Beyn Ha’Metzarim
I first encountered Tisha B’Av (observed next week) when I was a camper at URJ Camp Eisner in Great Barrington, Mass. I attempted the customary fast, only to surrender to the heat and hunger by midday. Judaism is presented experientially at the Reform Movement camps, so our observance of the holidays involved traversing the grounds and stopping at dramatic reenactments of the tragic events that befell the Jewish people on that day over the centuries. As a 12-year-old, this encounter with Jewish history left an indelible memory.
We are in the period of time called Beyn Ha’Metzarim—between the narrow places—which marks the three weeks before Tisha B’Av. During this time, the tradition goes deep into the sorrows of the destruction of the Jerusalem Temples, the expulsion of Jews from Spain, the burning of Torah scrolls, and other times of pain and terror. Different mourning rituals are observed during these weeks depending on the geographic origins of the Jewish community.
The word, Metzarim, is related to the Hebrew word for Egypt: Mitzrayim. Egypt was the ultimate narrow place, where the Torah describes the worst kind of constriction: slavery. Denied any sense of personal autonomy or agency, the world literally closes in on a slave, constraining their every move.
What I came to understand as an adult—likely from seeds planted during those times of observance during the many years I attended Jewish camps—was that our people’s collective memory integrated into Jewish holidays and story-telling, both of the glorious times and the narrow spaces, lives inside me. I’m the recipient of the life choices of hundreds of generations of Jews who traversed continents, built and rebuilt their lives, and clung to their traditions, their history, and their identity with such fervor that it was ultimately placed into our hands.
As Jews, we carry within us both the good and the bad; the glories and the triumphs; the sorrow and the sacred. Observances such as the three weeks—Beyn Ha’Metzarim—even if your observance extends to just reading these words, remind us that our very existence is a precious gift given to us by lives long gone. An awareness of our Jewish identity compels us to recognize that we, too, are transmitters of memory, and like our forebears, the choices we make will impact generations long after we have breathed our last. Far from being discouraging, it is Judaism’s best affirmation that our lives truly matter.
—Rabbi Ron Stern