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If we cease to celebrate, if we allow the horrors of our enemies to rob us of our joy, then they have won an immeasurable victory.
By JONATHAN LIEBERMAN MARCH 1, 2025 02:36
Hamas terrorists parade as they prepare to hand over hostages.
(photo credit: Dawoud Abu Alkas/Reuters)
I have spent the last two weeks in Perth, Western Australia, celebrating the bar mitzvah of my second grandson.
It was an intensely emotional and joyful experience, made even more significant because my entire family, en masse, uprooted themselves and flew to the other side of the world to share in this momentous occasion.
The beauty of our togetherness, the unity of generations coming together in song, prayer, and festivity, was a showcase of the resilience of our people and the deep, unbreakable bonds of family.
And yet, there was a massive elephant in the room – a dark, suffocating presence that clouded our happiness. Just days before the celebration, the bodies of the Bibas children, tiny Kfir and his older brother Ariel, were returned home together with that of Oded Lifschitz (HY”D) after they had been brutally taken from this world. The babies’ mother, Shiri, was “found” and returned a day later.
The horror of their fate, the unspeakable suffering they endured, loomed over us like a storm. The images of their tiny coffins, paraded as grotesque trophies by Hamas in a sickening propaganda display, were burned into our minds, haunting the very air we breathed.
Trembling with emotion
During the celebration, the synagogue’s rabbi – who is also the father of the bar mitzvah boy – stood before the congregation, his voice trembling with emotion. He spoke of his indescribable fortune to stand here and witness his son stepping into Jewish adulthood, to celebrate his journey, to see him grow.
And then, he reminded us all of another father – a father who had two sons of his own, sons who will never have the chance to stand on a bimah, to chant from the Torah, to become men in the eyes of their community.
That father will never see them mature, never embrace them in pride and joy. His sons are gone, their lives stolen, their futures erased in an act of unspeakable cruelty.
THE EMOTION in the room was overwhelming. The weight of this tragic juxtaposition pressed down on all of us. You could feel it in the air, in the way people held their breath, in the way hands clenched into fists of silent anguish.
There was hardly a dry eye in the synagogue. Many of the congregation wore yellow badges, the symbol of solidarity with the hostages still held captive, a small but significant gesture of defiance against the darkness that threatens to consume us.
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Among those present was Pastor Mark Leach, co-founder of “Never Again Is Now,” a movement across Australia dedicated to making antisemitism unthinkable. A devout Anglican, a leader of faith, a man of principle, he stood before us in unwavering solidarity.
The rabbi introduced him as “not probably, but definitely the foremost supporter of Jews and protester against antisemitism.” Pastor Leach offered a short but deeply heartfelt blessing to the community, reaffirming his resolute commitment to our people, to justice, to truth. His words were a balm to our wounded hearts, a reminder that even in our darkest hours, we are not alone.
Also in the congregation was an extraordinary figure – Rabbi Dr. Shalom Coleman, a former rabbi of this very community. At 106 years young, he still drives, still prays daily, still teaches Torah with the sharpness of a man half his age. His blessing upon my grandson and our entire family was something beyond words.
To witness a man who has seen more than a century of Jewish history, who has endured the tides of time with steadfast faith, who has watched generations rise and fall, was nothing short of awe-inspiring. His presence alone was a testament to the endurance of our people, a living, breathing symbol of survival.
THE STARK contrast of emotions – our gratitude for the privilege of celebrating this milestone, versus the gut-wrenching sorrow and fury at the unfathomable cruelty of our enemies – was almost too much to bear.
It left us all grappling with a question that feels impossible to answer: How do we continue with our lives, with our joys and celebrations, when such unbearable grief and injustice persist?
This very question was examined deeply by psychologists and scholars in the aftermath of the Holocaust. How did survivors, many of whom had lost their entire families, find the strength to rebuild, to marry, to bring new life into the world, to dance at weddings, to sing at bar mitzvahs?
Research shows that celebration was not a betrayal of their pain, but rather an act of defiance. Survivors reported that the very act of rejoicing – of lighting Shabbat candles, of making kiddush, of dancing – was an assertion of life in the face of death.
It was a means of reclaiming what had been stolen, a declaration that the Jewish spirit could not be extinguished.
There are haunting yet powerful accounts of Jews celebrating even in the ghettos and concentration camps. In the Lodz Ghetto, despite the starvation and despair, families still attempted to mark bar mitzvahs in secret, whispering blessings over scraps of bread when challah was an impossible dream.
In Auschwitz, there are testimonies of prisoners singing fragments of Jewish songs, muttered under their breath as they marched to forced labor. Some even recount how, on rare occasions, a clandestine wedding would be performed – a quiet act of love in the heart of hell.
These moments of celebration, however small, were acts of resistance. They were declarations that even in the face of annihilation, we would not surrender our humanity.
We must keep celebrating
THE LESSON we must take from this is clear: If we cease to celebrate, if we allow the horrors of our enemies to rob us of our joy, then they have won an immeasurable victory.
Celebration is not a denial of pain; it is a response to it. It is how we tell the world – and ourselves – that we endure. That we will not be broken. That we will raise our children, and we will teach them Torah – and we will rejoice in their milestones, even as we grieve.
But while we celebrate, we must also remember. We must carry the pain of the lost, and we must never allow their names to fade into oblivion. And, sad to say, we must never forgive.
Forgiveness is reserved for those who seek it with genuine remorse, for those who repent, for those who atone. There is no atonement for what was done to the Bibas children, no redemption for the monsters who paraded their deaths as propaganda.
We celebrate because we must. We grieve because we cannot do otherwise. And we fight – by living, by remembering, by never letting go of our past, and by never ceasing to build our future.
To paraphrase philosopher Emil Fackenheim, we will not hand Hamas a posthumous victory.
The writer, a rabbi and physician, lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.
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