Words of Comfort in a Time of “Ein Milim”

This Tisha B’Av, there is deep and hard Torah to learn from survivors of sexual trauma about finding – and offering – comfort in times of darkness

Since October 7^th, one of the most common reflections has been “ein milim,” literally, “there are no words.” No words that accurately express these feelings of grief and loss. Not being able to speak because of the overwhelm of emotion. No words to accurately describe the horrors witnessed. No words for the pain and mourning that so many are feeling.

Now we find ourselves here on Tisha B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning, again, with no words.

But that is not completely true. We do have words. We have the ancient words of Eicha, the Book of Lamentations, which we recite year after year on Tisha B’Av. We have a text of lament, of national grief and communal anguish that we cry aloud every year. This year, the text is so, so hard to read. It is impossible to make it through even the first verses without calling up the images from the news of the past ten months:

“How does the city sit solitary, that was full of people!”

The cities of the north of Israel, empty of its tens of thousands of residents for months on end.

“How is she become like a widow!”

Too many to name – the wailing of the wives eulogizing their husbands, crying over their graves.

“She weeps sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among all her lovers she has none to comfort her.”

Avital Dekel-Chen, Aviva Seigel, Gali Idan… so many women who are grieving all their own losses, while their partners are still in captivity.

“Her infants are gone into captivity before the enemy.”

Kfir. Ariel.

“And from the daughter of Zion all her splendor is departed: her princes are become like harts that find no pasture, and they are gone without strength before the pursuer.”

The dancers at Nova, fleeing and falling as they desperately run through the empty fields.

“Jerusalem remembers in the days of her affliction and of her miseries all her pleasant things that she had in the days of old.”

The Holocaust survivors of the kibbutzim in the otef reliving their trauma.

“When her people fell into the hand of the enemy, and none did help her.”

The desperate calls and texts calling for the army that never came.

“The adversaries saw her, and gloated at her destruction.”

The horrible videos and soundbites of gloating Hamas terrorists celebrating their vicious violence.

“Her filthiness was in her skirts”

19-year-old Naama Levy, being pulled from a Jeep by her hair, bloodied and barefoot.

“Is it nothing to you, all you that pass by?”

The silence of the world and deniers of the horrific crimes of Hamas on October 7^th.

“From above he has sent fire into my bones”

Burned out cars, charred bodies. Northern Israel engulfed in flames.

“He has spread a net for my feet”

Tied up corpses and hostages bound and captured

“For these things I weep; my eye, my eye runs down with water… my children are desolate, because the enemy has prevailed.”

The mothers of Majdal Shams. Sitting together, weeping over their soccer-playing children.  

“Hear, I pray you, all the peoples, and behold my pain: my virgins and my young men are gone into captivity.”

KIDNAPPED! The signs and posters plastered all over Israel, all over city streets across the world. Rachel Goldberg-Polin, Shelli Shem-Tov, the mothers, the hostage families crying day after day, week after week, with their children in the hands of terrorists for over 300 days

“At home it is like death.”

The spraypainted marks on the homes in Be’eri, in Kfar Aza, the number of dead found inside the shells of burned out, bombed, and bullet-ridden homes. 

“For my sighs are many, and my heart is faint.”

The hundreds and hundreds of tearful testimonies of survivors of that Black Shabbat/

This text of Eicha is no longer an ancient text. It reads like the newspapers on October 8^th and every day since. This Tisha B’Av is not a day to grief tragedies of the past, it is a day to come together in our very active grief to mourn and lament the painful and dark place in which we currently sit. So, we will sit together, like mourners, with our sackcloth and ashes and fasting. And we will continue our mourning.

But. As alive as the sorrowful text of Eicha is with unsettling relevance, we have to remind ourselves to look at the entire text. And the text of Eicha ends with words of comfort. “Turn us to Thee, O Lord, and we shall be turned; renew our days as of old.” One verse after line after line recounting pain and suffering. One sentence that in essence simply says, “I wish it was better.” While we feel the lament of all the prior verses deep in our bodies this year, this line of comfort is also something we know in our bones: “Hamakom yenachem…” May God comfort you among the rest of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem. We know these words. We have heard them or spoken them countless times in the homes of mourners, at shiva calls. We are familiar with the prescribed words of comfort to offer someone in their deepest moments of grief and loss. When we do not have words to say – at a time of “ein milim”, there are no words – we actually do have words. These short expressions of comfort and holding, these verbal hugs that tell the mourner, “I wish it was better.”

This year, we all need to hear these words of comfort. This Tisha B’Av we are all mourning the loss of the days “kikedem,” the days of yore before October 7^th. Last week, we gathered for a SVIVAH HerTorah program with people who understand loss and grief outside of the context of shiva and traditional mourning. We asked Rabbi Yael Splansky of Holy Blossom Temple in Toronto, Tehilah Eisenstadt of Wonder and Repair and designer of “Survivor Shiva”, and Dr. Guila Benchimol, criminologist and Senior Advisor at SRE Network, to use their expertise with survivors of sexual harm to help us understand what it means to offer comfort to those in the darkest of places.

