Sukkot is the Jewish festival most closely associated with unity. Its two signature mitzvot, the sukkah and the Four Species, present two different models of how people can come together. The sukkah suggests unity through sameness. Everyone sits beneath the same fragile roof, exposed to the same elements.
For nearly three years, Israelis have experienced a far harsher version of that shared vulnerability. We have repeatedly hurried into shelters alongside people we did not know and with whom we may have shared very little. Under missile fire, our differences suddenly mattered less. Inside the shelter, we were all facing the same danger.
The Four Species offer a different model. Each has its own shape, texture, appearance, and character. They are gathered into one bouquet, but each branch or fruit retains its individuality. Their unity does not depend upon becoming similar but upon remaining different while being bound together.
The arava advantage
A classic midrash arranges these differences between the species into a hierarchy. At the top stands the etrog, which possesses both taste and fragrance. Beneath it are the lulav and hadas, each possessing only one of these qualities: The lulav produces fruit but no fragrance, while the hadas offers fragrance but no fruit. At the bottom stands the arava, which possesses neither taste nor fragrance.
Despite lacking both taste and fragrance, the arava possesses one easily overlooked quality that the other species do not share: flexibility. Its long, supple stems bend readily rather than snapping under pressure. By contrast, the hadas stem is firmer and more rigid. The arava survives not by resisting every force but by knowing how to give way without losing its shape.
That ability to bend without breaking offers a different kind of strength. When confronted by an opposing force, such as a strong wind, the arava yields just enough to withstand it. In human relationships and public life, we call that capacity compromise.
Competing visions
The appeal of the arava is easy to overlook because the ideas that attract us usually carry more obvious appeal. We are drawn to particular ideas for different reasons, and we often want to pursue them in their fullest form.
Some ideas attract us because they are tall like the lulav, which rises straight above the other species. These are ideological visions that offer a sense of purpose, ambition, and a larger picture of what we can become. Their power lies in aspiration: They lift our sights beyond immediate circumstances and call us toward something greater than ourselves.
Alternatively, the etrog represents a different kind of attraction. It is beautiful, rounded, and complete. In the midrashic symbolism, it also possesses both taste and fragrance. It gives the impression of something whole and comprehensive, with all the necessary pieces in place.
Some ideas appeal to us because they resemble an etrog: They promise comprehensive solutions. They seem to address several competing concerns at once rather than advancing one narrow interest. They feel balanced and coherent, with few obvious gaps or contradictions. Their attraction lies in the sense that nothing important has been left out.
Finally, some ideas attract us because they resemble the hadas. The hadas contributes fragrance, making its surroundings more pleasant. Hadas-like ideas appeal because they promise to improve the quality and atmosphere of everyday life, making society more pleasant and satisfying to inhabit. Unlike lulav ideas, which reach toward transcendent national goals, or etrog ideas, which offer broad and comprehensive solutions, hadas ideas focus on the kind of life we actually experience from day to day.
Each of these visions carries genuine appeal. The problem is that we rarely agree on which vision should guide us. Often, we disagree about which lulav-like ideals are worth pursuing, which etrog-like programs really offer comprehensive solutions, and which hadas-like ideas would actually improve everyday life.
At other times, the disagreement runs even deeper. One group may care most about ideological purpose, another about broad solutions, and another about the quality of daily life. We are therefore divided not only over which ideas are right but over what kind of goals should matter most.
Therefore, to live together in unity, we need the art of the arava: the ability to bend when confronted by a competing idea. Compromise means accepting an outcome that is partial and imperfect while still holding firmly to our own convictions and recognizing that others hold convictions of their own.
The politics of compromise
Compromise sits at the heart of the democratic experience. Democracy does not assume agreement. It assumes that people with sharply different views will continue to share the same country. As Israel moves toward another election, that capacity becomes especially important.
We are deeply immersed in fierce debates over the character of our democracy, confidence in public institutions, and the divisive questions surrounding haredi society and military service. We hold our convictions fiercely. But democratic life requires more than fighting for the vision we believe in. It also requires knowing when to compromise and sometimes accepting outcomes that fall short of what we consider ideal.
The arava points directly toward that capacity, one that election campaigns rarely celebrate. Campaigns naturally emphasize conviction, principle, and difference. But we should also ask which parties seem capable of compromise, consensus, and working with those who reject parts of their program. Political strength is measured not only by how firmly a party defends its vision but also by whether it can govern alongside those who do not share it.
The humility to bend
But the ability to compromise depends upon something deeper: humility. Hassidic thinkers saw in the lowly arava, bereft of both taste and fragrance, a symbol of humility. Unlike the other species, it carries little sense of its own importance. The arava can therefore represent two qualities that belong together: flexibility and humility. Its flexibility suggests humility as well – the willingness to bend rather than always insist.
Compromise requires more than goodwill. It requires enough intellectual humility to admit that even a position we hold deeply may not contain the whole truth. And even when we remain convinced that our ideal is correct, we may still be wrong about how fully it should be imposed upon an entire society.
Do we possess enough humility to question not only our conclusions but also the way we balance competing values? Are we still capable, every so often, of changing our minds?
Knowing when not to bend
On Sukkot we don’t replace the other three species with a lone arava for the sake of compromise and unity. We still need the aspiration of the lulav, the completeness of the etrog, and the fragrance of the hadas. Some things should not bend. There are moral lines, religious commitments, national interests, and basic democratic principles that cannot simply be negotiated away. Compromise without conviction leaves us with very little worth compromising about.
We bind all four together. We must find a way to remain loyal to our values and stand firmly for them, while also knowing when to compromise and how to live alongside others who hold convictions just as deeply, even when those convictions differ sharply from our own.
As the election campaign gathers intensity, we should not allow the battle over our convictions to obscure the equally important need for compromise. We cannot allow democracy to deteriorate into a winner-take-all struggle for political survival.■
The writer is a rabbi and educator at Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush). Find his latest book, Echoes of Rashi: Bereishit, at mtaraginbooks.com