Collective, Commemorative Mourning

I dread Tisha B’Av. 

Every year, I resent the three weeks, the nine days, and the 25 hours of fasting, smack in the middle of the summer. 

I watch videos about all the sad things that happened on Tisha B’Av, to try to feel the collective, commemorative mourning I’m supposed to be feeling for the destruction of Jerusalem, the departure of the shechinah, and the loss of Jewish people. 

It rarely works. 

Usually, I’ll say something like, “That’s sad” about the videos, and then I’ll continue waiting for chatzot so I can get off the floor and sit on the couch until it’s time to bake my annual Tisha B’Av chocolate chip cookies. 

Sadly, I’m emotionally removed from the events of the past, and the collective, commemorative mourning thing never resonated with me. But it does now. 

This year, I’ve experienced collective, commemorative mourning, from which I’m not emotionally removed. 

We see it in the yellow-ribboned pictures of vibrant faces at empty Shabbat-table seats. We feel it with every “authorized for publication” and every “families have been notified.” We hear it in recordings of final phone calls to loved ones and in the desperate pleading of female soldiers trying to find common ground with brutal captors. We experience it at funerals and at shiva houses.

My heart constricts every time I see the smiling faces of absolutely gorgeous young men and women, who stepped up and were then cut down in their prime. I feel like crying every time I see pictures and videos of the “lucky,” gorgeous young men, who survived but must now come to terms with life without legs or arms. Those “lucky” to live, but now without sight or hearing, with impaired mental faculties or speech. 

All of this makes me very sad, and if you’re reading this, it probably makes you sad, too. So, we mourn, collectively. 

We mourn because loss hurts. A lot. 

For me, like for many others, that loss hit closer to home these last ten months, when two different battles took from me two incredible, chronically-positive, loving, inspiring people.

“Please don’t minimize your own value.”

Yossi Hershkovitz HY”D was my principal at Pelech, where I’ve worked for the last five years. Yossi was soft-spoken, quick to smile, generous with compliments, and gentle with critique. He loved his staff, loved his students, loved his family, and we all felt it. 

Though only a few years my senior, Yossi was my father-figure at work. He provided guidance, a listening ear, and motivation. During one interaction, he complimented me on my students’ achievements on their bagruyot, and when I deflected the credit and placed it elsewhere, he said to me, “Please don’t minimize your own value” — a phrase I now carry with me. In addition to many other such interactions, Yossi pulled me through one of the most painful, challenging periods of my life with compassion, patience, and sensitivity. He dedicated hours to conversing with me, both in his office and on the phone, he jumped through bureaucratic hoops on my behalf, and allowed me space while expressing confidence in my strengths and abilities. To say Yossi went above and beyond the call of duty is a gross understatement.

Yossi Hershkovitz HY”D and Atara Mayer, supporting all teams during color war.

Yossi was devastated by the discord among Israelis in the months leading up to October 7th, and on that devastating day, he put on his uniform and headed south. Yossi was 44 years old – four years beyond the age of mandatory reserve duty. He was the principal of a school, a husband, a father of five. He had every reason not to head into battle. But as far as he was concerned, he had every reason to head into battle, too. Yossi was killed in Gaza.

The devastating news of his death spread like poison right after Shabbat on November 11th, and with it, Pelech became a bereaved school, and I became a bereaved teacher. My grief was overwhelming. And when the staff convened that night, everywhere I looked, I saw overwhelming grief. And I understood collective mourning. 

“90% of life is showing up.”

Sema Voda Z”L was my English coordinator and mentor at Pelech since my first day as an English teacher in 2019. Encouraging, supportive, and loving, Sema was the ultimate optimist. She provided a positive twist to every setback and happy sunflower emojis with every text message.

Sema was beloved at our school. She was often seen carrying piles of dictionaries to her classes, surrounded by students. Every Purim she would show up in a creative, school-related, homemade costume. On Adar pajama day, she would come to school in pajamas. She sent complimentary texts to her students and colleagues, and very long, sometimes somewhat comically-indecipherable texts to her English staff. Sema celebrated even the smallest of her students’ and staff’s accomplishments; if a frequently-absent student finally showed up to class, Sema didn’t highlight his absences, but rather celebrated his presence. “90% of life is showing up,” she would say. “So, by showing up, he already did 90% of the work!”    

Sema was my go-to address for the usual teaching-related things. I’d ask for her opinion on students’ essays, discuss consequences for plagiarism, request guidance for parent interactions, vent about irritating policies, and debate the merits and drawbacks of various academic issues.

But Sema was also my go-to address when I struggled with the stressors of my job, when I sought wisdom and advice regarding my dating life, and when I needed to cry or to laugh or to hug. Sema encouraged me, highlighted my strengths, believed in my ability to rise up from pain, and celebrated my accomplishments. She also spoke her mind when she disagreed with my actions, firmly guided me to accept policies I didn’t like but couldn’t change, and demanded from me consistent excellence and professionalism. When at my lowest, Sema, together with Yossi, gave me the support I needed to push through. 

If Yossi was my Pelech father-figure, Sema was my Pelech mother-figure. 

“90% of life is showing up.” -Sema Voda Z”L with Atara Mayer

She summarized our relationship rather accurately in a text message from August 2022: “I am your coordinator and that relationship is professional. Having said that, I see you as a friend and even a daughter, experiencing challenges with you.”

Sema fought valiantly for several years, but finally lost her battle to cancer on June 3rd, 2024. Though she had been ill for a while, her death came as a shock. Why? Because, true to her nature, Sema constantly sent messages of optimism, telling me of her treatments, informing me that she was enjoying watching me struggle with a new leadership role, and promising a coffee date when she felt better. 

When I received the message from her daughter about Sema’s passing, the wave of overwhelming grief hit me like a ton of bricks. I had lost Yossi and now I had lost Sema within the span of a few short months. My pain felt singular – and in some ways, maybe it is – but, once again, I looked around and saw overwhelming grief on the faces of others; others who also suffered the loss of two incredible, chronically-positive, loving, inspiring people. And I understood collective mourning.

I’ve tried writing about Yossi and Sema several times over the last ten months, but much of what I feel toward them and what I have experienced with them is private and shouldn’t be shared, and everything I do write feels insufficient to convey who they were and what they mean to me. I just need to accept that if you knew them, you know what I’m trying to convey, and if you didn’t, well, that’s your tragic loss.

The point of Tisha B’Av is not to mourn the loss we experienced as a nation on October 7th. It is not to mourn the losses we suffered as a school within the span of seven months. And it is not to mourn my personal loss of the two people who walked by my side since the day I set foot in Pelech. But Tisha B’Av is about collective, commemorative mourning of loss, and whereas previously I couldn’t relate, now, I guess I can.