I was 11 years old the first time I remember hearing “Eli Tzion” sung on Tisha B’Av.

I was in the Dishner’s Bungalow Colony in South Fallsburg, and somehow, unlike the rest of the kids my age, found myself in shul with the “adults” trying hard to follow the kinnot from those now-collectors edition “Skullcap” kinnot booklets. Suddenly everyone stood up, and began singing the (now) familiar tune “Eli Tzion”. It was easy to follow and figure out how it was sung, the tune not being so difficult to learn. Oddly enough, as the gabbai moved around the shul, I remember feeling incredibly panicked that he would ask me to lead one of the refrains. Lucky for me, despite my height, I (narrowly) escaped his notice and breathed easy on my way back to the bungalow.

Eli Tzion is probably the most well-known kinnah that is recited on Tisha B’av morning. Not only because of its memorable tune that doubles as the tune for Lecha Dodi on Shabbat Chazon, but also because it pretty much marks the end of saying kinnot on Tisha B’Av morning and thus seems to be the much anticipated signal that we can soon leave shul and get ready for chatzot – midday, where we can finally sit on chairs and begin to contemplate how the fast is getting close-to-almost being over.

That’s how it was for me personally, and each year, for the most part, brought the same experience. 

As I got a little older, my having attended yeshivot and done some more serious learning helped me begin to appreciate the depth of mourning and connection to Klal Yisroel that one can experience on Tisha B’Av. Naturally, the observance of Tisha B’Av took on new meaning for me, and I could even claim to feel emotion and even genuine sorrow by the time we got around to singing the ol’ Eli Tzion tune. I felt proud that I could connect on a deeper level to the day and its liturgical components. While how well or poorly the fast was going for me certainly played a part in the meaning I felt when concluding kinnot, nevertheless, I thought I had gone about as far as I could go. The tune and kinnah unfortunately was simply an anti-climactic, out of place ending to a long and challenging morning.

That all changed however, the year I visited Chevron Yeshiva in Givaat Mordechai.

My connection with Chevron Yeshiva is one I treasure, and comes through my relationship with one of my rabbeim, Rav Mendel Blachman, who I learned under for more than 7 years and who himself attended that yeshiva and had a deeply personal connection with one of its former Roshei Yeshiva, Rav Simcha Zissel Broide zt”l. It also comes from my relationship with several close friends of mine who attended as talmidim of the yeshiva for several years.

One of those friends, my dear chavrusa from Kerem B’Yavneh, Eliyahu Prero, opted to transfer there after his third year in KBY. And while we were virtually inseparable while we were in yeshiva together for one reason or another, I ended up enlisting and heading off to the IDF while he ended up attending Chevron.

We stayed in close touch he and I, and when I had intermittent moments of leave from the army, he would invite me to come learn b’chavrusa with him at Chevron and we managed to have a very nice weekly, if not monthly, chavrusa together, usually on Erev Shabbos.

When I had the time to change out of my army uniform, I would don the traditional black and white garb of the chareidi yeshivot complete with velvet black yarmulka in order to better blend in. When I didn’t have time, however, I would simply show up in my army fatigues, M-16 in hand, and that would be that. And while occasionally there would be an inquisitive eye or two taking in my presence there, I loved it how virtually no one in the yeshiva paid me any real attention, as if soldiers in madim (uniform) learning b’chavrusa with talmidei chachamim is a completely normal and unexciting occurrence. It didn’t startle anybody, and I really felt right at home.

On Tisha B’Av one year Eliyahu invited me to come and learn with him once again, and we decided that we would learn right after mincha and cover the gemaras in Gittin that speak of the churban, one of the only segments of Torah permissible to learn on that day. I showed up early, and caught the end of kinnot and the Chevron singing of Eli Tzion, and that’s when Tisha B’Av forever changed for me.

I had never heard Eli Tzion sung before in Israel, despite my having lived there for almost six years at that time. Whenever I heard it, it was the typical “American” version I was used to. Being a chazzan, I have always been sensitive to the subtle differences or changes that seem to happen in nusach and musical tunes when they are sung in Israel as opposed to America. Some of the changes are slight: a shortened note here, less “trill” over there. Others are downright hilarious (Shlomo Carlebach would say “Obnoxious”), like how the nusach for the word Romemu in the ending verse of Tehillim 99 from a Carlebach Kabbalat Shabbat in Israel stays flat for some reason, while in America it “correctly” goes up.  ;o)  Others are just strange, like the beginning of the classic Mishenichnas Adar song for example. (V‘hameivin yavin.) 

Eli Tzion in America (and in most places actually) is sung entirely in a major chord. The tune is jumpy, like a march, and there is a strong, consistent rhythm that can even be characterized as fast. I’ve heard many people use its tune to try and describe the kinnah as “positive” or “upbeat”. I have never understood this interpretation since the tune never resonated with me as genuinely representing what was being said. If anything, the tune sounded more like “The Ants Go Marching One-by-One, Hurrah, Hurrah.” (And once you hear it, you can’t unhear it. Sorry!)

