“Do not think that all the years of galus travails were a vale of tears”

 Even in Galus

In Search of Happiness

Rebbetzin Aviva Feiner

ON Shabbos and Yom Tov, before bentshing, we recite perek 126 of Tehillim, beginning with the words, “Shir hama’alos b’shuv Hashem es shivas Tzion.” In this perek, Dovid Hamelech describes how the world will marvel at the great things they will witness HaKadosh Baruch Hu doing for Klal Yisrael — az yomru vagoyim higdil Hashem la’asos im eileh.”

The pasuk continues: Higdil Hashem la’asos imanu hayinu semeichim. Ever since I read this beautiful explanation of these pesukim in Yisroel Besser’s Voice in the Crowd in 2018, I’ve been quoting it incredulously. Asks Reb Meilech, in the name of his grandfather, Rav Dovid Zvi of Lelov, “What made the Jewish nation deserving of this more than any other nation?” It’s because, “hayinu semeichim,” we’re the only nation that works on being happy as a spiritual goal, even during the long and bitter galus, when things are very difficult.

As someone who teaches the Torah of Rav Shimon Schwab ztz”l, I was excited to see that his son Rav Moshe recently released a sefer with Rav Schwab’s insights on a few particular chapters of Tehillim. His comments on perek 126 add an additional glorious perspective to Reb Meilech’s explanation and is very apropos to the Three Weeks, especially in a year when Tishah B’Av will come directly after Shabbos Kodesh.

Rav Schwab says, “G-d did great things for us during the long, difficult years of galus in that He kept us happy and optimistic during those dark, difficult years. Do not think that all the years of galus travails were a vale of tears.” He mentions that the yearly cycle has Shabbos every week and Yamim Tovim, and our life cycle includes chasunahs, bris milahs, bar mitzvahs, and numerous other simchahs. Even during the saddest three weeks of the year — “yismechu b’malchusecha shomrei Shabbos,” Shabbos will still arrive, and we will celebrate it, even when Tishah B’Av will begin as soon as the stars emerge, signaling Shabbos’s close.

During the dark days of bein hametzarim let’s also focus on the fact that there is a brighter future for us in store. As Napoleon Bonaparte said, “Only a nation who mourns so, for thousands of years, will surely see their prayers materialize in a salvation.”

Halevai before the 9th of Av arrives!

No Ducks in No Row

In Real Time

Esther Kurtz

“Maariv?” A guy asked my husband at the airport gate. He agreed, and they counted — eight, maybe nine. A few more were coming, so they had a minyan.

Boarding was about to start. Would it work out?

The men decided to go for it. We’d land in Chicago close to midnight, and Maariv on a United flight wasn’t happening — no space, no tolerance. I handed my husband my phone so he wouldn’t have to daven by heart, while I waited with the kids.

Our boarding passes were on my phone.

We were supposed to be the third group to board the airplane, which meant catching overhead bin space shouldn’t be a problem — important, since we hadn’t checked in our bags and anticipated zipping out of the airport without having to wait at the luggage carousel. Also, who wants to spend $40 each way to check in their bags on top of expensive tickets?

But boarding was moving fast. The fourth group. Then fifth. Then sixth. Maariv wasn’t over. My non-genetic Yekkeh genes flared — this was ruining my perfectly timed plan.

I watched Shemoneh Esreh, then Kaddish. My agitation built. I willed them to finish already. But my automatic system, the one I’ve been training for four years, kicked in: “Esther, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” “Maariv is happening — do you want to cherish it or resent it and your husband?” “Nothing is guaranteed — who says being group three would’ve gotten you overhead space anyway?”

Finally, they were done. And, as expected, they announced there was no room left in the overhead bins — we had to check our bags. I accepted it with grace. Then laughed when we boarded and saw… plenty of space for our luggage. A tease. A test. Maariv or my anxiety?

On the flight home from Chicago, there was no Maariv question. We lined up first in group three. But the gate agent informed us, “Lots of luggage in groups one and two, only two spaces left.”

We had five carry-ons. I laughed. Nothing is guaranteed. We checked our bags, got to our seats — and again, saw there was plenty of space in the overhead bins.

Teva doesn’t matter. Ducks in a row don’t matter. What’s meant to be, is. How you respond — that’s reality.

A Nation That Dwells Alone

Around the Campfire

Mindel Kassorla

“Acheinu kol beis Yisrael.”

While these words make an appearance at just about every Jewish gathering across the globe and no campfire kumzitz is complete without this age-old song, these words — expressing the pain of our galus — have taken on incredibly new and relevant meaning this past year.

Why these words?

Yes, it’s the fact that this tefillah discusses the darkness we experienced on October 7 and continue to live in the shadows of daily. And yes, it describes Jews in captivity, a reality that until now our generation hasn’t really been able to identify with.

But it’s also the words “Acheinu” and “Beis Yisrael” that have come to life before our eyes. For within the experiences of darkness, we find a contrasting beautiful light, that of achdus, a unity born not of simchah but of pain. It is this pain that makes us cry out — together. It’s in our pain that we most acutely feel close to our brothers, our inner circle of “acheinu kol Beis Yisrael.”

Every year on Tishah B’Av, when we gather in shul to hear Eichah, or sit on the floor at home reading kinnos, I have this eerie feeling. The world outside — they have no clue! They’re running around enjoying the summer completely oblivious to the fact that on this day, we Jews are inside, in sadness, mourning the greatest loss in human history.

We cry, we fast, we recall the pain of thousands of years of galus, and we connect to the pain of our brothers today. They pass by our shuls, they see us, and they haven’t the faintest idea what is behind our somber faces and tears.

We’re a nation that dwells alone.

In the hardest moments, we want to be surrounded by family, by our brothers and sisters. It’s only natural. And on Tishah B’Av, we share a common loss. We’re all in pain. And just like the events of the past year-and-half plus have shown, we’re separate from the world outside, and the pain of this ostracization makes the possibility for connection to our family and to our bayis, our home, that much greater.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 952)