Issue 137

R E N E E M U L L E R ’ S S AT I AT I N G B R E A K FA S T A N D LU N C H R E C I P E S

OCTOBER 2, 2013 / 28 TISHREI 5774 ISSUE 137

WHISK’S ANNUAL DIET ISSUE.

Hanita Friedman

CEO IN A TICHEL

RENEE’S FILLING AND LOW-CAL ENERGY-BOOSTING BREAKFASTS AND LUNCHES

>>> THE REBBETZIN SPEAKS WHEN TWO PEOPLE CONNECT >>> TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES COULD I EVER TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT MY BABY? >>> THE CLEAN BILL A BOUT WITH CANCER STRENGTHENS A MOTHER-

ISSUE 137 OCTOBER 2, 2013 28 TISHREI 5774

The Annual Diet Issue

DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIP >>> OUR DAYS I WASTED YEARS HATING

Feel iated!

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MY SISTER >>> WHAT MY FATHER TAUGHT ME ABOUT BRAGGING >>> WHISK ARE YOU POISED FOR DIET SUCCESS? NUTRITIONIST TANYA ROSEN TACKLES THE BIGGEST DIET MYTHS

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CONTENTS

28 Tishrei 5774 October 2, 2013

Features 16 Truth or Consequences

Could I ever tell my best friend the truth about my baby?

As told to Sarah Pachter

20 The Clean Bill

Her bout with cancer was a catalyst for healing her relationship with her daughter.

By Shira Lieberman

26 Marriage

Priorities: One woman’s cautionary tale As told to Shiffy Friedman

28 CEO in a Tichel

Hanita Friedman is anything but the typical entrepreneur.

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By Machla Abramovitz

Departments 4

Editorial

RENEE’S FILLING AND LOW-CAL ENERGY-BOOSTING BREAKFASTS AND LUNCHES

By Rechy Frankfurter

6

Letters

8

The Rebbetzin Speaks

ISSUE 137 OCTOBER 2, 2013 28 TISHREI 5774

The Annual Diet Issue

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

10 Golden Nuggets

By Basha Majerczyk

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in Whisk

By Chaya Silber

14 Debt Diary 34 The Shidduch Saga

By Mimmi Kirsch

38 The Narrow Bridge 40 Daddy’s Girl

By Dina Neuman

42 Our Days

16

The rhythm of our lives |

OCTOBER 2, 2013

2 Hello Cooks

By Victoria Dwek

12 My Good Habits Whisk speaks to nutritionist Tanya Rosen to learn about diet myths.

As told to Victoria Dwek

By Peri Berger

AMI•LIVING

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4 A Tavola

No more excuses! Hearty breakfast and lunch ideas that will keep you satiated.

By Renee Muller

By Liora Stein

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14 2 Girls on a Diet

By Basya Fruchter and Devoiry Fine

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Dear Readers, This past week I received a phone call from a reporter from The

New York Times, a woman who is doing a report on breast cancer and the incidence of the BRCA gene among Orthodox women. The reporter told me that she had recently come across Tzippy Lieberman’s article in AmiLiving, “Smiling at the Future,” which was about her prophylactic mastectomy after learning she was a carrier of the BRCA gene. She had also read my letter that week in which I expressed to readers that yes, Tzippy’s article was a harrowing read and some people might be squeamish, but if it saved even one woman’s life it was a wise decision to print it. This reporter wanted to know if she could therefore infer that the Orthodox world isn’t open to discussion about breast cancer or the BRCA gene. It seems, or so she claimed, that that is the information she had been given.

Editor in Chief Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum

I’m not sure if I convinced her, and hopefully she was open to the truth, but I explained to her that not only do we not “push the topic under the rug,” we are actually proactive. Our community has numerous referral agencies as well as support groups for women facing such challenges. And no, our rabbis do not “discourage women from mammography” but in fact, “V’nishmartem me’od l’nafshoseichem,” taking care of our bodies is a positive commandment. Moreover, our weekly column, “The Clean Bill,” brings to readers personal stories, medical mysteries, and the latest discoveries and updates—anything related to the improvement of our health.

Coordinating Editor Toby Worch Copy Editors Basha Majerczyk Dina Schreiber Rabbi Yisroel Benedek

Art

Art Directors Alex Katalkin David Kniazuk

In this issue, we also speak to Hanita Friedman, the CEO of KarmiSoft, a high-tech company in the Galil, about her efforts to create jobs for chareidim. Of late, she has become the darling of the Israeli media, as they find it hard to believe what they are hearing about Hanita and the chareidi women who work for her.

Food

Food Editors Victoria Dwek Leah Schapira

Advertising

Whenever I have conversations with people like the aforementioned reporter or read about the media’s reaction to someone like Hanita Friedman as an anomaly, I find myself praying that through this magazine we can not only reach people in the media but much more importantly, those among our own ranks who fall for the propaganda that chareidi women are subjugated and cannot develop their potential or that our community is neglectful.

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Europe Advertising 44 7891 297 866 Advertising Coordinator Malky Friedman

This week’s “Clean Bill” may seem to be more of a story about a mother/ daughter relationship than medical. However, many people suffering from life-threatening diseases describe how, in their quest to heal their bodies, they find themselves on a mission to heal their souls too. They seek to make amends with all those they may have hurt and begin to view their relationships through a different lens, which ultimately constitutes their real healing.

Markowitz Distribution 917-202-3973 646-247-0262

Ami Magazine

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org

May everyone experience such healing and inner peace—without the suffering!

Ami Magazine. Published by Mezoogmag LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form without prior written permission from the publisher is prohibited. The publisher reserves the right to edit all articles for clarity, space, and editorial sensitivities. Ami Magazine assumes no responsibility for the content of advertisements in the publication, nor for the contents of books that are referred to or excerpted herein.

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Rechy Frankfurter

rechy@amimagazine.org

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www.designixonline.com

Royal Symbol

LETTERS

They Call Me Bubby Happiness has to be worked on In reference to “Parenting,” Issue 135

Dear Editor: I am responding to “Dear Children: A Letter from Your Father’s Wife.”

I was divorced in 1988. I have seven children, of which only the youngest twins, age 8 at the time, were unmarried.

I knew I would want to remarry, so I began by giving the children therapy once a week to that effect. By the time I remarried they were prepared emotionally for it.

I met a wonderful man ten and a half years older than me. Before we finalized our plans to remarry, I met with his children. I told them all that “I will not be your mother; I cannot take her place, but I will be there for you in all ways. Both your father and I have a void we need to fill.” His children to this day call regularly, I am invited to all their simchos, and the kids still call me Bubby. We had 11 wonderful years together. My husband passed away from a massive heart attack.

The loss was so great that at the levayah my twins cried bitterly.

After this loss I found it hard to see myself remarried. My kids pushed me.

They didn’t want me to be alone. I met my third husband, who was a close friend of my second husband for 56

years.

Baruch Hashem, he has a large family.

I went for help in the beginning and it is four years now and we have a glorious life! His kids are wonderful to me as I try to go beyond the call of duty to be wonderful to them. Some of the children live in the States, and when they come to Eretz Yisrael they stay with us, for lengthy stays, sometimes for ten days to two weeks. Happiness, with a lot of siyata di’shmaya, has to be worked on, and the children have to feel how you feel about them. Tell them how you feel about them, help out by simchos and be there for them.

I wish all [who are] in a second marriage a marriage like ours.

Please print this letter as it can surely help others.

A gemar chasimah tovah.

Rochel G.

A note from her stepdaughterin-law:

Bubby is absolutely wonderful! I stayed at her house for over a week when we did a shidduch in Israel; she welcomed us so warmly! And wisely! We are adult

children. She can go to her exercise class and we can take breakfast. We don’t have to be back for dinner. We can take from the freezer and warm up what we like.

(The freezer is always well-stocked.) We can cook for Shabbos together.

A year later we were back for the wedding. We took out our own apartment.

We felt with the children it would be too much for Bubby. But Bubby invited us for seudos, and the Tu B’Shvat seudah was so beautiful we will never forget it.

I’m sure it wasn’t easy on her—we were a crew of 12—but she did everything with a smile and with pleasure. What a gracious hostess!

She is always finding the positive and complimenting us. She connects with each child and makes each child feel special.

She doesn’t forget to call to thank me for the pictures. Oh, and by the way, in her foyer, there are two bulletin boards of pictures. One for her grandchildren and one for our family’s. So, no, we are not all her children, but we are so fortunate to have her as a Bubby!!!

Signed with love, Chaya G.

Weight Loss and Working on Ourselves Basya and Devoiry have the right approach In reference to “Two Girls on a Diet”

2

Girls

Dear Basya and Devoiry: I am an avid reader of your column and I look forward to reading your progress through your journey. I am a fan who believes in you and is cheering for you every step of the way.

I want to give you credit for putting Hashem in the picture and in that way making this a spiritual experience and an opportunity for growth. It took me a long time to realize that overeating is a bad middah, and Hashem wants us to be in control and eat mindfully and respectfully. I wish you both continued success, and may you and your families have a happy, healthy and successful year!

Diet Cha on a

The

llenge

C.J. Brooklyn, NY

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encore

A 3D Mini-Me Set yourself in stone

Photos of your kids in matching outfits at the park are so 2012. Instead, for just $300 why not make mini-figurines of your clan? Using the latest in 360-degree scanning and 3D printing technologies, as described at length in Issue 57, Twinkind, a company based in Hamburg, Germany, creates little statues that are so incredibly detailed that they capture everything from poses and facial expressions to hair styles and the folds in clothes. Twinkind’s creators say that family photos will soon become passé. 3D photo figurines, they believe, are definitely the wave of the future.

A Docile Zombie

Where would my son be today without the right diagnosis?

In reference to “Letters,” Issue 135

Dear Editor: As you will see, I was a little peeved at that letter to the editor regarding my article “The Other Side of the Pill,” in Issue 132.

If we would’ve continued to listen to everybody who told us we must medicate our child for his ADHD, we would have wasted even more years than we did trying to find the right help for him. Every classroom teacher, resource room teacher, social worker, psychologist and therapist, both from in and out of his school, advised us that our son had ADHD, and if we didn’t medicate him yesterday, he would end up on the street in a few years.

Well, we bowed to the pressure and put him on medication. Even when it didn’t work, we were told that we just didn’t find the right medication and/or the right psychiatrist. The psychiatrists we did go to interviewed us, the parents, and barely spent any time with our son, yet they too immediately diagnosed him with ADHD. We finally took him to a pediatric neurologist affiliated with Columbia University Medical Center in New York.

We were ready for a definitive diagnosis of ADHD, but at least this time with the proper dosage and proper medication.

However, after spending 45 minutes with our son, the neurologist informed us that our son did not have ADHD; he

had dyslexia, and possibly an auditory processing disorder. He continued, saying that our son had no problem focusing and the reason he gets frustrated and acts out is because of the dyslexia. Subsequently, we confirmed that he does have a processing disorder and sensory issues that increase his frustration and cause him to act out. The neurologist also told us that kids today are overmedicated. The label ADHD is slapped on any kid who has a hard time sitting in class, and such a child is too quickly prescribed Ritalin.

I shudder to think where my son would be today if we would have listened to 99 percent of the “professionals’ ” suggestions.

Maybe he’d be a docile zombie because he would be drugged up, but none of his real issues would have been addressed.

Unfortunately, because it took so long to get to the right conclusion, he suffers from low self-esteem and other side issues now, plus he has to catch up to his grade level.

Currently he is in a boot camp school that believes in him and knows he can control himself (which he does there) and also provides the therapies that he needs.

So far, baruch Hashem, it is helping him, but it is only the beginning, and only time will tell.

M.S. Lakewood, NJ

THE

REBBETZIN SPEAKS

CONNECTING

WHOSE HAND ARE YOU HOLDING?

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

A

touching anecdote is told about two youngsters who have worked long and hard to build a castle in the sand at the seashore.

They are shrieking with glee as their castle gets taller and taller. Suddenly, a huge wave comes along and topples their creation. The adults observing the scene look on with horror as the castle is washed away, fully expecting the children to be heartbroken over their loss. It’s only natural, they reason; just look at how many adults there are in the world who become depressed when their empires are undone by economic downturns or changes in fortune. To their surprise, however, the children merely laugh, grab each other’s hands and then sit back down to the business of rebuilding their castles. One of the adults then comments, “I guess if you have someone else’s hand to hold, you can deal with anything in life.”

The Mishnah teaches that one of the 48 ways of acquiring Torah is to “help his friend carry his burden.” The obvious question is: What does commiserating with a friend have to do with the acquisition of Torah? Quite the contrary; one would think that taking time out to help another person would take away from the hours one has allotted to study Torah.

