The Ratcheting of the Three Weeks – will we learn?

A Nation That Remembers – perhaps this time, this year, we will reflect on the nature and the ratcheting up of the tempo of the three weeks. I am certainly paying more attention to its incredible structure.

The ratcheting up of The Three Weeks

There’s something chillingly deliberate about the way the Three Weeks unfold. It doesn’t hit all at once. It builds—slowly, painfully, like a tightening spiral. First, a fast. Then, restrictions. Then, the Nine Days. Then, Tisha B’Av. The mourning intensifies, the customs deepen, and the sense of loss becomes more palpable with each passing day. It’s not just a commemoration—it’s a ratcheting up of national memory and spiritual urgency.

And yet, even in this tightening cycle of grief, there is a rhythm of mercy. Each Shabbat during the Three Weeks offers a brief reprieve—a pause in the mourning. On Shabbat, the restrictions are relaxed. We sing. We eat meat. We wear fresh clothes. It’s as if Shabbat gently interrupts the pain, reminding us that even in the darkest times, there is still light. Still holiness. Still hope.

What Are the Three Weeks?

Known in Hebrew as Bein HaMetzarim (“between the straits”), the Three Weeks mark a period of national mourning in the Jewish calendar. They begin on the 17th of Tammuz, the day when the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the Romans, and culminate on Tisha B’Av (the 9th of Av), the day both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem were destroyed.

During these 21 days, Jews around the world reflect on the many tragedies that have befallen our people—especially those connected to exile, destruction, and persecution. The period is marked by increasing levels of mourning, with customs that include refraining from music, weddings, haircuts, and eventually even bathing and eating meat during the final Nine Days.

These aren’t just symbolic gestures—they’re deeply personal. Music, grooming, celebration—these are things that touch our daily lives and our emotional well-being. The fact that we give them up, even temporarily, is a powerful expression of shared grief and national memory. It’s a way of saying: This pain is not ancient history. It’s ours.

And yet, the number of people who actively observe or even recognize the significance of these days is relatively small. But the impact is broader than we think. In Israel, the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange closes on Tisha B’Av. Many people avoid flying or taking risks during this time. Even those who don’t fully engage with the mourning customs often feel the weight of the season. Like always, some choose to see the signs—and others don’t.

History Echoes

This ratcheting is not just historical—it is prophetic. It echoes through every period of Jewish suffering. Just as it happened in the 1930s, I fear it is happening again now. A gradual increase in pain, mourning, and threat, punctuated by brief moments of hope (like the Shabbat’s that break the three weeks), ultimately leading to a crushing blow. This pattern has repeated itself throughout our history. The only question is: Will we recognize it in time?

The Three Weeks are not merely a commemoration of ancient tragedies. They are a national mirror, reflecting the full spectrum of Jewish suffering—from internal division and baseless hatred (sinat chinam) to external persecution and destruction.

“Seek, O Torah, Consumed by Fire” — Then and Now

One of the most haunting kinnot we recite on Tisha B’Av is Sha’ali Serufah Ba’esh, written by Rabbi Meir of Rothenburg in response to the burning of 24 wagonloads of Talmudic manuscripts in Paris in 1242. This was not just a physical loss—it was a cultural and spiritual assault. The Church, under King Louis IX, sought to erase the Oral Torah from Jewish life. The books were burned in a spectacle meant to humiliate and silence.

“Seek, O Torah, consumed by fire, for your scholars have been humiliated, your scrolls reduced to ash.”

Rabbi Meir, who witnessed the event, mourned not only the destruction of sacred texts but the desecration of Jewish identity. He asked, echoing the Talmud in Menachot 29b, “Is this Torah, and this its reward?”

But this kinah is not just about the past. It speaks to us now.

In our generation, we are not watching Torah scrolls burn in the streets of Paris—but we are witnessing attacks on Jewish schools, synagogues, cemeteries, and community centers across Europe and the West. This is no longer just about ideology, theology, or identity. It is about our physical safety, our freedom to speak, and our right to defend our homeland.

We are living through an unprecedented wave of antisemitism—not just online, but in the streets. Jews are being harassed for wearing a kippah, for speaking Hebrew, for supporting Israel. The battleground has shifted from books to buildings, from theology to survival.

And it’s not just Paris. The message of Sha’ali Serufah is a warning to Europe and the West as a whole. The same cultural forces that once tried to erase Jewish life through fire now do so through intimidation, censorship, and violence. The threat is no longer theoretical—it is urgent and real.

“How Lonely Sits the City”

The prophet Jeremiah opens Eichah with a cry that still echoes today:

“How lonely sits the city that was full of people! She has become like a widow.” (Eichah 1:1)

This verse is not just about Jerusalem—it’s about every Jewish community that has faced devastation. It’s about the loneliness of exile, the silence after destruction, and the ache of what once was.

By the Rivers of Babylon—to the Shores of Tel Aviv

Psalm 137 famously begins:

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept, when we remembered Zion.”

But today, we are no longer only by the rivers of Babylon. We are in Tel Aviv, in Jerusalem, in Be’er Sheva. We are home. For once we don’t actually have to remember Zion, we can actually move here freely.

Yes, ironically, and perhaps as through history, people debate the relatively minor details of cost of living, career opportunities, and language barriers. But the truth is: it has never been easier to come to Israel. My family made Aliyaj many years ago but it also wasn’t easy for me –  I also took the risk to come and live in Israel – truly a miracle in our times .The infrastructure, the economy, the culture—Israel is more developed and more accessible than at any time in our history. The gates are open. The dream is within reach.

A Call to Unity

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, once said:

“There is only one people on earth capable of threatening the future of the Jewish people—and that is the Jewish people. If we are united, no power on earth can prevail over us.”

Let us use this period to double down on our unity. Let us remember that we are not alone—that Hashem has been with us, is with us, and will be with us. Let us remember that we cannot always rely on our neighbors to defend us. But we can rely on each other.

A Nation That Remembers

There’s a well-known story told about Napoleon Bonaparte. While passing a synagogue on Tisha B’Av, he heard the sound of weeping and lamentation. Curious, he asked what tragedy had occurred. A Jewish officer explained that the people were mourning the destruction of their Temple in Jerusalem—an event that had taken place nearly 2,000 years earlier.

Napoleon was stunned. He reportedly said:

“A nation that cries and fasts for over 2,000 years for their land and Temple will surely be rewarded with their Temple.”

Whether or not the story is historically accurate, the message is timeless. The Jewish people are unique in their ability to remember, to mourn, and to hope—not just for a day or a decade, but for millennia. That memory, that longing, is not a weakness. It is our strength.

And yet, our generation is different.

We are not only remembering—we are rebuilding. We are not only mourning—we are returning. We have something that no previous generation had: the State of Israel. We have sovereignty, we have strength, and we have the ability to shape our future.

Yes, the challenges are real—cost of living, language, politics, security. But the opportunity is greater than ever. The gates are open. The dream is within reach. Part of the answer is already in our hands.

And perhaps that is the final message of the Three Weeks:
That we are still here.
That we still care.
That we still believe.
And now, we can act.

May that belief carry us forward—toward rebuilding, toward redemption, and toward peace.