The title of the above refers to a trivia question I once answered. It's a trick question, because Tisha b'Av means the ninth day of the month of av, so it can never fall on Rosh Jodesh, which is the first day of the month. That said, if Tisha b'Av falls on Shabbat, you commemorate it the next day instead.
Last night, I attended Mishkan's Tisha b'Av observance, which included Ma'ariv, Reading of Eicha (the Book of Lamentations), and a conversation about our sadness and love when it comes to Israel. As a Tisha b'Av observance, it was the closest I have come to my Tisha b'Av experiences at OSRUI - meaningful, hot, and at some points frustrating. The pain in the room was real and the mood somber, but somehow, in leaving with the brokenness of the day, I came out more whole.
I did not grow up with a Tisha b'Av observance in my family. As someone with staunch Reform upbringing, Tisha b'Av was (for those who knew about it) considered an inappropriate holiday to commemorate because the Reform Movement does not believe the destruction of the Temple to be a bad thing, and therefore does not mourn the event. However, Tisha b'Av was commemorated at my summer camp, in a beautiful fashion that bestowed the day with contemporary meaning for this mourning. We talked about sinat jinam, the senseless hatred that Jews see as our part in the destruction of the Temple. But more than that, the ritual was well-crafted to imbue the day with sorrow and with connection to the history of the Jewish people: tragedies and persecution included. Living in a time of relative peace and privilege for Jews, this connection was new for me. I am here because my ancestors responded to persecution by making themselves stronger, because the response to the question eicha has been that part is under our control. We find things we could have done better even when we recognize that others are responsible for inflicting violence, persecution, and genocide on us. We could sit in our hatred of them or of God, but instead we reflect on what it is about us and the way we live that exacerbates the damage done to us by others.
I remember that unit heads carried the Torah from our units to Port Hall as the rest of us joined hands and walked singing Don McLean's "By the Waters of Babylon." We entered Port Hall where we snaked around and joined hands with other units as well until everyone had entered and we sat on the ground. Passages of Eicha were chanted in Hebrew and read in English, and the list of tragedies that ostensibly occurred on Tisha b'Av was read: destruction of the first Temple, destruction of the second Temple, the start of the first crusade, expulsion of the Jews from England, expulsion of the Jews from France, expulsion of the Jews from Spain, declaration of the Final solution, and the beginning of the deportations from the Warsaw ghetto (not to mention the Toraitic events that the rabbis associated with the day). The history of how each Torah came to be at camp was recounted, with background information of situations of persecution and how Torahs were rescued if that was the case. Esa einai was often sung, and we walked back after in silence, which was not a common sensory experience at camp. The next day (Jewish days start at sundown and go to sundown) we would bury religious texts that were no longer usable in the camp genizah. I don't know how the custom of adding to a genizah became associated with Tisha b'Av, but my conjecture is that Jews find the loss of text to be of similar importance to the crash of an entire way of life. I carry nostalgia for that Tisha b'Av experience: the sense of connection to my people when all seems lost, and of being able to take concrete action to mourn the past but also of being able to take concrete action to build a better future.
The observance last night included "By the Waters of Babylon" and traditional kinot. It included chanting of Eicha and reading it in English. We sat on a hard floor in the summer heat, and although candles burned, we started before sundown and the effect was not one of darkness. And we had a "conversation" about Israel, which is a topic that many in the Jewish world see as so divisive that we only talk with like-minded folks. I put conversation in quotes because it wasn't a conversation in the usual sense. We were first asked to consider where our love comes from when it comes to Israel and where our sadness comes from when it comes from Israel. We were given paper and pens to write our thoughts and some time (although not enough) to consider. Then we were asked to listen to those who volunteered to share. This was an exercise in "vulnerable listening," we were told, which apparently means being attentive and nonjudgmental toward the speaker, but also not to display any emotional reaction you may be having. Sharers were to take no more than three minutes each and were instructed to give their names at the beginning of what they said, speak in "I language," and say "Thank you for listening" at the end, to which the response from the community was "Thank you." These stipulations led one person to comment that it felt like a "Jews Anonymous" meeting. I think these regulations were necessary for people to feel safe sharing about a sensitive subject, but by no means did they engender conversation. Sharers could only focus their comments on their own experiences and feelings, which prevented anything I would call conversation (questions asked an answered, deeper thoughts provoked, progression of ideas possible) from taking place. It was uncomfortable to listen to people vent their frustrations about Israel. It was hard to maintain a non-emotional face listening as things I disagreed with or agreed with whole-heartedly were said, and especially as others bared their souls, it was hard to resist impulses to comfort. The discomfort and pain were fitting for the day. After the discussion and the reading, we had more space for singing and meditating on loss. Then we had Ma'ariv (no, not traditional, but again, we started before sundown). We spoke Ma'ariv, which gives an eerie quality to prayer, and is traditional, as music might increase the enjoyment of the experience, and the idea is that one is praying out of spite because one is in too much pain to do otherwise, and we left, only speaking what was necessary to clean up the space after use. I walked to the Red Line in silence and rode home, also in silence. To allow ourselves time to process pain and grow from it is extremely powerful.
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