(Gershom Pesach Teitelbaum)
Sholem aleichem, teyere chaverim. It is with great pain in my heart that I want to speak to you today, on this yontiv of Sukkot. Sukkot is supposed to be a festival, an occasion to celebrate our shared fragility and dependence on Hashem’s protection. But over the last few weeks, we have witnessed some of the worst atrocities of our age, and this festival feels far from celebratory. Across the world, sukkot—symbols of vulnerability, shelter, and solidarity—are being violently torn down. From university campuses in the U.S. to hospital courtyards in Gaza, the physical destruction of sukkot mirrors the systematic destruction of human lives and communities.
Just days ago, at UC Berkeley, pro-Palestinian Jewish students built a sukkah in solidarity with the people of Palestine. They hoped to create a sacred space that would speak to their opposition to the genocide in Gaza and Lebanon. Their sukkah was destroyed by university officials in the early hours of the morning, a chilling echo of the Zionist regime’s violence against the people of Gaza. The students—aligned with Jewish Voice for Peace—chose to use their sukkah as a protest, a declaration of their refusal to remain silent in the face of genocide. And yet, their sukkah was demolished, twice, by those who could not tolerate even this modest symbol of resistance.
Meanwhile, in Gaza, the Zionist colonial army has been burning down real sukkot—makeshift shelters that are not symbols but desperate refuges for people displaced by the bombings. In Jabalia Refugee Camp, a 19-year-old boy and his mother were burned alive in their sukkah after seeking shelter outside the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which had already been devastated by airstrikes. Their sukkah was not part of a ritual; it was the only shelter they had left.
As we find ourselves in the midst of Sukkot, a festival that should remind us of our shared vulnerability, how can we not think of those for whom displacement is not a brief, symbolic reminder, but a crushing, ongoing reality? The festival of Sukkot teaches us to remember the journey of our ancestors through the wilderness, wandering without a permanent home, dependent on the grace of Hashem and the hospitality of others. “Ki basukkot hoshavti et b’nei Yisrael” (Lev. 23:43)—“I made the children of Israel dwell in sukkot”—Hashem reminds us.
The fragility of the sukkah reflects the human condition itself: none of us are permanent, and none of us can claim more right to shelter than another. We are obligated to recall that our people were once gerim—strangers, refugees—wandering through hostile lands. “Ve’ahavtem et hager, ki gerim heyitem b’eretz mitzrayim” (Deut. 10:19)—“You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
But what we see today is not a symbolic reminder of that ancient wandering. It is genocide—a genocide within a genocide. In Gaza, over 42,000 people have been killed since the bombardment began, most of them women and children. The assault on Jabalia, a refugee camp dating back to the Nakba of 1948, is part of an ongoing campaign to erase entire communities. And no food has entered northern Gaza for more than 15 days. Meanwhile, Jewish students in the U.S. are having their sukkot torn down in the early hours of the morning by university officials, silencing their peaceful protest against this violence. The destruction of these sukkot—both in Gaza and at Berkeley—mirrors the destruction of life and dignity.
How far have we fallen from the Torah’s commands? The Torah instructs us to care for the ger, the stranger, and the anawim—the poor, the oppressed, the vulnerable. “Lo toneh et hager ve’lo tilchatzenu” (Ex. 22:20)—“You shall not wrong the stranger or oppress him.” Yet today, the Zionist regime violates these sacred principles. The people of Gaza are not abstract figures in a political debate. They are living, breathing tselem Elokim—people made in the image of God—whose suffering cries out from the earth like the blood of Abel.
The destruction of both literal and symbolic sukkot reminds us of the dire moral catastrophe before us. “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof”—”Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deut. 16:20)—demands action, and yet we see only destruction. What is happening now is not only a violation of human rights but a violation of the Torah’s deepest values.
As we sit in our sukkot, reflecting on the impermanence of our dwellings, how can we ignore the permanent displacement of millions of Palestinians? The tents and makeshift shelters in Gaza are not part of a temporary ritual—they are desperate cries for survival. Families who have lost their homes live in real sukkot, and yet they are denied even the most basic sustenance as the siege continues.
The Zionist regime has trampled on the Torah’s vision of justice and peace. Its relentless assault on the people of Gaza, its bombing of hospitals, schools, and homes, is nothing less than a desecration of everything we hold sacred. How can we, as Jews, remain silent when tselem Elokim is being desecrated?
Chaverim, we cannot remain silent. Sukkot calls us to action. Our festival is incomplete while others suffer. Jewish students at UC Berkeley, who stood in solidarity with the people of Palestine, refused to remain silent. Even when their sukkah was destroyed, they continued to stand for justice. We must join them. Whether through protest, through aid, or through raising our voices, we must stand with the people of Gaza. Their liberation is tied to our own.
Until every person has shelter, until no one is displaced by violence, our sukkot remain broken. “V’haya ma’aseh ha’tzedakah shalom”—“The effect of righteousness will be peace” (Isaiah 32:17). May this Sukkot not only be a time of reflection but also a time of action. May we recommit ourselves to tzedek, to justice, so that one day soon, no person will have to dwell in fear, no tent will be burned, and no child will be forced to live through the horrors of war.
May we be worthy to see that day, speedily and in our time.
Tzedek, tzedek tirdof.
Chag Sameach and Gut Yontif.