When I was younger, I often struggled with understanding the purpose of the Jewish holiday of Tisha B’Av. Why, thousands of years later, do we still fast and mourn the destruction of Judaism’s two temples? Why do we continue to commemorate a way of life so remarkably different from the Judaism we practice today?
It wasn’t that I couldn’t appreciate the profound loss and anguish that the Israelites experienced when they were exiled from their lands in 70 C.E. But since then, we had become a different people—a rich mosaic of cultures, traditions and tongues that didn’t exist when the Temple was standing. We worship differently now.
As Rabbi Shmuel Goldin notes in his essay examining this history, our approach toward korbanot, “sacrifices,” has changed. So why is it that Jews of all walks of life—progressive and secular Jews included— still observe a day of fasting and mourning in the Temples’ absence?
It took the Hamas-led terrorist attacks in southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023—the massacre of 1,200 people and kidnapping of 251 others—for me to realize that I was looking at this ancient memorial all wrong.
Tisha B’Av isn’t just a day to lament the destruction of the First and Second Temples, and the precious traditions they had upheld. It’s more personal than that. It’s a time to reflect on what we, individually and collectively, have been transformed by that loss.
The massacre in Israel on the holiday of Simchat Torah and the outpouring of antisemitism that followed have rattled our faith in humanity. The atrocities that happened to Jews there—and the lack of worldwide rebuke and silence of women’s organizations—have shaken our sense of safety in our communities in North America, where overt antisemitic violence and protests were once a rarity.
Many of us have now become more reticent about acknowledging to others that we’re Jewish. We’re less open and more guarded toward strangers, and less trusting of those who don’t understand Judaism and our connection to Israel.
As a people, we’re a long way from finding the security and peace we have lost in the process.
The ancient rabbis understood such feelings. They also understood the importance of collective mourning. That’s why each Tisha B’Av Jews are commanded to read Eicha (the book of Lamentations) and kinot (or “elegies”), which mourn the catastrophes that have taken place since Temple times. The mourning process can serve as a powerful antidote to grief. But it can also be a motivator for growth and transformation.
Last year, the Modern Orthodox rabbinical organization Tzohar released its own version of lamentations in memory of Oct. 7. Written by Israeli composer Yigal Harush, Kinat Be’eri serves as a poignant and at times painfully graphic memorial to the victims of Kibbutz Be’eri, where more than 100 residents were slaughtered in their homes and safe rooms during the attack.
“How did Be’eri/turn into my tomb
The day of my light/to the day of my gloom
Its songs silenced/trampled fruit and leaf
My eyes well with tears/from the depth of my grief.”
Writing a kinah about Be’eri, said Harush, is not unlike what we strive for on Tisha B’Av. “One must first be willing to articulate the pain.”
“One gives it words, which hurt unto the point of tears. Harush said. “[Then] one requests, through the pain, hoping to see, through tear-filled eyes, the comfort and life that surround us.”
May this year our grief be eased with the successful return of the hostages from Gaza.
