Every year we are instructed to build impermanent houses; sukkot, with loosely thatched roofs, open to the light of the harvest moon, stars and now, ceaseless rockets. Three flimsy walls cannot keep out the wind, fear or shrapnel, nor support the weight of generational hate that protects no one; but this is the tradition.
Oh, you brothers of different mothers, your own children cry, huddled in rubble and ash. They are starving, longing for sustenance, even stale crusts and crumbs; dreaming of peace they have never tasted.
If your father could see you now, how he too would weep.
And then, he’d welcome everyone, offer flasks of sweet wine, olives and dates grown on the surrounding hills, flat bread prepared by your mothers’ hands; mixing the scant flour that remains, with salty tears and rain water collected, baked on the sacred stone altar of generosity, compassion and healing, slathered with love, honey, patience and hope.
Firm, but gentle, he’d instruct you to sit on the floor, gaze upon one another’s faces, and eat. “Be grateful,” he’d say. “Learn to live together as the family you have always been. Together, let us be a blessing.”
