Too much togetherness
On the occasion of Sukkot, it's time to consider life in the desert, our national DNA
Imagine it for a moment: An open, empty desert, with sandy winds blowing through it like in an old Western. Suddenly, a giant city of wooden tabernacles springs up in the middle of the desert. Three million people build them, running around restless, like ants.
They were talented builders, yet had poor access to raw materials. There are no sheets for walls, and the roof is made up of palms. The dangers of the desert force them to build densely, close to the only water well; close to the bonfire; close to each other.
How long do they sit there? We don’t know. Perhaps a few days, or a few weeks. Sometimes, only for a night. Later they dismantle the tabernacle and move on.
Next time they set up their mobile city, we can assume that they will build it exactly the same. This is human nature – when you leave the conference room for lunch, you will take the same seat when you return.
For 40 years, our forefathers lived without walls. What did it do to them? How do people who know everything about each other live? Everyone sees everything, everyone knows everything; there is no way to hide anything. Everyone knows about the woman who takes long showers, the child neglected by his parents, or the husband who doesn’t talk to his wife.
What has been left in us from this? What has been left of the fact that our mythology contains history’s largest commune? What has been left of the fact that while we crystallized, while we formed our national DNA, we lived with no ability to hide from each other?
The answer is found here and now: Because we still live that way; completely exposed.
We allow ourselves to engage in exaggerated closeness, without boundaries or classes; without fear. Everyone has something to say, everyone knows better, and everyone heard it from someone who heard it from someone else. We have a country that has more paparazzi than celebrities, more reactions than actions, and more gossip than views.
Longing for the desert
Every young mother is familiar with this: You go on a walk with your baby and hear criticism from every direction: Put more clothes on him. He’s cold. He’s hot. Give him a pacifier. He’s hungry. Usually these mothers smile back to everyone, and later come back home and scream into their pillows.
This reality also has positive aspects. People who live in tabernacles learn to appreciate mutual help, they know they are an extended family where everyone is dependent on each other, and there are nights around the bonfire that you will not find anywhere else. Only here, when an Israeli gets lost in Guatemala, the heart breaks in Tel Aviv.
However, life in an open space, similarly to the Internet, tends to be too crowded. We still tend to see through walls, believe that we know better about other people’s motives, and think that we know them better than we know ourselves.
Local politicians complain about this, and this time they’re right. When they try to introduce reforms, we say that they’re merely attempting to curry favor with Central Committee members. When they try to lead a dramatic move, we swear that they are merely trying to score points with the media. When they pass a law, we immediately ask what they will be gaining from it.
The Bible, from Joshua to the Prophets, is filled with longing to the days of the desert. The years erased the difficulties, the fatigue, and the bothersome thirst. When you read the text, it sounds like poetic nostalgia.
Just like our longing for simpler days, where we could only get two types of cheese and didn’t have to spend 30 minutes debating at the supermarket. Today may be better, but damnit, we used to be much prettier back then.
However, the thing is we weren’t prettier. At most, we were younger. This holiday we shall sit in our Sukkah in our backyard and invite all the guests we can. Later, we shall fold it and go back home. Autumn is already here. Time has come to close the shutters, so nobody can peek into our house.
