Take a deep breath. These next five chapters of poetic laments are going to hurt. That is their purpose. How else can we feel - and heal?
“Lament is precisely the stage at which each language suffers death in a truly tragic sense, in that this language expresses nothing, absolutely nothing positive… Language in the state of lament destroys itself, and the language of lament is itself, for that very reason, the language of destruction.”
Gershom Scholem, the scholar of Jewish mysticism, wrote these words in his 1917 essay “On Lament and Lamentation,” shortly after he completed his German translation of the Book of Lamentations, labeling it as a tragic poem that is ultimately expressed not in words but through silence.
The third of the five scrolls, possibly right in the middle on purpose, was likely written in close proximity to the greatest trauma that the Jewish people had known at the time. The Babylonian siege that led to the destruction of the Temple and the city of Jerusalem occurred in 586 bce. This tragedy changed the course of Jewish history, politically— the Kingdom of Judah lost its independence—religiously— the Temple was destroyed, and theologically. This was a defining event that determined the tone of the text that would record its lingering echoes - the Hebrew Bible, composed in the century of two that followed.
In five haunting chapters, these laments not only give voice to grief, but also serve as an act of memorialization: The siege, the destruction, the exile—all tell different narratives that cement this horror as a central event in the Jewish memory.
Scholars like Prof. Jacob Wright claim that it was this national tragedy that generated the generation of scribes who would compile, edit and produce what would become the Bible - in response to the physical dislocation, redefinition of identity, and emerging diaspora reality:
“The experiences of catastrophe produced the strongest impetus for the composition of the magisterial history found in Genesis-Kings and the profound, disturbing messages of the prophets.”
Whoever wrote the Scroll of Lamentations - there are several theories - used the very building blocks of language to try and deal with the trauma and create an enduring structure that would manage to evoke the pain and loss across generations.
The five chapters are each composed as acrostics - organized according to the Hebrew alphabet. It is an astonishing literary project - using the structure of words to evoke the pain that transcends our ability for speech when reality is just too much to bear.
And it begins with the first word, and the first Hebrew letter.
The Hebrew name of this third scroll is Eycha - so named for the first word of this series of heartbreaking poems. That first word transcends words, it is a a scream, a howl, that attempts to find voice mid horror, and the startling metaphor of the fallen city as a lonely widow:
אֵיכָה יָשְׁבָה בָדָד הָעִיר רַבָּתִי עָם הָיְתָה כְּאַלְמָנָה רַבָּתִי בַגּוֹיִם שָׂרָתִי בַּמְּדִינוֹת הָיְתָה לָמַס׃
How does the city sit solitary, that was full of people!
how is she become like a widow! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become a vassal!
Lamenations 1:1
But even the translation of the word ‘Eycha’ as ‘How’ pales in comparison to the layered meanings of the original Hebrew.
Prof. Rabbi Rachel Adelman writes about the meaning behind this first word, brings in King Lear’s grief over his dead daughter to help unpack the language of loss:
“Eichah, the opening word of the book of Lamentations, is characteristic of biblical lament. It poses a rhetorical question to which there is no answer, expressive of dismay: “How is this possible…?” The narrator means to convey shock at the contrast between Jerusalem’s former glory and her present destitution.
It is sometimes rather weakly translated as “Alas!” Even the literal “How…” is too weak. “Howl!” is more resonant, rimming the edge between language and silence, as in King Lear’s searing speech upon finding his beloved Cordelia dead:
“Howl, howl, howl, howl!
O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues, and eyes, I’d use them so,
That Heav’ns vault should crack, O she is gone forever!” (Act V, scene x)”
The word Eycha echoes a similar word that appears at the beginning of the Hebrew Bible and the original narrative of exile. When the first humans, Adam and Eve, are about to be banished from the Garden of Eden for their transgression of disobedience, God asks them ‘Ayeka’ - where are you? This question echoes through the ages, meeting this collective exile with a similar question - directed at God - where are YOU? How can such horror happen?
Rabbi Michael Bernstein reflects on the link between these two questions:
“What’s beautiful about the Hebrew word Eicha is that it captures the very human tension between the need to lament, to express our frustration, indignation or sorrow but also contains in it the key to moving through our lamentations.
The call to responsibility doesn't dwell on “Where were you?” or “Where will you be?” but begins with this very moment... Ayeka. Where are you...What are you doing despite the injustices that may have been heaped upon you? What prayers are you saying despite the brokenness that may surround you? How are you reaching out despite feeling alone? How are you lighting a candle precisely when the darkness seems overwhelming?
Whether days are darkened by ancient memories, facing tragic events, or grappling with personal experiences, the key is moving from the cry of Eicha to the call of Ayeka.”
The first chapter of Eycha is a long lament imagining Jerusalem and Zion as a woman - an abused virgin, a desolate widow, a mourning mother. The feminization of Zion was already used by the prophets such as Jeremiah and Isaiah yet it is here that her litany is loudest. In the following chapters other human dimensions will be voices - the grief of the group, the mourning of a single man, and even the despair of the divine. This first chapter is the howl of women, perhaps because it was the women in the ancient world who were the wailers and the keeners, helping humans find ways to express their grief when words were not sufficient.
Prof. Rabbi Rachel Adelman suggests that
“The wailing female voice, in pitch, timbre, rhythm, and emotional intensity, could crack open the human heart and heaven’s vault.”
The Scroll of Lamentations begins with the eternal question that will echo through the chapters and throughout our lives.
At this time of trauma and tragic violence, continued laments, poetic attempts to make sense of the senseless hurt and horrors, it is perhaps the role of questions to help us begin the processing, and even the healing. Even Allen Ginsburg resorted to this ancient poetry when he composed his famous controversial poem "Howl" in 1955.
It’s perhaps the questions, and the poems that can help us rise from the rubble and commit to care, with the courage to grieve, to repair, and to grow. Rabbi Rachel Barenblat reminds us:
"Every question we ask reshapes the world just a little. In asking, we’re already beginning to heal the brokenness we see."
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Rabbi Rachel also wrote a beautiful poem "Eicha for both of them", which she read at an online Tisha B'Av gathering of T'ruah last summer. But I haven't been able to find it on her blog.