I’m well aware of the concept that Klal Yisroel’s mourning pains are ultimately positive, just as a woman’s labor pains are fierce yet lead to a profound outcome (a major theme of the kinnah’s refrain). I’m not talking about that.

I’m talking about how the tune used in the vast majority of kehillot in America (and around the world) for this kinnah just doesn’t seem to reflect or capture the pain, the longing, or the bitter-sweet hope that the author was trying to convey. The familiar tune, in my opinion, never did the kinnah any real justice. In fact, when I was 17 years old and heard one of my Israeli rabbeim comment on how poorly the American version reflected the words, I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about as I didn’t even know of another version.

Until that is, I heard it sung in Chevron.

The version sung in Chevron is patently different. For one thing, it is sung almost entirely in a minor key, which depicts sadness or, more aptly, longing. For another, the rhythm is slow. Very slow. Almost arrhythmic in fact. As if it’s meant to be pondered or cried over as much as sung. When I heard it the first time, it sounded irregular, and very much reminded me of the steps along the Southern Wall of Har HaBayit that were purposely created unevenly so as to force the sojourners to both go slowly so as not to trip, but also to think about their steps and measure them carefully as they ascended to the holiest place on Earth.

In much the same way, the tune for Eli Tzion used in Chevron allows for one to take their time in reciting it, without feeling rushed to have to keep to some external tempo. The words are given time to sink in. The effect is dramatic and extremely soulful.

And hearing 1,000 yeshiva bochrim sing it this way, not only in tune, but in unison, expressing a pain of longing and yearning that is over 2 millenia old, was something so profoundly moving and haunting, there has seldom been an instance I have experienced since that has so perfectly captured such a moment.

When I heard it sung in Chevron, Eli Tzion finally made sense. And it brought me to tears, the likes of which I try very hard each year to return to, as their source is the very wellsprings of our nation’s collective and historical narrative of fall and triumph; of pain, loss and suffering, yet eternal hope for redemption. They are the words that pine to recover what was lost to us so long ago: our walking with God hand in hand to perfect and fill this world in its entirety with His Glory.

And you simply can’t get that with the other version.

In some respects, the quick-tempoed version is very apropos for America, or for the reality so many of us experience nowadays. It’s fast. It doesn’t let you actually think about what you’re saying. You’re so busy responding to what’s going on around you, you don’t actually get to think about what is happening or why or whether it’s important. It marks a welcome ending to a dreary ritual that is experienced by most people as uncomfortable, unrelatable, and almost entirely irrelevant, as opposed to a beginning of something greater that creates connection and meaning. It doesn’t allow one to go any further than surface deep, and by the time you have a moment to possibly ponder what it’s all about, everyone is moving on to the next thing and the moment is lost. 

I wonder for how many people this is a pretty good description of what their Yiddishkeit is on a larger level. I can tell you from my decade-long experience working as a Torah educator on college campuses, that for the vast majority of Modern Orthodox youth, this is a pretty apt description indeed.

And no, it doesn’t make the tune or the singing of Eli Tzion any more relatable or relevant to them, unfortunately.

But there is something more out there.

Judaism and Torah is so much deeper and meaningful then we let it be. We’re so bombarded with other things: when is the last time we’ve allowed ourselves a moment to just pause and let ourselves sink in?

My rebbe, the one I mentioned above, once taught me that any time we remove our shoes in Judaism it is a symbolic gesture that means we’re not supposed to go anywhere right now. That right now, for this moment, we’re simply meant to stay put where we are. Shoes are meant for traveling. You put them on when you move locations. There are times when we take our shoes off because we’re simply meant to stay put and not go anywhere. When Kohanim were in the Beis HaMikdash, they didn’t wear shoes because they weren’t going anywhere. On Yom Kippur we remove our leather shoes because we’re just focusing on staying in this moment, on this day, and aren’t concerned about going anywhere else. The same thing is true for mourners and why those who observe shiva remove their shoes: they’re meant to stay in that moment for a while and just be. It’s how we mark moments of importance. Of holiness. It’s why Moshe was commanded to remove his shoes at his first encounter with Hakadosh Baruch Hu at the sneh (burning bush). And why we, too, remove our shoes on Tisha B’Av.

Mourning on Tisha B’Av is hard work. It doesn’t come easily, and it doesn’t come cheap. It takes effort and a lot of focus and concentration. And that’s not at all a simple matter. Especially when you’re fasting in the summertime.

For me I know that I cannot experience Tisha B’Av without hearing the hundreds of voices from Chevron crying out in unison, longing for redemption. I search high and low for others who perhaps recognize the tune, or who at least share a common desire to find a way back to that place… A place with tunes that makes room for self-reflection… That doesn’t march to drumbeats…. That enables and encourages one to find deeper meaning… to connect spiritually and soulfully with one’s past… to ponder one’s life’s meaning… where one wants to go… and to enable one to actually stop and think a moment about what it’s all about…

The one from Chevron Yeshiva.