What Is the Fast in Av, and Why Do We Mourn on Tisha B'Av?

The fast in Av is Tisha B'Av, the Ninth of Av, and it is the day the Jewish people set aside each year to mourn the destruction of both Holy Temples in Jerusalem and a long list of tragedies that seem to keep landing on this same date. This year it begins at sundown on Wednesday, July 22, 2026, and ends at nightfall the following night, a full twenty-five hours of fasting and abstention. Where I am writing from, in the flat summer heat of central Israel, the fast opens just before a quarter to eight in the evening, right as the day finally loosens its grip.

I want to answer the plain question first, before we go anywhere deeper, because that is what most people are actually looking for. Tisha B'Av is a day of grief. We do not eat or drink, we do not bathe for pleasure, we sit low to the ground, and we read the Book of Lamentations by a dim light. But here is the part I keep coming back to, the part that makes this day worth writing about at all: the month of Av is built so that its lowest point becomes the doorway to its highest. The fast is not the end of the story. It only looks that way from inside it.

Key Takeaways

• Tisha B'Av (the Ninth of Av) commemorates the destruction of the First and Second Temples, which fell on the same Hebrew date roughly 655 years apart.

• In 2026 the fast runs from sundown on July 22 to nightfall on July 23, and it carries five prohibitions similar to Yom Kippur.

• It is the endpoint of the Three Weeks of mourning that begin with the fast of the 17th of Tammuz.

• The Sages saw the inner theme of the month of Av as Ta'avah, desire, an energy that can either shatter or unite depending on how we hold it.

• Six days after the fast comes Tu b'Av, one of the happiest days in the calendar, which is not a coincidence but the design of the month.

Why Does One Date Carry So Much Grief?

There is something almost unbearable about the arithmetic of this day. The First Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE. The Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Two catastrophes, separated by centuries, and yet tradition places them both on the ninth of Av, as if the calendar itself has a wound that reopens on schedule.

The Mishnah, in the tractate Taanit, lists five calamities that struck our ancestors on this date. The spies returned from the Land of Israel with a report so full of fear that the whole generation wept and lost their chance to enter the land. The First Temple fell. The Second Temple fell. The fortress city of Betar was crushed at the end of the Bar Kochba revolt. And the Temple Mount was plowed over, the holiest place turned to bare furrows. Later generations kept adding to the list, and the expulsion from Spain and other expulsions and massacres seemed to find their way to this same square on the calendar.

I do not think we are meant to treat that as superstition, and I also do not think we are meant to explain it away. The tradition reads it as meaning, not as coincidence. When a single day gathers so much loss, the message is not that the date is cursed. It is that grief, like joy, has a season, and this is the season the Jewish soul has agreed to feel it fully rather than scatter it thinly across the year. That may be the healthiest thing about the whole observance, if I am honest. It gives sorrow a container.

What Actually Happens on the Fast?

Tisha B'Av does not arrive out of nowhere. It sits at the end of a mourning period called the Three Weeks, which opens with a lesser fast on the 17th of Tammuz, the day the walls of Jerusalem were breached before the city fell. Those three weeks tighten as they go. In the final stretch, known as the Nine Days, many refrain from meat and wine, from laundry and new clothes, from the ordinary pleasures that we barely notice until we are asked to put them down. By the time the ninth of Av begins, the mood has been narrowing for weeks.

The fast itself carries five restrictions, and this is one of the details that surprises people who assume a fast is only about food. We refrain from eating and drinking, from washing the body for comfort, from anointing with lotions and creams, from wearing leather shoes, and from marital intimacy. In that fivefold shape it resembles Yom Kippur far more than the other minor fasts, which ask only that we skip food and water. The difference in tradition is that Yom Kippur is a fast of the Torah itself, while Tisha B'Av was established later by the prophets and Sages, which is why our tradition also teaches that it is destined one day to be undone.

In the evening we read Eichah, the Book of Lamentations, usually by candlelight and in a low, aching melody. We sit on the floor or on low stools, the posture of a mourner. In the morning come the Kinot, the elegies, which walk through century after century of Jewish pain. And then something quietly shifts around midday, which I will come back to, because it is the hinge on which this whole day turns.

