Coup d’État On Tisha B’Av

Five years ago, on the eve of Tisha B’Av, after a night of detention by armed soldiers for “our own protection,” my family and I were expelled from the Republic of Niger back across the land border into Northern Nigeria. The irony of being forced back into Boko Haram territory for “our own protection” was not lost on us. 

Last year, I was in Niger again on Tisha B’Av, which corresponded with a coup d’état. As a result, I was again effectively in confinement: the coup makers closed the airport, resulting in my flight home being canceled and the U.S. Embassy advising all Americans to shelter in place. 

Only one of my family members who experienced our Niger detention in 2019 was confined with me again in 2023: Avraham ben Avraham, who goes by ABA, a practicing Jew of the Igbo tribe in Nigeria. I spontaneously began to introduce him, in French as well as in Hausa, as my “spiritual son” during our 2019 travails in Niger. And it is with ABA that I fasted last year.

There are varying degrees of observance of Tisha B’Av in the Jewish world. More traditional Jews fast the whole day. In Israel, government work continues as usual because secular Zionists don’t see the point of lamenting now that the Temple Mount – not to mention Jerusalem as a whole – is back in Jewish hands. I have gone back and forth between the two, and it is that tension I think about now as Tisha B’Av approaches. 

* * *

It was a quarter of a century ago that I most closely confronted my Tisha B’Av ambivalence at the Western Wall (the Kotel) itself. By then, it was already old-fashioned to call the last extant rampart of the Second Temple the “Wailing Wall.” For two thousand years, Jews demonstrably lamented the destruction of Jerusalem. For self-conscious modern Zionists, proud of the 1967 recapture of Old Jerusalem and still a bit ashamed of their pious ancestors’ open-air lachrymosity, “Western Wall” had become the preferred term. 

On that Tisha B’Av over 25 years ago, the wail was still in vogue – at least among the ultra-Orthodox or Haredim, who on Tisha B’Av reclaimed the Temple Plaza as their own.

I’d been waiting four years to spend Tisha B’Av at the Kotel, having missed my chance the last time because I was helping lead a group of Reform youth on a tour of the desert. So, I eagerly traveled up to the Holy City all the way from the lowlands of the Negev. Fortifying myself with a quick dinner and beer at an Arab restaurant just inside Jaffa Gate, I rushed off to the Kotel just as the sun began to wane so as not to miss a moment of the experience.

Except for two Haredim, who looked down on their luck, I was virtually the only one present.

I staked my territory in the northwest corner of the men’s area, near the water faucets. The disheveled pair were sitting on a mat on the ground. One of them, downing a quick meal of egg and rye bread, constantly glanced at his timepiece as he monitored the official onset of the fast. He came equipped with a toothbrush and toothpaste and warily eyed a couple of foreign photographers, whom he knew were watching him for the best opportunity for a photo. Gesticulating, he emphatically ordered the cameramen not to take his picture.

At 8:00 p.m., with the waning sun, the 8th of Av gave way to the 9th. Scads of folk, mostly ultra-Orthodox, were now streaming to the Wall. Some scoured through a box at the entrance: Jews can be very particular about their choice of prayer book. When it comes to footwear, there was more uniformity: Simple sandals were preferred, with many praying barefoot underneath their otherwise dark garb. Prayer circles sprouted from the stone ground in the shadow of the Wall, and the dirgeful chanting of Eicha – The Book of Lamentations commenced.

At 8:15, I repositioned myself slightly to the south. From my stone bench perch, I was perfectly situated between two separate circles of lamenters. The mournful cacophony was strangely moving. 

However, my contemplation was rudely broken by two Americans sitting nearby. The first one was a slim, white-haired man sporting a modest beard; the other with a strapping belly. He was carrying on about his business exploits. “I don’t know how I could exist without email,” said the one called “Tummy’ by his companion. They discussed the hazards of e-vulnerability.

As the din of the dueling lamentation circles mounted, so did Tummy’s voice. “Computer crashes? Why should I worry? I’ve got loads of computers lying around. I’ll just pick up another one.”

The conversation finally shifted from business to religion. “There are two kinds of Reform congregations,” intoned Tummy. “Half of them are truly Reform Jews. The other half are goyim (non-Jews).”

“I don’t care,” came the response. “Look, even here, at the Wall, who knows who’s Jewish?” The two carried on, seemingly oblivious to the solemnity of the day.

Then, a man with a pointy beard, oversized kippa (skullcap), and peyot (earlocks), nestled in a little space on the ground in front and just to the side of me. Tummy was forced to move to another bench and was then approached by a grumpy Temple mourner who complained of bad feet. Tummy and his friend – despite his tough talk and obnoxious attitudes – surrendered their last remaining seating opportunity. 

The elderly man at my feet was joined by two others. In a guttural, Arabic-accented Hebrew, he repeatedly chanted the opening lines of Lamentations: Aicha yashva vadar ha-eer…

Alas!
Lonely sits the city
Once great with people!
She that was great among nations
Is become like a widow;
The princess among states
Is become a mere colony.

The next day, strolling along Ben Hillel Street, I walked into a watch shop in pursuit of a timepiece with Hebrew numerals on its face. Two young women originally from the former Soviet Union attended to me. “Are you Jewish?” asked one of them, perhaps because I was doing regular business on Tisha B’Av. “Of course he is,” interrupted the other before I could come up with a proper Tisha B’Av comeback. “He’s in Israel,” shrugged the first. “Anyone in Israel may want a Hebrew watch.” 

She was right in a certain sense – although outside of Israel, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting a Hebrew watch who wasn’t Jewish. So too, anyone in Israel, Jewish or not, was free to lament on this Day of Lamentations. 

* * *

I still wonder today: Should we wail even now, three-quarters of a century since the reestablishment of the Jewish state? Wailing for the victims of Hamas terrorism, I can understand; wailing for the death of peace, yes. But I don’t know about wailing for a Temple whose reconstruction would entail a reversion to animal sacrifice. 

Being in a Muslim country like Niger on a Jewish holy day, as I was last year, renders all the more poignant being in the Diaspora. Yet it also raised my consciousness of the possibility of a miracle: A miracle that Israel – for all its current blemishes – has been restored as a sovereign nation. A miracle that there are now practicing Jews who are Igbo, Bamileke, Malagasy, and Sefwi, like my spiritual son ABA.

Yes, we must lament on Tisha B’Av, but not only for the destruction of the Temple. We need also to lament the erosion of democracy, be it in Niger or Israel, or any place else. This is what I learned from Niger’s coup d’état on Tisha B’Av.