(RNS) — During the Jewish holiday of Sukkot, often referred to as Tabernacles, Jews the world over will be sitting and supping, as their recent forebears and distant ancestors did during the holiday, in makeshift huts defined by their roofs of thatch, bamboo or unfinished wooden slats.
And in many of those huts, called sukkot in the plural, hence the name of the holiday, a poem composed by Yiddish writer Avraham Reisen at the turn of the 20th century will be sung. No one knows who composed the plaintive, moving music to which the poem is set, but the combination of the melody and lyrics has brought tears to many Jewish eyes. And these days, the poem’s message is particularly poignant.
The poem was titled by its author “In Sukkah,” but the song that adopted it is commonly known as “A Sukkeleh,” which translates as “a modest sukkah.”
Years ago, I attempted an English translation of the poem. My rendering is not perfectly literal. But it’s close, and it is faithful to the rhyme scheme and meter of the original:
A sukkaleh, quite small,
Wooden planks for each wall;
Lovingly I stood them upright.
I laid thatch as a ceiling
And now, filled with deep feeling,
I sit in my sukkaleh at night.
A chill wind attacks,
Blowing through the cracks;
The candles, they flicker and yearn.
It’s so strange a thing
That as the Kiddush [sanctification of the holiday recited over wine] I sing,
The flames, now calmed, quietly burn.
In comes my daughter,
Bearing hot food and water;
Worry on her face like a pall.
She just stands there shaking
And, her voice nearly breaking,
Says “Daddy dear, the sukkah’s going to fall!”
Dear daughter, don’t fret;
It hasn’t fallen yet.
The sukkah’s fine; banish your fright.
There have been many such fears,
For nigh two-thousand years;
Yet the sukkeleh, it still stands upright.
Those final lines transform the literal story into a metaphorical one about the persistence, through trials and tragedies, of the Jewish people.
Sukkot, which begins at sundown on Friday (Sept. 25), is referred to in the holiday’s prayers as “the time of our joy.” And yet, at least seen superficially, there seems little Jewish joy to be had these days. Jews have been physically attacked, some murdered, simply because they are Jews. Antisemitism — sometimes gussied up as anti-Zionism, sometimes stark naked — has been normalized by some popular personalities and metastasized on social media.
The poet, however, captured a happy Sukkot-truth. With temperatures dropping and winter’s dark not far away, our sukkah-dwelling is a quiet but powerful statement: We are vulnerable, yes; makeshift walls and thatch roofs are no match for strong winds. And some sukkot have indeed succumbed to the elements. But they are erected again the next year, and their persistence mirrors that of the Jewish people.
No matter how loudly the winds may howl, no matter how vulnerable our physical fortresses may be and no matter the mindless hatred for us, we give no harbor to despair. Instead, we redouble our recognition that, in the end, as in millennia past, our fate is in divine hands.
As it has for millennia, the sukkah — both in its literal and metaphorical form — continues to stand.
(Rabbi Avi Shafran writes widely in Jewish and general media and has a Substack here. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)