The Reframe: Av Is the Month of Desire, and the Fast Is Its Correction

Here is where I want to offer the way I have come to understand this day, which grows out of the framework I call the Spiral of Time. Every month of the Hebrew year carries an inner character, a specific energy that colors the way we feel and the work we are given to do. The energy of Av, as the Sages map it, is Ta'avah, desire or craving. It is the peak of summer, the sun high and the nights still warm and dry, the body pulled outward toward pleasure, toward the river and the crowd and the wanting of things.

Desire is not a flaw. I would call it something closer to gravity, the pull that draws people into orbit around each other, the force behind love itself. But like any strong force it can build or it can burn. The historical tragedies of Av read, in this light, as desire gone wrong: a generation that desired the false comfort of the spies over the promise of the land, a people fractured by sinat chinam, the baseless hatred that our Sages named as the cause of the Second Temple's fall. Craving turned inward and sour, and it took the house of God down with it.

So the fast is not only mourning. It is a tikkun, a rectification, aimed precisely at that misdirected wanting. For one day we withdraw from food and comfort and touch, not to punish the body but to ask it a question. What do we actually long for. When the small hungers are quieted, the large hunger underneath them, the ache for wholeness, for a rebuilt world, for each other, has room to be heard.

From Tisha B'Av to Tu b'Av: The Turn Is Built Into the Month

This is the detail that changed how I feel about the whole fast, and it is the reason I find the month of Av more tender than frightening. Six days after Tisha B'Av, the lowest point of the year, comes Tu b'Av, the fifteenth of Av, which the Mishnah names as one of the two most joyful days the people ever knew. On that day the unmarried women of ancient Israel went out to dance in the vineyards, and matches were made, and the season of mourning ended in the making of new families. The same month that holds the deepest rupture holds, less than a week later, the deepest connection.

I do not think that is an accident of scheduling. It seems to me that the architecture of Av is teaching the exact lesson the fast is trying to install in us. The energy of desire that, unbalanced, tears a nation apart is the very same energy that, elevated, binds two people together for life. Nothing new had to be added between the ninth and the fifteenth. The same force simply found its right direction. That is what the tradition means, I believe, when it says the raw material of destruction and the raw material of redemption are one and the same.

And this is why the day itself begins to lift around midday, why the mood after the noon hour grows less bleak. The prophet Zechariah promised that these fasts would one day become festivals, days of joy and gladness for the House of Judah. Our tradition even carries the startling teaching that the Messiah is born on Tisha B'Av, that the seed of redemption is planted on the very date of the ruin. You do not wait for the grief to pass before hope arrives. The two are folded together, which is the whole meaning of the spiral: the descent was always shaped to become an ascent.

How to Enter the Fast With More Than Just Hunger

If you want this day to be more than an uncomfortable stretch of not eating, a little intention goes a long way. Here is what I would gently suggest, and you can take only what fits you.

1. Ease in through the Nine Days, do not slam into the fast cold. In the days before, let some ordinary pleasures fall away on purpose. When you arrive at the ninth of Av, the withdrawal will feel like a continuation rather than a shock, and your heart will already be in a quieter register.

2. Read Eichah slowly, even a single chapter. You do not need to be a scholar. Sit low, read Lamentations in whatever language reaches you, and let one image land. The point is not to finish the text but to let the text finish something in you.

3. Name what you are actually mourning. The Temple is the national grief, but most of us carry private ruins too, a relationship that fell, a version of ourselves we lost. This is the one day the calendar hands you to feel those things without apology, so use it.

4. Ask the desire question directly. Somewhere in the fast, when the hunger is loudest, pause and ask what you truly want underneath the craving for lunch. It is a strange and clarifying exercise. The empty stomach makes the real longing easier to hear.

5. Watch for the turn after midday. Do not white-knuckle straight through to nightfall. Notice how the tradition lets the mood soften in the afternoon, and let yourself soften with it, turning your thoughts toward what could be rebuilt rather than only what was lost.

