Dear TBZ Community,
This Saturday night we will gather to hear the chanting of Eicha, the Book of Lamentations. The words of the megillah (scroll) enter our souls deeply each year. For many of us, the traditional meaning of this day – as a commemoration of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and other tragedies that befell our people – can feel ancient or distant. But as with every sacred day in our calendar, these commemorations are not only about the past. They are about the moment we are living now. They invite us to mark and mourn our own times of destruction and calamity.
From its very first words, Eicha speaks in the language of devastation and lament:
אֵיכָה יָשְׁבָה בָדָד הָעִיר רַבָּתִי עָם
Alas! Lonely sits the city once great with people!
She that was great among nations is become like a widow;
The princess among states is become a thrall.בָּכוֹ תִבְכֶּה בַּלַּיְלָה וְדִמְעָתָהּ עַל לֶחֱיָהּ
Bitterly she weeps in the night, her cheek wet with tears.
There is none to comfort her among all her friends;
All her allies have betrayed her; they have become her foes.
The image is of a city alone, abandoned, weeping, betrayed. The city in these verses is Jerusalem, destroyed, no longer what it was meant to be.
Our rabbis, in their spiritual courage, did not only blame external enemies for our suffering. They taught that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam (baseless hatred).
The Talmud (Gittin 55–56) tells the well-known story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza. A wealthy man mistakenly invites his enemy, Bar Kamtza, to a feast, instead of inviting his friend, Kamtza. When the host humiliates him publicly, Bar Kamtza seeks revenge, setting in motion events that lead to the Roman siege and the Temple’s destruction. But the words in the story that pierce me most are these:
וַהֲווֹ יָתְבִי רַבָּנַן וְלָא מַחוֹ בֵּיהּ
The sages were sitting there and did not protest.
The destruction began not only with an act of cruelty, but with the silence of those who should have spoken.
Last week I returned from ten days in Israel. It was a meaningful and deeply complex visit. I had the gift of learning Torah at the Shalom Hartman Institute, which offered inspiration, challenge, and renewal. I spent time with family and friends and experienced joy, connection, and beauty.
I also volunteered twice. Once with Leket Israel, which rescues surplus food for those in need. Work I dedicated to my mother, Julia Susana Wolynski de Kreiman, killed in the AMIA bombing 31 years ago this week. This coming 10th of Av is her Hebrew yahrzeit.
And once with Rabbis for Human Rights, delivering water to the Palestinian village of Ras al-Ayn in the southern Jordan Valley. Villages like Ras al-Ayn – though surrounded by infrastructure and next to Israeli outposts with full access – are denied basic access. The family we visited had been without water for days, surviving on expensive bottled water. Wells have dried out, and in some cases settlers (Israelis who live in settlements) have damaged pipes and infrastructure. That day, thanks to Rabbis for Human Rights, a truck arrived and refilled tanks for several families. The relief was real, but temporary. Water should never be this precarious. We came to be witnesses, in case settlers arrived to disrupt the delivery. While our time there was quiet, just yesterday we learned of the murder of Awdah Hathaleen, a longtime Palestinian human rights activist and English teacher in the South Hebron Hills, in the village of Um al-Khair, a place I visited last summer. Awdah was a friend to many I know and a generous host to countless Palestinian, Israeli, American Jewish, and international activists. He was killed by a settler who entered his village with a loaded gun. His death is a devastating loss, felt deeply across all who knew his work and his heart.
My visit (fourth since October 7th, 2023) came just after the 12-day war with Iran. Again and again, conversations with friends and colleagues revealed deep emotional exhaustion. The war in Gaza continues. The grief of the hostages’ families is raw. Soldiers continue to die. And the catastrophic suffering of Palestinian civilians – displacement, devastation, starvation – grows more unbearable.
While in Jerusalem, I joined the weekly protest calling for the return of the hostages. The message was clear: end the war. Protesters named the layered pain of this moment – the hostages, the soldiers, and the devastation in Gaza.
And then today, I joined a webinar with over 1,000 American Jews: End the Silence: A Community Call to Action. One of the most helpful framings came from Rabbi Justus Baird, Senior Vice President of the Shalom Hartman Institute. He spoke to those who feel hesitant to raise their voices right now, those who fear that speaking out might be an act of betrayal.
He reminded us of political philosopher Michael Walzer’s idea of the “connected critic,” one whose critique comes not from the outside but from inches away, rooted in love and solidarity. Connected critics argue, object, and protest not as enemies, but as one of us, willing to take personal risk to hold the community to its highest values. Walzer pointed to the Hebrew prophets as our model: they poured the majority of their energy into challenging their own people, not foreign nations. Their critique was an act of loyalty, not betrayal. In our own day, this is still true: the most powerful moral voices are those that speak from deep connection, from shared fate, and from love.
For that reason I have continued to raise my voice, even while criticized for doing so. Rabbi Jill Jacobs published last week an important op-ed on why we, as American Jews, need to speak up right now and why it has been hard for rabbis to speak out for fear of pushback. I have also joined over 1,000 rabbis worldwide in signing a public letter warning of a grave moral crisis and urging urgent action.
The Mishnah in Ta’anit (4:6) lists five tragedies on the 17th of Tammuz and five on the 9th of Av. Some came from outside enemies: the breaching of Jerusalem’s walls, the destruction of the Temples. But others were internal: the breaking of the tablets after the golden calf on the 17th of Tammuz, and the decree that the Israelites would not enter the Promised Land after the scouts’ fearful report on Tisha B’Av. These were not “done to us.” They came from within, marking moments of spiritual failure, of loss of trust in leadership and in God.
I fear we are living through a similar unraveling. Not only in war and violence. Not only in the unbearable humanitarian toll. But in moral and spiritual erosion, when we normalize cruelty, when we stop seeing the humanity of the other, when we stay silent.
I know there is confusion and a media war that can shake our moral grounding. But in the midst of confusion, we must stand for humanity, for trust, for hope. We must remember that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. In times of war, we must hold fast to our humanity.
It can feel lonely and at times scary to hold complexity. But for the sake of our moral compass, we must speak up. We must show up. And this is true not only regarding the reality of Israelis and Palestinians, but here in our own country as we watch our democracy fray – truth undermined, violence normalized, rights under threat, people living in fear and hopelessness. I go back to the sages who, at the banquet in the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza, וְלָא מַחוֹ בֵּיהּ (remained silent) and how their silence ushered in destruction.
As we approach Tisha B’Av, the national day of Jewish mourning, our tradition calls us to reflect not only on what has been done to us, but also on what has fallen apart within us. Can we look inward and name not only the enemies who have harmed us, but also the responsibilities we have neglected?
May we have the strength to name what is broken.
The courage to take responsibility.
The compassion to act—not only in memory of what was, but in defense of what must be.
For those who suffer in silence.
For those living in fear, in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank.
In our own country.
And for ourselves—so that we do not lose our moral compass, even when the world feels upside down.
May this Shabbat bring moments of stillness, clarity, and connection.
May we reach for one another gently, lovingly.
May all who are in pain or danger find safety and comfort.
May the remaining hostages in Gaza come home.
May no one, anywhere, lack food or water—the most basic essentials of life.
May those working for peace be granted strength and courage.
May our leaders choose life.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia