It was a burning hot summer, 34 years ago in Jerusalem. I had been backpacking for a month in Scotland and England, and had just got to Israel a few days earlier. The ninth of Av that year was on Shabbat, so the day-long fast commemorating the destruction of the Temple in 68 CE was pushed off to Sunday.

My old friend Eli was studying at the Diaspora Yeshiva on Mt. Zion and he had invited me to stay for Shabbat. We had Shabbat lunch with his parents, who were visiting from Toronto. When we went back to his dormitory, we shared some cold, fresh watermelon before the fast began after sundown. Thinking back, that dormitory was ancient, a hundreds-of-years old building that looked like it could collapse into rubble if you leaned on the wall for too long. But for Tisha B’Av, it was perfect.

After Shabbat, we made our way down to the Kotel. We sat on the ground, among thousands of others, mostly young people, listening to the plaintive voices singing the mournful tunes used for Eicha, the scroll of Lamentations that is traditionally read on Tisha B’Av. I lifted my head and looked at the stones of Herod’s retaining wall, surmounted by the smaller stones of Suleiman’s medieval fortifications, and I understood something that has never left me since that day.

In the community within which I grew up, we were taught to mourn all of the tragedies of the Jewish people on Tisha B’Av. The destruction of the first and second temples, yes, but also the defeat of the Bar Kochba Rebellion and the fall of Betar. The massacres of the crusades, the blood libels and medieval persecutions. The banishment from Spain and the horrors of the inquisition. The Chmielniki pogroms and the rise of modern Jew hatred, from the Pale of Settlement to the Damascus blood libel, from the lynching of Leo Frank, through Soviet antisemitism all the way to the depths of evil in the Shoah. Death, destruction, exile, misfortune, all of it stuck to this day like flyers on a corkboard.

Looking at the Wall that day, and at the massive stones and ashlars still visible that were tumbled by the Romans in their destructive frenzy almost 2000 years ago, I understood that the destruction of Jerusalem bore no parallels, not even among the worst tragedies we subsequently endured.

No. The loss of our sovereignty; the exile; the powerlessness and helplessness that those toppled stones represented; The abnegation of half of our identity - subsuming our indigenous peoplehood within our religious observance for over 1800 years - that was tragically, painfully necessary to survive; THAT was the only thing compelling our mourning specifically on Tisha B’Av. I’ve never looked at Tisha B’Av or Jerusalem in the same way in all the years since.

We traditionally say at weddings - “Naaleh Et Yerushalayim Al Rosh Simchatenu” - Let us elevate Jerusalem to the heights of our celebration. Even at the pinnacle of the wedding, we break a glass to remember that our joy is incomplete with the memory of Jerusalem’s destruction.

There are few more powerful emotions evoked in me than this reckoning.

Another memory of Jerusalem still brings me to the verge of weeping. But now, for joy. After completing a program where I trained 40 campus activist leaders in Israel Advocacy, I took a few well needed days to rest. I was staying in Jerusalem’s old city, but thankfully in a room much less likely to collapse than the one I mentioned above. One evening, almost exactly to the day 22 years ago, I made my way down to the Kotel for Maariv - evening prayers.

In the plaza below the Wall was a Tekes Hashba’ah, a swearing-in ceremony for a group of young IDF Tzanchanim -paratroopers - who had just finished their basic training. Watching, listening, I shivered and wept as though generations of our ancestors were looking over my shoulders, hearing the words ANI NISHBA! echo through the streets and alleys.

In that moment, I understood what it meant to once again have sovereignty in our holiest places. I understood that the miraculous victory of 1967 and the liberation of Jerusalem followed the first footsteps of our redemption and turned a cautious tiptoe into a walk, then a march.

There is no triumphalism in my understanding. There is a place for all in Jerusalem. As the 56th chapter of the book of Yishayahu - Isaiah tells us, “for my house will be called a house of prayer for all nations.” That said, to ensure our ability to live, pray, grow, thrive, and flourish, the Jewish people must assert our identity, our peoplehood, and our sovereignty in our eternal capital, even if it means enduring and overcoming a “Flood” meant to erase us from its hallowed streets and squares.

Monday May 26 is not only Memorial Day, it is also Yom Yerushalayim, the 58th anniversary of the liberation of our golden city. May all our celebrations grow, and may all our sorrows diminish.

In one month, we are gathering for our unity, solidarity, and rebuilding mission in Jerusalem. Our first stop will be at the Kotel. Come with us!! Last chance to register HERE.