It starts with a fast on the 17th of Tammuz and extends to the climax of Jewish sorrow, the 9th of Av. According to Jewish tradition the 17th of Tammuz is the date that the walls of Jerusalem were breached immediately prior to the destruction of the Second Temple and the 9th of Av is the day that both Temples were destroyed. A number of additional tragedies are also attributed to this period including seemingly unrelated events such as the breaking of the tablets of the Ten Commandments by Moses and the declaration of the First Crusade. In order to signify their mourning, the community engages in a number of practices for the Three Weeks between the two fasts. For the nine days from the beginning of the month of Av (which the Talmud tells us is a time to minimize joy) these practices become more stringent; people abstain from eating meat, wearing new clothing, shaving their beards, etc. All this culminates on the 9th of Av, the saddest day of the year, on which observant Jews fast, sit on the floor, don’t bathe, don’t wear leather shoes, and don’t even greet people they know.
For the uninitiated, these seem like drastic measures. Why would these events that occurred centuries ago carry such weight? But to the Orthodox Jew the passing of time is meant to be irrelevant, anything that happened in Jewish history should be experienced on a personal level. A Jew feels that God has liberated him personally from Egypt and has revealed the Torah to him personally at Sinai. Accordingly, the passing of time loses all relevance when observing national tragedies as well.
Surely to anyone who has never observed these customs this concept of a collective memory and emotion is as absurd as it is romantic. However, to those of us who have wept as Eicha (the book of the Bible which chronicles the events of the destruction of the First Temple) has been read can attest, it is also overwhelmingly powerful. And those of us who have been responsible for programming to teach children to experience these days know of its potency. Which, I suppose is why I commemorate this time period as the anniversary of my discovery that some part of connection to it all had been severed.
It was the summer after I was a counselor in a Modern Orthodox Women’s Yeshiva in Jerusalem. The year had been an especially challenging one for me. It was my second year studying Talmud and Philosophy at Bar Ilan and I was plagued by skepticism, doubts and frustrations. And to make matters worse I was responsible for the spiritual, emotional, and physical well-being of approximately 100 girls who were spending the year in Israel to absorb Jewish learning and socialization. That summer I struggled to decide which path to take - should I continue leading the life of the invested religious educator or should I abandon it for the secular life? Somehow the two converged into a messy lifestyle of flirtations, alcohol and sleeping until noon, while continuing halakhic practice and Talmud study.
The conflict finally came to a head as the 9th of Av approached. In the past I had allowed myself to become immersed in the mourning, but that year I had let it all but slip by unnoticed. The day before I pondered whether it still had any meaning to me at all. How did I feel about the Temple? Did I really believe that God could be served through ritual sacrifice? And if not, then what did I think about the numerous texts that suggested that He could? Were they a vestige of a different time that were meant to evolve and expand with time, or were they antiquated documents meant to be abandoned in light of modern reason? I finally decided that I would observe the day by abstaining from what was forbidden, but not actively partaking in the meaningful practices of the day.
The sun set and instead of going to synagouge to hear the recitation of Eicha as I had always done in the past, I stayed home alone. I opened a recording of the reading I found online and sat on the floor to listen to it. Closing my eyes, I let the meaning of the verses wash over me. The normally very poignant words bored me instead of touching me. And I felt nothing, only the widening of the massive rift between me and my God and me and my people. I got up, swept the dust of my clothes, and found another way to pass the time, realizing that that evening was the beginning of the end, my mind was no longer in tune with the national psyche.
This year, as I attempt to slowly inculcate my Judaism back into my life, I find myself considering whether there is value to a national memory/experience independent of observance. Should I fast on the 9th of Av to signify its cultural significance instead of its religious significance? Perhaps I can signify the days import without practicing the ritual, and instead opt to observe it through study. Maybe awakening an emotional reaction to the human suffering that occurred is a better option?