My husband, shlita, shared a beautiful insight. He said that, left to our own devices, there is only a limited amount

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of Torah a person can acquire on his own. But when we connect with another individual, becoming one with him, his Torah becomes our Torah. In other words, when we are compassionate—a word derived from the Latin, meaning “co-suffering”—we merge and become one with that person. His achievements become ours, and ours become his. By “holding hands” with another person we not only benefit that person but expand our own horizons to include what would be impossible to achieve on our own.

He further extrapolated that this is at the core of Rashi’s explanation of why Yaakov Avinu waited until the end of his life to chastise Reuven. Rashi says that Yaakov was fearful that if he had apprised Reuven earlier that he had lost his status as the firstborn, then Reuven might have reacted by joining forces with his uncle, the wicked Esav.

At first glance it strikes us as rather far-fetched. Yet upon deeper reflection, it makes perfect sense that in his state of disappointment and rejection, Reuven would want to commiserate with Esav, who had suffered a similar loss. Esav, too, was disenfranchised and stripped of his birthright as the eldest. By co-suffering and “holding hands,” their souls would have merged and Esav would have become part of Reuven. This was Yaakov Avinu’s worst fear. He therefore waited until the end of his life to give Reuven this painful information, because by then he was in a better position to handle it.

The message for all of us is that we need to be super-vigilant about whose hands we hold, in the figurative sense. With

28 TISHREI 5774

whom do we choose to merge? We need to examine the icons and the role models in our lives. We dare not allow the heros and the ideals of the secular world to become part of us and enter our souls.

By the same token, connecting with another human being mitigates existential loneliness and the vicissitudes of life. It behooves us, therefore, to promote connectedness between people by reaching out and listening to each other with genuine interest in everyday conversation, by making sincere inquiries about the well-being of others, and by being present and loving in our relationships. In doing so, with warmth and a smile, we can help offset some of the harshness of living in today’s world, and we all will be left feeling more whole and equal to the challenges that are set before us.

Someone once aptly observed that the objective of life is not finding ourselves, but rather creating ourselves. Who we become over the course of our lives has much to do with how and with whom we choose to “hold hands.”  Rebbetzin Feige Twerski is the mother of 11 children and many grandchildren, whose number she refuses to divulge. Alongside her husband, Rabbi Michel Twerski, she serves as Rebbetzin to her community in Milwaukee, and counsels people all over the globe. The Rebbetzin is a popular lecturer, speaking on a wide variety of topics to audiences in America and overseas. She is the author of Ask Rebbetzin Feige and, more recently, of Rebbetzin Feige Responds.

GOLDEN NUGGETS // By Basha Majerczyk

WORSE THAN AN APOSTATE

T

here was once a chasid of Rabbi Shlomo of Karlin who set out to see his Rebbe. When he saw that he would be unable to reach his destination before sundown on Friday, he realized he would have to find a place to stay for Shabbos.

He had only gotten as far as a tiny village on the outskirts of Karlin.

After making inquiries, the man learned that there was only one Jewish family in the town. He knocked on their door and explained his predicament.

“Of course you may stay with us,” the Jew said, “but it will not be a pleasant experience for you. Unfortunately, my young son is very ill.” Having no other choice, the chasid accepted the man’s invitation.

Tragically, the child passed away on Shabbos. The parents were inconsolable in their grief. The father in particular was so broken that the bereaved woman, struggling with her own sorrow, tried to console her husband. Nothing she said, however, could offer solace.

“Would it have been better for the boy to live and grow up to be a thief?” she asked. “Better for him to have died in childhood than end up like that!” The father was unmoved.

“Would it have been better for the boy to live and grow up to be a murderer?” she persisted. The father did not respond.

“Would it have been better for our son to grow up to be an apostate?” she demanded. Still, the father was untouched.

“And what if he had grown up to be like your brother?” she asked.

With these words, the father was consoled. “You’re right,” he conceded. “It is better for him to have died than to end up like my brother.”

The guest was shocked. Who could this brother be, and what sin did he commit to be worse than a thief, a murderer or even an apostate?

After Havdalah, the chasid hired

a wagon to take him to Karlin.

Disappointed that he had not been able to spend Shabbos with the tzaddik, he was also terribly saddened by the suffering of the dead boy’s parents. Furthermore, he could not stop thinking about the man’s brother. He wondered who could possibly be so evil.

When he arrived in Karlin the Rebbe asked the chasid where he had spent Shabbos. He explained how the difficulties of the journey had preventing him from reaching Karlin before sundown, and told the Rebbe he had been forced to stay with the only Jewish family in a nearby village.

Curiously, the Rebbe expressed a marked interest, asking all about the

He could not stop thinking about the man’s brother.

He wondered who could possibly be so evil. members of the family. The chasid then told the Rebbe about the death of the child, and the odd exchange between the husband and wife that had so piqued his interest.

Much to the chasid’s surprise, the Rebbe laughed. “I am the person she meant,” he explained. “I am that man’s brother.”

This incident took place while the controversy between chasidim and misnagdim was raging at a fiery pitch.

Rabbi Shlomo of Karlin, ostracized by his family, was considered by them to be an instigator and troublemaker, leading innocent Jews astray. 

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BYTES

// Morsels of Wisdom, Wit and Practical Advice By Chaya Silber

Early to Bed, Early to Rise The benefits to getting a head start As a confirmed night owl who works best in the wee hours, I was intrigued by these studies. Admittedly, it’s hard to change ingrained habits. But I can’t say that I wasn’t tempted.

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THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE WORM Success comes to those who get there first. A study from the University of North Texas concluded that those students identifying themselves as morning people earned a full point higher on their grade point averages (GPAs) than those who identified themselves as night owls: a 3.5 GPA vs. a 2.5 GPA. Perhaps this is because the night owls spent their time partying instead of studying?

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HAPPY AS A LARK Morning people tend to be happier overall, a study suggests. In addition, most people naturally gravitate toward rising earlier and going to bed earlier as they mature.

“Past research has suggested that morning people report feeling happier than night people, and this research was only on young adults,” said study researcher Renee Biss, a graduate student at the University of Toronto.

Staying awake until the wee hours is definitely a teen thing to do. Only about seven percent of young adults are morning larks, but as the population ages, this changes: After age 60, only about seven percent of the population claim to be night owls. This might partially explain why seniors tend to be more content than teens.

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STAY IN SHAPE The early morning hours, when your body is rested and much of the world is fast asleep, is especially conducive to exercising. Exercising late in the evening, on the other hand, can cause insomnia.

Six o’clock a.m. jog, anyone?

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FIT IT ALL IN Ever heard your friend boast about the 10 pounds of challah and yeastcake she baked in the predawn hours, while her kids were asleep? What’s stopping you from doing the same?

SHATTERING A MYTH

The true colors of depression True or false: Women are 70 percent more likely to have major depression than men.

If you answered true, you’re from the old school. Times have changed.

Though depression has traditionally been dubbed a “women’s disease,” researchers have changed this characterization. When they expanded the symptoms of depression to include aggressiveness and risk-taking behavior, the chasm between depression rates in men and women disappeared.

In fact, when symptoms are properly diagnosed, major depression may be even more common in men than in women, according to a study by the journal JAMA Psychiatry.

“When it comes to depression in men, to some extent we have blinders on,” said Dr. Andrew Leuchter, a psychiatrist who studies depression at UCLA. If hubby is suddenly acting out of character, taking unreasonable risks or showing personality changes, consider this a wake-up call.

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PUTTER

AROUND

the

HOUSE

STRAPPED FOR CASH…AND BRAINS The other downside to being low on funds

A study suggests that being cash-strapped can make you do foolish things, such as buying stuff you don’t need, or eating high-calorie foods that will come back to haunt you later.

People who worry about paying their bills tend to temporarily lose the equivalent of 13 IQ points, scientists found when they gave intelligence tests to shoppers.

What’s the connection?

Experts claim financial stress tends to take over one’s brain, making other calculations more complicated. Compare it to a night of sleep deprivation, which makes you feel fuzzy in the head.

“Our paper isn’t about poverty. It’s about people struggling to make ends meet,” said Sendhil Mullainathan, a Harvard economist and study coauthor. “When we think about people who are financially stressed, we think they are short on money, but the truth is they are also short on cognitive capacity.

So being late on loans could end up costing you both interest points and IQ points.”

But look at the bright side: Being broke means the only way to go from here is upward. Just a thought.

NOT ALWAYS SO PRETTY The truth about those products you’re using

When it comes to beauty and health products, the fact is that it’s more about the beauty than the health. Here are a few caveats for buying the right products.

BUY EUROPEAN Out of 1,000 carcinogens banned by the EU, the US has only banned nine.

That means we’re light years behind our neighbors across the ocean when it comes to health.

WHAT “IMPROVED FORMULA” REALLY MEANS Scientists have “improved” upon all of the chemicals used in beauty products, making the particles smaller and stronger. This means the toxins are more easily absorbed into the skin.

HERBAL WITHOUT THE HERBS Words like “herbal,” “organic” and “natural” on your shampoo don’t mean anything at all. For example, there’s not one “herb” in Herbal Essences shampoo.

WAKE UP, BRIGHT EYES!

Overnight treatment may get your eyes in shape It sounds like a dream come true. Take your glasses off, put them on your nightstand, and drift off into la-la land. When you wake up, you don’t need glasses anymore. Your vision? A perfect 20/20.

This is not the stuff of science fiction. It’s actually a brand new technology, which utilizes contact lenses to subtly reshape the eye while you sleep.

Dr. Curtis Frank says the lenses are part of a treatment called orthokeratology, which can reduce the refractive errors of nearsightedness, astigmatism, and sometimes farsightedness. Says the doctor, “It works just like Lasik would do, but it’s without the surgery.”

One caveat: The results of the lenses are temporary—lasting only for one day. For perfect vision tomorrow, you’ve got to wear the itchy lenses all night long again.

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LONG-LASTING? UH-OH If you consider that most health and beauty aids have no expiration date, it makes you wonder: What type of chemicals are they putting there to make it last so long?

ODOR-FREE AND NATURAL It pays to spend more for a truly natural deodorant that doesn’t place a layer of aluminum and dangerous chemicals on your lymph nodes.

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true s ’ e l p ou ir One c y of the ver stor to reco ial ggle stru om financ fr ter disas tein

aS r o i L By

Diary

Recap: Though Tzvi earns a six-figure salary, the Stein’s have a monthly shortfall of $4,899. Though Liora feels guilty she overspends she refuses to go through the spreadsheet Tzvi created, which details their expenditures. Liora and Tzvi have agreed to discuss this issue with their therapist. The therapists tells that they are on the same team.

Part 6: Tuition Cuts

“Not him,” Tzvi said. “Not anyone we know.”

“But...” I started to explain why I wanted to enlist my friend’s husband, a financial planner, to help us.

“Or anyone your parents know,” Tzvi emphasized.

The need to keep this whole fiasco a secret, to keep Tzvi’s pride intact, irked me. How could we make the right decisions if we didn’t ask for help? The therapist could encourage us to communicate, but she wasn’t in a position to guide us on what expenses to keep or cut.

So I took drastic measures in my mind. We’ll eat pasta every night and give up our car, I decided as I dumped the water out of a pot, knocking over the bowl where the silverware was soaking. The hot water made my hands red.

Tzvi interrupted my thoughts, which were spinning like a hamster wheel, when he came in from the back door after taking out the garbage.

“Hey, I think we should start looking at the spreadsheet (Editor’s Note: It will appear in next week’s column),” he said as he placed the keys on the hook.

I dried my hands and joined Tzvi at the table.

He was already sorting the numbers: this month’s projected savings, and how we really did.

“Did it help that I gave up buying coffee the past few weeks?” I wondered aloud.

“Well, the restaurant numbers were a little lower,

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but,” Tzvi trailed off as he squinted at the computer screen.

“I guess I did cheat a few times,” I admitted. The last week of day camp had me running to productions and dropping strange items off for color war, while sending out résumés.

“No worries,” Tzvi told me, smiling.

“I’ll do better next time,” I reassured. “It’ll be easier for me if we just kill our entire restaurant budget. That way I won’t think I can sneak a coffee every so often.”

Looking together at the numbers on the screen made it clear: Tuition is our biggest expense right now.

Maybe it makes sense to ask the school for a reprieve, a discount, or a scholarship. I wish it didn’t have to be.

“How can we ask for a discount?” I asked Tzvi, as I leaned back in my chair, “It’s our kids’ education.”

“How can we not?” Tzvi said, rubbing his temples.

“We can’t afford full tuition.”

“I just wish,” I didn’t finish my sentence. What, Liora, that you could pay full tuition? Why rub it in? I thought to myself. Stay silent.

“Wish what?” Tzvi interrupted. “That you’d married a millionaire?”

“Chas v’shalom! I just don’t want to have to go through the process,” I said. “It’s grueling to have to list all of our expenses on the scholarship application.”

