In 2010, author Joshua Foer curated an outdoor architectural exhibition in New York City called “Sukkah City.” The exhibition asked architects from around the world to submit design concepts for the Sukkah, a temporary structure used during the holiday of Sukkot that recalls the huts of the biblical Israelites during their journey through the wilderness.
The project’s goal was to generate ideas for unique sukkot (plural of sukkah) that would speak to contemporary issues and aesthetics and the traditional holiday themes.
The catch: the structures, many of which called for advanced fabrication techniques, would need to adhere to design guidelines that were first set forth some 1,800 years earlier in the Mishnah (Sukkah 1:1), a collection of Jewish laws compiled during the second-to-third centuries. Of the 600 entries to the Sukkah City competition, 12 winning sukkot were placed on public display in Union Square.
During the seven-day holiday of Sukkot, the sukkah is a stand-in for our homes to the extent that we can make it so. We eat, entertain, and some even sleep in a Sukkah that we build in the backyard or on a patio. The Mishnah records the study hall debates of the rabbis and spells out the requirements for one who wishes to build a Sukkah that conforms to Jewish law. A sukkah, for example, must have at least 2.5 walls; any less than this, and it would not be a real hut. It cannot be taller than 32 feet; any more than this, and it would not appear to be a temporary structure. If one builds a sukkah on a ship, the Mishnah states, the sukkah may be used; if one burrows a sukkah into a pile of grain, the Sukkah cannot be used. The roof of the Sukkah is made of organic materials and is permeable to rain and wind. The walls of a typical sukkah are easy to set up and take down and are made of canvas, plywood, or other simple and uninsulated materials.
In symbolic terms, the practice of building a sukkah teaches us that all dwelling places are provisional and temporary in nature. The structure is erected for the purpose of the festival and dismantled shortly thereafter. Beyond this, though, the form of the sukkah itself resonates with meaning. With its roof open to the stars, the sukkah reminds us that we are ultimately exposed to the elements, despite the comfort that most of us enjoy in our homes during other weeks of the year. The sukkot of Sukkah City show how variations on these themes can provide commentary on a range of issues — from a sukkah made of reeds that calls attention to the environmental footprint of our buildings, to a sukkah made of string that speaks to impermanence and fragility, to a sukkah made of signs held by homeless people that remind us of our vulnerability and impel us to stop and hear the voices of those who live without permanent shelter.
The symbolism of the sukkah can also prompt us to decode the layers of meaning that exist within our own homes in similar, if less overt, ways. There are no ancient sources such as the Mishnah that would claim to channel deep truths regarding the design of our contemporary homes. And yet our homes, no matter how commonplace, reflect an entire world of aspirations, concerns and priorities. A 1960s ranch home might represent, among other things, a foothold in the middle class, the valorization of the nuclear family, and federal policies that prioritized homeownership in the suburbs. A run-down duplex might be an expression of early 20th-century thrift, immigrant craftsmanship, and policies that spurred disinvestment from urban neighborhoods, with the greatest impact felt by persons of color. A neo-Georgian house on a hill built in the 2000s might be a product of architectural nostalgia, zoning that aims to keep home values high in certain areas, and policies that incentivize large mortgages and that disproportionately benefit wealthy households. Our personal and cultural values are embedded within our homes as surely as they are inscribed upon our doorposts. The more that we recognize this, the more we can understand the host of factors that have led to the current housing crisis in our city and country: one of scarcity and expense, which leaves lower-income households, in particular, vulnerable to housing instability and homelessness.
But the beauty of Sukkot is that the sukkah is experiential, and not simply a ritual object of contemplation. The Sukkah, which recalls the sheltering presence of God during biblical times, reminds us that in the absence of divine intervention, it is we who must provide for those without. Our dwelling in this deeply symbolic structure can open a window, however limited, into other lives and other homes that we may never know. The text of the Mishnah can be read not as an abstruse early building code, but as a commentary on the precarity of securing and dwelling in housing writ large.
If one builds a sukkah on a ship, the Mishnah says, perhaps he is a refugee seeking safety on a new continent.
If one burrows a sukkah into a pile of grain, perhaps she has no permanent place to warm up.
If one loses one’s home because one cannot afford an urgent car repair to get to work;
If one is living in a van because one is fleeing an abusive relationship;
If one is overwhelmed by generational trauma and cannot pay the rent-
We search through the text; no dispensation is forthcoming. We convene a symposium of architects, planners and social scientists to design new policies that reflect our aspirations for a just society, where housing is seen as a human right. We curate exhibitions to generate new models of housing production and preservation, and we rethink our social safety net. We do this with the hope that some year, we will take down our sukkot and be filled with blessing and gratitude for the safe and stable housing that is available to all.
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Daniel Fleischman is vice president of housing at Jewish Family Services, a nonprofit that provides affordable housing and social services to diverse populations in Milwaukee. He lives in Glendale with his wife, Jodie Honigman, and their three children.
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Sukkot begins the evening of Wednesday, Oct. 16, 2024.
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