True safety
This was a good year for Sukkot in New Jersey. The weather was a bit chilly and windy the first two days but turned sunny and unseasonably warm the rest of the week. We are not always so fortunate. I remember years when we sat in the sukkah with coats, hats, scarves, and even gloves. There have also been years when storms completely destroyed the sukkah we built at home and at the synagogue. Having studied the Talmud discussions pertaining to building a sukkah, I felt a kind of perverse satisfaction, knowing that a sukkah is meant to withstand some wind, but not a major storm. The whole point of a sukkah is to be a temporary, flimsy structure that reminds us of our ancestors, freed from slavery in Egypt but vulnerable in the wilderness.
In a wonderful book called “This is Real and You are Completely Unprepared,” Rabbi Alan Lew z”l explained that a sukkah “exposes the idea of a house as an illusion. The idea of a house is that it gives us security, shelter, haven from the storm… in a sukkah, the illusion of protection falls away.”
We are meant to celebrate with joy on Sukkot, but we also are meant to remember that real safety and security cannot be found in structures of wood and stone. There are many possible answers to the question of where we can find true security. For some, true security comes from God; for some, from family and friends; for some, from community; for some, from alliances with people of other faiths, races, ethnic backgrounds, and nationalities.
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This year, I feel more acutely that our homes cannot protect us. How can we sit in our flimsy huts this year and not think of the people in North Carolina, Florida, Tennessee, and Georgia whose homes were destroyed by hurricanes? How can we not think of the hundreds who died in those storms because their homes could not protect them? So soon after the anniversary of October 7, how can we not think of those whose homes and safe rooms could not protect them from evil? How can we not think of family and friends in Israel, running to safe rooms when missile attacks began? How can we not ask ourselves: Where does true safety lie?
I understand the impulse to seek safety in buildings and walls and gates. Of course, we want to protect our families, our loved ones. Storms are real. Enemies are real. People need protection. But Sukkot reminds us that something more is needed. Throughout the year, we pray for God to spread over us a sukkat shalom — a shelter of peace. The wisdom of our tradition has always recognized that a fortress made of stone will not protect us. Only peace, however fragile, is our true protection.
The day before Rosh Hashanah, when Iran attacked, my sister in Israel sent regular updates on her family, including photos of her youngest daughter and her three young grandchildren playing and having a picnic in their safe room. I was grateful and relieved that they were all safe. But I could not help thinking about the images I have seen of the destruction of homes in Gaza. I could not help thinking about the children in Gaza who have no safe rooms, no picnics, no safe place to play. My humanity requires that I care about their safety as well.
On the anniversary of October 7, I joined a zoom commemoration offered by T’ruah, a rabbinic human rights organization I have been connected to for years. The program included an interpretive version of the memorial prayer El Malei Rachamim, written by Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld, president of Hebrew College in Boston.
“God full of mercy,
Womb of the world
In whom there is room enough
for all life to flourish
From whom there is blessing enough
For all life to be nourished…
•
“Grant perfect rest
Beneath the wings of Your Presence
To the precious innocent souls —
Israeli and Palestinian,
Jewish and Muslim,
Christian, Bedouin, and Druze,
migrant workers from around the world —
Who have lost their lives
to the ravages of war
during this past year.
•
“Shelter those who witnessed
unspeakable brutality
And whose walls could not protect them.
Carry those who were caught or cornered,
unable to escape
destruction, degradation, despair.
Lift up those who searched
for sustenance or safety,
longing for the embrace of home.”
I believe that her prayer points us in the direction where true safety lies — the summoning of our own humanity, recognizing the humanity of others, valuing the lives of all people, and not only our own families, our own people.
At the T’ruah program, another rabbi read a poem by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish which ends with these words:
“As you return home, to your home, think of others (do not forget the people of the camps)
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others (those who have nowhere to sleep)
As you think of others far away, think of yourself (say: If only I were a candle in the dark)”
At the end of the Sukkot holiday, when we return to our warm and comfortable homes, what will we carry with us? Will we think of others? Will we expand our compassion beyond Americans and Israelis who have lost their homes and lives? Will we find the courage to be a candle in the dark? Will we light the way to true safety? Will we do whatever we can to create a sukkat shalom — a shelter of peace — for all people?”
Hannah Orden is rabbi emeritus of Congregation Beth Hatikvah in Summit.
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