It felt humiliating to reduce payment for something

THE NU MBERS

as holy and important as our kids’ Torah learning.

We’d worked so hard to build up to paying more over the years. When we first moved to Brooklyn, we’d told the school what we could afford. They’d accepted the number. With each year, the rate increased one or two percentage points. Once the school asked us for a bigger chunk. Happily we agreed and cut back in other areas to make space for tuition.

For the last couple of years we’d had enough money to pay the full amount. And now this: the shift from being givers back to begging for a scholarship from a cash-strapped yeshivah. My pride ached, but facing our budget shortfall in therapy shocked me into reality.

“Listen, we did our best when we could,” Tzvi continued. “I’m hoping they’ll understand.”

“Okay. What’s next on the chopping block?” I asked, relieved that we were facing the numbers together, and determined to spend less.

“Refinancing the mortgage could save some money,” Tzvi said. “I’m going to put a potential savings of $400 per month.”

“That would be great,” I agreed, imagining our bank account filled with the extra dollars, culled from restaurant and mortgage savings.

“I e-mailed a guy I met in shul who does mortgages,” Tzvi told me, biting his fingernails. “We’ll see what he says.”

I looked for the next biggest number on Tzvi’s computer screen: tutoring. Untouchable. My older kids’ Hebrew homework was already too difficult for me to help them, which led to misunderstandings and power struggles. Add to that a kid with a reading difficulty and one who doodled during math class. Tutoring was an essential expense. Next.

“What if we stop going to therapy?” I asked, as I went to get us a bottle of water from the kitchen.

“That sounds unrealistic.”

“I mean, it’s helpful, but we’ve come a long way and it’s so expensive,” I explained my logic.

“We could keep it to once a month.” Tzvi sounded so reasonable. But I knew better. After three weeks of keeping my emotions pent up inside, I feared I’d overrun the session limit, costing us money we didn’t have and the therapist time she didn’t have for nonemergencies.

“If we need a session, we can always call her,” I said, taking a sip of water. “I’m too afraid I won’t respect the limits otherwise.”

Tzvi tapped his fingers on the table, staring at me for a few seconds.

“Okay, but don’t pressure yourself,” Tzvi paused.

“Thanks, Tzvi,” I said, smiling. “You never know, maybe we’ll be fine.” I laughed; this conversation had

HOME R E Mortga LATED ge.....

Second ...... .

Utilit Mortgage.... ........ $3, ies.... ......

200 Cleani . . ng & B ........... .... $300 EDUCAT abysit .

I ting... .... $675 Tuitio ON ..... $ n 720 Tutori ........... ng..... .

FOOD ...... ........ $3, ......

6 Grocer ..... $ 00 i 480 Restau es.......... r .

CREDIT ants........ ........ $1, ......

9 Paymen CARDS ..... $ 00 ts.....

200 Financ . e Char ...........

CAR & g .

COMMUT es.......... .... $700 Gas...

ING ..... $ .

500 Car In ........... suranc ......

Metroc e..... ..... $ a .

1 HEALTH rds........ .......... $ 80 ......

189 Doctor ..... $ 100 Couple Copays..... s Ther ...... apy.... . ...... ..... $60 Maaser ..... $ ......

480 ...... ......

TOTAL ..... $ E 120 NET IN XPENSES....

COME.. ......

SHORTF . .

ALL.... ........... . $13,404 ...... ... $8, ......

5 .. -$4, 05 899

gone better than expected, baruch Hashem. We seemed in agreement about priorities.

Tackling the big things felt productive, until we checked our progress. We were still over by $1,244.

“The electricity,” I said, shifting in my chair. “We can train the kids to turn off the lights better.” I hoped we could cut back by $175. Tzvi thought that was unrealistic, but was willing to go along with the idea.

“I bet we can spend less on groceries.” I remembered my neighbor saying she spent nearly $1000 less than I did. “I’m going to ask a real balabusta to help me figure it out.”

“Don’t starve us,” my thin husband joked, patting his belly. We hadn’t laughed this much in a while.

But the numbers showed that even after all the cuts, we were still in the red.

“I really need a job, Tzvi.” The Visual Thesaurus job hadn’t really panned out the way I’d hoped; they found someone else to write user manuals and enter data. Finding a job for me wasn’t just an ideological, emotional argument about “having it all” anymore, or randomly sending out résumés. It was survival.

He nodded his head, acquiescing. We’d have to find a way to make it work.

Tzvi said, quietly, “Or I need a better job. Fast.” n

To be continued...

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TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

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Less Than Perfect Motherhood FACED WITH A DILEMMA, I CHOSE THE UNTHINKABLE

T

his is not that kind of story that leaves you with a warm fuzzy feeling.

Impressions and personal opinions aside, the world is such that the clock moves forward, not backward.

That being the case, there is no undoing that which has already been done. And naturally, it goes without saying: Let no man judge his friend before he has walked in his shoes.

My story begins with my pregnancy with my fourth child. My neighbor, cousin and best friend Leah was also expecting a child.

The two of us spent months curled up on each other’s couches, fantasizing about our post-baby vacations in the Mother and Baby Home. It was a very happy time for both of us, filled with expectation and joy.

Leah and I had grown up together. We shared secrets as little girls, then as teenagers. We were both delighted to be neighbors when we married, sharing our secrets as newlyweds and then when we became mommies.

But there was one secret I could not share with Leah.

During a routine visit to the doctor I was informed that the child I was carrying was sick. I had no idea of the ramifications at the time, and I told no one but my husband. Together, we decided that whatever Hashems sends our way is for the best.

A few months later the baby was born. I took one look at him and knew that I could never, ever, bring him home. He was so deformed and misshapen that I was terrified of holding him; I could not imagine bringing myself to bathe or feed him.

I cried buckets of tears, tears of disappointment, pain and confusion. Then I did the unthinkable: I gave my child away.

I realized that nobody could force me to love him—not my husband, the nurses or the hospital social worker. I could not and would not bring him home. As for the rest of the world— including my parents, in-laws, siblings and friends—everyone was told that my baby had passed away, even Leah.

Leah had given birth to a healthy and beautiful baby girl but made no attempt to reach out to me, to try and ease my pain.

Both hurt and angry, I withdrew into myself more and more.

For the first few months of his life, the baby remained in the hospital, battling numerous health issues. Then, an adoptive family was found and my husband and I went to meet them.

It was a heart-wrenching experience. They were a frum couple, incredibly lofty individuals who had already raised their own children and felt that there was still room in their hearts to raise more children. Despite their nonjudgmental attitude—or maybe because of it—I felt exceedingly ashamed in their presence, small and immature in the face of their strength of character. I rationalized that they possessed the physical stamina and the financial wherewithal that I lacked. They truly believed that they were undertaking a Heaven-sent mission, a concept I had yet to internalize.

But I soon discovered that time cannot heal the passing of a child who is not dead. If I thought that leaving my child behind would enable me to get on with my life, I was making a big mistake. Instead of letting my baby go, his image still came with me everywhere. I imagined him crying all the time. I saw his fingers pointing at me accusatorily. It didn’t matter what I was doing: Cooking, cleaning or shopping, I constantly felt him breathing down my neck.

I couldn’t seem to let go of the guilt, which made coping with everyday tasks a nightmare. My usual sparkle for life was gone.

Something inside of me died the day my child was born. Pain became permanently etched into my face. And while Leah and I resumed contact, it was no longer the same friendship it had once been. I still could not forgive her for abandoning me in my moment of need. So I erected walls around me, and Leah kept her distance.

Then, three years later, an unexpected event threw us back together again. A shared aunt, who was marrying off her youngest son in London, invited us, her two favorite nieces, to the wedding. Heaven wanted us to travel together. We were both very excited, and in an effort to save money we traveled from Israel to London via Russia. Unfortunately—or fortunately as I 28 TISHREI 5774

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But there was one secret I felt I could never tell Leah.

can say in retrospect—our connecting flight from Russia to London was delayed, and we spent a good few hours sitting in the airport with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

It was there, far away from home, sitting on cold plastic chairs, watching the world go by, that our hearts fused into a single unit once more. I felt my resentments melting away as we carried on a normal conversation, talking about life, our husbands and children. In the middle of it all, I felt myself battling an urge to cry. Leah noticed; she put her arms around me and then the tears came, as did my story, the true story, the one that I’d been carrying alone for far too long.

As I spoke I was overcome with the relief of being able to share a burden. For in truth, as I told Leah, my heartache went far deeper than losing a child. G-d had not taken my baby, I had given him away.

“What kind of mother abandons her child?” I asked Leah, my whole body heaving. “Surely I was duty-bound to work harder on myself and find the courage to care for him instead of running away…” my voice smothered into my crumpled tissue.

At first, Leah was dumbstruck. It took her time to digest all that I was saying. She promised me that she would not judge me and would support me. “But self-pity,” she asserted, “has to be left out of the equation.”

Then she suggested I go visit him.

My jaw dropped. She knew she had struck a chord. I wanted to see him so badly, but I was still so afraid.

She suggested we go together, just the two of us. She would be there for me and never breathe a word about him to anyone.

I pondered the idea, thankful for the abundance of time I had to come to a decision; after all, we were still a long way from home, in both time and space.

When we got back to Israel, I discussed the idea with my husband, who was exceptionally supportive. He asked a rav, who approved the move and gave me a brachah that the visit should go smoothly.

When I contacted the couple, they were not the least bit surprised to hear from me; it was as though they’d been awaiting my call.

“Please,” they said, “you are welcome to come and visit. You’re going to love him. He’s a gem, and we’re so grateful to have him.”

Their last sentence meant the world to me, and paved the way forward.

Visiting day started out as a lovely spring morning. Leah called to check up on me, excited. I was a bundle of nerves and was having a hard time deciding what to wear. In the end, I chose to go formal, dressing up for the occasion.

I spent a long time davening that morning, asking Hashem to

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have mercy on my tortured soul and battered heart.

I knew that if today went well, I’d be able to move forward with the healing process, but if not, I’d be worse off than before.

Leah and I took a taxi in silence. I was too jittery to talk.

The couple greeted us at the door. It was clear that they too understood the importance of the occasion—little prince charming was dressed accordingly.

I took a peek into his special carriage and, as I remembered, he was indeed severely deformed. Leah stood back, allowing me space. I was trembling slightly as I made eye-contact with my son; it was obvious that there was chemistry between us.

His adoptive mother reached out and stroked my arm. “Don’t be afraid of him,” she said gently. There was not the slightest tone of reproach in her voice, only incredible understanding and compassion.

“Look at his mouth,” Leah said. “It’s so delicate, and perfectly formed.”

Very slowly and with the woman’s help, I took his hand in my own and the tears began to fall.

I stroked him gently and in a barely audible voice, looked into his eyes and said “I’m sorry. So, so sorry; I wish I could bring you home…but I can’t. I just can’t; please understand…”

My son smiled, and I smiled shyly back, wiping my tears. I held his hand for a little while longer, crouching beside him and studying him closely.

Then I kissed him on the forehead and let go.

“Thank you,” I said to Leah, “for suggesting I come here. And thank you for coming with me. I could never have done it on my own.”

Turning to my baby’s new mother, I whispered, “I have no words, only Hashem can repay you for the love you have shown my child.”

The woman enveloped me with a huge hug and replied, “You’re invited to come and visit him whenever you want…he’s G-d’s child and ours to share.”

That is exactly what I needed to hear.

I now visit my son once a month, still insisting that I do not have the courage to go alone. Leah thinks I’m underestimating my resilience, but she cannot understand how much I appreciate her presence. I’ve slowly returned to my own happy self, accepting my limitations and loving my fourth child as I do the rest of my children.

I have come to understand that motherhood takes many forms. Each woman must travel her own road toward growth and self-awareness. n

To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

SOLIDARITY

By Shira Lieberman*

W

hen I considered the challenges in my life, they were daunting. Every family has its personal travails—some more public than others—and tragedy breaks into the best of homes, leaving lives harmed.

A catastrophe can happen anytime and anywhere.

But in my family’s case, it seemed as if calamity and heartbreak had been constant trespassers, giving us no chance to catch our breath between their regular visits. Hammer blows rained down upon us often, with no interludes of stability to buffer our chaotic existence, as we coasted from one crisis to another.

Shimi, the eldest, was struggling with addictions. Faigy, my only daughter, labeled “at risk” from the time she was very young and already through the system, had landed in a last-resort yeshivah in Israel. Yitzi was a special needs child, and Sruli, my youngest, had been stricken with leukemia when he was 10. And I…I was the linchpin, the family’s center and source of strength, stoic backbone and bulwark, giving until I was depleted, carrying all the burdens and sorrows until my shoulders became bowed under their weight.

I was 45 when I was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. I had always taken care of my family. Who, I wondered, would now take care of me?

