Rabbi Andrea’s Sermon 4th October 2025 / 13th Tishrei 5786

On Sukkot and Antisemitism

Tomorrow, we remain in the in-between of Yom Kippur and Sukkot — and on Monday evening we will usher in the festival. Sukkot, z’man simchateinu, the season of our joy, should be a time of lightness and celebration. But this year, our joy meets a heavy sorrow.

Only days ago, on Yom Kippur morning, worshippers at the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester were targeted in a terror attack. A man drove his car into people and then approached the synagogue with a knife, trying to break through the doors. 

He shouted, “This is what they get for killing our children.” 

Two men lost their lives: Adrian Daulby, 53, and Melvin Cravitz, 66. Others sustained serious injuries. The attacker, Jihad al-Shamie, 35, originally from Syria, was shot dead by law enforcement on the spot. 

What we later learned deepens the pain and exposes the danger of normalised incitement. Al-Shamie was out on bail, under investigation for rape, and had prior criminal convictions — yet he was not on the radar of counter-terrorism authorities. His father had previously posted praise for Hamas and called for Israel’s destruction following the October 7 attacks.

This is not simply an isolated act of violence. It was driven by an ideology in which antisemitism and anti-Zionism are blended into one. The attacker made no distinction between Jew and Israeli. His words, his choice of target, his lethal intent — all show that hatred when it is normalised becomes deadly.

In the face of this, we must recount the paths societies take when confronting antisemitism. In history — and in our own day — there are two broad approaches. 

One is to fight antisemitism for what it truly is: a distinct, corrosive hatred of Jewish people. This approach names it clearly, confronts its specific forms, and resists diluting or sidelining it. 

The other is to absorb antisemitism into broader categories: to call it “another form of racism,” or attribute it to socioeconomic factors, or treat it as a byproduct of injustice in general. That second approach may feel inclusive or moderate, but in practice it often leaves Jews defenceless, erases our particular suffering, and allows antisemitism to persist under new guises.

We see those two approaches embodied in the contest over definitions. The IHRA definition of antisemitism, accepted by many governments and institutions, explicitly states that denying the Jewish people’s right to self-determination, for example by claiming that Israel’s existence is a racist endeavour, is antisemitism. It does not forbid all criticism of Israel, but it draws the necessary boundary between critique and denial. It gives tools and clarity.

In contrast, the Jerusalem Declaration offers an alternative conception. Its proponents argue it clarifies the line between legitimate criticism of Israel and antisemitism, particularly in academic settings. 

Many of its supporters embed it within broader struggles against racism, linking the fight against antisemitism with that against Islamophobia. On paper, that may sound generous — but it creates an asymmetry: nobody demands that one refrain from fighting Islamophobia unless one also fights antisemitism. 

The condition is placed only on Jewish expression, subtly forcing the dilution of our own struggle. 

In practice, this linkage can make the fight against antisemitism contingent, subservient to other agendas — a weakening, not a strengthening.

It becomes even more painful when Jews themselves adopt this narrative. Some, positioning themselves as “progressive,” join rallies where Israel is condemned as genocidal, where the destruction of the Jewish state is demanded. 

They purport to defend Jews, while standing shoulder to shoulder with those who deny Jewish self-determination. They push for severing Diaspora–Israel ties under the guise of moral posture.

But in Manchester, the attacker claimed he was enacting vengeance. He did not concern himself with nuanced political distinctions. His father’s social media posts had praised Hamas’s October 7 attack. 

This is a vivid demonstration that narrative shapes violence. 

When the rhetoric of delegitimisation and hatred becomes accepted, when people come to believe that a Jewish state is inherently evil, then violence ceases to be a shocking rupture — it becomes, in some minds, a drowned echo of that normalised hate.

And here we must confront a perversion of language that we too often witness. Some of those who denounce us for naming antisemitism call our insistence a “narrative of hate.” 

They accuse us of creating division, of weaponising Jewish identity. But look at what they do: they dismiss the targeting of Jews, they ignore the violence that others commit, and they instead turn the spotlight on us, as though our truth is the problem. This is not critique. It is projection.

They set themselves above the fray, often from positions of privilege — white, liberal, middle-class — disparaging Israel, often unaware or indifferent to the diversity and complexity of Israeli society, made up largely of Jews from Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and Sephardi and Mizrahi communities. 

