Born in the Fire: Tisha B’Av and the Sparks of Redemption

As the sun sets on this Tisha B'Av in 2025, the air feels heavier than in years past. We sit on low stools or the bare floor, reciting the haunting verses of Eicha, Lamentations, under dim lights, our voices mingling with the ancient cries of exile. "How lonely sits the city that was full of people!" Jeremiah's words pierce the silence, evoking not just the smoldering ruins of the First and Second Temples, but the fresh scars etched into our collective soul since October 7, 2023. That Simchat Torah morning, when joy turned to horror as Hamas terrorists invaded southern Israel, murdering over 1,200 innocents, abducting hundreds, and unleashing a wave of antisemitism worldwide, felt like a modern-day Churban, a destruction that shattered our sense of security and revived the ghosts of pogroms past.

Tisha B'Av has always been more than a day of fasting; it's a portal to our people's deepest sorrows. We mourn the Babylonian siege of 586 BCE, when flames consumed Solomon's Temple, and the Roman devastation of 70 CE, which scattered us into a 2,000-year diaspora. We remember the fall of Beitar in 135 CE, the expulsion from Spain in 1492, and the Warsaw Ghetto's liquidation in 1942 all converging on this date, as if history conspires to layer tragedy upon tragedy. But post-October 7th, these events no longer feel distant. The images of kibbutzim ablaze, families torn apart, and hostages languishing in Gaza tunnels mirror the biblical accounts of invasion and captivity. How can we read of Jerusalem's walls breached without envisioning the breached fences of Be'eri and Kfar Aza? The cries of "Eicha - how?" echo in the testimonies of survivors, in the empty seats at Shabbat tables, and in the global rise of hatred that isolates Israel once more.

Yet, amid the lament, Tisha B'Av whispers a paradox: this day of utter desolation is also the birthday of the Messiah, as the Midrash teaches. In a field outside Jerusalem, as the Temple burned, a plowman heard a voice proclaim the birth of hope from ruin. Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin expands this: in every generation, an aspect of redemption emerges on Tisha B'Av, born from the depths of suffering. Post-October 7th, this message resonates with urgent clarity. The heroism of that day, the civilians who fought back, the soldiers who rushed to defend, the global Jewish solidarity that surged forth, reveals sparks of geulah (redemption) amid the galut (exile). Families like those of the Bibas hostages, clinging to faith despite unimaginable pain, embody the resilience that has sustained us through expulsions and inquisitions.

In this era, Tisha B'Av compels us to confront not just external enemies but internal fractures. The debates over judicial reform, the Haredi draft, and political divisions that simmered before October 7th now feel trivial against the backdrop of shared trauma. As we recite Kinnot, elegies for lost glory, we must ask: How do we rebuild our "Temple", our communal unity, when discord threatens from within? The Rambam reminds us that the true Messiah succeeds through action: gathering exiles, building sanctity, fostering peace. Perhaps our post-October 7th reality calls us to these tasks—not waiting passively, but actively kindling light in darkness, as Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook envisioned Zionism as the "beginning of our redemption."

As the fast ends and we rise from the floor, let us carry this poignant duality: grief that honors the fallen, and hope that propels us forward. October 7th was a Churban of our time, but like the Temples' ashes, it holds the potential for rebirth. May our tears water the seeds of unity, strength, and ultimate peace. In the words of the prophet: "Comfort, comfort My people." Speedily in our days.