My husband was devastated by my diagnosis. He fell apart, lacking the emotional strength to help me. His foundation was rocked. And in confusion, he retreated, just when I needed him the most. (Later, in group sessions sponsored by Bikur Cholim for frum women with cancer, I would come to learn that this behavior among male spouses is not uncommon.) I felt very alone. My father had passed away when I was eight years old and my beloved mother had just died a year before, worrying until the end that I would face the specter of cancer. “Shirala,” she frequently begged. “Please go get a mammogram.”

Because a benign tumor had been removed from her breast when she was 33 and her own aunt had been stricken with breast cancer—both episodes scaring the living daylights out of her—she became terrified for me. Consequently, she became a passionate advocate for early screening. Maybe it was also some form of intuition that spurred her tremendous concern—but at any rate, from the time that I turned 35, she continuously begged me to make an appointment. Years passed and I continued to ignore her pleas. When I celebrated my 40th birthday, she became obsessed.

I meant no disrespect towards my mother, but I was young and brushed aside her worries as melodramatic. When we are

young, we don’t pay enough attention to our parents’ point of view, especially when we have our own. And I was just too busy struggling to raise my brood of kids to take several hours off to sit in the crowded, hectic Boro Park quarters of a harried OBGYN who would inevitably refer me to an equally frenzied radiologist’s office, overflowing with nervous patients. The way I calculated it, an entire day would be misspent, a complete waste of time. So I swatted away my mother’s fears with a dismissive brush of the hand, and did nothing.

At 43, I found a suspicious discharge. If I had been nursing, I wouldn’t have given it any heed, but I hadn’t nursed for years.

I wasn’t unduly concerned, but I knew enough to know that it wasn’t normal. I finally hauled myself off to a local OBGYN group, and after the mammogram was pronounced “negative,” promptly forgot about the whole thing. (My mother had just had a stroke in Florida where she now lived, and had to be transferred to an assisted living residence. I was in charge of all the arrangements and believed that her health and well-being at this time was a greater priority than mine. I wasn’t very astute about breast cancer testing, and was just relieved to know that I was free to take care of her without any distractions.)

In truth, if I had been more educated about breast cancer, I probably would have asked for a follow-up sonogram to confirm the mammogram’s results. And if the OBGYN had been more conscientious, he probably would have insisted, too. After all, the discharge was cause for alarm. I was a mere layperson with little awareness of the disease. He, however, should have known better.

We were both overtaxed and strained for time. To this day, I regret that I didn’t pursue legal action against him. I totally blame him for what happened next.

One year later, on the exact date of my mother’s first yahrzeit, I found a lump in my breast, in the same area from where the discharge had originally issued. I was distraught at finding the lump.

Yet, I was given a gift of some sense of reassurance in the fact that I had discovered the lump on the anniversary of her death, seeing this as no mere coincidence. Instead, I took it as an auspicious omen that my mother, having passed to higher worlds, would serve as a meilitz yosher and keep me safe. This may sound strange, but as someone who sees design and purpose in almost everything, I found it awesome that of all the times I should find the lump, it should be on her yahrzeit. I kept thinking: Ribbono Shel Olam, this is exactly what my mother was so obsessed about during her lifetime! Why am I finding it today—of all possible days?

So I wasn’t quite as scared as I might have been, had I found the 28 TISHREI 5773

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THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

lump under different circumstances (that is, any other day of the year).

I didn’t go back to the OBGYN. This time, I went to my internist instead, who paid attention. Everything happened very rapidly, almost in a blur. The initial examination was immediately followed by a trip to the radiologist who, in quick succession, took a mammogram, did a sonogram, and performed a biopsy. In all likelihood, the cancer had probably been festering inside my breast for at least a year, since the time that I had first noticed the discharge. My diagnosis was: advanced breast cancer, stage 4.

How to tell my children? I leaned on the wonderful women from Sharsheret (an organization for young Jewish women with breast cancer) for guidance and advice.

They counseled me gently, offering me the soothing and kind wisdom of women who had been there themselves. They suggested both the language in which I might wish to couch my news, and the various approaches I could take with different children, depending upon their respective ages and unique personal temperaments. I took every child aside privately, and told each one slightly different versions of the same truth.

Almost all of their reactions—flowing as they did from their already established personalities—were predictable. It was Faigy, my “at-risk” daughter, who rose to the challenge.

“Outsiders”—people who have not parented “at risk” children and have limited knowledge of who they are—harbor many misconceptions about their makeup. They think that it is the youngster who possesses a truculent and complicated personality from early on who develops into an “at-risk” teen. My experience has shown me that the exact opposite is more true; there are two personality types that are particularly vulnerable: Either it is the sensitive, quiet child with an easy-going temperament who gets lost in the family system, or it is the strong and capable child whose needs are ignored because he didn’t clamor that they be fulfilled quite as loudly as his other siblings. Both suffer and fall by the wayside. The first type dulls his intense pain with an addictive substance. That was Shimi. The second type rebels. That was Faigy.

Faigy had never been a troublemaker. She had always been helpful in the home, so helpful in fact that I ultimately placed too many burdens and responsibilities on her young shoulders.

I depended on her too much to help steer our sinking ship. She was my right-hand girl and caretaker of the boys. And I was so busy with the “problem” children in our family that I had become oblivious to what she was going through, incapable of channeling my energies in her direction and sure that she could handle my neglect. There were always so many fires to put out, so many crises erupting all at once, that I lacked the time, patience and stamina to give her what she needed. When she finally cracked under the weight of the burdens she bore, I was shocked. But what I had expected—and demanded—from her was too much for any child.

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Consequently, Faigy rebelled and our relationship became turbulent. We were unable to forge the close mother-daughter bond that other women took for granted, even though she was my only daughter. Faigy simmered with resentment, and started to provide me with enough heartache to last a lifetime. She assumed a tough exterior that was hard to crack and I threw up my hands in exasperation.

Faigy was bounced from one yeshivah to the next, and then she stubbornly refused to attend school altogether. We got her “home instruction” through the Board of Ed for a period of one year, but with the unending series of emergencies and urgent situations that punctuated our days and was a regular feature of our family life, it didn’t provide her with enough emotional support. Finally, in a desperate attempt to “straighten her out,” my husband and I decided to send her to a yeshivah in Israel that had been recommended for girls “like her.” We did not know that the element was rough. I regret that we sent her to this school, and for years afterward, Faigy would bitterly remember that “just when I needed you the most, you shipped me away.” This yeshivah was not appropriate for her—so, typical of my capable Faigy, she found herself a better fit. In the end, Israel turned out to be excellent for her, but the resentment she harbored about her “exile” lingered for a long time.

As I gained perspective with hindsight, I experienced deep anguish about the misguided approach I had taken with her from childhood on. Because Faigy was so selfless, I had relied on her too much, but she was too young to handle the pressures that were placed on her. Such is human nature: The “squeaky wheels get the grease,” but the ones who are not verbal about their needs are the ones who get ignored. People need to know: Kids don’t become addicts or “at risk” by chance; there’s always something behind it. They are neglected or crushed by the circumstances under which they live. As was Faigy.

Faigy returned from Israel still strong and opinionated, but continued to display the selfless side I always knew. When my mother first became ill in Florida (before she relocated to the assisted living residence), it was Faigy who volunteered to move in with her and help. Once my mother was comfortably settled in her new quarters, Faigy returned home and continued to “clean up her act.” Although she had rejected chareidi life and opted to be “modern” instead, we understood her decision. We were just so grateful to have our daughter back, and to marvel at the fine, mature young lady she had become. At 18, she married, and when she had her first baby, our relationship changed.

Perhaps it was motherhood that softened her, or perhaps it was grandmotherhood that softened me. Maybe she now truly understood for the first time in her life what it meant to raise a child, the hopes and dreams and energy and love that are poured into each new life. At any rate, a miracle occurred and our relationship began to heal.

Just before my diagnosis, Faigy and her husband had been on

the cusp of making aliyah. They had already filed the documents, bought the plane tickets, and started packing. They were scheduled to leave in a few weeks. But when I drew Faigy aside and shared my news, the first thing she said was: “Then we won’t go. We’ll stay.”

I was tremendously touched by her response. Still, I could not allow her to make such a sacrifice. I knew how much she and her husband wanted to live in Israel, and how much her heart was set on aliyah. “Absolutely not!” I said. “Your living your life is what will make me happy.” She tried to argue, but my voice was firm, brooking no dissent. Then, to change the subject, I told her what the protocol entailed: First I would have chemotherapy to shrink the tumor, then a radical mastectomy followed by radiation to ensure that all traces of the tumor were gone.

On Erev Pesach, I had my first protocol of chemotherapy.

The nursing staff had advised me that following the second dose (scheduled for two weeks later), my hair might start falling out but I didn’t need to brace myself for the inevitable until then.

But my body didn’t heed the nurses’ timetable. Almost as soon as Pesach was over, my scalp began to feel very uncomfortable and I was besieged by an uncontrollable itch. It was actually more than an itch, it was a pain, a pain I couldn’t quite describe (how does hair feel painful?) but it was unbearable, a stark reminder that chemo was in fact a poison, that I had this poison inside of me, and that I needed the poison to keep on living. I didn’t want to be made so conscious of my vulnerability, and right now, it was my hair that was literally stinging me into an unnecessary state of hyperawareness.

I had been warned about the hair loss. I knew that it was going to go. And I also knew that I desperately needed to feel a sense of empowerment—the sense that I was in control of the cancer, instead of it being in control of me. I could exert this power by choosing to cut my hair before it fell out in clumps. It would be a preemptive act: a small-but-important symbol of my triumph over cancer’s destructive force.

As the idea began to form in my mind, I did two things: First I called a posek to ask if I could cut my hair during sefirah. And after he said yes, I asked my daughter if she knew where we had put the professional hair clippers we used for the boys. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Shaving my head,” I explained. “Let me

Stop Breast Cancer with Vigilance October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, an international health campaign organized by major breast cancer charities every year to increase awareness of the disease and raise funds for breast cancer research. Worldwide, breast cancer is the cancer that kills the most women, and in 2010 alone, 1.5 million people were diagnosed with some form of the disease. Dangerous forms of breast cancer have been on the rise in young women over the last three decades. The highest rates of breast cancer occur in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and some other parts of Western Europe and Australia.

The best methods of testing for breast cancer—besides genetic testing for specific types of susceptibility—are mammograms and breast self-examination.

All adult women should perform a breast self-examination once a month. Forty percent of breast cancers are found by women who feel a lump (though only a small percentage of lumps are cancerous), so the exam is important.

The National Cancer Institute and the American Cancer Society recommends mammograms starting at age 40. A recent study by Harvard Medical School of over 7,000 women diagnosed with breast cancer found that a large percentage—about 65 percent—of the women who died from the cancer had never had a mammogram, suggesting that many more women could be saved with early mammography. So the current research suggests that women should get early mammography. But experts are also concerned about unnecessary procedures as well as the fear that mammography can cause. So women should bear in mind that an abnormality isn’t something to be frightened of; it may mean nothing or a growth that needs no treatment. Careful consultation with a doctor who can clearly diagnose any condition and advise about a treatment plan is key, and women should learn about their options before agreeing to any surgery.

THE CLEAN BILL // Real People on the Quest for Health

do it for you,” she said.

We went into my bedroom and locked the door. Tears misted our eyes, but as she raised the shears, my daughter started to clown around, trying to turn the episode into an adventure, and also aiming for some comic relief. She did a couple of silly, funny things like cutting off one side of my hair, while keeping the other side intact; then she crafted a funky “Mohawk” style out of my remaining hair, and finally she swirled quirky designs on my head. We were crying and laughing the entire time—simultaneously. Once she got down to it, though, and we knew there was no turning back, our emotions became raw.

I felt great appreciation that Faigy was helping me in such a loving way, and valiantly trying to make it fun, while all along I knew that it surely was as traumatic for her as it was for me. How hard it must have been for my daughter to shave her mother’s head and stare the illness in its face, witnessing first-hand the ravages that had only just begun. She was very brave and mature, and trying to make the experience “fun” was truly a gift. It was a moment of great bonding, one that I will never forget. We looked into each other’s eyes and saw the love that was reflected there, running strong and deep.

When it was over, and the hair lay on the floor, we hugged tremulously, and I told my only daughter how much I loved her.

Then 19-year-old Faigy, who didn’t cover the thick, lustrous, gorgeous, wavy hair that hung halfway down her back, and who had always worn it long ever since she was a little child, picked up the shaver and casually placed it in my palm.

“Okay, Mom. It’s my turn now,” she said. “Now you shave me.”

Instinctively, my hands curled around the clippers, clutching them tight.

I gazed at my daughter in shock, stunned by her suggestion.

