It is said that one day Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte heard voices of grief coming from inside a synagogue, where men and women, seated on the floor and observing Tisha B'Av, were mourning the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem. Upon learning the reason for their tears and mourning, the Emperor is said to have exclaimed that a nation capable of remembering its defeats from thousands of years ago could never truly be conquered.

Tonight marks the beginning of Tisha B'Av. On this fast day, Jewish communities mourn the greatest tragedies in the history of the Jewish people, above all the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. In synagogues around the world, the Megillat Eichah (the Book of Lamentations), written by the prophet Jeremiah in response to the catastrophe that the Babylonians brought upon the Kingdom of Judah, is read aloud.

That reading has always been deeply moving and continues to resonate with Jews of every generation, allowing them to gain a deeper understanding of the history of their ancestors.

In those days, the Jewish nation became an object of scorn and refuse among the nations. Everywhere there was devastation and ruin. Cities, monuments, and fortresses were consumed by destruction. The Jewish inheritance passed into the hands of strangers. So many perished by the sword. So many died of famine.

The enemies of the Jewish people became the new masters—brutal, envious, and relentless. They fulfilled every expectation, gnashing their teeth as they wielded sword and fire. Yet Judah's friends proved equally disappointing, betraying her, abandoning her, leaving her to her fate. Some even became her enemies.

Legions of new slaves were torn from their families and driven into exile. The leaders of the Jewish people were hanged by their hands. Princes, whose appearance had grown darker than soot, were no longer recognizable in the streets, their skin shriveled tightly over their bones.

Amid the smoke of devastation, compassionate eyes poured forth torrents of tears. The cruel occupiers violated women and young girls in Zion and throughout the land of Judah. Infants and young children collapsed everywhere. Their pure souls confronted the depths of human depravity before falling asleep forever in the arms of their gentle mothers.

The city of Jerusalem, once the princess among the provinces, became a tributary. In the midst of such overwhelming tragedy, the Temple was razed, its sacred treasures plundered, and its priests murdered in the very places of worship.

All this happened under the Babylonians. It was repeated centuries later under the Romans. Those two great empires disappeared, just as the Egyptians, Assyrians, Persians, and so many others eventually faded into history. The Jews, however, remain alive, despite having endured relentless persecution in every age and across the world—victims of pogroms, inquisitions, burnings at the stake, looting, state-sponsored campaigns of defamation, and every imaginable form of suffering.

In Europe, where 9.5 million Jews once lived, little more than one million remain today. The terrible Shoah—a term that modern antisemites deliberately obscure by reducing it to the generic word "holocaust"—was followed by the expulsion of approximately one million Jews from Arab countries.

The massacre of Jews and the plundering of their property continued throughout the centuries, in countless places.

Yet despite everything, as is so often sung in synagogues and Jewish homes, Am Yisrael Chai!—the People of Israel lives. This survival is not only a miracle; it is also rooted in the duty of remembrance. L'dor VaDor—Hebrew for "from generation to generation"—is one of the enduring secrets of Jewish continuity. Judaism is transmitted across generations, each recognizing itself as the heir to a shared history, culture, and identity as a people.

In the end, it may well prove that Napoleon was right.