They Tried to Break the Jewish People. We Kept Building

A STUDENT’S VIEW - My generation of Jews has learned something I wish we did not have to learn so young: antisemitism is not just history.

We see it on our phones. We hear it in conversations about Israel. We watch ancient hatred repackaged into modern slogans and spread across social media in seconds. Sometimes it feels as though being openly Jewish requires an explanation, a defense or even an apology.

And then Sukkot arrives.

We leave the security of our homes and walk into something that should not make us feel secure at all: a temporary hut with fragile walls and a roof open to the sky. Yet when I enter a sukkah, I do not see weakness anymore. I see one of the greatest acts of Jewish defiance.

For nearly two thousand years, Jews have been building sukkahs despite everything history has thrown at us.

Empires had armies. Kings had palaces. Rome had monuments that appeared indestructible. The Jewish people had a little hut made of temporary walls and branches.

The empires fell. The sukkah is still standing.

Not literally, of course. That is the point. We rebuild it every year.

Our ancestors built sukkahs long before any of us were born. Jews built them across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. They built them after expulsions, migrations, and persecution. They built them when Jewish life was flourishing and when Jewish survival was uncertain.

Governments changed. Borders moved. Communities disappeared. Jews kept building.

That may be the lesson of Sukkot my generation needs most. Jewish survival has never meant simply refusing to die. It means refusing to stop living as Jews.

When the Second Temple was destroyed, Judaism did not disappear with it. Jewish life moved into synagogues, study halls, and homes. The Shabbat table became sacred space. Torah traveled wherever Jews traveled.

When one community was destroyed, another was built. When Jews were forced from one country, they carried Judaism into the next. And every year, they stepped outside and built a sukkah.

It was almost as if they were saying to history: You can uproot us, but you cannot stop us from planting again.

That message feels urgent now.

Young Jews are growing up in an environment where Israel, Zionism and even Jewish identity can become subjects of hostility overnight. Social media compresses generations of history into slogans and rewards whoever can generate the most outrage.

It can make young Jews want to retreat. Sukkot tells us to do the opposite: Build.

Build Jewish friendships. Build stronger communities. Build knowledge of our history. Build a relationship with Torah. Build connections with Israel. Build the confidence to walk into a room without hiding who you are.

There is something profoundly Jewish about answering destruction with construction.

Our history contains unimaginable suffering, but Jewish identity cannot be defined by the people who hated us. We are not merely the people who survived Pharaoh, Rome, expulsions, pogroms and the Holocaust.

We are the people who kept creating after them.

We study. We debate. We pray. We celebrate. We bring children to Shabbat tables and tell them stories that were told to us by generations that came before.

And every autumn, we build again.

That is why I no longer think the sukkah represents fragility alone. I see courage in those temporary walls. I see Jewish memory in those branches. I see generations refusing to disappear.

Most of all, I see a responsibility being handed to my generation.

We did not choose the antisemitism we inherited. We cannot control every hateful post, hostile slogan or lie told about Jews. But we can decide what happens next.

We can allow hatred to make us smaller. Or we can build.

So, when I enter the sukkah this year and look through its branches toward the sky, I will remember something far bigger than the structure surrounding me.

Temples were destroyed. Empires disappeared. Jews were expelled from countries and scattered across continents.

Still, somewhere in the world, another Jewish family picked up the walls, placed branches overhead, set the table and began again.

That may be the secret of Jewish endurance. They tried to make Jewish history end.

We kept building. My generation will keep building, too. 

(Shoshannah Kalaydjian is a young Jewish student who writes about education, identity, and the challenges facing the next generation. Growing up in today’s climate, she has witnessed firsthand how rising antisemitism affects young people in classrooms and on college campuses.  She is committed to sharing the perspectives of Jewish youth, amplifying student voices, and encouraging leaders to create safer, more inclusive environments for all students)