How October 7th Changed My View of Tisha B'Av

"I understood the difference between reading about a tragic moment in time, and feeling my stomach drop as I worried about the future of my people."

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Tisha B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning that commemorates historical Jewish disasters, particularly the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, begins Monday evening.

Kotel Tisha B'Av by Rivka Nehorai

In last year’s Tisha B’Av post (see: My Tisha B’Av Tell-All), I’m embarrassed to say I wrote about how the holiday was more or less an inconvenience while on vacation, and why should we mourn when Jews are all about celebrating life, anyway? I couldn’t read that old post just now without cringing, but if that’s not growth, then what is?

Don’t get me wrong; I still think Av comes at a terrible time in the year. And just like last year, I’ll be on vacation when this 9th of Av hits. Urgh! But I now realize that trying to get into a spiritual mindset and focusing on something larger than yourself when it doesn’t feel like the time for that (like… when you just want to read A Court of Thorns and Roses on the beach!) makes it even more impactful. The weight of grief feels heavier under a sunny, clear blue sky. It can’t help but take a front seat in your mind, making it feel more than just a typical Tuesday.

My attitude shifted because of October 7th. In the pre-October 7th days, it was easy to opt out of observing Tisha B’Av because I didn’t grow up doing so. Reform Jews like myself see it as a religious holiday, yearning for the days of old when the entire Jewish people had one house of prayer directly connected to G-d.

For some modern Jews, it can be hard to connect to this idea, even though we still pray several times a day for its return. That way of living was over 2,000 years ago. You had animal slaughters and priests wearing bejeweled robes. Probably no bagels and lox at kiddush, to boot. It also served as the central place of worship, so most Jews during this time lived in Israel before being expelled. Yeah… hard to imagine, and hard to mourn (for me, personally).

Then after October 7th, I felt collective Jewish grief on a mass scale in a way I hadn’t before. Not from the Tree of Life shooting, for that didn’t feel like it extended beyond our borders here in the U.S. Not from reading Holocaust books, for as sad and angry as they made me feel, that was history, it didn’t feel close to home, and I didn’t lose anyone or know any survivors growing up. Also, sometimes when I read about the systemic brutality of the Nazi regime, it’s so barbaric and evil it’s hard to believe. How could murdering Jews become a society’s norm?

But October 7th, 2023? I lived it from afar and its aftermath. I watched the horrors unfold on TV. I saw supporters of terror in the streets. I heard from survivors. I saw the rising antisemitism. That was when I learned how murder does become the norm and how history does repeat itself. I felt not just the grief of the moment, but the grief of my ancestors. I understood the difference between reading about a tragic moment in time, and feeling my stomach drop as I worried about the future of my people.

“The joy of our heart is ceased, our dancing is turned into mourning.”
-Lamentations, 5:15

This Tisha B’Av, I will take time out of my day to let myself simply feel those emotions, perhaps reflect on the Jewish people as a whole: our history, our aspirations, how this grief plays out in other Jewish rituals, and how I can relate to Jews who may not feel the same about Israel and what sadness they’re holding. At least we can all agree on one thing: fasting is difficult. But I’m going to try to do it anyway, out of respect for those we’ve lost this year who can’t eat with their families, who can’t read on the beach, who can’t dance ever again.

Speaking of others, I know I am not alone. That’s the paradoxical beauty of collective sadness. So if you do anything next week, hug a Jew!

I’m a different person than I was a year ago. We all are, in some way. We may have lost a lot in the last year, but we’re still holding on.

Shabbat Shalom,