In their narratives, Jews who support Israel become “exceptional” or “complicit,” rather than people with history, memory, and a right to self-determination.

I know this in my bones, because I have experienced it firsthand. 

In this very city, anti-Zionist activists have hurled insults at me and my family in Yiddish — revelling in the assumption we would not understand — mocking our accent, mocking our identity. That is their “narrative of hate.” Not our naming antisemitism, but their contempt and delegitimisation of Jews who refuse to disown their people or their land.

In Manchester’s tragedy we see what this rhetoric enables. To deny the Jewish state is to deny Jewish security. To delegitimise Israel is to open a path for violence against Jews wherever they are.

So what does Sukkot teach us in a moment like this? What can the festival say to a people under threat?

We will soon enter the sukkah — a fragile hut built of branches, open to wind and rain, letting in light and even the sky. Its roof is loose enough that you can see the stars at night. Its walls may be simple wood or canvas. It is intentionally temporary, unsteady, vulnerable.

Why do we dwell there? Because Sukkot forces us to remember that our safety does not rest in walls or weapons, but in God’s shelter. 

The sukkah recalls our desert wanderings and the ananei kavod, the divine clouds of Israel’s journey. We affirm that we are not merely fortified by stone, but by faith, community, and presence.

Moreover, the sukkah compels visibility. You cannot build a sukkah inside your home. It stands out. It is public. 

It is a statement: we live, we share, we are not hidden. In a time when Jews are pressured to blend in, to moderate, to silence, the sukkah says: step outside. Show yourselves. Let your Judaism be seen. Bring guests, sing, connect. Be visible.

We also hold the Arba minim, the four species. 

The etrog, with taste and fragrance, symbolises Jews who combine Torah and good works. The lulav, with taste but no smell, symbolises Torah without action. The hadas, with scent but no taste, symbolises acts without study. The aravah, with neither, symbolises those lacking both. Alone, none is complete. Together, they form the mitzvah. This is our people: varied, many, incomplete alone, but together holy.

But the four species are not random flora. They are plants of the Land of Israel. When we wave them in six directions, we invoke rain — not anywhere, but in Israel, under its agricultural cycles. 

Our unity is not abstract — it is rooted, planted in Israel. Only with roots can branches stretch. Only if we are grounded does our waving in all directions mean something.

Thus, the message of Sukkot for our time is clear: unity without roots is hollow. Our diversity must be held around a centre. Our visibility must be anchored in our identity and our land. Our resistance must be joyful, but not blind.

We must refuse the demand to distance ourselves from Israel. We cannot fight antisemitism only on condition that we abandon the Jewish state. We cannot allow voices in our communal sukkah that give legitimacy to terror.

To those who say, “Cut ties with Israel and you will be safe,” we answer: the lulav and etrog cannot be separated from their land. The sukkah cannot stand without its roof. The Jewish people cannot live without their homeland.

And yet, Sukkot is a festival of joy. 

The Torah calls it z’man simchateinu — the season of our rejoicing. Why joy in a fragile shack? Because joy is resistance. To step into a fragile structure, surrounded by sky and exposed to wind, and still sing, still welcome, still gather — that is defiance. Our life will not be defined by fear or hate, but by our commitment to God and to one another.

Let our response to terror be more Torah, more mitzvot, more unity, more courage, more joy. Let our answer to demands to disown Israel be a deeper bond with her — in thought, in prayer, in solidarity, in love. 

Let our response to division be to gather the four species tightly, to hold close every Jew, but always anchored to the land and soul of Israel.

As Monday evening approaches, as we build our sukkot, let us remember Manchester’s victims and all who suffer from hatred. Let us step into our sukkot — fragile, open, vulnerable — yet full of hope, community, and faith.

And let us recite with hearts aligned:

הַפּוֹרֵשׂ סֻכַּת שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל עַמּוֹ יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם

“Ha-pores sukkat shalom aleinu v’al kol amo Yisrael v’al Yerushalayim.”“May the One who spreads the sukkah of peace shelter us, all His people Israel, and Jerusalem.”

Chag sameach.

Rabbi Dr. Andrea Zanardo, PhD