “Ki l’michyah shlachani Elokim lifneichem” — It was for sustenance that G-d sent me ahead of you.
Yosef does not deny the pain. He does not minimize the trauma. But he recognizes something deeper: every crushing moment was part of a Divine shlichus. His resilience was not accidental; it flowed from an essential trust that G-d was present even in the darkness.
This same idea lies at the heart of Hei Teves, the day we celebrate Didan Notzach—the victory in Federal Court as to the ownership of the Rebbe’s library. An affirmation that Torah does not belong to individuals, families, or private collections, but to the entire Jewish people. Hei Teves followed years of struggle and uncertainty, yet out of that pressure emerged clarity: Torah lives only when it is shared, learned, and lived openly. Once again, crushing led to revelation.
As we move forward, this theme takes on deeply personal meaning. On January 25, when we gather for the Yossi Green concert, the date coincides with the shloshim of those murdered in Sydney. That evening, we will be launching The Souls of Sydney Project, a communal initiative inviting people to honor their memories through acts of mitzvah and light—transforming loss into living legacy.
Sydney shook us. It hurt us. It reminded us of our vulnerability. But Chanukah revealed something deeper: the Jewish soul responds to darkness not by retreating, but by shining brighter. When threatened, we gather. When wounded, we light. When crushed, our oil flows.
We are bruised, but unbroken.
And our light will continue to rise higher, wider and deeper.
Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New 
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