Sylvia is an elderly woman from Bat Yam, whose home was damaged by an Iranian missile during the war with Iran in June. Last week, dozens of Jewish women from the United States met her when they came to Israel for the first time with the Taglit program, on a volunteer mission.

They arrived in Bat Yam, armed with cleaning supplies and boundless energy, ready to help the city on a rehabilitation mission. For an entire day, these American women dedicated themselves to making Silvia’s apartment habitable—scrubbing and cleaning as they deciphered labels on Israeli cleaning products. The work was conducted in English mixed with Hebrew, a lot of hand gestures, laughter and hugs. Then came the moment when Sylvia exclaimed: “The floor! The floor! I can see my floor again—it’s clean!”

The women looked at each other, confused: “What is ritzpah [floor]?” And just like that, they learned a new Hebrew word.

They watered Silvia’s dried-out plants, took photos and promised to stay in touch. It’s hard to say who benefited more. That night, Sylvia’s daughter sent them a message:
"You brought back the smile my mother had lost. I’ve never seen her this happy. A million thank-yous wouldn’t be enough. I’m in tears."

Every day of the week, the group volunteered in a different location. “This isn’t a retreat—we came to sweat,” one woman told me. In the south, they worked at Rimon Farm, where trauma is treated through agriculture and sheep herding. They helped out in a new vineyard named after Eliahu Kay, z”l, who was murdered in a terror attack.

What else did they do? They packed food with the Latet organization, visited patients at Shaare Zedek hospital and at Sheba’s rehab department, spent time in a nursing home, and more.

Netivot. Sderot. Teveria. Jerusalem. Tel Aviv… In every place, they supported small businesses and lifted spirits—sometimes by simply showing up.

And these missions keep coming. After October 7, the country was flooded with donors and visitors. Now, almost two years later, their presence carries even greater significance. Throughout the week, the organizers tried to get this story into the media. No one picked it up.

So I’m writing it here. Because more groups are coming. And sometimes, in the middle of our everyday chaos, a chance encounter with them reminds us of our shared story—and just how beautiful it really is.

The Nine Days: More Than Just Restrictions

“The Nine Days.” That’s what we call this period—from the beginning of the month of Av, which started last Shabbat, until the Ninth of Av.

“When Av enters, we diminish joy,” says the Talmud. These are days when we take a step back: no weddings or celebrations, no festive purchases, and a host of other customs that express sorrow and mourning.

But why? Why add prohibitions and heaviness? Don’t we already have enough sorrow as it is?

Our Sages explain: all year long, there is pain—tragedies, conflicts, losses, and brokenness. These Nine Days are the time to gather it all together and recognize that every disaster, every hardship, every sorrow has a root cause: the world is not yet whole. We have no Beit Hamikdash. No redemption. No complete sense of purpose. All sadness, all challenges and crises, are connected. We are still not in our rightful place. We are still searching for who we are and what our role is in the world.

And so, especially during these days, our Sages ask us to connect our personal grief and struggles to the sorrow of the nation—and even to the sorrow of the Shechinah, of God Himself. He too mourns: over the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, over all the suffering we have endured, and the pain we still face.

The goal, of course, is not to remain in mourning. The sorrow is meant to propel us forward—toward repair, toward change, toward teshuvah. Only then can these very days be transformed, as our sources promise, into days of joy and gladness.

The Source of Our Troubles

 Parashat Devarim is always read in the week preceding Tisha B’Av, the day of mourning which commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Beit Hamikdash. The word “eichah” is found both in this parashah and in the opening of the Book of Eichah which is read on Tisha B’Av. Moses uses the word “eichah” to express his pain and sadness, as he alone has to bear the nation’s troubles, burdens and strife. During the Torah reading, this verse is traditionally read in the same mournful tune used when reading Eichah.

Rashi uses strong language to explain Moshe’s complaint: “It teaches that they were heretics. If Moshe was early leaving his tent they would say, “Why does the son of Amram leave so early? Perhaps he is not at ease inside his house?” If he left late, they would say, “Why does the son of Amram not leave? What do you think? He is sitting and devising evil schemes against you and formulating plots against you!”

What a preposterous and dismal state of affairs. Why would anyone want to keep tabs on when Moshe’s leaves his home? Why would anyone give a negative interpretation to everything Moses does on their behalf?

The Sages see a connection between the two occurrences of eichah. Before we read the monumental lamentation about the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash and the ensuing war, we first read, in this parasha, a small lamentation which is the source of all the trouble. Moshe is lamenting the people’s suspicion and lack of faith. There is a direct connection between the “eichah” in Devarim describing the degeneration and cynicism of a society to the “eichah” of the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash.

May we witness its rebuilding very soon!