Last week, I was underground. It was in the City of David. Among the houses of the densely populated Arab neighborhood, an iron gate opens, behind which is a steep staircase that ends in a simple plaster wall and a door. Open the door, and you instantly go back in time.
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Before you lies a paved, wide and shiny road that winds up and down several hundred meters. Above it is a sequence of dozens of steel arches, like a solid framework that supports the neighborhood houses from above.
This is the historic Pilgrimage Road to the Temple. It begins at the Pool of Siloam, a place of purification, and continues to the Huldah Gates and the entrance to the Temple Mount itself. I have to tell you, it's an incredible experience to stand there and imagine the road teeming with life, thousands of Jews constantly going up and down, so close to the Temple itself.
Then our hosts took us aside and showed us something extraordinary; even now, I get emotional whenever the sight comes to memory. Along the sides of the wide road, buried under layers of earth and rock, you can make out limestone stones that were part of walls. These were shops of Jerusalemites who lived two thousand years ago, offering their merchandise to the pilgrims. Each shop had a second floor where the owner lived. And the ceilings were made of wood.
Then the guide did something chilling. From the debris, he pulled out a piece of almost glowing black coal. Tangible evidence from the very day of the destruction, right here in our hands.
A shiver took hold of me. I was reminded of that day years ago when I first visited Auschwitz. I stood alone facing the wooden planks that were the bunks in my grandfather's barracks in Birkenau.
When I got to the car, I told my wife Keren about the experience. She asked me why I felt that way. I couldn't find the words. I didn't know what to say. After an hour and a half of contemplation and traffic, at the end of Highway 6, it dawned on me.
A total of 80 generations have passed since that terrible day, Tisha B’Av, since the ceiling of that Jewish merchant’s home was charred, on the pilgrims' road on the outskirts of the Temple.
Eighty generations. Nowadays a person lives three generations, and not infrequently almost four. There are quite a few people who have seen five generations. Think about it: from the day your great-great-grandfather was born until today, eight generations have passed. That's 10% of the time that has passed since the destruction of the Temple. Since the Holocaust, a total of three generations have passed. Sometimes we forget how deceitful and misleading time can be.
Alon GoldsteinPhoto: Tzvika TicshlerIn this week's Torah portion, Haazinu, it is written: "Remember the days of old; consider the years of many generations..." In every generation, the challenge to learn from the past and confront the future remains the same, "Ask your father, and he will show you; your elders, and they will tell you."
As we reflect on the lessons from past generations and maintain an ongoing dialogue with them, we must also learn how to navigate the challenges that threaten to overwhelm us, and what mistakes we must not repeat.