A day of sadness and memory, hope and resilience.
The sky was an extraordinary shade of blue in the early morning hours outside of Pulse yesterday. To be honest, it surprised me just how blue and perfect it looked. The crisp sunlight reflected off of the glass candle holders and glittered memorial signs, as though it were trying to amplify the messages of resilience and hope, sadness and memory. A few other people walked by, but mostly, it was just me and the early morning traffic.Â
I had come down to Orlando to visit friends and escape Atlanta for a bit. It wasn’t a trip I had been planning for a long time; these are the kinds of friends you can call on Wednesday and show up on their doorstep on Friday with just a six and a half hour drive standing in the way.
This particular trip coincides with Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, also known as the Jewish Day of Mourning. Because the ninth of Av fell on Saturday, or, Shabbat, its observance, which includes fasting and abstaining from many other activities, is pushed back to Sunday (today). In reality, though, the entire weekend has tones of sadness and mourning.Â
Tisha B’Av commemorates all of the tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people. Tradition teaches that this is the day when the great Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, the Inquisition in Spain began, and many other horrific dates in Jewish history. It’s uncanny how many historical events are tied to this day.Â
There are many who say that the Jewish Day of Mourning should commemorate only Jewish historical events, and in theory, I agree. In reality, though, I can’t separate one part of my identity from another. The Pulse massacre happened on another Jewish holiday, Shavuot. In the days after I turned to my tradition for answers and found myself relying on its instructions for mourning and reconciliation. I can’t not approach the world as a Jew and I can’t not approach it as a gay man. So here I am, on the saddest day of the Jewish calendar, mourning the worst tragedies to happen to my people. All of my people.Â
When Jews visit a cemetery we don’t bring flowers. Flowers are temporary, and while pretty, they don’t serve as lasting memorial. Instead, we bring rocks and stones and place them on top of the grave. Even after we ourselves are long gone, stone remains.Â
The memorial at Pulse is filled with stones. They’re made of fabric and glass and paper and wood, but they’re stones. According to signs, each of these objects is periodically collected, archived, and stored to be incorporated into a permanent memorial. Â
Both of my communities have also found ways not just to memorialize, but to become living memorials. We share stories, tell legends, and pass down traditions. We incorporate them, no matter how sad, even into our happiest moments. In Judaism, we take a moment in nearly every celebration to remember tragic moments in our past. In the LGBT community we’ve learned to do the same. We’ve been forced to.
As Tisha B’Av ends we mark the transition from mourning to hope via our liturgy and ritual. We allow ourselves time to feel pain and let it wash over us, until the process of returning to daily life begins again.Â
Jewish tradition teaches that the Temple was destroyed because of baseless hatred. Our world was turned upside down because we had lost the ability to be compassionate with each other. We’re also taught that true redemption will come only when we can all embrace its opposite, limitless love. And so, each year, as the observance of Tisha B’Av turns from mourning to hope, Jews around the world pray for the ability to embrace limitless love. Â
This year, my prayer is that we all – each and every one of us of every background and every belief – are blessed with the ability to embrace limitless love, no matter where it comes from or how we find it.
Â
All images ©Robbie Medwed 2016Â
Robbie Medwed is an Atlanta-based LGBT educator and activist. His column appears here weekly. Follow him on Twitter: @rjmedwed.
Â