blogs/rabbi-huberman

One day in 1907, my maternal grandfather, Nissan, 19, walked off a boat in Quebec City and was thrust into the modern world. 

He was born and raised in a small Russian village—a perilous world where Jews were often targets of persecution and discrimination. But here he was in a new land, where he knew neither the local language nor the customs. 

Days later, he was on a frigid rural highway in the northern Quebec town of La Tuque, on foot, selling combs, socks and underwear out of a little backpack (pekele) to farmers, whose homes were spaced miles apart.

A day after he began this new occupation, overcome by chills and a high fever, he collapsed in the doorway of a farmhouse.

He had been battling an illness, perhaps something he picked up on the crowded boat. The French-Canadian couple, who owned the home, took him in and nursed him back to health. He remained friends with the family until his passing in the late 1960s.

Zaidie Nissan went on to own and operate a men's clothing store—the first in the lumber town of Donnacona, Quebec—and eventually in the modern bustling city of Montreal. He and my grandmother, Sheva, raised my mother, Charlotte, and my uncle Michael of blessed memory.

My paternal grandfather, David, had a different story. He arrived about a year later at the port of Halifax. The family was strapped for cash, so they pawned their cherished samovar—their tea making machine.

The samovar was later reclaimed, and to this day serves as a reminder of how far our family has come.

Days after he arrived, housed with relatives in a small Montreal apartment, our grandfather was provided with a horse and wagon and began delivering—door-to-door—bread and blocks of ice.

Zaidie "Duddie" eventually earned enough money to open a small grocery store, and with my grandmother, Rivka, raised two boys and two girls. Eventually, they had 11 grandchildren, of whom I am the eldest.

I would not be here if not for the courage of my grandparents, and those who supported them.

They began life in strange and cramped surroundings, and through hard work and sacrifice, established a life for sons, daughters, grandchildren and great grandchildren yet to be conceived.

Thoughts of my grandparents often pass through my mind as I celebrate the holiday of Sukkot, the festival of booths.  This year, Sukkot began on Wednesday evening, and, as every year, beckons us to divert our attention from the heady themes of the High Holidays.

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur encourage us to inspect and evaluate our souls. In contrast, Sukkot inspires us to review and appreciate our physical surroundings.

Through the Torah and the Talmud, we learn that rain and a successful harvest were top-of-mind for our ancestors. On Sukkot, we pray for rain, for if rain did not fall and crops did not grow, Israelites faced starvation or were forced to live as vulnerable guests in Egypt, or other nearby countries.

As a reminder of this vulnerability, our tradition instructs us to dwell in these booths as we did in the desert. That includes eating, drinking, celebrating and even sleeping. How beautiful it is to create, from nothing, a place for friends, family and God to dwell.

The Sukkah also enables us to look up through cracks in the roof and marvel at the moon and stars and simply consider: How awesome is God's world.

Our family’s story is not unique. Many of you are descended from immigrants, who came to this country to escape religious or political oppression, or to grasp a chance at dignity and success. We are, and continue to be, a nation of immigrants.

I marvel at this time of the year, at the memory of those parents and grandparents, whose Sukkahs were not little huts in the desert, but rather crowded tenements or tiny rooms within the homes of gracious families and friends.

I, too, am an immigrant to this land. Three years ago, I became an American citizen and in about two weeks, I will vote in my first presidential election.

That privilege is not lost on me. While we arrived 18 years ago from a nation of affluence, I am repeatedly moved by the words of Emma Lazarus imprinted on the Statue of Liberty.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

Let us, therefore, during this Festival of Sukkot give praise to those upon whose shoulders we stand. Let us honor their toil and the simple dwellings they called home.

Sukkot also inspires us to be grateful for the physical things that surround us, and reminds us how far we have come as individuals, as families and as a people.

It encourages us to look back and remember we are a people descended from desert dwellers—and perhaps it inspires us to “pay forward” these themes.

Indeed, today, Sukkot should also sensitize us to the hopes of those around us who share similar dreams. I come from a country where there are strict criteria, which those who cross its borders must meet; I do not favor a border with no borders.

But let us never close our hearts to those who enter and work legally in this country, with backgrounds, traditions and faiths different from ours, who aspire toward the same opportunities that our families sought.

My grandparents came to this continent more than 100 years ago amidst similar hostility and suspicion, and through toil and sacrifice grew a beautiful and thriving family.

So, on this Sukkot, let us remember our ancestors and the simple dwellings that sustained them. For we would not be here without them.

I often think: Where would our family be without the kindness of that French Canadian couple more than 100 years ago—a family that opened its doors to an ailing Jewish man, who spoke neither French nor English.

It reminds us in the words of the Torah, to “honor our fellow as we wish to be honored ourselves.”

A simple dwelling—a few possessions—some basic food—a chance to live under the stars. Sukkot reminds us to appreciate how fortunate we are to live in this country, which provides us so generously with life’s essentials.

Sukkot encourages us to ask the basic question: Do we really need more?

Shabbat Shalom, Chag Sameach (Happy Sukkot)

Rabbi Irwin Huberman