TELL Magazine: October - November 2019

{HOME IS A STATE OF BEING}
Donna Jacobs Sife
Several years ago, between Yom Kippur and Sukkot, I traveled across
New South Wales to Broken Hill, following the Darling River
and camping beneath the moon. I learnt a little about the land,
the history and the simple pleasures of being a wanderer.
I learnt about Black Country and Red
Desert. I marveled at the big skies,
walked through strangely fragrant
wildflowers, across cracked and thirsty
earth, and mourned a plundered
river. I heard of the sacrifice made
by desperate men who made Australia
prosper; how without the mines
they would have starved and yet
within them endured great sufferings
and early death. I viewed remote
caves with ancient aboriginal art,
mysterious markings in code. I met
black cockatoos, eye to eye, bright
green parrots, emu tracks, and eagles
doing their best to clear the gory
animal remains of road carnage. A
little history, a glimpse of country,
a broadening of my sense of home.
Whilst contemplating the endless
red road, that disappeared into
what seemed to be a distant
island, shimmering in the heat, I
remembered the opening words
of the Seder night on passover
- “My ancestor was a wandering
Aramean”. Why are we reminded
of this, year after year?
We come from a tradition of nomadic
life. The word itself comes from the
word ‘pasture’. Abraham, Jacob,
David – they all tended their flocks,
traveling here and there to find the
greenest pastures. Perhaps the first
keeper of sheep was Abel. Cain was a
settled farmer. Abel was the favourite
of God, and yet Cain, who would
build the first city, was promised
dominion over him. A Midrashic
verse, commenting on their quarrel,
says that the sons of Adam inherited
an equal division of the world: Cain
the ownership of all land, Abel of
all living creatures – whereupon
Cain accused Abel of trespass.
The names of the brothers are a
matched pair of opposites. Abel
comes from the Hebrew ‘hebel’,
meaning ‘breath’ or ‘vapour’: anything
that lives and moves and is transient.
The root of Cain appears to be the
verb ‘kanah’: to ‘acquire’, ‘get’, ‘own
property’ and so ‘rule’ or ‘subjugate.’
The prophets Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos
and Hosea were nomadic revivalists
who howled abuse at the decadence
of civilization. By sinking roots in
the land, by ‘laying house to house
and field to field’, by turning the
Temple into a sculpture garden,
we had turned away from God.
As wanderers, we owned only what
we could carry with us, and had
no need to acquire new things. As
wanderers, we had no fear of invasion,
nor had we any need to conquer.
Our security lay with a benevolent
God, who governed the rains and the
sun. We would welcome strangers,
knowing that they too could one
day be welcoming us. We did not
suffer the ills of a settled life, that of
watching over possessions, competing
with neighbours, fearing the loss
of what we have, or holding on to
and toiling over a piece of soil. In
the seeming permanence of a home,
we paradoxically create our own
insecurities. And conversely, the
nomadic life in its very temporariness
IHEALING THE WORLD
has the potential to
offer permanent joy.
I thought of these things,
as I slept on a swag, with
nothing around me but
a cool breeze, a slow river, and the
persistent call of a mopoke owl. As the
nights passed, I watched the moon
grow to perfect fullness, knowing
that Sukkot was imminent. We are
taught to be joyful during Sukkot. It
is in fact a mitzvah, a commandment.
We are told to move out of our
homes, and take up residence, just
for a while, in a temporary dwelling.
Sleep beneath the stars. Be woken
by the music of bird song. To invite
our ancestors in, and be secure in the
fact that we are a continuation of a
people that is proud and honourable.
On Sukkot, we remember that true
security lies beyond that which
we can acquire, beyond four solid
walls, beyond that which we see. We
remember that a piece of land can
never be truly home, and securing it
is illusion. Home is a state of being,
and travels with us wherever we go.
True joy lies in faith, detachment
from worldly things, and in knowing
where, how and why we belong.
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