Over the years, I had heard about a male oncologist named Bernie Siegel who had shaved his head in solidarity with his cancer patients. But he had been middle aged then and male.

My daughter was 19, in the prime of her beauty, her lustrous hair its crowning feature. I was honored, comforted and awestruck by what she proposed to do.

But of course I said no.

Just the offer was enough. n * Shira Lieberman is a pseudonym. She is a ten year survivor of stage IV breast cancer.

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Hooves for Diabetic Feet

medica minutel Latest H and Reseealth News Around tharch from e World

ISRAELI SHOE INNOVATION TO STOP AMPUTATIONS One of the most traumatic health effects caused by diabetes can be amputation of a limb. Every 20 seconds, somewhere on earth a person with diabetes loses a limb, according to the Southern Arizona Limb Salvage Alliance. In the US, for example, there are almost 80,000 amputations related to diabetes each year. Stopping those amputations can preserve both physical and mental health for patients and their families. An Israeli woman has developed a new and effective way to do that, based on her study of horses’ hooves.

Lilach Steiner, a designer studying at the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design, studied the use of massage to reduce the occurrence of diabetesrelated amputation. People with diabetes can have both constricted blood vessels in the leg and foot and peripheral arterial disease, which also reduces blood flow, but both conditions can be mitigated through full leg and foot massage. While Steiner found that there are machines that can provide such a massage, she wondered whether a shoe could be designed to provide a partial massage as the patient walks.

Steiner, a horse enthusiast, based her idea for such a shoe on the form of a horse’s hoof, which acts to push blood from the lower extremity of the leg back up. Her shoe design, called Flow, which features flexible ridges that massage the foot and push blood along, is still being worked on, but she hopes to bring it to the market soon, with the help of new funding that she has received from an Israeli manufacturers’ group.

ERASER FOR THE MIND

Scientists stop dangerous memories Some people don’t want to remember. People who have experienced traumatic events can experience symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) when their memories of the events are triggered. Former drug addicts and cigarette smokers often complain that their cravings are triggered by cues in their environment that remind them of drug-taking or smoking. Scientists may have found a method for stopping such memories from being triggered.

Researchers at the Florida campus of the Scripps Research Institute worked with mice that were given the drug methamphetamine. The researchers trained the mice to associate certain visual, tactile and scent cues with the pleasing sensation of taking the drug; when the mice encountered those cues, they showed strong interest.

But after the scientists injected the mice with a drug that inhibited the chaining together of molecules of the brain chemical actin, which is involved in the formation of memories, the mice showed no interest when offered the cues for the methamphetamine. The cues apparently did not trigger memories of the drug. But the mice still retained other memories.

Scientists think that the drug-related memories may be more fragile than other ones because they are associated with the brain chemical dopamine, involved in rewarding activities. The scientists hope that memories associated with other types of addiction and PTSD might be erasable through similar methods.

845.371.7625 | 421 ROUTE 59 | MONSEY, NY 10952

Prince & Princess CHILDREN’S BOUTIQUE

MARRIAGE

For decades I had invested my efforts outwards, AS TOLD TO SHIFFY FRIEDMAN

epiphany

F

ifty years ago, long before the term “top girl” was coined, I was considered one. After graduating with enough awards and commendations to line the full length of my wallpapered bedroom, I landed a job as a high school teacher. I spent my days delivering powerful lessons and my nights mending the hearts of broken girls.

When Yaakov Moshe, an excellent boy at the local yeshivah, was redt to me, my parents were very excited. Why, they knew his parents from der heim! To them, this was a sign that we were destined for each other. Two weeks later, we were engaged.

In the early days of our marriage, Yaakov Moshe would awaken at the crack of dawn and run off to the beis midrash. My heart swelled with pride as I watched him through the window, scurrying through the empty streets while the rest of the world was still enveloped in a blanket of dreams. When he returned, I’d prepare him breakfast before I left for my job. I knew I was lucky. Yaakov Moshe was a real tzaddik. But, most of the mental notes I made to tell him how much he meant to me remained in the realm of thought.

Before long, we had a new role to play as parents. It seemed like one day it was just the two of us, and the next we were a family. As our family grew, the responsibilities weighed heavily

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on our shoulders. Financial support from our parents was nonexistent, so I continued to work.

I loved my job. I loved to connect with my students, to feel the thrill of making their eyes sparkle with love for Yiddishkeit.

It was extremely gratifying to watch the girls blossom under my care. The fruits of my labors were more immediate in school than at home, where my children were still in diapers.

After giving birth to three girls and three boys in rapid succession, however, I was forced to leave the workforce, and the onus of breadwinning was thrust onto Yaakov Moshe’s shoulders solely. While he put in long hours selling cameras and photography equipment in the City, I became a full-time mom.

It wasn’t easy and when I’d feel like I’m suffocating, which was often, Yaakov Moshe would watch the children and I’d spend the night out with friends.

Before long, the little ones turned into independent beings who didn’t need me in quite the same way anymore. With everyone finally in school, my role began to change and I had more time on my hands. I started to look elsewhere to fill it.

When my friend Rivkah called one morning to inform me that she was hosting a tea for a well-known tzedakah organization, I leaped at the opportunity. I attended the event and offered my services as a volunteer.

Over the next few months I was trained as a counselor so I could provide chizzuk to those who reached out to the organization for help. I had so much success with my first few clients that my volunteering mushroomed into a fulltime commitment. Since my main focus was helping parents whose children were stricken with illness, I formed intimate relationships with many families in need of support at the darkest moments of their lives. My phone rang from morning to night. I was busy sitting at the bedside of sick children, cooking and delivering dinners for families in crisis, and unfortunately, attending many a shivah call. Sometimes, when I felt it was needed, I’d even stay with these families overnight. I was a oneman go-to person when it came to chesed.

And oh, the feedback! It was nectar to my soul. I was showered with recognition and honored at dozens of testimonial dinners.

Wherever I went, people sang my praises. There was barely an inch of wall space in my living room that wasn’t covered by a plaque or inscription. I was in my element.

Then a seemingly innocent conversation occurred that made me rethink my entire life and priorities.

“So, what are you going for?” I asked my granddaughter one day when she told me she was attending college.

“Social work,” she answered.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “You know you come from a long line of do-gooders! Seriously, that’s wonderful. A social worker can really help so many people. What aspect of it interests you the most?”

“Actually,” she said, “I’d like to specialize in couples therapy and do marriage counseling.”

“Why?” I was curious.

“Why?” She laughed a small laugh. “Because marriage is the most important relationship there is in life. Aside from having children, everything else pales in comparison.”

My granddaughter continued, “Now that I’m married, I realize how a husband and wife can really become one if they choose to invest in their marriage. Unfortunately, it’s also a relationship that’s easy to neglect, and I’ve seen couples grow apart without them even realizing it.”

We went on to talk about other things, but her words continued to reverberate in my head. My mind was suddenly filled with scenarios from my past that made me feel ashamed: Me on the phone while Yaakov Moshe read the newspaper at the table, trying to catch my eye; Yaakov Moshe coming home from work exhausted, only to find a dark house and cold chicken in the fridge. Even our last vacation five years ago had been cut short because I had insisted on getting back to my work.

Invest. How much had I invested in our marriage of close to 50 years? Yaakov Moshe still got up at dawn for Shacharis, but had I ever gotten around to telling him how much I admired his steadfastness and commitment? Had I ever let him talk long enough so I could even hear what was really on his mind? What

My mind was suddenly filled with scenarios from my past that made me feel ashamed about the night when I was out comforting a grieving family when my own husband was sick with the flu, or the months he was in deep mourning for his mother.

The next few days were torturous as I saw myself and my marriage in this new light. It was painful to realize how much my priorities had been skewed all these years. My husband and I shared a home, we shared a family, but we didn’t share our lives.

We were both getting older, but instead of enjoying our golden years they were turning to rust as I scurried around town, providing balm to the souls of others while neglecting the only soul that was intertwined with mine.

I was filled with regret thinking of the countless times I’d left the house in a rush, the many meals my husband had eaten in solitude because I was too busy for him, involved in projects that were more important to me than my marriage.

Yaakov Moshe and I could have been the best of friends, but we’d settled for parallel lives. And it was all my fault.

After tossing and turning in bed several nights in a row, I resolved that while I couldn’t turn back the hands of time, I would do my best to make the most of the years that are hopefully left to us.

“Yaakov Moshe,” I said to my husband one day, “I’m cooking a special dinner tonight. Your favorite: chicken in mushroom sauce.”

“Who’s coming?” he asked. “Are you making a seudas hodaah for the Goldsteins? I heard you congratulating them on the phone on Monday.”

I bit my lip so the tears wouldn’t come. Poor Yaakov Moshe.

“No, I’m making it for you,” I said. He looked at me with a perplexed expression in his eyes. “I want to spend time with you, just the two of us,” I said softly. “There’s a lot we have to catch up on.”  The Marriage and Parenting column alternate weekly. To contribute contact us at editorial@amimagazine.org 28 TISHREI 5774

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CEO

W

hen I spoke to Hanita Friedman over the phone from her home in Karmiel, in the Upper Galilee in Israel, I was delighted to find that she speaks English remarkably well.

Soft-spoken, thoughtful and displaying a wry sense of humor, the 50-year-old fiercely proud chozeret bi’teshuvah and mother of five was reluctant to discuss her accomplishments as the founder of KarmiSoft, a Galil-based software service provider. Encouraged to do so, however,

by Karmiel’s Chief Rabbi, Harav Avraham Tzvi Margalit, who explained that the more people know about the company the more business it will hopefully generate, she graciously granted me an interview.

Indeed, much to her astonishment, since going public there has been a flurry of requests for interviews from media outlets fascinated with the idea of an ultraOrthodox woman successfully asserting herself in the exalted realm of Israeli hightech start-ups. Even more importantly, much-needed investment capital has also started to come in, mainly from the US. “I was born in Neot Mordechai in the Upper Galil and studied mechanical engi-

Shattering many preconceived notions and conventions, Hanita Friedman is not your typical entrepreneur

in a

Tichel

neering at the Technion in Haifa,” Hanita begins. “My first job was in Gothenburg in Sweden, where I worked for the Volvo automobile company. When I returned to Israel I married my husband, Ori Yosef Friedman, who was working at the time as an IT manager, and we had three sons.”

It was shortly afterward that the Friedmans became religious. Hanita was strongly inspired by shiurim she heard over the radio. “Working in marketing, I traveled a lot. The radio was constantly turned to Channel Ten. I wouldn’t let anyone move it.” A Shabbaton the family attended in Jerusalem marked the turning point in their spiritual evolution. With a laugh, the now tichel-clad Hanita recalled walking into the dining hall and seeing a roomful of chareidim for the first time in her life. “I was shocked. Everyone was dressed in black and white,” she says.

Nonetheless, the spiritual atmosphere and message conveyed there hit home. “Without either of us discussing it, my husband and I both left determined to take one mitzvah upon ourselves.” Six months later they began to keep Shabbat. At that point, needing a religious environment in which to raise their sons, the Friedmans moved to Karmiel. In time, Hanita gave birth to

BY MACHLA ABRAMOVITZ

“It’s interesting to see chareidim developing and testing smartphone applications while their own ‘kosher’ phones don’t have access to them.” two daughters. “My husband, baruch Hashem, has the zechut of being able to learn full-time in kollel for the last 13 years,” she proudly states. The move to Karmiel would not only prove auspicious for the Friedmans but for the city itself.

Karmiel, a modern residential town of 55,000 dividing the Upper and Lower Galilee, is situated only a short drive from Tzefat and Akko. Until recently, chareidim comprised but a small percentage of its population, and there seemed little hope of attracting more. “About 50 percent of chareidim study high tech or accounting, but it was senseless to bring them to the Galil because there weren’t any jobs available for them,” Hanita says.

So when Harav Margalit approached her with the prospect of founding and running a high-tech start-up for the purpose of resolving this problem, it spoke directly to her entrepreneurial and socially-conscious heart. “I always dreamed of doing that,” she says. On numerous occasions, Hanita had tried founding her own start-up, but was unable to get it off the ground. “Harav Margalit provided me with a social vision toward which I could work.”

On an interpersonal level, it proved very challenging: Hanita often needed to tap into inner resources she didn’t know she had.

“I always saw myself more as a salesperson who worked alone rather than a manager. I had to learn how to become more assertive, but in a nonconfrontational way. It was very hard. Because I am a chozeret bi’teshuvah, I am often afraid to pressure my employees. I’m afraid I might be accused of not understanding their situation adequately… I’m still learning when to exert my authority and when not to do so.”

She also needed to become more professionally agile, shifting away from her professional area of expertise to what the market demanded. “I am trained as a mechanical engineer. I assumed KarmiSoft would focus on those applications I was familiar with.” But because smartphones had already begun to take over, they decided to focus on expanding their usage. “It’s interesting to see chareidim developing and testing smartphone applications while their own ‘kosher’ phones don’t have access to any of these,” she says.

