Bringing Light, Dignity, and Hope to Rikers Island

Crossing the Rikers Island Bridge during Chanukah immediately sets the tone. As the island comes into view, so does the light. This year, seven large illuminated menorahs and five inflatable menorahs stood across Rikers Island, visible as you approach the island. At Rikers, light is not an idea—it is real precisely because life here is so unsettling.

Rikers is a place where people are constantly being moved. Through all of that, the menorahs stood in clear view. For those who are in jail, seeing the menorahs became a symbol of hope—something steady in a place that often feels uncertain and dark. The light was already there, even before we arrived.

While this evening stood at the center of the visit, prisoners across the island were visited on multiple nights of Chanukah.

Volunteers arrived together—some on a school bus, others in their own cars. Everyone knew the reality going in. This is a prison. Things run on schedules, and time is limited. Once inside, there is no lingering. You move when it’s time to move, wait when you have to wait, and keep going. The pressure of the clock is always there. When the doors open, everything needs to happen quickly.

When we arrived on the third night of Chanukah, the program took place in the prison gym. By the time we were inside, the space was already active, with different sections of the prison being brought in at different times. Volunteers were quickly divided into roles. Some handled logistics—massive amounts of food moving steadily from table to table. Others greeted prisoners as they arrived, showed them where to sit, spoke to them warmly about Chanukah, and helped them feel heard and at home. Others focused on setting up music, coordinating equipment, and setting up the menorah, adjusting constantly to a system where timing is unpredictable. Everything was happening at once, and yet nothing felt out of control.

Families of prisoners arrived as well, and the tone of the room shifted. This was not a visiting-room atmosphere. Families sat together naturally, sharing meals, speaking freely, leaning toward one another, hugging when possible. A family meal inside prison restores something basic and human. It says: we are still a family; we sit together; we are people. Dignity does not need to be explained. It is seen.

As Ma’ariv began, people stood where they were. The room did not stop moving, but it centered. Rabbi Zalman Tevel then shared something personal. The loss of Rabbi Eli Schlanger and Rabbi Levitan, along with sixteen others, weighed heavily on the room. At that very time, Rabbi Schlanger’s funeral was taking place in Australia. There was real uncertainty about how—or whether—to proceed with a celebration.

But that hesitation led to clarity. This gathering would go forward precisely because this is what they stood for: more light, more hope, more people strengthened. The program was dedicated in their memory.

At Rabbi Tevel’s request, the room entered a moment of silence. This silence was not about any one person. It was an invitation—for everyone in the room, Jewish and non-Jewish—to pause and think about G-d in their own way. In a place so full of noise, rules, and motion, the stillness itself carried meaning. Tehillim followed, giving voice to what the silence had opened.

The menorah was lit. The brachos were said. The room did not freeze. Prisoners continued to arrive. Food continued moving. Families continued settling. The light entered reality rather than interrupting it.

When the music began—led by Yossi Cohen and the Piamenta Brothers—the shift was immediate. The chairs moved back. Circles formed. Dancing began without instruction. Joy spread through the room. Volunteers gently encouraged people into the circle. Those in wheelchairs were not watching; they were spun joyfully into the dance. People with disabilities moved carefully but proudly. Smiles appeared and stayed.

Entertainment added to the release—juggling, laughter, surprise. At one point, a machine sent toilet paper flying through the air, filling the room in a way that felt playful and freeing. In a place defined by boundaries, something light and harmless broke through. All the while, food kept moving. Volunteers kept adjusting. The room stayed alive.

Even amid the dancing and motion, attention returned again and again to the individual. Prisoners were brought aside, one by one, to light their own menorahs, say the blessings, and have a personal moment with Hashem. These moments were quiet, unhurried, and respected, even as everything else continued around them. Earlier in the evening, volunteers spoke with non-Jewish participants about the Seven Noahide Laws, sharing their universal moral vision simply and respectfully. The message of the Rebbe is for everyone.

As the evening drew to a close, the room gathered again. Ani Ma’amin was sung—a song of hope and belief in a future that is real, even if not yet seen. Then came Shema Yisrael. Clear, confident conviction in being a Yid. The Rebbe always taught us that action is the main thing. Participants were encouraged to take on hachlatos—davening, kosher, something real to carry forward. Hope became direction, and direction became action.

Time ran out, as it always does. Prisoners began exiting gradually. Some paused to speak with volunteers. Some left quietly, holding the experience inward. Families gathered themselves and prepared to go. The room emptied the way it had filled—continuously, without fanfare. Across the island, the menorahs still burned.

An evening like this does not happen through a single person or organization—especially inside a prison—and its success reflected a rare coordination of vision, effort, and trust. The Chanukah events were facilitated by Rabbi Zalman Tevel and Shmuley Tevel, together with the devoted volunteers, under the auspices of the Lubavitch Youth Organization, led by Rabbi Kastel and Rabbi Shlomi Friedman.

Tremendous gratitude is extended to Rabbi Yoeli Weiser of the Imohem Organization for his generous sponsorship and support, which helped make the evening possible.

Special thanks are due to the musicians, whose music brought tremendous joy to the prisoners—Yossi Cohen, Yehuda Piamenta, Yossi Piamenta, Yoni Lorber, Choni Melecki, and Yossi Shtendik—as well as to Aryeh Spielman for his extraordinary performance and to Esther Rochel Myers for her invaluable help. Appreciation is also extended to the Department of Correction and the dedicated chaplains—Rabbi Hecht, Rabbi Kresmer-Seid, Rabbi Simmering, and Rabbi Fine—whose cooperation and support allowed this event to take place.

Above all, gratitude is owed to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, whose vision of shlichus continues to bring light, dignity, and hope to places that need it most.

Seven menorahs stood across Rikers Island this Chanukah.
And inside, in the midst of darkness, shone light.