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Guarding Our Voice in a World That Wants Our Silence

by Ram ben Ze’ev


Hanukkhia
Hanukkhia

I have written at length about assimilation within the Jewish Community, both within Israel and throughout the Diaspora. Language is never neutral. Accents, borrowed phrases, and careless substitutions are the first steps a person takes when trying to blend in, to avoid standing out, to be accepted.


This subject has reared its head again because we are in the midst of Hanukkah. As we celebrate the festival and light a growing number of candles each night on our חנוכיה (Hanukkhia, Hanukkah lamp), I read hundreds, if not thousands, of posts online by senior rabbis and established Jewish organisations encouraging the lighting of a “menorah.” This may appear minor, even pedantic, but it is neither. During Hanukkah, the mitzvah is not to light a Menorah; it is to light a Hanukkhia.



G-D commanded Moshe how and why to make the מנורה (Menorah, seven-branched lamp), and from the earliest period of Israelite worship the Menorah belonged exclusively to the בית המקדש (Beit HaMikdash, Holy Temple). Its form, function, and sanctity are inseparable. For this reason, Jewish law later prohibited making an exact replica of the seven-branched Menorah for ordinary use, precisely because its design is so specific and so holy. If a Menorah could legitimately have any number of branches, such a prohibition would make no sense.


The Menorah’s light was not commemorative or historical. It was a continuous, daily service, expressing the ongoing presence of G-D’s light within the Mikdash. It was lit every day, not for eight days, and its purpose was to illuminate sacred space, not to mark a past miracle.

Hanukkah, by contrast, is marked by eight days precisely because it transcends the natural order represented by seven. Eight in Jewish thought signifies that which goes beyond creation, the realm of נס (nes, miracle), covenant, and transcendence. That is why the Hanukkhia has eight lights, one for each day of the miracle, plus the שמש (Shamash, attendant), which stands apart.


Yet we were never commanded to blend in. We were commanded to be a Holy Nation. The Hebrew word קדוש (kadosh, holy) does not mean pious, spiritual, or morally superior; it means separate, distinct, set apart from the nations. Holiness in Torah is not defined by imitation or acceptance, but by separation with purpose. To be holy is to refuse dilution, to maintain boundaries, and to preserve identity even when standing apart is uncomfortable. We were commanded to carry light rather than reflect the fashions of others. Assimilation does not begin with abandoning mitzvot; it begins with abandoning meaning.



Words shape thought, and thought shapes identity. When we casually replace our language with the language of the nations, we slowly replace our inner world as well. This is not a new danger, but it is accelerating. The internet, social media, and the mechanics of modern attention have created a culture where approval is quantified and visibility is mistaken for value. The pursuit of likes, follows, recognition, and public affirmation feeds the יצר הרע (yetzer hara, evil inclination), encouraging performance over truth and conformity over covenant.


This tension between form and truth appears at the very beginning of the Torah itself. When Cain and Abel bring offerings, both perform the external act, yet only one is received. Cain (קין, Qayin, acquisition) brings from the produce of the ground; Abel (הבל, Hevel, breath or vapour) brings from the firstborn of his flock and from their fat. The Torah’s wording is precise. Abel brings first and best. Cain brings something, but not himself. The difference is not ritual compliance but inner posture. Abel recognises that everything comes from G-D and returns the choicest as an act of humility and truth. Cain performs the gesture while retaining ownership in his heart. The act is religious, but the intention is not surrendered. G-D’s response teaches a permanent principle: He does not measure offerings by their appearance, language, or public form, but by their truth. When the external act drifts away from the inner covenant, it cannot rise. This is why G-D warns Cain that “sin crouches at the door” — the fracture precedes the crime. Assimilation, too, begins not with rebellion, but with dissonance: when words, symbols, and gestures are retained while meaning quietly slips away.


The danger is subtle. Nobody wakes up intending to distance themselves from G-D. The drift happens quietly, through small concessions made for convenience, popularity, or relevance. Sacred terms are diluted to sound familiar. Distinctions are softened to avoid offence. The unique rhythm of Jewish thought is flattened into universal slogans that demand nothing and challenge no one. Over time, the language of holiness becomes decorative rather than directive.



We are commanded to be separate not out of arrogance, but out of responsibility. A light that tries to look like the darkness ceases to illuminate. A people that reshapes itself to fit every age eventually forgets what it was shaped for. Covenant requires boundaries. Identity requires restraint. Holiness requires the courage to sound different, to be different, and at times to stand alone.


Social media intensifies this challenge by rewarding immediacy and punishing depth. Thoughtful silence is invisible. Nuance does not trend. The algorithms do not promote humility or patience. They promote outrage, mimicry, and constant self-display. Without vigilance, even sincere voices begin to speak in borrowed tones, measuring worth by reaction rather than by truth.


This is a downward spiral, but it is not inevitable. The remedy begins where the erosion begins: with language, intention, and awareness. We must check ourselves before we check our feeds. We must ask whether our words draw us closer to G-D’s covenant or further from it. We must recognise that popularity is not validation, and visibility is not purpose.


To be a Holy Nation in this age requires discipline. It requires remembering that we were never meant to fit in, only to stand firm. The world does not need another echo. It needs a clear voice, anchored in truth, unafraid of distinction, and faithful to the charge placed upon us.



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