Earlier this month, I had the honor of spending ten days learning at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. As we move through the three weeks leading up to Tisha B’Av, this week will feature reflections on some of what I studied there through the lens of Tisha B’Av and October 7.
Perhaps the most powerful of the classes I took and the lectures I heard over my ten days in Jerusalem was my elective course (3 days), Poetry in the Wake of October 7 with the incredible teacher, Dr. Rachel Korazim. As I have shared, I am in love with the Hebrew language and I am deeply in love with Hebrew poetry, in both written and song form. And in my many years of studying Hebrew poetry, I have never encountered anything like the pieces which Dr. Korazim shared with us; they are stunning in every sense of the word. I wish I could share every single one, but during these days “within the straits,” between 17 Tammuz and Tisha B’Av, I want to share a short poem written by Tali Asher, an Israeli writer and lecturer on education and literature. Here is her poem, entitled Almost Bereaved (translated by Michael Bohnen, Heather Silverman, Tali Asher, and Rachel Korazim):
I am an almost bereaved mother
Each day a bit more bereaved
I am on the threshold of bereavement
A pre-bereaved ante-bereaved under-bereaved mother
Equal to a bereaved mother
I am a sacrificing mother
My bones shiver as I am all bereaved
Forgive my bereavement
Little by little becoming bereaved
Soon
Bereaved.
Professor Korazim would tell us – and I would have to agree – that the poem loses something in translation, and yet, the essence of the poem needs little explanation. The poem speaks to the incredible losses to the Israeli people, those suffered on October 7th, on October 8th, and those who have been suffering every day since then. These words also reflect a sense of ongoing fear: “When will it happen to me?”
One of my nights in Jerusalem was spent in communal song, an initiative of the Goldberg-Polin family as part of their Week of Goodness campaign, dedicated to their son Hersh, who is still held captive in Gaza. It was such a powerful evening; hundreds of people (maybe a thousand?) gathered at Jerusalem’s First Station where we sang beloved Israeli songs of hope and faith and loss. It was a night of music only; there were no speeches, no declarations, no instructions given. Several moments have stuck with me: singing HaTikvah under the Jerusalem night sky; the group of teenagers crying as we sang Lu Yehi; my daughter’s smile as she recognized a few of the songs. But perhaps nothing touched me more than when Jon Polin, Hersh’s father, stood at the beginning of the evening to lead us in a Psalm, and then again at the end to lead us in the words of Acheinu – the traditional Jewish prayer for hostages. How he stood there and sang those words, I cannot know, but his faith in that moment moved me deeply.
As I watched Jon and my tears fell, I kept returning to the words of the above poem – words I know will sit within me as Tisha B’Av, and its lamentations, approaches.
— Rabbi Sari Laufer