Every Jewish child knows that the Book of Esther is not only the story of ancient Persia: It is also the story of Jewish history itself – exile and threat, fear and faith, hiddenness and sudden reversal.
But what is less well known is that Purim did not remain frozen in Shushan.
Across the centuries, Jewish communities scattered throughout the Diaspora experienced their own moments of peril and deliverance. So powerful were these local salvations that many communities established their own “Purims,” complete with festive meals, special prayers, and even locally written megillot recounting their rescue.
Purim, it turns out, has been relived again and again.
Purim of Prague
In 1623, the Jews of Prague faced expulsion and confiscation of property. Political upheaval and anti-Jewish agitation placed the community in mortal danger. Through diplomatic intervention and what many saw as Divine mercy, the decree was rescinded at the last minute.
The community established a local Purim to commemorate their deliverance. Special liturgical poems were composed. The day was marked by feasting and gratitude. Like their ancestors in Persia, they saw the “turning of the tables” – venahafokh hu – in their own lifetime.
Purim of Casablanca
In 1789, the Jews of Casablanca were threatened by violent unrest and potential massacre amid political instability.
At the last moment, the danger subsided. A local Purim, sometimes referred to as “Purim of the Bombs,” was instituted. A special megillah was written in Judeo-Arabic recounting those terrifying days and their miraculous reprieve.
The message was unmistakable: Shushan was not a one-time story. God’s hidden choreography continued in North Africa.
Purim of Cairo
In the 16th century, the Jews of Cairo narrowly escaped catastrophe when a hostile governor plotted against them.
The scheme collapsed, and the community marked the date as a communal Purim. Some Egyptian communities composed poetic scrolls narrating their salvation.
It is striking how often the Purim pattern repeats itself: a capricious ruler, a malicious adviser, a threatened minority – and then, unexpectedly, reprieve.
Stalin’s Doctors’ Plot – A Soviet Purim
Perhaps the most chilling modern echo came in 1953.
In the final months of his life, Joseph Stalin orchestrated the infamous “Doctors’ Plot,” accusing mostly Jewish doctors of conspiring to poison Soviet leaders.
Antisemitic hysteria gripped the Soviet Union. Many historians believe mass deportations – up to two million Jews to Siberia and perhaps worse – were imminent.
Then, on the night of Purim, March 1, 1953, Stalin suffered a massive stroke. Within days, he was dead. The plot unraveled; the arrested doctors were released.
Soviet Jews, living under suffocating oppression, whispered what they could not proclaim: another Haman had fallen. Once again, the tyrant who sought Jewish destruction was struck down at the very moment of anticipated triumph.
A pattern across the ages
From Prague to Casablanca, from Cairo to Moscow, Jewish communities have written their own megillot. These scrolls may not have entered the canon, but they have entered the Jewish heart.
They testify to something profound: Purim is not ancient history: It is a recurring drama.
The Jewish people have faced Hamans in every century. And in every century, in ways sometimes hidden and sometimes stunningly visible, deliverance has followed.
Purim back in Persia: A year unlike any other
And then there is this year.
Purim 2026/5786 arrives after months that have shaken the Jewish world. As we speak, the war continues. Our soldiers remain on the front lines. The ballistic missiles, drones, and potential infiltrations threaten us all several times a day. As I write this, I have just finished reading the Scroll of Esther on Zoom, because we cannot gather in synagogues. The situation is complex and unfinished.
Yet something historic has unfolded.
For decades, the regime in modern-day Iran, ancient Persia, has declared its intention to destroy the Jewish state. It armed proxies. It funded terror. It threatened annihilation. The rhetoric was chillingly familiar to anyone who has ever read Megillat Esther.
And now, in the last few days, that same regime has suffered mighty blows. Its leaders are no more. Its military infrastructure has been struck, its strategic ambitions disrupted, its aura of invincibility shattered.
No, the story is not over. Yes, challenges remain. But the ancient enemy from Persia has been dramatically weakened in ways few would have imagined possible even a few days ago.
History has a sense of irony.
On Purim, we read of a Persian tyrant’s genocidal decree overturned. This year, on Purim, we witness the unravelling of Persia’s modern-day counterpart, leading those who openly proclaimed genocidal intent against the Jewish people.
One need not be naïve to feel a tremor of awe.
Megillah in shelters and on Zoom
And how did we mark this Purim?
Like never before.
In Israel, we read the megillah in bomb shelters, in mamadim (safe rooms), in hospital wards, on military bases, and yes, on Zoom screens connecting families separated by war and distance. One video making the rounds shows a megillah reading at a military shooting range, and at the mention of Haman’s name, a flurry of bullets hit their target!
There is something profoundly Jewish about those images. The Jews of Shushan gathered in courtyards and streets; we gathered in reinforced rooms and digital spaces.
And yet, the mitzvot (commandments) remained unchanged.
We gave mishloach manot – packages of food sent with love.
We gave matanot la’evyonim – gifts to the needy, ensuring that joy was shared.
We dressed in costume, laughed, and sang.
The external setting shifted; the internal resilience did not.
Perhaps this, too, is part of the Purim pattern.
The Divine name does not appear in the megillah. God operates behind the scenes. The coincidences accumulate; the hidden becomes visible only in retrospect.
This year, the sense of hidden protection feels less abstract.
The Jewish people are still here. The Jewish state stands. Those who sought its destruction have met their deserved end. And even under sirens and uncertainty, Jewish joy proved stubbornly indestructible.
The new megillah
Throughout history, communities wrote their own megillot to commemorate salvation. Perhaps future generations will speak of “Purim 5786” in similar tones.
They will recall the year when the threat from Persia was dramatically blunted.
The year when Jews read megillah in shelters yet refused to surrender joy.
The year when unity deepened under pressure.
The year when generosity increased despite fear.
We do not yet know how the full story will be written. But if Jewish history has taught us anything, it is this:
The arc of our story bends toward survival – and often toward surprising reversal.
Haman falls, empires crumble. And the Jewish people endure.
Purim through the ages has never been merely about costumes and noise. It is about the quiet, stubborn confidence that the hidden hand of God continues to guide Jewish destiny.
From Shushan to Prague, from Casablanca to Cairo, from Stalin’s Kremlin to modern-day Tehran, the script echoes.
And this year, as we close the megillah and exchange gifts in shelters and living rooms alike, we do so not as victims of history but as its living authors.
Another chapter has been written. Or as Rabbi Sacks puts it: another letter in the Scroll.
And our letter, our chapter, is again one of resilience, courage, and hope.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He writes and teaches on Jewish ethics, leadership, and resilience.