When Destruction Becomes Rebuilding
A few summers ago, just before the Tisha B’Av fast day, a woman came to our legal aid center. Her husband was abusive, and he was refusing to grant her a get – a Jewish writ of divorce.
She said something I hear far too often, but which still takes my breath away every time: “I know he is violent, but it is so hard for me to give up on the fantasy of what I hoped our marriage could be.”
It is indeed painful to give up on a dream. No one enters a marriage expecting it to end this way. But when that dream becomes a source of harm rather than hope, it becomes necessary, however painful, to choose a different path. This woman ultimately found the strength to do just that, and with our support, fought for and received her get.
Many women experience this same struggle – the difficulty of letting go of the dream and stepping into freedom – when the get is finally granted, or even when it is finally within reach. Liberation is often accompanied by grief: the shattering of a dream, and a sense of loss for what might have been.
At that moment, it is important to remember: even the ashes of this painful loss can become the foundation for new growth – and eventually, new joy.
This emotional paradox – grief alongside the possibility of renewal – is not only personal. It is woven deeply into our collective story, and reflected powerfully in the destruction of the Temple.
Every year, on Tisha B’Av, millions of Jews around the world mourn the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, as though 2,000 years had not already passed since it went up in flames. They recall moments of spiritual closeness and transcendence, and yearn deeply for its rebuilding.
And yet, our tradition also teaches that alongside its holiness, there were deep moral and spiritual failings – corruption, baseless hatred, and violence – that ultimately led to its destruction. If we allow ourselves, carefully and with humility, to consider the metaphor embedded in this history, we can see that from destruction, transformation can emerge.
In the wake of destruction, the Jewish people were forced into a kind of national reckoning – one that ultimately made renewal possible. It disrupted systems that had become extreme and corrupt, losing sight of their moral core. It compelled us to reimagine Jewish life, to rebuild, and to carry forward our values in new ways. Out of devastation, a different kind of spiritual growth became possible.
It is no coincidence that the Temple is called the “Chosen House” (Beit HaBechirah). Our tradition often frames it as a relationship between God and the people of Israel; one that depends upon connection, commitment, and in some sense, mutual presence.
In much the same way, a marriage can only endure when both partners are able to sustain it with dignity, care, and a shared sense of purpose. This is the aspiration of “shalom bayit,” peace and domestic harmony within the home.
But when those foundations are absent – and critically, when a relationship is marked by fear, instability, or abuse – then preserving the structure at all costs is no longer a virtue. In such cases, dissolving the marriage may become a necessary, at times lifesaving step toward healing and growth.
These decisions are never simple, and never taken lightly by the women themselves or by those who support them. Over the years, our organization, which supports women whose husbands refuse to grant them divorces even in cases of abuse, separation or abandonment, has faced criticism. We have been called “home-wreckers.”
At times, even within the system, there are efforts to encourage reconciliation and preserve shalom bayit – a deeply important value, but one that is not always viable.
There are cases in which a marriage cannot – and should not – be sustained. In those cases, the term “home-wrecker” – a phrase that in Hebrew shares the linguistic roots of “Chorban HaBayit,” the destruction of the Temple – takes on a different meaning.
Because sometimes, what appears to be destruction is, in truth, the beginning of rebuilding. Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai taught that the calamity of the destruction came due to the “absence of peace.” In that spirit, I continue to pray for shalom bayit – for homes built on dignity, mutual respect, and wholeness. But I have also learned, through the stories of the women we serve, that there are times when what feels like destruction may, in fact, be the first step toward redemption, and the possibility of a life rebuilt with dignity, safety, and hope.
