How do we approach Tisha B’Av after October 7?

As we approach the first Tisha B’Av after October 7, I find myself asking how I should approach Tisha B’Av this year. What does it mean to me now in what feels like a changed world?

When I think back to how I spent Tisha B’Av over the years, it’s probably similar to most observant Jews. Hearing Eicha in the evening, saying Kinot in the morning, and spending my day fasting. I would watch Holocaust movies or listen to lectures that helped me connect to the sadness of the day.

In recent years I have been lucky enough to live in Jerusalem, and hear Eicha on the Tayelet (promenade) where there is a direct view of the Temple Mount, which further helped me connect to the day.

But this year it just feels different. This year I don’t need help understanding the pain of seeing our people butchered, our streets emptied, and our mothers mourning. For 10 months, this has been our reality.

I have also experienced my own personal loss, as my brother in-law, Nathanel Young, was killed on October 7 fighting Hamas terrorists outside of Kibbutz Zikim.

So how do I approach this Tisha B’Av? Will it feel any different than every other day since October 7?

I heard a powerful insight from Rabbi David Fohrman of Aleph Beta that has truly helped me with my personal pain and loss which I believe could help others, too. It also gave me some guidance for how to approach Tisha B’Av a little differently this year.

Rabbi Fohrman points out that one of the central practices of Tisha B’Av is saying kinot. Kinot are lamentations for terrible events that happened to the Jewish people over the centuries. Every generation has added to those kinot over time. The Crusades, the Inquisitions, the Chmelniki massacres, it’s all there in these kinot we say on Tisha B’Av. For different generations, kinot serve different functions. Some generations are unfortunate, and for them, they add their anguish and compose their own kinot. Some generations are more fortunate, and their role is to play listener – to simply witness and hear the cries of generations past. That listening itself is a kind of healing.

To demonstrate his point, Rabbi Fohrman draws evidence from the earliest author of Kinot – from the prophet Yirmiyahu. In Sefer Yirmiyahu, Chapter 31, the Navi shares a prophecy of a woman from one generation crying over the tragedies of an entirely different generation:

כֹּה אָמַר ה’ קוֹל בְּרָמָה נִשְׁמָע נְהִי בְּכִי תַמְרוּרִים רָחֵל מְבַכָּה עַל בָּנֶיהָ מֵאֲנָה לְהִנָּחֵם עַל בָּנֶיהָ כִּי אֵינֶנּוּ.

“Thus says God:, there’s a voice that’s heard on high. A voice that’s sobbing, terrible bitter cries. [What’s the voice?] It’s Rachel, she’s sobbing for her children. She refuses to be consoled for the loss of her children. Because they’re not here anymore, they’re gone.”

What business does Rachel have, crying over another generation’s tragedy? Rabbi Fohrman points out that we’re part of a larger body of Israel over time, and that the suffering of one generation matters to another. Rachel’s tears matter. And our tears matter. The tragedy of another generation matters.

But there’s something more that Rabbi Fohrman said that also really resonated with me and gave me a sense of comfort and purpose. I had never noticed that the beginning of that verse in Yirmiyahu reads: “Ko amar Hashem,” “Thus says God.” It is God that is speaking here. You know who is telling us about one generation crying for another? God. Which means it’s not just us listening to one another’s pain across the generations. God is listening, too. God, who exists beyond time, across the generations is the one who is listening to Rachel’s tears, and to our tears as well. We learn from this that the pain and sorrow over the suffering of the Jewish people is beyond time, it is a transgenerational pain.

For most of my life, my role on Tisha b’Av has been that of the listener. The one holding space for the tragedies of my people in the past. This year, I’m listening to those in the past, as well as to those in the present. And this year, I have my own pain, too. I’m comforted knowing that Jews across the world are holding space for me, and for one another. I find meaning knowing that generations in the future will hear our cries. And most of all, I have the faith that God who is timeless is listening, too.