6. Break the fast with someone. Av's correction is connection. If you can, end the day at a table with other people, because the whole point of the month is desire turned toward one another rather than away.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the fast in Av called, and what does it commemorate? The fast in Av is Tisha B'Av, meaning the Ninth of Av. It commemorates the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, along with other tragedies that tradition ties to this date. It is widely regarded as the saddest day in the Jewish calendar and falls at the close of a three-week mourning period.

How long does the Tisha B'Av fast last? Tisha B'Av is a full-day fast of about twenty-five hours. It begins at sundown and ends at nightfall the next evening, unlike the minor fasts that start only at dawn. In 2026 it runs from the evening of July 22 to nightfall on July 23, and it carries five restrictions rather than just abstaining from food.

How is Tisha B'Av different from Yom Kippur? Both are full-day fasts with five prohibitions, including bathing and leather shoes, so they feel similar in structure. The difference is source and mood. Yom Kippur is commanded in the Torah and is a solemn but hopeful day of atonement, while Tisha B'Av was established later by the prophets and Sages and is a day of mourning that tradition says will one day become a festival.

Why does the mood of Tisha B'Av change in the afternoon? Tradition builds a turn into the day itself. The morning is the deepest grief, but from around midday the observance grows less severe and the liturgy leans toward comfort. This reflects the belief, drawn from Zechariah, that these fasts are destined to become days of joy, and the teaching that redemption is seeded on this very date.

What is the connection between Tisha B'Av and Tu b'Av? They are two faces of the same month. Tisha B'Av, on the ninth, is the low point of rupture and loss. Tu b'Av, on the fifteenth, is one of the happiest days in the calendar, historically a day of matchmaking and joy. The month of Av moves from one to the other on purpose, showing how the energy of desire can shift from destruction to connection.

The Day the Ruin Becomes a Seed

I began by saying that from inside the fast, it looks like the end of the story. Sitting on the floor in the heat, reading a book named for weeping, you would be forgiven for feeling that the grief has no floor. That is exactly the feeling the day is designed to hold, and I would not rush anyone through it.

But the month knows something the ninth of Av does not yet reveal. In six days the vineyards fill with dancing. In the tradition's boldest claim, the Redeemer is being born on the very afternoon we mourn. The same desire that once brought the house down is the desire that will, when we finally aim it right, build the next one. So we fast, and we weep, and we mean it. And then we lift our eyes toward the fifteenth, because in the calendar of the soul, the deepest descent was never the destination. It was only the turning point.

How Do You Hold On to Faith When You Don't Understand What G-d Is Doing?

What emunah actually asks of you during the hardest month of the Jewish year

There are seasons when emunah feels easy. And then there is Av.

You know the feeling before you can name it. The air gets heavier around the Three Weeks. Old griefs you thought you'd made peace with resurface, right on schedule, like your body remembers something your mind has tried to move past. You sit with a question you've probably asked more than once: why does HaShem feel close one day and impossibly far away the next?

Here is the direct answer, the one worth sitting with before anything else: emunah, faithful trust, does not require you to understand what HaShem is doing. It asks something smaller and, honestly, harder. It asks whether you can stay in relationship with Him while you don't understand. That single shift, from "can I explain this" to "can I remain," is the entire hidden invitation of the month of Av.

Key Takeaways

• Emunah is not the absence of grief. Torah gave an entire mourning season to Av, which means the pain is meant to be felt, not bypassed.

• The real question during hard seasons isn't "can I understand this," it's "can I stay in relationship while I don't."

• Psychological research on meaning-making backs up an old spiritual instinct: people cope best with loss not by finding an explanation, but by finding a way to hold the loss inside a larger, ongoing story.

• The name Av means father. The same month that carries the nation's deepest grief also carries its most intimate name for HaShem, Avinu, our Father.

• Consolation, nechamah, isn't returning to who you were before the break. It's permission to let the story be larger than the page you're currently on.

Why Av Feels So Heavy, and Why That's Not a Malfunction

If you've ever felt guilty for how much this season affects you, hear this first: you are not doing faith wrong.

