Tisha B’Av Reflection in a Time of War

This year, as my daughter read Eicha (Lamentations) with her children, the sadness that traditionally accompanies this solemn recitation was magnified in a way that struck me deeply—even from afar. The Megillah of Eicha is a text drenched in sorrow, reflecting the profound grief and desolation that accompanied the destruction of the Temple. It is a reminder of our history, our losses, and the deep wounds that have been inflicted upon our people.

But this year, the experience was not just one of historical mourning. It was profoundly personal, shaped by the events of the past year that have cast a long shadow over our lives. Since October 7, we have been fighting a multiple-front war against the proxies of Iran and Iran itself, a conflict that experts say may not end until 2025. My daughter, wanting to instill in her children the importance of remembering our history, found a beautiful reading of Eicha online and followed along with the kids. As they read, she noticed that my 7-year-old granddaughter was unusually quiet. Her eyes, normally bright with curiosity, were clouded with worry.

My granddaughter is brilliant for her age—perceptive beyond her years. But that perceptiveness comes with a heavy burden. As they moved through the verses of Eicha, my daughter saw her struggling not just with the sadness of the text but with fears that have taken root in her young mind. In the middle of the reading, she turned to her mother and asked, “Will I be kidnapped?”

Her question struck me to the core when my daughter shared this with me. It’s a question no child should ever have to ask. But after the experience of the past year, with all the turmoil and uncertainty that has gripped our world, it’s a question that weighs on the minds of many—children and adults alike. The fear is not just theoretical; it is visceral, shaped by the reality we live in.

What Jew, after the experiences of the past year, would not have similar concerns? The sense of vulnerability that permeates our community is not easily shaken off. It lingers, affecting even our youngest, who should be shielded from such fears but are instead absorbing the anxiety that we all feel.

As I reflected on my daughter’s experience with my granddaughter, her question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of more unspoken fears. When will we be bombed again? Will we be able to protect our children when the next wave of missiles comes? How can we reassure them when our own fears are ever-present, fueled by the threats from Iran and the unsettling developments in our world? And with the recent downgrade of our economy by Fitch, the future feels even more precarious. It’s hard not to feel as though the ground beneath us is shifting in ways that are beyond our control.

These are not just abstract concerns; they are part of our daily reality. We live in a world where the next crisis always seems to be just around the corner. The question is not if we will be bombed again, but when. And while we worry about these existential threats, our economic stability—another cornerstone of our security—has been undermined, adding another layer of uncertainty to our lives.

My granddaughter’s fear during Eicha was a painful reminder that the events of the past year have not only altered the world around us but have seeped into the very fabric of our family life. It has affected how we perceive safety, how we talk to our children, and how we attempt to reassure them in a world that feels increasingly uncertain.

As we continue to navigate these challenging times, I am reminded of the importance of addressing these fears head-on. We must acknowledge them, even as we try to provide comfort and reassurance. We must create spaces where our children can express their worries and know that they are heard, where they can find solace in our traditions, even when those traditions remind us of the darkness in our past.

My granddaughter’s fear is a reflection of the larger anxieties that have gripped us all, but it also serves as a call to action. We must find ways to foster resilience in our children, to help them navigate a world that often feels overwhelming. It’s a daunting task, but one that we cannot shy away from.

This Tisha B’Av, as my daughter and her children mourned the destruction of the Temple, I also mourned the innocence that has been taken from our children by the harsh realities of our time. But in that mourning, there is also a resolve—to protect them, to guide them, and to help them find hope and strength in the face of fear.