Standing in Solidarity with Ukraine: For Light and Joy
Today, at the UJA Ukraine Solidarity Summit, voices from across the world bore witness — leaders, activists, and those who have stood on the front lines of history. This work didn’t begin three years ago with the war; it began long before, in the very fabric of our Jewish mission: to support communities in need, Jewish and beyond.
When the war broke out, the network of organizations we had always supported — on the borders of Poland, within Ukraine — pivoted in an instant. What were once centers of Jewish communal life became refugee sanctuaries. I was part of a delegation of rabbis sent by UJA in those early days, and we stood at the border, witnessing the crisis firsthand. The experience stays with me, just as the echoes of Jewish history do.
Jewish history in Ukraine is painful. We remember Babi Yar — a place that stands as a monument to the “Holocaust of Bullets,” where tens of thousands of Jews were murdered not in gas chambers but by bullets, their bodies buried in a mass grave. This history, woven into the consciousness of Jews, has always been one of resilience in the face of hatred.
And now, as we approach Purim, we are called to ask: what does it mean to be a people within a people?
Haman — yes, you can boo — approached King Achashverosh with a sinister argument: “There is a nation scattered among your kingdom. Their ways are different. Their customs do not align. Give me permission to do as I wish with them.”
We know this story too well. It is the story of Jewish exile, of vulnerability in the face of power. It is why, for centuries, Jews prayed for the government — not because we had faith in rulers, but because our survival depended on their whims.
Even today, even in democracies, power can shift, and history can turn in an instant. The Jews of Ukraine, who once faced persecution, now stand with Ukraine in its fight for survival. And this raises an enduring question: Is there ever truly a nation where Jews are fully accepted?
We are Jews. A people, a faith, a nation. We say it every time we declare Am Yisrael Chai. And since October 7, Jews around the world have felt that truth in their bones more than ever.
My family has been in America for four generations. My grandfather, of blessed memory, served in World War II. My sister serves as a chaplain in the U.S. Navy. We are part of this country’s history. And yet, history reminds us that acceptance can be fragile. The Jewish story has always been one of balancing belonging with vigilance.
Ukraine is not the United States. The United States is not Shushan. But the truth remains: the power of evildoers to sway an entire nation to hatred has played out time and again. Sometimes it has been against Jews. Sometimes against immigrants. Sometimes against the LGBTQ community. Against trans people. Against the vulnerable. If we do not remember history, we risk becoming complicit in its repetition.
And so, we ask: is Haman — boo again! — only a figure from our past? Or does his spirit still linger in systems of power, in acts of corruption, in unchecked hatred?
Purim forces us to confront this. The story of Esther is a story of political intrigue, of power wielded and misused, of the struggle to survive as a people within a world that often sees us as other. But it is also a story of courage, of stepping forward, of taking responsibility not just for ourselves but for others.
We cannot be like Haman. We cannot persecute others for their differences, for their disagreements. We must believe that living with respect is possible. Haman could not imagine that, and Haman is gone. But his spiritual descendants remain. The question is: how do we respond?
How do we, as Jews, engage in the national stories of the countries we inhabit, knowing our history of being othered? How do we wield power ethically? How do we stand in solidarity while never forgetting to fight for our own?
We end the Megillah with these words: LaYehudim hayta orah v’simcha v’sasson v’yikar — the Jews had light and joy, gladness and honor. Kein tihiyeh lanu — may it be so for us.
Today, we stand in unwavering solidarity with Ukraine. We will continue to be a vital network of support that we have been since before this war began. And we will continue to ask the hard questions — of ourselves, of our allies, of the world. Always aiming for light. Always striving for joy.
Let our hearts turn east. Let our voices rise in prayer. May all who are in captivity return home. May light break through this darkness. May joy return to our people.
Amen.
