Maimonides also discusses publicizing the miracle in his Mishneh Torah, Book 3, Section 10, The Laws of Reading Megillah and of Hanukkah, and ends the discussion by presenting us with a hypothetical question: When Hanukkah coincides with Shabbat, and there is only enough oil to light either Shabbat or Hanukkah candles, which candles should take precedence?

When two commandments are in conflict with each other, we commonly favor the commandment that we engage in more regularly. This is based on the principle "[when presented with] that which is frequent and that which is not frequent, the frequent takes precedence." In this regard, lighting Shabbat candles take precedence over lighting Hanukkah candles.  However, Maimonides does not give this typical halachic response to the question, even though it would be the most obvious one to give.  Instead, he explains as follows:

"The lamp for one's home [i.e., Shabbat] receives priority since it generates peace within the home. … Peace is great, for the entire Torah was given to bring about peace within the world, as [Proverbs 3:17] states: 'Its ways are pleasant ways and all its paths are peace.'"

 Like many commandments rooted in religious symbolism, the act of lighting candles represents a larger Jewish value of bringing peace and harmony into the family home and sanctifying God's name. Lighting Shabbat candles, a private mitzvah, is rooted heavily in the former and is performed to impact one's own family, to fill the home with the joy and light of Shabbat. In contrast, the public commandment of lighting Hanukkah candles is an expression of the latter, a directive to place our candles in our windows and at our doorsteps in order to publicize the miracle of the holiday (or the victory of the Maccabees) by shining our spiritual light outwards.

Maimonides urges us to realize that this value of peace in the home is primary. Only when we attain peace in the home can we hope to bring that inner light outwards – we must first have peace in our own domains and personal relationships before we can hope to bring a meaningful light and true peace to the world at large. Therefore, Shabbat candles take precedence because the act of solidifying peace within the household sets the stage for what we want to convey about ourselves to the outside world.

It's no secret that the house of the Jewish nation is not yet in order. Among ourselves, we struggle to find a way to accept and include each other, despite our differences, and to figure out how to create room in our home for everyone. To make things even more complicated, we share our home here in Israel with other peoples from various religious and cultural backgrounds, and we struggle mightily to relate to the other. But as we contemplate what publicizing the miracle means during Hanukkah, there are answers within our own tradition that we can look to and choose to live by.

All rabbinic commentaries agree that the light of the Hanukkah candles may not be used for our own benefit – we are not even permitted to use the light from the flames to read in a dimly lit room. In this way, we are not allowed to show off the light to the outside world as a way to flaunt a supposed achievement of being a light unto the nations, an example for others to follow. Instead, we must treat the light as a reminder of the work that must still be done within ourselves, our own homes and beyond, and to not get caught up in the pitfalls of triumphalism.

Last year, at the diverse campuses of Ono Academic College, some of my students expressed concern and even dismay over the Christmas tree we had set up next to the Hanukkah menorah. The students were understandably wary of what such Christian symbology has meant to Jews throughout history. The concept of embracing and accepting the other does not, after all, erase a long and painful history of Jewish persecution. But now that we are the ones in power here in Israel, and we are back in our own home, we must ask ourselves what we can do today for the sake of peace in the home. After all, it's not just our home – we are sharing it with others, too.

This multicultural holiday setup led to an important conversation about how we see each other. It served as a crucial reminder that the traditions, and the people who practice them, can occupy the same space without one negating the other. Lighting Hanukkah candles next to a Christmas tree is an invitation for dialogue about who we are as individuals and how we relate to each other. It allows us to stand side by side with the other, with both of us present and proud of who we are. It reminds us that this is the work we have to do here at home in Israel and everywhere else we go.

During the upcoming Festival of Lights, it's important that we consider what light exactly we're shining out onto the world. When our home is fragmented by conflict, derision and marginalization, we are not really observing the laws of Hanukkah. We are neither putting our best foot forward nor contributing more light to the world. Like everything else of value, a lasting, fulfilling peace begins at home.

