My daughter, are you crying or laughing?

CHILDREN IN KIBBUTZ GADOT, 1967 (Photo credit: Ilan Bronner, Government Press Office)

As we approach the High Holidays, we all are wondering how to set the right tone and respond appropriately to the devastation, loss and limbo Israel and the Jewish world have experienced over the past year.

A modern Israeli song echoing an ancient Jewish source may offer one path, acknowledging the pain yet also opening a window of hope and optimism.

On Shabbat “Nachamu” [August 17 / 13 Av י”ג באב] we heard of the passing of Yovav Katz (February 12, 1936 – August 17, 2024), a lyricist, radio talk show host and theater playwright whose varied artistic compositions contributed significantly to modern Hebrew culture. Shabbat “Nachamu” is the first Sabbath after Tisha B’Av, the day of fasting in commemoration of the destruction of the first and second Temples. Tisha B’Av provides an opportunity to mourn not only these tragedies but also numerous other calamities that the Jewish people have experienced.

Since Shabbat “Nachamu” Yovav Katz’s songs have been played on the radio, the most popular being “Biti At Bocha O Tzoheket?” (My daughter, are you crying or laughing?). This song, composed by David Krivoshey, captures life in Kibbutz Gadot in the shadow of the Six-Day War: the three weeks of waiting in anticipation of war, time spent in the kibbutz’s underground bomb shelters, fearing Syrian bombardments, and the moment of emerging to confront the devastation in the wake of the fighting.

Yovav Katz was a volunteer at Kibbutz Gadot in 1958, when the kibbutz had also suffered bombardments and had to rebuild its damaged structures. The kibbutz is in the upper Galilee, just kilometers from the foot of the Golan Heights. He later described the moment when he heard news of the Golan Heights’ conquest (on an old transistor radio). At the time Katz was commanding a reconnaissance unit in a tank battalion in Sinai, another front in the Six Day War.

The song captures the feelings of destruction faced by a mother and daughter emerging from the shelter to witness the wreckage in their beloved kibbutz: “A girl in Gadot came out of the shelter, and there are no more houses in the village. Mommy, we had a green house with daddy and a doll and a loquat tree. The house is gone, and Daddy is far away. Mommy, are you crying or laughing?”

Yovav Katz expands the spectrum of emotions throughout the song: alongside the tears, sadness, and fear is a profound hope for renewal and reconstruction. The mother responds to her daughter: “Look up, my daughter, to the Golan. There are soldiers there, but from now on—their flags are blue and white. Daddy is also crying and laughing there. We’ll have a green house, my child, with Daddy and a doll and a loquat tree, and no more terror, my child. Daughter, are you crying or laughing?”

These comforting words resonate anew during the painful days of the current war. While Kibbutz Gadot is not among the evacuated communities in the north, its residents still find themselves in the eye of the storm. The Gadot-Gonen route, stretching along the valley and at the foot of the Golan, now seems distant and sorrowful. So do the cotton and corn fields surrounding it, which change with the seasons and reach the banks of the Jordan River. This year, Tisha B;Av was particularly difficult, with the feeling of destruction, loss and hopelessness once again raw and immediate. This day made me recall a midrash from the Babylonian Talmud (Tractate Makkot page 24b) offers a somewhat uplifting message, similar to the perspective of Katz’s song, which most likely drew on the midrash: Rabbi Akiva walking with his friends in destroyed Jerusalem: Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah, and Rabbi Yehoshua. “When they reached Mount Scopus (and saw the Temple Mount), they tore their garments. When they arrived at the Temple Mount, they saw a fox coming out of the Holy of Holies. They began to weep, but Rabbi Akiva began to laugh.”

His friends questioned him about the meaning of his laughter, trying to understand his reaction to the horrific destruction and the desecration of the sacred place. Rabbi Akiva is convinced that the destruction foretells the restoration and rebuilding that will come. The prophecy “Therefore, for your sake Zion shall be plowed as a field, and Jerusalem shall become rubble, and the Temple Mount as the high places of a forest” (Micah 3:12) is a prelude to the prophecy “Elders and women will yet sit in the streets of Jerusalem (Zechariah 8:4).” Akiva does not view the present moment as the final chapter, but rather as the seeds of the future. The pain does not overwhelm him; instead, he finds strength in knowing that however dark the present is, it is a necessary step toward reaching a better future. As he shares this idea with his weeping fellow Sages, they answer, “Akiva, you have comforted us; Akiva, you have comforted us.”

In 1967 Yovav Katz infused his song with the tears of friends and the laughter of Rabbi Akiva. The crying and laughing coexist for the mother and daughter in Kibbutz Gadot, reflecting how we may experience mixed emotions in this war, moments of optimism and faith even during our ongoing pain over loss, destruction, and a lack of clear direction.

When we next hear Yovav Katz’s song on the radio, whether performed by Chava Alberstein, Yaffa Yarkoni, or Margalit Tsanani, its words will acquire an additional layer as we remember the destruction of the Temple and our revival. They will remind us that despite our current state as a bleeding, kidnapped nation, we will find a way to heal, rebuild, and restore. And perhaps we will even have the chance to say: “You have comforted us, Yovav Katz, you have comforted us.”