Av carries the memory of everything that was lost. The Beit HaMikdash. Security. Closeness. The felt sense that HaShem's Presence is right here, visible, undeniable. That kind of loss doesn't stay in the past. It shows up in your chest during the Nine Days whether or not you can articulate why.

I've sat with enough women in my community to know this isn't rare. It's the woman who is tired of trying to understand her life. Why did this happen? Why hasn't that prayer been answered yet? Why does HaShem feel close one week and unreachable the next? Av doesn't invent these questions. It just makes them impossible to ignore.

And Torah does not rush you past them. Our Sages built an entire season for mourning, not because grief needs an excuse, but because a broken heart deserves the time it takes to actually break. Emunah was never meant to be a bypass around that. It's not pretending destruction doesn't hurt.

What the Research Actually Shows About Faith, Grief, and Not Knowing

This is where Torah's ancient instinct and modern psychology land in the same place, which is worth knowing, because it means what your tradition asks of you isn't naive. It's borne out.

Psychologist Crystal Park's meaning-making model, one of the most cited frameworks in the psychology of coping, distinguishes between two kinds of meaning: the deep, global beliefs we hold about how the world works, and the situational meaning we assign to a specific loss. Her research found that when an experience feels discrepant with those deeper beliefs, people experience real distress and spend real effort trying to make meaning of it. In plain language: pain that seems to contradict everything you believed about a fair, ordered world hits harder, and healing depends less on explaining the event and more on finding a way to hold it inside a larger, still-intact story.

A 2007 review published in Palliative Medicine, looking across decades of bereavement research, found that roughly ninety-four percent of studies showed some positive effect of religious or spiritual belief on bereavement, though the same review was honest that the research is inconsistent in design. Faith helps, broadly and repeatedly, even when science can't fully explain why.

But there's a real nuance here, and it matters. A University of Southampton study following bereaved spouses for two years found something specific: uncertain faith, marked by doubt as much as hope, was more often associated with depressive symptoms and lower levels of experienced meaning than either devout belief or a well-articulated secular worldview. The people who struggled most weren't the believers or the non-believers. They were the ones stuck in between, unsure whether to trust what they couldn't feel.

That finding lines up almost exactly with what Av is teaching. The danger isn't doubt itself. It's staying suspended in it, unable to choose whether to remain in relationship. A 2022 study on religious coping during grief found something similar: mourners who experienced their faith as abandonment, feeling punished or forsaken by God, showed more intense and prolonged emotional dysregulation than those who leaned toward closeness, even amid the same loss.

The difference wasn't whether the pain was real. It was whether the relationship stayed open.

The Reframe: Av Isn't Asking You to Understand. It's Asking You to Stay.

Here is where I think most teaching on faith during hard seasons gets it slightly wrong. It rushes from "this hurts" straight to "everything is for your good," and skips the step in between. That skip is where people quietly stop believing the teacher, even if they nod along.

You may not be able to see the good from where you are standing. Torah does not ask you to call the pain painless.

But it does ask you to consider something. Chodesh Av carries two letters, aleph and bet. Our Sages teach that from the first of Av until the ninth, the month is arur, constriction. From the tenth, the turn already begins. By the fifteenth, Tu B'Av, it turns baruch, blessing. The month itself was architected to move from lack toward wholeness. Not despite the lack. Through it.

And here's the detail I don't think gets said enough: the very name of this month, אָב, Av, means father. In the exact month that carries the nation's deepest grief, we are handed its most intimate name for relationship. אָבִינוּ, Avinu. Our Father. Not a distant judge. Not an explanation owed. A father, present in the room even when the lights are off.

That is the reframe. The question Av is actually asking you isn't "can I understand what HaShem is doing." It's "can I remain in relationship with HaShem while I do not understand." Chazal teach that Mashiach is associated with the very day of the Beit HaMikdash's destruction, a Torah pattern stating plainly that redemption can already be germinating inside what looks, from where you're standing, like an ending (see Eichah Rabbah 1:51).

