The only tabernacle I remember seeing in my childhood was on the roof of my parents’ block of flats in a suburb of Tel Aviv. I don’t remember sitting in it, but recall looking into it once – past the wood and the cloth, it held a chair and some books inside it. It belonged to my parents’ neighbor, an older man. I never sat in it with my parents, nor did I sit in any tabernacle with my maternal grandparents, who left behind their Jewish villages in Eastern Europe to come to Israel, nor with my paternal grandparents, who had been in Israel ten generations. None of my family ever sat in a sukkah. 

That tabernacle I peeked into at age six is all the ancestral custom I can claim.