Rabbi Yael Splansky chanted the first chapter of Eicha, and it was impossible not to see Naama Levy being pulled out of that jeep, or Shiri Bibas’s fear-filled eyes as she clutched Kfir and Ariel to her chest in that bedsheet. Or the horrible picture of Shani Louk in the back of that pickup truck. Or Noa Argamani being driven away on that motorcycle reaching frantically for her partner, Or. How do you comfort those who have experienced such trauma? How do you comfort their loved ones? How do you offer comfort for pain that will never completely disappear? How do you offer comfort when the pain of others is too painful for even you, as a witness, to bear?

What Rabbi Splansky, Tehilah, and Dr. Benchimol taught was that we know the answer to these questions. The answer is found in those concluding words of Eicha. One sentence of comfort after hundreds of pain is enough. When we do not have words, we know we already have the words – “Hamakom yenachem… I wish it was better.” We can acknowledge our deep discomfort around the loss, pain, and trauma of others. We can acknowledge our lack of clarity as to how to offer comfort for something that seems inconsolable. We can also accept that we are obligated to show up no matter what. Our community has long known that it has a responsibility to offer comfort in times of loss and mourning. Even in times of “ein milim,” we still show up with our one line of comfort. We offer that one line of comfort even when we feel its futility – because the mourners need to hear it. Because those that love the mourners need to hear us say it. Because even when we can fix nothing, it is so important for us to remind those in grief, “I wish it was better.”

Not to equate the two at all, but how many of us lamented the silence of colleagues and neighbors after October 7^th? We did not expect anyone to fix the unfixable – but we needed our grief and our loss acknowledged. We needed to hear others say, “I’m sorry, I wish it was better.” How painful that silence was! And how grateful we were to anyone who reached out with one line of comfort. The denial of loss and the silence around it causes so much additional pain – like salt in an open wound. Can you imagine those survivors who are watching the world deny that October 7^th happened? Can you fathom the pain of victims of harm as they watch the world deny that terrorists committed acts of sexual violence as an act of war? The pain of silence of community and the absence of acknowledgement of harm by witnesses can cause even more pain than the original trauma. Our ritual obligation to acknowledge the grief and loss of someone else is not only deeply profound, but it is essential. As Dr. Benchimol shared, having one’s loss acknowledged by others is a necessity for metabolizing trauma and moving through loss. Our words of comfort – as small as they may seem – are necessary for healing.

Rabbi Splansky highlighted that the end of the text of Eicha turns us to God to offer us comfort. Dr. Guila Benchimol took this further and reminded us that we – as community to each other – we have an obligation to act in God’s stead. We are obliged to find ways to offer comfort to each other, to validate the losses of those among us.

So, we did. We asked our SVIVAH audience to share the words of comfort they wish they could offer to those with deepest loss and grief. What would be the one line they would say to survivors – survivors of sexual violence, survivors of October 7^th? What words of comfort do you offer in a time of “ein milim”?

“I see you. I am here with and for you.”

“You are not alone because I am here with you.”

“May God give you strength to go forward.”

“We love and honor your heart.”

“May you know loving support in proportion to your pain.”

“You have a nation behind you, loving you, and praying for you.”

“You are the light that outshines the darkness of all you’ve endured.”

“I am listening.”

“May you know healing and find peace.”

“I will continue to pray for you.”

“May you be lifted above this all.”

“I wish we could have protected you from this pain.”

“It’s not your fault. I am here for you.”

“I see you, I hear you, I bear witness, I love you.”

“I pray that you find comfort and strength beyond this pain.”

“What can I do for you? I want to help.”

Please take these words of comfort with you into Tisha B’Av, as we are all mourners this year. And – if so moved – share your words of comfort here, too. https://padlet.com/SVIVAH/wordsofcomfort And to the survivors among us, please know – we see you, we wish we could hold some of your grief, and we so wish it was better.

*And – if your custom is to recite the book of Eicha as a community – please take a moment before beginning the reading to recognize how activating the text can be – especially this year, but every year – particularly those who are victims/survivors of harm. Consider offering some words of comfort before beginning the reading of the text and acknowledging the pain that may exist in the room.

May we find ways to comfort each other, and may we find comfort in each other.

Ariele Mortkowitz is the founding director of SVIVAH, dedicated to revolutionizing how Jewish women come together in community, and finding new ways to use community as a tool for women’s empowerment as changemakers in their own lives and the world. This HerTorah gathering was offered in partnership with the SRE Network and The Covenant Foundation.