Because KarmiSoft’s ideological objective is to help chareidim work, Hanita acutely feels the weight of that responsibility, knowing that its decisions will directly affect people’s livelihoods

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and possibly Karmiel’s future direction. Still, “Sometimes I make decisions based on my feelings rather than my brain,” she admits.

Yet despite these sensibilities, as a chareidi woman, Hanita is leaving her distinctive mark on an industry known for its bottomline mentality as well as its innovation.

Hanita’s spunk and reputation were legendary even before taking over the helm of KarmiSoft. When she was only 26 years old she proposed an idea to Israeli business magnate Stef Wertheimer, whose precision cutting tool company Iscar would later be sold to Warren Buffett for billions of dollars. Indeed, it was an idea that would radically change the complexion of high-tech industries in the Galil.

Several months before, she had sent Wertheimer a letter regarding some economics-related matters. Impressed by her insights, he asked to meet with her and offered her a job on the spot. Already committed elsewhere she declined, but responded with a counterproposal: that Wertheimer build a high-tech industrial park in the Galil to attract high-tech companies. Doing that had certainly not been on Wertheimer’s agenda. While he was already committed to building such parks in Jerusalem and Omer, near Be’er Sheva, the Galil wasn’t central enough, he told her.

Undeterred, Hanita and a friend gathered signatures from owners of companies—400 in all—who committed themselves to relocating to this industrial park, should it ever come to pass.

When the signatures were presented to Wertheimer he responded quickly. Not long afterward, Hanita was thrilled to see Wertheimer’s helicopter landing on a hill in Tel Chai in the Upper Galilee, with Wertheimer himself on board. He designated the site as the soon-to-be-built industrial park. That was 24 years ago. Today, the Tel Chai industrial park remains a catalyst for the establishment of multitudes of high-tech start-ups in the area.

It was hoped that Hanita would exert the same kind of magic with KarmiSoft. However, despite Hanita’s vast experience in high-tech and marketing, she found this venture much more challenging than she had anticipated. So many external factors were working against its success. “We thought everybody would buy into our vision of providing work for chareidim. But apparently, many didn’t,” she said.

Even among those who applauded KarmiSoft’s efforts and goals, few were ready to invest or give the company work. Others were extremely discouraging and didn’t mince words in expressing their views. “Some CEOs told us we were crazy,” she says.

Despite the numerous businesses occupying the industrial park, there still weren’t enough of them interested in supplying the volume of business KarmiSoft needed.

The company was therefore forced to look toward central Israel, where 90 percent of its high-tech work is done, and to Europe. Some of KarmiSoft’s customers are start-ups themselves.

The venture, not surprisingly, also turned out to be a lot more

expensive than originally estimated. And as far as Hanita’s proven ability to generate orders, there too she was headed for major disappointments. “It was a new company, without any history. Nobody knew us. We didn’t have any special technology to offer.

We were and remain service providers, and my chareidi workers were all newcomers. No matter how good our prices were, potential clients questioned whether we could deliver the services on time.”

Fortunately, Hanita had the financial and emotional support of a silent partner, a chareidi woman living in Jerusalem who strongly believed in KarmiSoft’s mission. There was also some small respite in the State of Israel’s tender program. To encourage businesses to locate in border communities (Karmiel is on the border with Lebanon), Israel offers small government subsidies toward employees’ salaries.

It wasn’t much, but every little bit helped.

Hanita, though, was doggedly determined to make this work. In her pre-chareidi life she was a competitive swimmer, and she continues to tackle challenges by diving right in. And the bigger the challenge, the better she likes it. “I need action,” she declares passionately.

Indeed, the naysayers have been silenced. Three and a half years into its existence KarmiSoft, founded in 2010, is a proven commodity, having established a respected reputation among Israeli hightech start-ups.

This was accomplished while remaining true to its chareidi values, overcoming challenges that often put the company at a disadvantage in this cutthroat, competitive field. For example, given the chareidi lifestyle—large families, taking time off for Shabbat and Yom Tov—employees cannot devote the same number of hours to the job as their secular counterparts. “In my previous employment, my boss would have been very upset if we left work before 4:00 or even 5:00 p.m. But here we understand that these women, many of whose husbands are learning in kollel and who have children at home, must leave earlier.”

When she presents herself in her capacity as CEO, many smile when she refuses to shake hands. Nevertheless, she is treated with the utmost respect.

This is something Hanita identifies with completely. “At times, combining family and work is not very profitable. Nevertheless, we’re all doing it because we believe that’s the way it should be.

So most of us leave at 4:00. And if somebody must take off a day or two, well, that’s okay.”

Hanita is awestruck by her female employees, some in their 20s and 30s, and feels they have much to teach her. Chareidi women, she believes, especially those in the software field, are in a class by themselves. She waxes enthusiastic about their abilities and accomplishments: They are exceptionally smart, focused, target-driven and very strong in so many ways. Most are supporting husbands learning in kollel and are the sole financial support of their families, skillfully balancing the demands of family and work. By the sheer force of their drive and intelligence, they complete the two-year post-high school practical engineering program offered by many Bais Yaakov-type schools, and then go on to found highly successful and demanding companies. “I know of University of Tel Aviv and Technion graduates who only dream of doing this,” she says. More importantly, they are doing it their own way, often swimming against the tide. “They are a special force, albeit a quiet one. Everything they do, they do quietly, not seeking any publicity for themselves.”

It is no surprise to her that their accomplishments are unknown outside the Israeli high-tech community and their immediate chareidi circles. “Chareidi accomplishments, especially in this area, represent a whole new world most Israelis know nothing about,” she says.

It is the success of chareidi-led companies like KarmiSoft that is putting an end to this anonymity—in KarmiSoft’s case, despite its underlying vision being more social than business-oriented.

“Our objective was to bring chareidim to the Galilee, train them and put them to work, instead of finding the work, hiring experienced developers to do it and then, when there are enough big projects, training inexperienced developers. From a business perspective, we started from the wrong end,” Hanita admits.

Nonetheless, KarmiSoft is making significant inroads into the hugely competitive field of software development. The company develops and services software that enables users to connect to

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their personal computer software, like Word and Excel, through their smartphones and tablets. What further distinguishes KarmiSoft is that it is not only run by a chareidi woman, but that the majority of its employees are chareidi women as well. “These women have amazing software development capabilities,” she says. As hoped, the company’s success is changing Karmiel’s landscape in many ways.

“Before we started, 99.9 percent of chareidim living in the Galil worked in education. However, that source of employment soon dried up.” The establishment of KarmiSoft infused new life into what had become a stagnant chareidi community. Today, women and men from Karmiel and its environs are finding well-paying jobs in fields in which they are trained and in an environment suitable to their needs. Subsequently, more and more chareidi families, including hundreds of immigrants from the US, are flocking to Karmiel, attracted by its employment opportunities and comfortable lifestyle. Housing costs are very affordable; a typical three-room dirah runs about 395,000 shekels [about $112,000 US], although, Hanita points out, these costs have begun to escalate, especially now that the Galil has been included in Israel’s new super high-speed train route that will connect it more easily to central Israel.

In turn, new Bais Yaakov-type schools, yeshivot, Talmud Torahs and other religious institutions, both Ashkenazi and Sephardi, are sprouting up like wildflowers all over the Galil. “All of this has brought a much-needed vibrancy to Karmiel,” Hanita declares proudly, although she is quick to add that the job market has yet to catch up to growing needs. Future investments and growth, she hopes, will enable KarmiSoft to provide more work for more people.

KarmiSoft is also changing how Israel’s secular society is starting to view chareidi contributions to the high-tech field, an economic sector that had previously been the exclusive domain of University of Tel Aviv and Technion graduates. Today, Bais Yaakov, Machon Tal and Machon Lev (which caters to Orthodox men) graduates are showing their mettle and proving themselves up to the task, both as employees and as founders of successful start-up companies. These are feats many secular Israelis in the

Galil are starting to notice, much to their surprise.

The success of KarmiSoft is also influencing Israeli society’s attitudes towards chareidim in general, especially its women. Hanita believes this is none too soon. When she presents herself in her capacity as CEO, many smile when she refuses to shake hands.

Nevertheless, she is treated with the utmost respect. Still, the typical refrain, “You’re not like other chareidim; you’re different,” says it all. “They don’t know who we really are. All they know is what they hear and see in the media that focuses on the negative.

For instance, many believe chareidim don’t want to work. Thankfully, this attitude is now changing. Heads of high-tech companies are starting to realize that not only do chareidim work, but that we are, in fact, very good at what we do and we have much to contribute. If those people want chareidim to work, it’s up to them to create the right environment.” Until now, at least in the Galil, that wasn’t happening. Chareidim were not exactly discriminated against, but no attempts were made to accommodate them either. “The attitude was, if you want to join us you can, but we aren’t going to change anything for you.”

More than not meeting chareidi needs, however, most top companies were simply ignoring their applications altogether.

This, Hanita believes, has nothing to do with discrimination but with differences between chareidi and secular school curricula.

Bais Yaakov girls, for instance, graduate high school without having attained a teudat bagrut, or official matriculation certificate, but instead receive what is called chutzim. Potential employers thus have no way to compare the academic merits of prospective employees who are educated in the different streams. “It’s like comparing apples and oranges,” she says. “The value of a bagrut they understand. But what are chutzim? We need to know one another better.”

And the issues run deeper. Despite the high caliber of the programs being offered in chareidi girls’ schools in the Galil, Hanita feels that some improvements are necessary to increase graduates’ competitive edge. “For the most part the teachers are excellent, but many are women who have never worked in the field.”

Subsequently, some teach their students the computer languages in which they excelled but which are no longer relevant. Hanita remembers being surprised when one high school graduate told her she had learned the computer language Pascal, which is rarely used nowadays. “I’m not a programmer; I just know what the market needs. Obviously, graduates must be familiar with the most recent software and technologies. For instance, the world

is going more and more mobile, so students have to learn how to program for mobile usage,” she insists. And all of this can be taught in a halachically-acceptable way.

Hanita also recommends that schools teach more mathematics and connect with high-tech companies, perhaps through daylong seminars and coordinating curricula with the companies themselves. Graduates can then proceed directly from school into the workforce without needing additional training. Realizing this, certain Bais Yaakovs have brought in educators (even non-religious ones) from high-tech companies to teach students the latest technologies.

High-tech companies are also waking up to the benefits of hiring chareidim. Hanita tells of receiving a call from a CEO of a large computer-based company that had six openings available and was interested in having chareidim fill those spots. “This woman had a list of questions about days off, holidays and what kinds of food we eat. She asked about everything. She really cared.” And she wasn’t the only one. Hanita is reaching out to other companies in the area that are expressing similar interests in reviewing chareidi applications and in accommodating chareidi needs.

“We’re currently working, for instance, on establishing a strategic relationship between SanDisk, a major company that makes memory chips, and the administrators of Machon Lev and Machon Tal, who are informed of their current and projected needs,” she says. “It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.”

Why this increased interest? Hanita believes that for some it’s simply a matter of economics. “The chareidi population is growing at a much faster pace than any other stream in Israeli society.

Subsequently, they represent a larger pool from which to choose.

But what others see as a minus, I see as a plus,” Hanita says. “We chareidim represent an engine for growth that must be explored and utilized.” And with more and more chareidim moving to the Galil, they are now becoming an integral part of its larger society.

“Everybody understands that for society to function well, everyone needs to work together.”

What Hanita feels differentiates KarmiSoft from other hightech environments is the calmness of its atmosphere and the caring and respect of its personnel, as well as their work ethic. “Our employees feel like entrepreneurs. They understand that they are the soul of the company. Through their efforts, they are keeping the vision alive.” And when things don’t go as planned?

“We just pray harder,” she responds. n

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This is the shidduch saga of a staunch and proud chasidic family. Their four eldest children—a son, 22; a daughter, 21; and two sons, 19 and 20—are not married. Now, that may not be a problem everywhere, but in Mimmi Kirsch’s circle, where boys marry at eighteen and girls do not marry before their brothers, it is a huge challenge.

By Mimmi Kirsch

FOLLOW MIMMI KIRSCH ON HER SEARCH FOR A SHIDDUCH FOR HER SON

shidduchsagasukkos Close to Home Just because he isn’t married, doesn’t mean our Srully has to waste time.

Srully hasn’t always learned on this side of the ocean.

He had traveled abroad for yeshivah and was doing very well there, baruch Hashem. There were several Sukkos and Pesach bein hazmanim airport departures tinged with an edge of frustration. Had any compelling shidduch offers come our way between Pesach and Sukkos, we would have airlifted him home immediately. But that did not happen.