As we light the menorahs that our children bring home from school, let's ask ourselves what legacy we want to pass onto them. What do we wish to tell our neighbor with this light and what are we demonstrating at home that we hope to share with the world? Our tradition does not permit us to simply use the lights to project miraculous victory if there is no peace at home. As Maimonides says, punctuating the end of the discussion on the laws of Hanukkah: "Peace is great, for the entire Torah was given to bring about peace within the world, as [Proverbs 3:17] states: 'Its ways are pleasant ways and all its paths are peace.'" This concept should be our guiding light as we kindle our Hanukkah lights again this year.

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It seems self-evident from our everyday experience that two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. (This is actually a consequence of the Pauli exclusion principle in quantum mechanics.) Sometimes I wonder if the same rule applies to different social groups. In the case of Israel's Jewish and Arab populations, the question is if we can both occupy the same geographical space at the same time. Is it possible to live in coexistence with each other given our dueling narratives? What is it, exactly, that we are aiming for in our shared future? What would a shared society even look like here, and towards what goals can we aspire?

This is the conversation that Israel's Jewish and Arab residents so desperately need to have. We talk constantly about the need to respect the other side's narrative but that respect is so often missing from the equation. The conversations that have taken place thus far have largely dodged the issue that stands between us and our ability to come closer to any kind of solution: We both fantasize that the other will somehow magically disappear and stop intruding on our dreams of having a home that is just for us.

And we must also appreciate the magnitude of the emotions that this land elicits and reflect on it. This biblical land within the biblical ethos of the zero-sum game is prevalent in our psyches. Our resistance to dealing with "the other" is deeply related to our elemental sense of coming home. We constantly feel that the "other" is taking something away from us, and in Israel, too often that "other" is almost anyone who disagrees with me.

Many Jews believe that Israel is the Jewish homeland. However, Israel's Arab population also sees this place as their homeland. If I were to come into your home and say that it was mine, would you just agree to share it with me? We may be generous to guests, even when they are uninvited, but when the guest makes himself at home and has no intention of leaving, the spirit of generosity dies quickly. Here in Israel, Jews and Arabs look at each other as the uninvited guest who has long worn out his welcome.

Though we have grappled with this issue for decades, we are no closer to developing a blueprint for creating a space in Israel that is sufficiently livable for all of us. It is a seemingly impossible task, as our complex circumstances and history have constructed a mutual distrust that sits like an anchor just beneath the surface of our society. Such things do not dismantle quickly or easily.

There are tools that we can use to start the process of taking the current narrative of constant conflict apart and rebuilding from its rubble. In many conflict resolution theories, it must begin with a mutual understanding, that the other's narrative is legitimate, and their subjective experience must be honored. However, in Israel, both sides see the other's narrative as a direct threat.

When I'm teaching, I see my Arab students struggle under the burden of the unbudging status quo that our shared conflict has placed upon them. These Arab students are wondering if there is space for their identity as a minority in Israel and are trying to understand how they can succeed here. They deal with discrimination and the deep wounds of a distrust that has been sown between our opposing sides for decades. My constant fear is failing to reach these young, promising students with anything that will offer them substantive hope. In the vacuum of hope's absence, I also fear that extremists will step in where Israel has failed and offer an alluring illusion of purpose that will highlight anger and pain while stoking the fire of resentment against their Israeli counterparts. It is a frightening vision of our shared future, and it is one that we are already familiar with in our present.

While no conversation between us should be considered frivolous or irrelevant, we must speak to each other on additional levels. We need to be brave and willing to be disturbed to our core in order to understand the other side's perspective, even when it challenges our own closely held narratives. Having that conversation is the first step to being able to see ourselves in the other, and this requires a generosity of spirit much like what I experienced at the iftar.

During Ramadan, people wish each other a "Ramadan Kareem," which, roughly translated, means "Generous Ramadan." This spirit was certainly palpable at the iftar. How can we share this spirit of generosity beyond Ramadan, and between more than two people on the same side of a conflict? When we can do that, we will finally summon the courage necessary to be truthful with ourselves and ask if having our place means that the other can't have a place alongside us as well (if that is even the correct question to ask).

Two objects may not be able to occupy the same space at the same time, but we are people and not objects. As such, we have the God-given ability to build, create, change and make decisions. We are inherently flexible and adaptable. We can decide to make room for the other and we can build a shared future together, even without an exact blueprint of how it will look.

When I awoke the morning after the iftar to all of the daunting challenges of the day, I had a feeling that I cannot and do not want to shake. It is a feeling that we could all do better.

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