No grandmother should ever spend her Hanukkah on cold pavements, but compassion doesn't always adhere to the calendar's dates nor the traditions' warmth. One grandmother, in her twilight years, parked herself stubbornly outside the grand homes of Israel's decision-makers. This was not a celebration of light, like the Hanukkah she had known in past years. No, this was an ember's glow of desperation for her grandson, held captive in the teetering chaos that is Gaza.
Her resolve was as undeniable as the weathered lines on her face, etched from decades of joy, sorrow, and now, relentless worry. A symbol of wilderness wandering, an invisible menoah in her heart, illuminating her determination as she navigated this daunting political gauntlet.