This is nechamah, consolation. And it is worth being precise about what that word does not mean. It is not denial. It is not spiritual bypassing. It is not forcing yourself to say "everything is wonderful" while your heart is hurting. Nechamah is allowing the possibility that the story HaShem is writing may be larger than the page you're currently reading.

What This Looks Like When You're the One Standing Inside It

So if you enter Av carrying something unresolved, you do not need to manufacture perfect emunah. You need one honest sentence, said while you're still inside the not-knowing.

Put your hand gently over your heart. Take one slow breath and say:

רִבּוֹנוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם, אֲנִי לֹא מְבִינָה, אֲבָל אֲנִי עֲדַיִן פֹּה אִתְּךָ.

Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha.

Master of the Universe, I do not understand. But I am still here with You.

That, too, is emunah. Maybe especially in Av.

You do not have to rebuild the whole Beit HaMikdash today. You just need to find one small place inside yourself where HaShem can dwell again.

Five Ways to Practice This During the Nine Days

1. Name the specific ache, don't generalize it. "I'm struggling" is vague enough to avoid. "I don't understand why this prayer hasn't been answered" is specific enough to actually bring to HaShem. Specificity is what makes the relationship real instead of theoretical.

2. Say the one sentence, out loud if you can. Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha. Let it be a practice, not a one-time line. Say it in the car, at the sink, before candle lighting.

3. Take five quiet minutes to listen, not to explain. Hasket u'shema Yisrael, be still and listen, is the actual instruction for this season. Not forcing an answer onto the grief. Growing quiet enough to notice one place where something might already be rebuilding, even if you can't see its shape yet.

4. Track the turn, don't just endure the constriction. Mark the tenth of Av on your calendar as the day the energy begins shifting, and Tu B'Av as where it lands in fullness. Watching a hard period move toward an actual, dated turning point is different from just waiting for pain to end.

5. Let one honest tear count as a full spiritual act. You are not failing at faith if you cry this month. One prayer, one honest tear, one whispered "I am still here," is nechamah in progress, not a lack of it.

Frequently Asked Questions

Is it normal to feel distant from God during the month of Av? Yes. Torah itself designates the Nine Days and the Three Weeks as a mourning period, which means the felt distance is expected, not a sign your faith is weak. The goal isn't to eliminate the feeling but to stay in relationship through it.

What does nechamah, consolation, actually mean if it isn't "everything happens for a reason"? Nechamah means allowing that the story HaShem is writing may be larger than what you can currently see, without requiring you to explain or accept the pain as good. It's relational, not explanatory.

Why is the month called Av if it's associated with destruction and grief? Av means father. The same month carrying the nation's deepest historical grief also carries Avinu, our Father, one of the most intimate names for HaShem in Jewish prayer, a deliberate pairing of loss and closeness.

What's the difference between Tisha B'Av and Tu B'Av? Tisha B'Av, the ninth of Av, marks the destruction of both Batei Mikdash and is the height of mourning. Tu B'Av, the fifteenth, is one of the most joyous days on the Jewish calendar. The month is built to move from one to the other.

What can I actually say when I don't understand what's happening in my life? Ribbono Shel Olam, ani lo mevinah, aval ani adayin poh Itcha, Master of the Universe, I do not understand, but I am still here with You. It's a complete prayer on its own, honest rather than resolved.

The Story Isn't Over

You do not have to rebuild the whole Beit HaMikdash today. Just find one small place inside yourself where HaShem can dwell again.

One prayer. One honest tear. One whispered "I am still here."

And then allow yourself to consider something quietly courageous: perhaps HaShem is still here too.

Devarim: From Hearing HaShem's Voice to Becoming His Voice

The book of Devarim (דְּבָרִים, Devarim, "Words") is unlike the previous four books of the Torah. Rather than recording primarily what HaShem spoke to Moshe, Devarim consists largely of Moshe Rabbeinu's own words as he addresses the generation preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael. Ramban explains that this final book is Mishneh Torah, a review and explanation of the Torah, designed to prepare the people for a life in which they would no longer rely on daily miracles but would instead serve HaShem through faithfulness, responsibility, and remembrance.

