Hanukkah in Ukraine
Candles. Sufganiyot. Missiles.
By Edward Serotta
Edward Serotta is the director of Centropa, a Vienna-based Jewish historical institute, and the producer of the podcast series, “A Ukrainian Jewish Century.”
Getting into Ukraine these days isn’t all that difficult, what with direct trains from Poland, Austria, Germany, Czech Republic, and Moldova.
The question is, Why go? The entire country is taking a beating as a vengeful Vladimir Putin sends missiles and drones screaming into Ukraine’s electricity grid and gas and water systems, terrorizing civilians and plunging millions of families into darkness and cold.
I wanted to see how Jews in Ukraine were coping during Hanukkah. After all, it isn’t called the Festival of Lights for nothing, and what is Hanukkah if not a story of resilience?
I began my eight-day journey in shell-shocked Odessa. Two weeks ago the power grid was badly hit, and a great many people are still living in freezing apartments; it is 29 degrees Fahrenheit outside as I write this (although not in the coffee house where I’m sitting). Cell phone towers were also destroyed, which means families can’t even stay in touch with the world. Utilities are starting to come back on in some districts, but progress is slow.
It’s enough to drive Ukrainians out of the country—and not for the first time—although draft-age men cannot leave. Some locals told me that Odessa lost a third of its population last spring but that some of those returned during the summer. When I visited in August, things looked relatively lively.
Much less so now. A fine Italian restaurant and coffee bar on Pol’s’kyi is now shuttered, and the restaurant next door looks to be on life support. A once well-stocked grocery store on Pushkin Street has now closed. And that’s just on the corner where I’m staying.
But just as cockroaches will supposedly be around after a nuclear strike, hipster barbershops were full, as were bars, including one called—wait for it—Shelter. Not all restaurants can prepare food, but they do serve drinks and pour wine by candlelight. Note to self for New Year’s resolutions: Never say a bad word about hipsters again.
Along every street in Odessa (and, I’m sure, everywhere else in Ukraine), you hear the sound of portable generators. The Beit Grand Jewish Community Center has a massive generator that keeps the heat and lights on, and the programming team, led by Marina London, is determined to run existing programs and start new ones.
This impressive building was funded by a family from Detroit that traces its roots back to Odessa, and the building’s activities are now funded by Jewish federations, family foundations in England, the Joint Distribution Committee, and locals. Holocaust survivors are looked after by the Claims Conference.
On the first night of Hanukkah, a dozen members of one of the Jewish youth clubs (“We have three of them,” Marina told me) were about to light the menorah in the lobby.
A lanky Kosta Beggelman, a 21-year-old engineering student and graphic designer, did the honors. Then he held forth on the meaning of Hanukkah.
A few minutes later, Kosta and his friends joined the audience in the auditorium for the School of Laughs, where young would-be comics were trying out stand-up routines in front of professional comedians. Their jokes had to include references to Hanukkah. Fifty-five people were in the audience.
“We are running more than 25 programs over these eight days,” Marina said, “from a Jewish Literature Club to a club for volunteer social workers. We also have a program for special needs children and adults. And we have a two-day course in first aid.” She raised her eyebrows, sighed, and said, “Of course people are depressed. And very scared. But everyone needs something to keep their minds off of what’s going on.”
As I left the building at 7:00 p.m., staffers from the Joint Distribution Committee were readying several hundred boxes of food to be given out the next morning.
Outside, there wasn’t a single street light on. Traffic lights weren’t functioning. A city plunged into darkness with a cold wind blowing in from the Black Sea.
There were few cars driving about, so there was little of that whining sound caused by tires racing along cobbled streets. What I heard instead was the sound of thousands of portable generators, like a constant, ongoing hum of defiance in a city determined to live its life.