Iran’s Attack on Israel
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Throughout my sorrow, the Jewish rituals of mourning helped me move forward in life, instead of remaining mired in grief.
I’ve experienced a lot of personal loss over the past few years, including the one-two punch of the death of my father and brother in a space of a few years. Throughout my sorrow, I followed the Jewish rituals of mourning which helped me move forward in life, instead of remaining mired in grief. And believe me, there were times it was tempting to sink into the sadness and stay there.
Loss of this magnitude is brutal, even when surrounded by relatives, friends, community, and your chosen family. And while time softens the initial blow, the dull ache remains. But there’s been healing too. Observing the Jewish mourning milestones helped my healing process.
In June, my family commemorated eight years since my father passed away. In July, we observed the first yahrzeit — the Yiddish word for anniversary — of my brother’s sudden passing. And life went on. Then the horrifying events of October 7th happened. And suddenly I was plunged into mourning again, for the Israeli people, for the Jewish people, for humanity. Although the paths of mourning weren’t as clear as those for one’s immediate family, the rules of Jewish mourning helped me there as well.
In college, I took a popular course called On Death and Dying (we were a morbid bunch) inspired by the writings of psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. I was too young and blessedly still untouched by grief of this magnitude to understand the stages she said people experienced after losing a loved one: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. I still struggle with that last one.
Grief is raw and jagged. All I could do while grieving was to remember to take the next breath and then the one after that one. And even that felt like a chore. Even during my darkest despair, the Jewish laws of mourning were a comfort. I didn’t have to think about what was next, I simply gave into the grieving process until it was time for the next stage.
There are multiple stages of mourning in Judaism. The first is aninut, intense mourning which happens pre-burial when those closest to the person who died are exempt from most commandments. All the mourner can think of at this time is burying their loved one.
One of the most poignant gestures of this period of mourning is kriyah, rending one’s clothing just before the burial. The torn clothing pinned back into place sets one apart for the week of mourning. Strangely enough, it feels right, as though you are unable to hide the invisible scar that instantly marks you as the one mourning, enabling the mourner to separate for a specific time and grieve alone without concern about what people might think.
The Jewish mourning ritual most people are familiar with is the shivah, or the seven days of mourning. During that week, it’s traditional to cover up mirrors, sit on low chairs, and wear the same clothing worn to the funeral.
While sitting shivah, you’re in such a state of utter helplessness that you don’t even get up to prepare your meals. Others serve you, and blessedly, they clean up after you as well. There is almost no physical expectation of you. You don’t worry about looking cute or even showering because you can’t. There is no responsibility for you to be at your best because it’s understood you’re at your worst.
During the shivah, your friends and family and those who knew the person you lost visit in the hopes of bringing you comfort…and a memory to share. In what I believe to be the ultimate act of compassion, the person sitting shivah initiates conversation, not the one visiting. There is no pressure to entertain; this isn’t a party. If the mourner isn’t in the mood to talk to the cousin whose one goal in life is to one-up you, you can sit in silence. The mourner sets the tone. There’s no social construct to talk or catch up if you don’t want to.
People end their visit by saying the same phrase repeated for millennia, “Hamakom yenachem etchem betoch shaar avlay tziyon viYerushalayim,” May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” Even in this, there is a normalization of your grief. It sounds odd to say, but hearing the same expression over and over and over again almost cemented the loss for me after a while.
That saying felt even weightier after October 7th. As Jews, we were all in a state of shock and mourning, along with the mourners of Zion (the ancient word for Jerusalem or the land of Israel) and Jerusalem. But there was no official mourning period for our Jewish brothers and sisters murdered. We all just grieved in our own ways.
When paying a shivah call, most people bring with them the ultimate gift – a memory or story about your loved one. For me, the memories created a connection to my loved one, and the unexpected smiles and moments of laughter when hearing these incredible stories brought back some of the love as well. And let’s not forget about all that food.
During a shivah, people go out of their way to bring food that might distract you or make you feel pampered. A home-baked treat, your favorite comfort food, a fancy meal, or that coffee drink you had every other normal day. Throughout the seven days, there are moments where you may have a glimmer of the person you were in the before times.
The thing about grieving is that despite the loss being so crushing, there’s also a kind of profound comfort in giving in to that deepest grief. And you have to be reminded to get back to life, lest you sink into your misery on a more permanent basis.
On the final day of the shivah there’s a tradition that I find simultaneously beautiful and cruel. You must get up and walk around the block, which symbolizes getting back to life. But you don’t do it alone, someone comes to you and literally tells you to “arise.” Because as agonizing as loss is and as impossibly sad as it can be to sit shivah, facing the world with your new loss can be even more painful.
Facing the world after loss feels like the phantom limb phenomenon. You know the loss is always with you. The world doesn’t.
I found it hard to define myself to myself after losing my father. After feeling that level of love, strength, and support, how do you recognize yourself anymore? I didn’t realize I was a daddy’s girl until my dad wasn’t physically here anymore. But the enormity of the loss only serves to constantly remind me of the enormity of the love we shared.
I didn’t realize I was a daddy’s girl until my dad wasn’t physically here anymore.
Being forced to get up from shivah and face the world again, actively prevents you from choosing to wallow in sadness for the foreseeable future. It also serves to remind you that there is a future. Only now it’s without the person you once loved. But there are still work and family obligations and life still to be lived. And so, 30 days after losing the person who defined you as a daughter or sister, or mother, or husband or brother, you reach the Shloshim, literally, the 30. For some, there is a commemorative meal. You may acknowledge and break bread (challah!) with those who said various prayers including Psalms or the completion of the Mishnayot (elements of Jewish law), to honor your loved one. For others, it’s the demarcation between full mourning and the baby steps back to life.
When you lose a parent, the mourning period is considered to be a full year. For me, this meant a year without music or many of life’s niceties or enhancements after losing my father. I didn’t miss any of that. I only missed my father. I still do.
When you lose a sibling, you scramble to remember your place in your own life when someone who shared much of it is no longer there. And yet, technically, after 30 days your official mourning period is over. But that sadness is here to stay, albeit tinged with loving memories and goofy laughter.
And then there’s the grief felt by the majority of Jews after the massacre of October 7th. A loss that’s undefinable as it continues, and most of us are still raw. How do we mourn individually or collectively the horrifying cruelty perpetrated on that dark day?
Can we find ways to mourn, when we must still hope for the safety of the hostages in Gaza? How do we face the obliteration of those beautiful kibbutzim built in the infancy of the modern state of Israel and symbolizing hope and renewal? And how do we put into words the betrayal of a world that has yet to fully acknowledge the atrocities committed against Jewish women? I’m not sure that we can.
We don’t have official mourning customs for the massacres of our people, though they have been plentiful. We read the Book of Lamentations on Tisha B’Av to commemorate the destruction of the first Temple. But for me it feels somewhat incomplete that we don’t have an official mourning period for all of our collective great losses, including the Holocaust and prayers for those kidnapped, murdered or brutalized on October 7th.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler wrote something that deeply resonated with me in this in-between time of mourning and rebuilding: “The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same nor would you want to.”
None of us will ever be the same again after the loss of loved ones we grew up with, or those we read about in reports of 10/7. But we will grieve and mourn, and follow the customs passed down over centuries. And then we will start living again, as we have been doing for thousands of years.
You will grieve forever. So very touching. Lost my beautiful son. My doctor told me you never come back from the loss of a child. Yes, I will grieve forever.
Covering mirrors is not halacha -- it is Ashkenazi custom.
Very helpful. Can one apply some of these principles to the loss of a long time pet??