We named her Hope

עוד לא אבדה תקוותנו” (התקווה, המנון מדינת ישראל)”

“Our hope is not yet lost.” (Hatikva, Israeli anthem)

I know I’m not alone in dreading this time of year and waiting impatiently for it to pass — these weeks leading up to 9 Av, the saddest day of the Jewish year, when we commemorate the tragedies that befell our people over the millennia and contemplate all that we are still missing.

But this year, for me, the lead up to 9 Av has been a little different; last year, I was blessed to give birth to a baby girl on the evening of 9 Av.

I had done everything I could to avoid having her on that particular day.

But G-d had different plans for me and my daughter; she emerged into the world that very night, right as Jerusalem around us was sitting on the floor, reciting Eicha (Lamentations) and mourning for our many losses and failings as a people.

It was a very strange day. On the one hand, the mood in the hospital was sombre, as one would expect for such a day in the holiest city, especially when many of the hospital staff were themselves fasting. But on the other hand, it is hard to mourn while experiencing the miracle, wonder and trauma of birth. How could I feel anything but relief, gratitude and awe while holding my brand-new baby in my arms, still smelling of Gan Eden, the work of 9 long months of partnership between me, my husband and my Creator?

We named her Hope (Tikva).

(Jerusalem’s Hope — Tikva Bat-Tzion — to be specific.)

That also wasn’t something that I had planned earlier in my pregnancy. As I had expected her birth to take place during the ‘3 Weeks’ before 9 Av — my husband and I had contemplated many names with connections to the period, including Nechama (Comfort), Emuna (Faith) and Orli (My Light). I had briefly considered the name Tikva, but I didn’t immediately connect to it. To me, given the choice, Hope always seemed a poor second to Faith.

It is said that parents have Divine Inspiration when naming their children. I could not have imagined how much the first year of Tikva’s life would have me contemplating hope, faith and the connection between them.

I have since concluded that hope is faith in context — faith in the face of adversity. Hope is the faith that you keep when all seems lost.

“עוד לא אבדה תקוותנו”, we sing in HaTikva, our national anthem — “our hope is not yet lost”. While the words of our anthem come from a poem by Naftali Herz Imber, and written decades before the founding of the State, the source for this specific phrase is far older. It is the inversion of a verse in Ezekiel 37 which contains the Ezekiel’s prophecy regarding the ‘Valley of Dry Bones’, in which Ezekiel, under G-d’s direction, brings an entire graveyard to life.

G-d then explains.

“בֶּן־אָדָ֕ם הָעֲצָמ֣וֹת הָאֵ֔לֶּה כׇּל־בֵּ֥ית יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל הֵ֑מָּה הִנֵּ֣ה אֹמְרִ֗ים יָבְשׁ֧וּ עַצְמוֹתֵ֛ינוּ וְאָבְדָ֥ה תִקְוָתֵ֖נוּ נִגְזַ֥רְנוּ לָֽנוּ׃”

“These bones are the whole house of Israel: behold, they say, Our bones are dried, and our hope is lost: we are clean cut off.” (Ezekiel 37:11)

“Son of Man, can these bones live?” asks G-d. (Ezekiel 37:3)

I doubt even the greatest scientist today would answer this question in the affirmative. Skeletons cannot be reanimated. So too in Ezekiel’s prophecy, the people to whom the bones belong themselves answer in the negative — “Our hope is lost.”

The word ‘Tikva’ (meaning ‘hope’) is found in another place in Tanach. As the people of Israel are led out of Judea into exile, Rachel, buried next to Bet Lechem, is said to cry inconsolably for her children.

G-d comforts her:

” מִנְעִ֤י קוֹלֵךְ֙ מִבֶּ֔כִי וְעֵינַ֖יִךְ מִדִּמְעָ֑ה …וְיֵשׁ־תִּקְוָ֥ה לְאַחֲרִיתֵ֖ךְ נְאֻם־ה וְשָׁ֥בוּ בָנִ֖ים לִגְבוּלָֽם׃“

“Keep your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears… there is hope for your future. says the L-rd, and your children shall come back again to their own border.” (Jeremiah 31:16-17)

In both of these prophecies, the situation seems utterly final. The bones are dry, the people are exiled, their society completely destroyed. The way forward appears utterly impassable.

And yet, G-d shows us, there is always room for hope — the unwavering belief that this, too, shall pass, that good times will come again, if and when we are deserving of them. Even in the midst of the exile itself, even after our bones are dry, we can — we must  — maintain hope.

Our sages teach that Mashiach himself (herself?) is born on 9 Av (Jerusalem Talmud Berachot 2:4 Midrash Rabba Eicha 1:51). We infer from this that even at the height of our pain and distress, good things are to come. But we can take this even a step further. As in labour and birth, it is the pain itself — when related to correctly — that is responsible for the good to follow. So too, observing 9 Av and deeply contemplating its meaning, however uncomfortable, is essential, in order for us to find our way through the valley of death and towards our own renewal and rebirth as a nation.

I hope and pray that we will celebrate Tikva’s first birthday with all of Israel’s children returned to her borders, a national celebration at the third Bet Hamikdash, and lots of cake. But even if that doesn’t happen tomorrow night, I will still continue to choose hope.