This shift is deeply significant because it marks the transition from receiving revelation to living revelation. Throughout the wilderness, Bnei Yisrael experienced open miracles every day: manna descended from Heaven, the Clouds of Glory surrounded them, and the Well of Miriam sustained them. As they stood on the threshold of the Promised Land, those miracles would become less visible, and they would need to cultivate emunah (אֱמוּנָה, eh-moo-NAH, faithful trust) that remained steady even when HaShem's presence was hidden within ordinary life.

One of the most remarkable features of Devarim is that Moshe's own voice becomes the primary instrument through which Divine wisdom is communicated. The Zohar and later Chassidic masters explain that this does not represent a lower level of prophecy. Rather, it reveals that Moshe had refined himself so completely that his own speech had become a transparent vessel for the word of HaShem. This teaches every generation that the goal of Torah is not merely to hear Divine truth, but to allow it to become so deeply integrated within us that our own words, choices, and actions begin to reflect that truth.

The opening words of the book, "אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים" (Eleh HaDevarim, "These are the words"), invite us to pay close attention to the power of speech. The Midrash observes that when Moshe begins rebuking Israel, he does not immediately list each sin in painful detail. Instead, he refers to locations and events that gently remind the people of their past failures while preserving their dignity. This demonstrates that genuine correction is not meant to humiliate but to awaken the heart with compassion and hope.

This approach offers profound wisdom for emotional healing. Many people carry wounds because correction in their lives was accompanied by shame, rejection, or harsh criticism. Moshe models another way entirely. He tells the truth without stripping the people of their kavod (כָּבוֹד, ka-VOD, dignity), reminding us that HaShem's goal is always restoration rather than humiliation.

Ramban explains that before reviewing the commandments, Moshe intentionally recounts Israel's repeated failures alongside HaShem's constant mercy. He wanted the people to understand that although they had stumbled many times during the forty years in the wilderness, HaShem never abandoned His covenant with them. The purpose of recalling their history was not to reopen old wounds but to strengthen their confidence that Divine compassion would continue to accompany them in the future.

This insight speaks powerfully to anyone who has experienced discouragement or spiritual exhaustion. Many sincere people do not struggle because they lack desire to serve HaShem. Instead, they quietly believe that their past failures have permanently disqualified them from drawing close to Him. Devarim begins by dismantling that lie and replacing it with the truth that the pathway of teshuvah (תְּשׁוּבָה, te-shoo-VAH, returning to HaShem) always remains open.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov echoes this message in Likutei Moharan II:48, where he teaches that every descent contains the hidden seed of a greater ascent. The wilderness years were not a detour that ruined Israel's destiny. They were the very training ground that prepared the nation to enter the Land with greater humility, dependence upon HaShem, and spiritual maturity. What appeared to be wasted years became the foundation upon which their future would be built.

This perspective can gently reshape the way we understand our own journeys. Seasons of confusion, waiting, grief, or apparent failure often feel meaningless while we are living through them. Yet Devarim encourages us to believe that HaShem wastes nothing. Experiences that once seemed like evidence of defeat may eventually reveal themselves as preparation for the calling He has been patiently preparing us to fulfill.

A simple practice inspired by this teaching is to spend a few quiet minutes in hitbodedut (הִתְבּוֹדְדוּת, hit-bo-de-DOOT, personal conversation with HaShem). You might pray, "Ribbono Shel Olam, help me recognize that my wilderness is not my identity. Open my eyes to see how You have carried me through every season, even when I could not perceive Your hand. Transform my memories from sources of shame into testimonies of Your faithfulness and mercy."

After your prayer, take a journal and reflect on one question: "What experience that I once called a failure has actually become preparation?" Allow yourself to answer honestly without rushing. Sometimes HaShem reveals His deepest kindness only when we look backward with eyes of gratitude rather than regret.

Ultimately, Devarim teaches that the generation worthy of entering the Promised Land was not the generation that had never fallen. It was the generation that had learned how to rise again, trust HaShem again, and keep walking after disappointment. May we each discover that our own wilderness has not been evidence of abandonment, but a sacred place where HaShem has been quietly preparing us for the next chapter of His purpose.