Somewhere, or everywhere, it felt like there was an invisible finger wagging at us as if to say: How dare you take your sweet time and relegate shidduchim to once every six months at Srully’s advanced age?” That silent admonishment pushed us toward finding a suitable yeshivah on this side of the ocean as a prerequisite to a suitable shidduch.

The only obstacle was that bochurim who are twenty-ish don’t officially exist in our chasidish circles. Yingelach are boys up to age 13. Then they become bachurim, until the age of 18 or 19. And finally, there are yungeleit who range from ages 20 to

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almost 40. These are the parameters. That “no man’s land” between 18 and 20 is when one becomes a yungerman.

When our girls finish school or seminary, they can enter the working/ teaching world smoothly. Not so with our bochurim. Leaving yeshivah is not what a shidduch-less bachur can afford to do. But what are his options when our yeshivos are geared to providing opportunities for growth only up until the age of 19?

A highly driven bachur can usually forge his own path. If he wants a “chevrah,” camaraderie, or some competitive edge,

“How dare you relegate shidduchim to once every six months at Srully’s advanced age?”

28 TISHREI 5774

he might suddenly be reminded of Choni Hame’agel’s “Oy Chavrusa…”

But generally, the choices narrow down to spiritual stagnation or kollel. An established infrastructure for the not-yetengaged bochurim above the age of 19 has yet to be included among our impressive roster of accomplishments that cater to lifecycle necessities, beginning with mother-baby homes and preschools, and progressing onward to elementary schools, high schools, tekanah wedding halls and kollels.

In the meantime, every yeshivah comes up with its own way of dealing with (or denying) the glaring reality that there are bochurim above the age of 19. Apparently, each yeshivah tries to accommodate its own talmidim who haven’t gotten engaged, but these yeshivos are in no way intent on accommodating others or improving on what they offer. In other words, the doors open one way only: out.

The hope is that all the bochurim will have an honorable discharge, i.e. the chasan status. But until that blessed moment, it’s

every man for himself.

Srully inquired and found one exception: a chasidishe kreiz (chasidish community) that’s large and bold enough to “call a spade a spade.” They outdid themselves at finally accommodating this untapped treasure of human beings in their prime. They scouted their ranks and recruited the finest for this pioneer project. At its helm is an outstanding rosh yeshivah—a true leader.

The problem we had to overcome was that my son hadn’t learned in their mosdos before. They were not exactly eager to absorb any and all bochurim over the age of 18. We had to use some pull just to get a “farher.” Luckily, we knew someone, who also knew someone who had some pull and put in a good word for us. Srully went through the process and, by the grace of Hashem, received the cherished niskabel.

On my son’s part, this new arrangement naturally required some adjustment.

Before long he established close ties with his rosh yeshivah, as well as the cadre of exceptional maggidei shiur. So now he has chavrusos, a chevrah and friends. Not at all an introvert, the townsfolk have gotten to know and appreciate his company, too. He gets too many invitations for

Shabbos meals, and has to navigate between them and his obligations to be with the yeshivah, family, visiting rabbanim, etc. Occasionally there is an off-Shabbos, when he comes home. He gathers and learns so much from every home he visits. Some of his elderly hosts regale him with nostalgic memories of his father, grandfather and greatgrandfather as guests in their home at one memorable event or another. Others have been emissaries of gedolim of the past generations on global and national missions. Srully is always fascinated both by the elderly people he meets and the authenticity of their accounts.

Srully also learns a lot from the program itself. One evening each week the yeshivah invites guest speakers, such as a ger tzedek, an astronomer, an osek b’tzorchei tzibbur, a shochet, a frum physician, a rav from Yehupetz-ville, a stockbroker, a shtadlan or a to’ein—all to give the bochurim a feel for the world they live in, and the various opportunities ahead.

Srully has become a volunteer for various chesed organizations, such as Tomchei Shabbos and Chai Lifeline.

He has visited hospitals sometimes just

to farbreng, or to do storytelling, and other times standing vigil in the ICU. At children’s rehab centers he encourages the kids to do what it takes to get themselves back up and running.

So he’s really getting a well-rounded “education.” Teenagers and young adults generally consider themselves invincible, and they take their health for granted.

Witnessing, assisting and encouraging afflicted patients has taught him to count his blessings, and to guard them, too.

Before spending Shabbos at any of these unfortunate sites, he reviews the pertinent halachos and consults a rav. Needless to say, he has forged very deep bonds with the patients and their families.

So while others look on with pity that life may seem to be passing him by, it’s not necessarily so. Srully has organized and successfully completed several challenging projects, which have been highly satisfying—intellectually and socially. His days, weeks, months and zman are very productive, exciting and fulfilling...for the time being.

We do hope this chapter ends soon, though. n

To be continued...

Mimmi Kirsch is a pseudonym.

dearmatchmaker: I am a single girl in shidduchim from a solid frum home. I’ve had a fairly typical education, have married siblings, and I’ve been “in the parshah” for just over a year.

I have met/sent resumes to countless shadchanim. Many friends and neighbors have said “they have someone in mind,” and have redt a shidduch. However, for the past seven months I have not received one “yes,” but we are davening really hard!

Of course I know that I only need one yes from my bashert, but that seems like a distant reality.

Should I be concerned, or is this the reality for many girls today?

Thanks, Disheartened

Chana Rose, a shadchan with 26 years experience, responds: I recently made a shidduch for a “top” girl from a great family. I was redting her shidduchim for a long time, and she did not get even one “yes” for an entire year and a half before she met her chasan! Who knows: Perhaps if she had received many more “yeses” she would have had to go through many “parshas.” Your bashert is clearly out there. Yes, dating might make you feel good, but every date is a “parshah” and maybe Hashem is saving you from that. Bashert is more powerful than any of us or anything else. Not

11 TISHREI 5774

getting any dates doesn’t mean that shidduchim aren’t being redt for you, and it doesn’t mean that you won’t get married! Often, girls who go on date after date end up getting burned out!

Yes, this is the reality today. It is in part because the population is so big.

But, people think that it is hard for shidduchim to happen today, but shidduchim were never easy. Don’t get concerned. In terms of hishtadlus, many gedolim have said that shidduchim are bashert—and so the only hishtadlus you really need is to keep davening.

You should also remember that simchas hachayim is very important.

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Chana

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shidduchresources

COMPILED BY ESTHER GARTENHAUS

The sheer volume of e-mails, letters, phone calls and faxes we receive regarding the shidduch crisis, is eyeopening. This column is our contribution to help address this crisis.

A more complete list appears on our website: www.amimagazine.org. This is a joint communal effort, so we need to hear from you! Shadchanim and activists: Contact Esther Gartenhaus at matchmaker@amimagazine.org to list your appropriate services, shidduch meetings and pertinent activities!

General Shidduchim

Mrs. Sora Cohen 718.755.4836 / aryehsora@aol.com Mrs. Lisa Elefant 718.256.7525 / LisaElefant@yahoo.com Mrs. Ethel Halpert 718.853.4083 / Motzaei Shabbos Mrs. Rayzel Harrar 718.376.8547 Mrs. Hadassah Hoffner 718.309.5700 Mrs. Chana Rivka Jacobs 718.256.7525 at Binyan Adei Ad The Kesher Connection of Boro Park 718.576.1094 support@kesherconnection.com.

Mrs. Pearl Klepfish 718.338.8106 Mrs. Koenig 718.258.8475 (chasidishe shiduchim) Mrs. Dina Lapp 917.470.4840 / diny613@gmail.com lchaimshidduch.com Mrs. Tova Liebb 732.367.7252 / tliebb@yahoo.com Mrs. Libby Lieberman Mazal.brocha@gmail.com Mrs. Devorah Meyer 718.213.0761 / MTW 8–10:30 p.m.

Mrs. Shaindy Mitnick 347.322.0001 / afternoons and evenings / shaindymitnick@gmail.com Mrs. Chava Most Fax: 732.377.5484 / sensitiveshidduchim@gmail.com / specializes in shidduchim for individuals with physical, medical, fertility and genetic conditions Rabbi Ahron Mueller 848.299.2598 National Council of Young Israel Shidduch Program Department 212.929.1525, ext. 150 / jsteinig@youngisrael.org Mr. Motti Neuhaus mottineuhaus@yahoo.com Mrs. Esther Notis 732.367.7942 / Please leave message.

Mrs. Adina Reich adinareich@gmail.com Resumé Center ifoundashidduch@gmail.com Mrs. Chana Rose chanarose36@verizon.net Mrs. Rochel Rubanowitz 212.543.2723 Mrs. Joy Scher proudbubby1@aol.com Mrs. Sara Schwarcz 718.854.8722 / 917.446.3213 Mrs. Baila Sebrow 516.239.0564 / bsebrow@aol.com Mrs. Chaya Segal 718.854.6315 / evenings / specializes in older singles Mrs. Blimmie Stamm 732.363.1554 Mrs. Esther Zywica zywica111@gmail.com

FOR COMP THE LETE L IST, GO TO amim agazin e.org

Mental Health/Emotional Issues Shoshana Goldman 718.983.9187 Temima Gross 410.358.7017 / temiragross@gmail.com

Ohel’s Simcha Program / Sarah Kahan 718.686.3262 fcbrecher@gmail.com

Public Announcements Thanks to those women who have called in to volunteer assistance with shidduch calls! If you are articulate and capable, please call in. More are needed!

347.482.8429 Plenty of shadchanim…yet never enough! Join as a volunteer shadchan. Call Kesher Connection at 718.576.1094.

Resource for previously married men and women. Also, singles willing to marry previously married men and women, contact Mrs. B. Stein. belle960@gmail.com Seeking girls for quality, frum, working (non-degreed) chasidishe boys! 845.425.7520 SHADCHANUS SERVICES—HIRE

BY THE HOUR. Hire your own private shadchan to network for

you! Shadchanim and interested parties, please contact Ruchie 718.438.2834 for more details.

Shidduch meetings in Kensington. For details, call Mrs. Edie Jaffe at 718.853.8691.

Looking for single girls/women of all ages, with controlled medical issues (i.e., on meds).

Many special compatible young men available! Confidential!

Please call Rivky 718.419.7855 Shidduchim Workshops in Brooklyn, Lakewood, or your town!

Premarital/Shidduch hadrachah workshops with Mrs. Esther Gartenhaus for post high-school girls/young women! Call to schedule your workshop and for private appointments: 347.482.8429

Israel

Mrs. Yehudis Abir 02.586.3310 / evening hours / judyabir@gmail.com Mrs. Shulamit Goldberger 02.561.1019 V’hareinu B’vinunei (Yiddish-speaking organization) Shidduch for zivug sheini 011-972-54-849-9440

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28 TISHREI 5774

We welcome your letters, comments and shidduch questions, as well as helpful ideas, advice and tips on...shidduchim! Contact us at matchmaker@amimagazine.org or via phone (718.534.8800) or fax (718.484.7731).

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CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR LAST WEEK: SHRAGA LISTENS TO SHULI AND ASKS HIMSELF IF HE REALLY WANTS TO GO BACK TO HER.

Shuli Realizes How Badly She Messed Up

A

s I was talking to Shraga, or at Shraga, actually, I felt like I was having a near-death experience. I’ve read accounts of people who are clinically dead, but they report being able to see their bodies from the ceiling or some other unusual vantage point. I could see myself turning red in the face, and saying unkind things and making accusations.

But the part of me that was watching myself was unable to communicate with the part that was talking. I couldn’t tell her to stop—to keep her mouth shut and accomplish what she had set out to do. Instead, I was doing nothing to advance my case and, if anything, I was pushing Shraga farther away.

I’m saying things I’m not even sure I believe, but once the blame button has been pushed, I can’t stop myself. He sees black and white and I see red.

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He didn’t know it, but I was watching him when he walked me out.

I saw him stop for a second and stare at one of the pictures hanging on the wall. I followed his eyes to see what he was looking at, and wouldn’t you know it: There she was: Raizy, his mythical intended.

His family held that woman on a pedestal every single day of our married life, as if I could ever measure up to their idealized version of her that had nothing at all to do with reality.

From what I understood, apparently Shraga and Raizy had been destined for each other from their youth, like in a chasidishe maaseh. Shraga had grown up knowing he wouldn’t have to go through shidduchim because he was going to marry his cousin. It was taken for granted that they would meet once, get engaged and get married.

