Of course, savvy seekers searching to understand the headlines need nothing more than the holy words of Esther Haneviah herself. Is it coincidence that the Persian villain in the modern era calls himself K-Haman-ei? Or that a member of the leadership circle was called Va(n)ce[sa]? Or the cabinet member Hegai, like our secretary of war, Hegseth, who keeps pushing artificial intelligence, making him Heg-AI? And do you think Carcas wasn’t involved in the raid on the capital of Venezuela?

For this president, dominance is not a buzzword; the buzzwords are dominant. He was going to celebrate the coming downfall of the ayatollahs and their Agagite predecessors, while usurping Achashveirosh’s title to the titular, all at once.

Drinking Is the Law

Some see the president’s recent delaying doubletalk and brash brinkmanship on Iran as indecisive. They haven’t just missed the point; they’ve failed to recognize that there is one altogether. In a world where symbolism is king, Trump turned the tables on Haman and drew lots to determine the date of attack. Now, we’re just waiting for the clock to strike “strike.”

Some see the lavish party, public drunkenness in the White House, and exotic displays as un-American. But for his supporters, the venue is a testament to Trump’s bold, take-charge style. Why just defeat an enemy, when you can subvert his culture so thoroughly as to make it your own? In their view, this wasn’t contradictory — it was control.

The optics of the ceremony arguably reinforced this narrative. The new ballroom, with its grandeur and historical weight, provided an almost Shushanian backdrop for Trump’s flex. It is allegorical if not imposing, a setting that amplified his message of strength and determination against the backdrop of history and antiquity.

Having spent the day before the ceremony watching the baking of B-2–shaped hamantaschen in the White House kitchens, it occurred to me that Achashveirosh would have been proud: a party so polarizing, unconventional, and literally impossible to ignore. Whether it’s remembered as bold or boastful will likely depend on what comes next.

Live from Persepolis

Before my ringside view of history at a new white house bigger than the White House, there was the matter of identifying my own role in the drama. Was I a correspondent, or a garden-crasher? A bystander, or — as the only reporter suitably dressed in a clown costume and a funny hat — did I have a role to play? While I would like to be the proverbial Charvonah, I’ll definitely put in for Mordechai.

Of course, Mordechai’s iggeres reported on the Purim story to outlets far and wide, so I can always just let my press pass and keyboard do the talking.

Walking across the grounds to the King’s Gate entrance, I wonder why my old friends from the West Wing don’t comment on my costume. J.D. Vance gave me a fist bump without a question, Marco Rubio’s backslap held no judgment, and — most counterintuitively — Karoline Leavitt didn’t laugh at me, for once.

You would think they would notice someone walking across the Rose Garden lawn in strange garb. Oh, well. I’ll have to save my splash for the briefing room.

For people who have never had the thrill of speaking with the most powerful person on earth — perhaps in all of history — here’s a clue: The rush when the president points at you is better than ayahuasca. The first few times. Next time you meet a Jewish White House correspondent, ask him.

My question was carefully practiced to look spontaneous, precisely choreographed confidence crossed with character. “Do you see yourself as the modern-day incarnation of Ahasuerus?” I asked the man who clearly was.

“I don’t know, we’ll see in a few days,” Trumpus IIIL said. “But one thing I can tell you for sure, is that nobody is more like Esther than Melania. She was treated very badly, so badly like no one’s ever seen anything like it.”

In the moment, it’s unclear if he’s referring to his own behavior or that of the press. But there’s no doubt his words are close to prophetic. Forsooth, the parallels are striking: As a foreigner in a strange land, married to a much older man, the reluctant monarchess had chosen a pathway of silence and shadow, until she didn’t; releasing a tell-all named — like Esther’s scroll — after herself.

Later, working the room, I spot three burly guys in black jackets studded with gold buttons I recognize from my kids’ Purim box. It’s an opportunity not to be missed.

I replace my lime, lift a pinky off my martini glass, and with the precise stride borne of bourgeoisie, stroll to their orbit. “Hey, guys,” I say casually, “Marines, for Purim, again?”

They look at me uncomprehendingly, but I merely offer a knowing wink and spin on my heel.

Like this article, some things are better left unexplained.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1101)