By: Nomi Kaltmann as seen in ABC Australia

24 September 2026

In Melbourne, spring is in full bloom. On Friday, Jews across the world will sit in little huts outside their homes, to celebrate the week-long festival of Sukkot.

Jewish tradition understands the sukkah — the temporary structure that we eat in, and some people even sleep in — as a reminder of the divine cloud that protected the Jewish people as they travelled through the desert for forty years. During Sukkot, Jews leave the permanence of their homes and spend time in a structure that is deliberately temporary, with a roof of schach, green foliage made usually of palm tree leaves.

As humans, we spend so much of our lives trying to make things secure. We build houses, establish routines, make plans and try to create some sense of certainty about what is coming next. And then, once a year, Judaism tells us to leave the comfort of their houses and sit in a temporary structure for a week. The sukkah is comfortable, but it is also vulnerable to the elements: the wind, the rain, the storms and the heat. The sukkah reminds people that the things we build around ourselves can provide security, but ultimately, we are dependent on G-d.

In Hebrew, Sukkot has another name: Zman Simchateinu, “the Season of our Rejoicing”. After the seriousness of Rosh Hashanah and the solemnity of Yom Kippur, there is something very Jewish about being told that now is the time to celebrate. The Jewish calendar does not leave us sitting with the weight of those days for very long. We have spent Rosh Hashanah thinking about the year ahead and Yom Kippur confronting our mistakes, asking for forgiveness and reflecting on our mortality. Then, just a few days later, we are told to build a temporary home in our backyard, invite people over and rejoice. It is almost as though Judaism recognises that reflection has to lead somewhere.

I know for me, the weather certainly helps. There is something about sitting outside in the Melbourne sunshine, eating a meal in the sukkah and remembering that we are part of an ancient Jewish tradition that has survived for thousands of years that puts me in a good mood. We may be in spring here rather than the autumn harvest season of the Northern Hemisphere, but Sukkot is still an opportunity to stop and appreciate the abundance around us.

One of the most important Sukkot requirements is the arba minim, the four species: the lulav (made from a date palm branch), the hadas (myrtle), the aravah (willow) and the etrog (a citrus fruit). On each of the days of Sukkot except Sabbath, we bring them together and shake them in different directions, symbolising that G-d is everywhere. I have always loved the physicality of this commandment.

There is a famous Jewish teaching that the four species can also be understood as representing four different kinds of Jews. The etrog has both a taste and a smell, representing someone who has both Torah learning and good deeds. The lulav has a taste but no smell, representing someone with learning but without as many good deeds. The hadas has a smell but no taste, representing someone whose actions are good even if they are not learned in Torah. And the aravah has neither taste nor smell, representing someone who has neither learning nor good deeds.

The point is not to divide Jews into categories or decide who is more valuable. Quite the opposite. On Sukkot, all four have to be held together. One without the others is incomplete. It is a lovely image of Jewish peoplehood: we do not all have to be the same, or contribute in the same way, to belong to the same people.

The ushpizin add another beautiful element to the festival. Each night, we symbolically welcome some of the great figures of Jewish history into the sukkah, beginning with Abraham and continuing through Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph and David. In many communities, the tradition has also developed to include the great women of Judaism, including Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.

I like imagining them all turning up and visit my sukkah. I think about the generations of Jewish people who have sat in a sukkah hundreds of years ago, in countries and circumstances that were completely different from ours. And I think about all our friends and family who will sit around our table this year. That is perhaps my favourite part of Sukkot. The sukkah is temporary, but the people we welcome into it are what make it feel like home.

When Sukkot arrives, rounding out the Jewish festival period, it is a reminder that Jewish life is not only about solemnity. There is a rhythm to it. We repent, and then we rejoice. We fast, and then we eat. We spend time in synagogue, and then we sit outside with friends and family. We think about our mortality and then we are told to enjoy the life we have been given.

As I write this, our sukkah is up, the decorations are out and I am feeling grateful. Grateful for my family, for my community, for another year and for the opportunity to sit outside and mark the festival once again.