Disclaimer: It is not easy for me to be serious. That said, the occasion called for it. In all likelihood this post will be removed in the next 48 hours. Have an easy fast.

For the past couple of years, I have had the unique opportunity to take in Eicha while sitting on the promenade in Yemin Moshe. The promenade is a stone throws south-west of Jerusalem’s Old City and sitting on the floor, made of Jerusalem stone still warm from the afternoon sun, you can see the walls of the Old City, lit up and glowing in the dark, throwing off a tangibly vibrant aura into the air.

I explain this because I have rarely found myself able to connect to Tisha Ba’av. Clearly, the destruction of both of the Temples were landmark milestones in our nation’s history; defining moments which dictated how eons of generations would lead their lives. But it is difficult for me to not feel somewhat disconnected from the whole thing. And inevitability, the pent-up frustrations starts to bubble up as I am reminded once again that we are a nation which lives in the past but fails to see the present.

But this time I realized something else. With the words of the Eicha chanted behind me, I found myself staring at the city walls. At the pools of shadows casted by the ancient imperfections. At the archaic ramparts which once held warriors and now play host to tourists. At the trimmed grass growing around what was once the city’s moat. And it began to dawn on me that this was, and still is, the heart of the nation. But it remains flawed. It is the heart of stone; a foundation, a material witness to what we once were and what we still are. But like a true heart, it has no purpose without the lifeblood to pump.

At this point, I departed a bit from the traditional sense of Tisha Ba’av. The lifeblood I was looking for is not the Temple. The Temple was also an extension of the stones. What was important was the People. Not the priests, not the farmers, not the porters. The existence of the entire nation as a whole, as a living, breathing, cohesive and united entity.

And that’s what I decided this Tisha Ba’av meant for me. Living in Israel and traveling between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem every day, I get the chance to see Israelis from every walk of life. And I remain amazed by what we have created here. Within the desert, we have built a shining mirage, a testament to our tenacity, our devotion and our ingenuity. We have formed a democracy which is the envy of the Arab nations. We are global leaders in the technology which forms the nucleus of the world’s development. From humble and troubled roots, facing persecution with hunched shoulders and self-deprecating attitudes, we have grown into giants.

But still, we remain fragmented, torn by our inability to make the slightest effort to engage each other. And thus, we deny ourselves the ability to rise higher. We have built ourselves a city from stone but cannot open the gates.

As Eicha says:

“He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out: he hath made my chain heavy. Also when I cry and shout, he shutteth out my prayer. He hath inclosed my ways with hewn stone, he hath made my paths crooked.”

And so, tonight I came out with my own personal revelation. Our strength as a nation lies in our flexibility, our ingenuity and our history. But as strong as we each are, pulling in opposite directions will bring us nowhere. We lack a common direction, a direction which no compass can determine but which can only be discovered by truly engaging our fellow man.

And pared against the mighty power of a nation prepared to return to their city, the stone prison which holds us captive will tremble and fall.