It’s not even tisha b’av yet and I’m crying my eyes out. Most people I know go through the motions, mourning some abstraction, a glory they’ve heard about like a copy of a copy of a copy, retold for two thousand years. A building, representing God’s glory on this earth and a place where we could connect with Him, almost undeniably. But it was destroyed twice. Who can even remember.
So once a year we sit around and we try to eke tears from our eyes, eyes dried by luxury and complacency, by a lack of understanding of what true devastation entails, by smugness and arrogance, position and power, by lack of any emotional connection to one another. We try to cry because we have to. Cry if you can, but I almost wish I couldn’t.
For me, the destruction of the Temples is not an abstraction, because while I can’t remember its sacking millennia ago, I see it’s consequences. The tragedy of this world, the barbarity of which humanity is capable, and by the same token, the callousness. I suffered for years while no one helped. I cried for years and no one cared. My abuser was given everything she wanted and I had to fend for myself, even if it meant addiction, and dropping out of school, and getting my heart torn to pieces witnessing what was happening to my grandmother, and I was always the bad one. Olam hafuch ra’isi (an inverted world I see).
I have too many friends with similar stories. They cried for years along with me, even though we didn’t know each other. Countless people crying in unison as their lives are destroyed one abusive act at a time. No one cares. Tonight I mourn for myself, because no one will mourn me. I mourn for my friends because no one can hear them. I mourn for all those people who took their own lives rather than live on this sickening planet one minute longer.
We lost our grandeur because we hated our fellow man. In two thousand years, have we learned nothing? Tonight, I mourn for the conscience that died in all those people who made us suffer.