It was 2010. My
father, z”l, had passed away, and I
was sitting shiva with my sister at
my parents’ apartment on Diskin Street. The apartment was full of people, when
suddenly a young woman in her late twenties or early thirties walks in. She was
wearing flannel shirt, flopped over her jeans, and her head was completely
shaved. People’s gazes darted to and away from her.
She sat down next
to me.
Her name was
Anita, and she was as different in her philosophy from everyone in the room as
she was in her appearance. She was an atheist, a proud and active member of the
far-left political party Meretz (probably the left-wing of the party!) and a
supporter of a number of causes that make me nauseous to even contemplate. But
she was here to console me and lend her support. She must have learned about
the shiva house from one of the
pashkevilim (posters) in the neighborhood.
They say that
politics makes strange bedfellows. Well, the same can be said about pain. We
had a few things in common. Anita’s mother (I’m not sure about her father) was
a Holocaust survivor. So were my parents. And Anita was very sensitive – like
me. And likewise, she was seeking relief from the constant barrage of hurts
that life slings at us that most people have learned to shrug off by growing a
thicker skin. Neither of us had that basic necessity.
We both wound up
at a community center in the Mekor Baruch neighborhood of Jerusalem that housed
various self-help groups. In a small, not well-lit room sat five of us: Batya,
a chareidi American baalat
teshuva in her forties; Harvey, a red-haired, hot-tempered modern Orthodox
Jew originally from South Africa; Gil, a quiet, standoffish American in his
mid-twenties; Anita; and me. The group was affiliated with the worldwide organization
Recovery Incorporated, founded in 1937 by neuro-psychiatrist Abraham Low in
Chicago, Illinois. He was way ahead of his time. I would venture to say that he
basically pioneered cognitive behavioral therapy.
Based on the idea
that emotions are a result of thoughts and not the other way around, we
followed a specific format. First, someone would give an example of something
that made them upset. It could be something as trivial as a case of a person
cutting in front of them in a line.
Next, the person
giving the example would say that they “worked themselves up.” She would list
physical sensations (like tightness of muscles, difficulty in breathing, etc.).
Then she would bring out the “cure,” what Dr. Low called “spottings.” Like a
spotlight that focuses on an actor on a stage, spottings are like cognitive
rays of light: thoughts and ideas that, when pointed at the mental disturbance,
would excise them like a laser.
Some examples of
spottings are: “This is distressing but not dangerous,” “This is all-or-nothing
thinking,” “This is a triviality compared to my mental health,” and “Better the
insincere gesture of friendship than the sincere gesture of hostility.” By
practicing these spottings over and over, people were supposed to begin to
manage their anger and fears before they spiraled out of control.
Our little group
went on for at least two to three years. I don’t remember when or why it
disbanded. The meetings were like first aid for us. It may have not dealt with
“root causes,” but it certainly was a place to keep the pressure cooker from
exploding.
* * *
Anita was the only
sabra (born in Israel) member of the
group. She practiced its principles religiously. Every so often, I would see
her walking the streets of Rechavia and engage her in conversation. I liked to
tease her by saying things I knew would annoy her, which meant telling her
things that I cherished and believed in that to her were anathema. I came to the realization that she was more
religious than me regarding the tenaciousness by which she embraced her
beliefs. And she really cared about many things: climate control, stray
animals, and some causes that can’t be mentioned in a family magazine.
She had a brother
who was active in the Progressive Movement (Reform Judaism) in Jerusalem. (Not
sure what he believed in.) She often talked about him. He was her confidant and
best friend.
But despite my
teasing, I felt for Anita. She was suffering. I could see it in her eyes and
face as she walked the streets, appearing as if she was incessantly ruminating
and talking to herself. She carried a weight on her shoulders, including an
aging mother who drove her crazy. I felt sad for her.
For a few months
after her shiva visit, I didn’t see Anita
at all. Then, one day, I received a phone call. The man on the other end of the
line told me that he was Anita’s brother. Then he told me a story: Anita had traveled
to Greece, where she eventually came upon a small Greek island in the Aegean
Sea. The wind and water and sunshine soothed her aching body and soul. For the
first time in her life, she found peace and serenity. Every day she would go
swimming, then come back and take long walks on the tiny island.
One day, a
Catholic priest was walking along the shore when he suddenly spotted the
lifeless body of a young woman. He called the police. Paramedics also came and
determined that she had drowned.
It was Anita.
As per her
instructions in her will, her brother had her body cremated.
I was shocked and
heartbroken. ”How could it be?” I said to myself, “that this fine young woman
who, through no fault of her own, suffered so much in her short life? And now after
she finally found her nirvana, it was so quickly taken away from her?”
The brother heard
my words of condolences, then continued.” I know this may sound strange to you,
but I know my sister, and she would have very much appreciated if you would say
kaddish for her.”
I was shocked
again.
He gave me the
date of her passing and hung up.
I called Rav
Rozental, the venerable rav of
Shaarei Chesed, who had learned 10 years in the Ponevezh Yeshiva in Bnei Brak,
asking him what I should do. I told him about her background and about the
cremation. He told me to say kaddish
for her at least once a day until the 11 months from her passing were over.
Another precious
Jewish neshama was gone.
“Yisgadal” (even though I don’t
understand) “veyiskaddash” (even
though it makes no sense)…
I hope that the
recitation of the kaddish acted as a
“spotting” on her tortured soul, sending it higher and higher.
