Timeless Torah

As a symbol, the sukkah recalling the ancient journey of our forefathers on their way to the Promised Land is timeless. From the days of Abraham and Sarah, the story of our people has been told in the form of a series of journeys; first exiled to Egypt, later to Babylon, and eventually across the entire world.

In the Middle Ages Jews faced constant expulsion; beginning in England in 1290 and culminating in Spain in 1492. Even in 1881, pogroms throughout Russia sent millions of Jews into flight. And in recent years the migration has continued, from the former Soviet Union, Ethiopia, and Arab countries. More than most, Jews have known the rigors of travel. What seemed like home often turned out to be no more than a temporary dwelling, a sukkah. Yet with its genius for the unexpected, Judaism declared Sukkot to be not a festival of sadness but instead a time of rejoicing. The sukkah in all its fragility symbolizes faith: the faith of a people who long ago set out on a journey with no more protection than the sheltering wings of the Divine presence.

Sitting in the sukkah, I often think of my ancestors and their wanderings across continents in search of safety. There can be few Jewish families whose history is not similar. How did they survive and maintain their identity through so many wanderings, so many changes of language and culture?
The simplest answer is that they carried their home with them - in the form of memories and hopes, traditions and beliefs, rituals and sacred texts. Home was faith itself, passed on from parents to children. So the sukkah, the portable home with its roof of leaves, came to symbolize the Jewish experience not only in biblical times, but of all time.

Faith is not the comforting illusion that all is well in this dark world. It is the courage to celebrate in the midst of uncertainty; to be able to sit in the sukkah, exposed to the wind and rain, and yet sing. I find that extraordinarily moving. Jews kept their faith knowing that this it did not guarantee freedom, equality, or even the most rudimentary civil rights. But they pressed on with their journey of hope, not just for themselves, but for their future progeny. For they knew, that however long it took, they would reach their destination: a world of freedom, dignity, and peace.

And so 3,300 years passed...

The tanks, scarred and much worse for the wear were parked on a ridge taking on ammunition and fuel. From this vantage point Prime Minister Golda Meir could look over the Kuneitra Valley, dubbed the Vale of Tears, the site of the bloodiest battle of the Yom Kippur War.

It was Chol Hamoed Succot 1973 and Golda Meir had come to see for herself the carnage. The distant thud of heavy guns could be distinctly heard as she viewed the valley strewn with the hideous debris of war: pulverized howitzers, blown-out trucks, banged-up armored personnel carriers, burned-out tanks, and the dead. The stench of death, cordite, diesel and exhaust, was everywhere.

The inspection was a last-minute affair, made on Golda’s insistence. She turned and said, “I want to talk to the boys at the succah. I want to hear what they have to say.”

She moved off in the direction of an armored personnel carrier which was canopied by a mobile field succah thatched with eucalyptus branches. Inside, about 15 soldiers were chanting a prayer, each draped in a prayer shawl, clutching a lulav and esrog. Only when they had completed their ritual did they notice who was silently gazing at them.

“Chag sameach!” called Golda, and the soldiers returned the festive greeting with wide-eyed astonishment. They were reservists, plucked from their synagogues on Yom Kippur to frantically reinforce the desperately stretched line that was holding back the Syrians along the crest of the Golan Heights. Now, as their tanks were hastily being refueled and rearmed, they grabbed the opportunity to briefly pray and recite the blessings over the Four Species.

Straightening her skirt in an instinctive gesture of modesty as though the circumstances required it, Golda asked the men about their families, and soon discovered she was talking to lawyers, bakers, teachers, falafel vendors, accountants, shopkeepers, and corporate executives. As she wrapped up her visit she queried, “Is there anyone who would like to ask something?”

One tank crew member, caked with black dust from head to toe, his only contrasting feature being the whites of his eyes, took up the challenge. “My father was killed in the 1948 war, and we won. My uncle was killed in the 1956 war, and we won. My brother lost an arm in the 1967 war, and we won. Last week I lost my best friend and we’re winning. But is all our sacrifice worthwhile? What’s the use of our military power if we can’t win the peace?” An edgy murmur passed through the weary group.

On that Succot day, this indefatigable and implacable old woman, the Prime Minister of Israel answered in a deeply compassionate tone, “I weep for your loss, just as I grieve for all our dead. I lie awake at night thinking of them. And I must tell you in all honesty, were our sacrifices for ourselves alone, then perhaps you are right. But if they are for the survival of the whole Jewish people, then I believe with all my heart that any sacrifice is worthwhile.”

She went on to tell the following tale. “In 1948, at this time of year, I arrived in Moscow as Israel’s first ambassador to the Soviet Union where Jews had no rights. Stalin had declared Zionism a crime. Hebrew and Torah study were banned. One was sent to Siberia for far less.

“Our first Shabbat at services the Moscow Great Synagogue was practically empty. But the news of our arrival spread quickly, so that when we went a second time, for the festivals, even the street was jam packed. Close to 50,000 people were waiting for us; old and young, babies carried in parents’ arms, even men in officer uniforms of the Red Army. Despite all the risks, these Jews had come to demonstrate their kinship.

“I was caught up in a torrent of love so strong it literally took my breath away. People surged around me, crying, ‘Sholam aleichem Goldele, ‘Goldele, leben zols du.’ (‘Golda, a long life to you’).’ ‘Gut yomtov Goldele.’ And all I could say over and over again was, ‘A dank eich vos ihr seit gebliben Yidden.’ (‘Thank you for having remained Jews.’).

And that was when I knew for sure that our sacrifices and our journey were not in vain.”