Whenever the subject of her family 28 TISHREI 5774

came up, his mother would praise them to the moon, not too much, but enough that when Shraga finally got engaged to her, he’d have a positive opinion already drilled into his head. But then, Shraga’s father and Raizy’s father had a falling out. And just then, I was redt to Shraga and the whole hot-air balloon came crashing down. Raizy’s parents had to start hondling for a shidduch. I don’t think anyone in Shraga’s family ever forgave me for messing up the shidduch, and in fact, Tante Tziporah and Uncle Meir did not make up with Shraga’s parents for a few years after our marriage, claiming they had made a deal and Shraga’s parents had gone back on it. Just for the record, Raizy is now an older single. She is a frumpylooking woman of 40. Granted, she hasn’t had an easy time of it, but who has? At least she isn’t divorced. She and I would always end up sitting next

IF WE CAN’T GET ALONG FOR 20 MINUTES, HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET ALONG FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES? would be my back-up, and that if and when all else failed, he’d never leave me because I took such good care of his children. But alas, he did leave. We are divorced, and no amount of good mothering was able to save me from my fate.

I used to think I could get along just as well without Shraga as with him.

What did he really do? I did most of the child care, and I actually thought none of us would miss him. I had no idea how much he contributed to the well-being of our children. He filled in my blind spots so seamlessly that I didn’t even know he was doing it, until he left. Then all the space Shraga had taken up was laid bare. His presence, his absence, was everywhere. I’d find him in the oddest places: the vacuum-

cleaner bags that were regularly replaced, the walls wiped clean from a crayon festival the night before, and the milk and eggs and lunch bags that would appear without my having to ask for them. And then there were the stories; the games; the jokes and the puns; and the trips to the beach, the park and the zoo. My eyes filled just thinking about it.

In any case, this was strike two. I don’t know if I have it in me to try again. If we can’t get along for 20 minutes, then how are we going to get along for the rest of our lives?

But I know myself. I will try again, even if it’s just to win, and even if I’m the only one in the race: sad but true. 

To be continued...

SmartDesign

to each other at chasunos where I’d be bored to tears.

Shraga claims he would have rejected his parents’ wishes anyway. I wondered what it was about me that was so compelling. So when I asked him why he’d married me instead of her, since he knew I was so different, his eyes wandered to my head, and then, teasing me, he said, “Because you had red hair.” Welcome to my world.

All I know is that I was a perfectly fine and normal wife and I know at some point he believed in me and our marriage. He always told me that I was a marvelous mother and he knew he could count on me to raise the children the right way. And this was true.

(Though there was always the unspoken part, in which he seemed to say despite your many faults. He would even pause a moment before launching into the compliment. It is a bane of marital existence that after a certain amount of time, a wife can fill in her husband’s blanks and know even what he doesn’t say. But faults or no, somehow everything got set aside when it came to the kids, and that was one area where he held by me without any hesitation.) I always thought that

BY DINA NEUMAN

Chapter Twenty-Six

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aybe my father was right about you.

The words, flung so bitterly and thoughtlessly, hung in the air, and Tova thought wildly that it was the second occasion in one day that time just hovered like that.

The words were somehow more real than the two of them standing there underneath them, as if the spoken sentence was in color and Shmuel and Tova were black-and-white shadows of themselves beneath the enormity of what Tova had just said.

Time restarted when Shmuel spoke, his voice deceptively quiet. “Maybe he was right about me. It’s possible. I just have one issue with that idea, and if you can clear it up I would be so grateful. You see, I still have no idea what he thought of me exactly. He never thought to share—with me, at least—what it was about me that repulsed him so much. Care to share?”

“Sarcasm is ugly on you,” Tova flung back.

“Bravo. Way to avoid the question.”

Shmuel smiled mirthlessly and clapped slowly, once, twice, three times.

“Stop that! You’re freaking me out! And I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Of course you have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s all in my head. Your father treated me like a prince. I realize that now.” His eyes pinned Tova to the wall.

“What is wrong with you? How can you speak about him like that?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes! You are!”

“I’m really not. This has nothing to do with him.”

“But you just—”

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“Did you hear me? Nothing to do with him. And it never did.”

“So then what—” “I’ll spell it out. I’ll use small words.

Okay? It’s never had anything to do with him. Not really. This is about us. But you could never ever see that, could you?”

Shmuel’s face was flushed, his eyes big in his slender face.

Tova opened her mouth and then shut it again. She felt a slow-building rage beginning in the pit of her stomach and working its way up to her throat. How dare he? How dare he? He didn’t know how hard she worked, how she had to balance everything, always, always. She was always the one to balance everything, first with Lakey and then between Shmuel and her father, and the house and the finances, and— and—everything! Who was he to lecture her! She felt her breath coming fast, felt her face turn as flushed as Shmuel’s, but the words would not come. She closed her mouth and breathed through her nose, staring back at him, trying to make him understand what she was thinking without actually saying anything.

Shmuel looked at Tova and after a few moments of her silence nodded as if he hadn’t been expecting anything different.

“Give it some thought. Give anything about us some thought.”

Tova tried. “All I think about is—” “Us. I know.” Shmuel grabbed his keys from the table. As he opened the front door, he turned around. “Do you know what’s ugly on you, Tova? Martyrdom. It’s not your color.” The door closed quietly behind him.

Tova almost wished that he had slammed it instead. She kicked at the

28 TISHREI 5774

door with her foot but all she succeeded in doing was stubbing her toe. She let out a low howl of mingled pain and frustration before sinking down into the couch and putting her head in her hands. *** “No, never,” Lakey repeated to the third nurse who came in to glance at Henny’s chart. “She’s never had this kind of reaction before. I don’t get it; don’t you guys write it all down or something? Why do I keep answering the same questions?”

“Standard procedure,” the nurse said cheerfully. She turned to Henny, who was sitting upright in the bed, her eyes darting.

“I’m going to take your temperature now, hon. Just relax; it doesn’t hurt.”

Lakey came over to the bed to hug Henny reassuringly. She was annoyed at how clumsy the gesture felt. She had held Henny through a million minicrises—from strep to skinned knees—and thought of herself as a competent mother.

Why was this so difficult? Why was her pulse beating so fast? Why did she keep glancing at the door, praying that Avi would appear at any moment, wishing deep down that she hadn’t brushed off Tova’s offer to help?

She answered a few more questions for the nurse. You see? She told herself as the woman in white finally left the two of them alone. You’re doing it. There’s no reason to wait for the cheering squad. You’re a mother and a grown woman, for G-d’s sake!

You can do this.

You are doing this.

“Ma?” Lakey startled from her thoughts and turned to Henny, who still looked paler than Lakey would have liked. She stroked

RECAP: LAKEY’S DAUGHTER HENNY IS RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL WITH AN ALLERGIC REACTION. TOVA BREAKS THEIR SILENCE AND OFFERS TO HELP, BUT LAKEY REBUFFS HER. TOVA AND SHMUEL GET INTO AN ARGUMENT.

her daughter’s hair. She was usually a force to be reckoned with, this oldest daughter of hers. But right now she looked so young, and so small—so afraid. Lakey knew how she felt, and put those feelings into her reply. “I’m right here, sweetie.”

Henny rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can see that. Ma. You’re messing up my hair.”

Well, that was short-lived, Lakey thought wryly as she removed her fingers from her daughter’s straight, dark locks. Tova’s

responses.

She looked again at her daughter’s hair and thought: It’s not just the hair that she got from Tova.

Henny’s face was nonchalant, but Lakey saw the flicker of fear behind the carefully schooled expression, and she immediately pulled her daughter into a hug. Henny clung to her, and then murmured something that Lakey couldn’t hear. She pulled away and asked her to repeat it.

As he opened the front door, he turned around. “Do you know what’s ugly on you, Tova? Martyrdom. It’s not your color.” hair. She swallowed, thinking about the shocked look on Tova’s face when the recording had played with Daddy’s voice.

How could a person feel so triumphant and so guilty at the same time?

“Ma.” Henny’s voice once again dragged her from her thoughts. “You can do it if you want.”

“Do what?”

“Your fingers. Whatever. In my hair. If you want.”

Why was this daughter of hers so guarded? She always held her cards so close to her chest. She always needed to know all of the rules before diving into anything, and if no one could tell them to her, she would make up her own. Lakey remembered how many questions she’d had about Daddy’s death, and how she demanded that Lakey clarify any vague

She repeated it.

“Am I going to die?”

“No!” Lakey said, shocked. “No! Why would you think so? Why would you ask that?”

“Zeidy died when he went to the hospital.”

“Oh, sweetie. Zeidy had a bad heart. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Did they know that he had a bad heart before he had a heart attack?” Henny looked into mother’s eyes, her eyebrows raised.

Lakey shook her head silently.

“And they don’t know why I couldn’t breathe. And Ma, it was so scary.” Tears spilled from Henny’s eyes and Lakey pulled her into a hug again, stroking her hair.

“They’ll figure it out,” she said softly.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry. That’s my job.”

She gasped as a bizarre sense of déjàvu enveloped her, but it was only hours later—when Avi finally arrived and Lakey escaped from the hospital for a few minutes to get them all something to eat—that she finally placed the memory.

It was the other way around, that’s what had thrown her. Her hair was being stroked; she was the one crying.

“Tova, am I going to die?”

“No! Lakey, no! Why would you think that!”

“Mommy died.”

“So?” “So no one knew that she would die.

Everyone was saying that.”

“So?” “So people can just die. Out of nowhere, they can just die.”

She felt Tova’s arms around her, Tova’s fingers in her hair, Tova wiping away the tears that she hadn’t even known that she had cried, and heard Tova whisper, “Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry. That’s my job.”

When she arrived at the bagel store, she ordered bagels with lox and cream cheese for the three of them: whole wheat for her, plain for Henny, onion for Avi. And then she called the babysitter to make sure that everything was going smoothly at home.

It wasn’t true, was it? No one could really and truly take your worries from you. No one should. Except maybe a mother. She tried to replace the memory in her head of Tova with the hazy remembrances of her mother, but it didn’t work.

Because it was Tova. It always had been Tova, and always would be. n

28 TISHREI 5774

To be continued… |

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days Sisters From the day she was brought home, I hated her.

As told to Chani Roth

M

y sister was supposed to be a star—and then something happened. No one knows why all her potential went to waste.

No one ever actually said it, but I thought everyone blamed me for the way my sister turned out.

Maybe because the day she was born no one was home and I ran into a fence with my bike and hit my stomach so hard I actually ripped it.

No one was there to help me, because everyone was in the hospital with her— my new baby sister.

And that’s how it all began.

From the day she was brought home, I hated her.

I made a subconscious decision to kind of disappear from our home. Being the ninth kid, I figured no one would notice. I grew up down the road at the neighbors.

I ate breakfast, lunch and dinner there, and stayed until bedtime.

My mother would try to reach out to

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me; she’d plan trips and try to give me time.

Once she planned a whole-day trip to the beach, just the two of us. Then it turned out my “adopted” family was going on the same bus. I left my mother sitting alone in the back of the bus while I went up front to sit with them. Even when we got to the beach I ran so fast, up ahead of my mother to try to catch the other family, that I fell down a full flight of steps.

I picked myself up and kept going.

Since the bike accident the day my sister was born, I felt I was all alone in this world, so I’d learned to pick myself up and just keep going.

I made my sister feel like a real reject.

I eyed her with seething stares that could burn through concrete. Or, worse, I didn’t acknowledge her presence at all.

Ignoring her was more painful for her than my glaring eyes.

My sister drifted away. She had to change schools often because of her

28 TISHREI 5774

behavior. That left her pretty much friendless.

I watched her suffer for years, but I hated her so I didn’t do anything.

I let my mother try to help her get her life together. I knew it was too heavy a burden for her to do it alone. Yet I didn’t step in to help. It was kind of a secret revenge.

I hated my mother too, though at the same time I needed her love more than a camel needs water in the desert. And this went on for years.

Until I got married, and had a baby.

It was then that I realized that the day you have a baby, you can’t really pay attention to anything else. And this continues, even for a long time after.

Then financial problems hit, and there was no place to turn.

The “adopted” family had their own children to take care of, and I was kind of forced to turn back home.

At first my mom was not so interested in helping. Well that’s not exactly true.

“I LET MY MOTHER PICK UP HER PIECES THOUGH I KNEW IT WAS TOO HEAVY FOR HER ALONE. IT WAS KIND OF A SECRET REVENGE.”

She’d helped for my wedding.

She sold her only bracelet and candlesticks to buy my new husband a watch and a tallis bag. She also paid for a $2000 sheitel.

But I’d always felt that it wasn’t enough.

So after I gave my mom that feeling, she wasn’t about to jump into the fire to help, and get burned again.

But the fact that I’d had a baby slowly wore her down, and we came to new levels of understanding.

There’s still that cold war underneath,

but we try hard to warm it.

My sister kind of comes with the package of my mother. And I had to confront her every time I’d come to see my mom. She’d hold the baby, and then play with him. And I saw she was a big help. But I still wasn’t gracious when allowing her to hold him. We all felt the undercurrents, and it was dangerous, so everyone tiptoed around me.

About one week before Sukkos, I heard what had actually happened to my sister—what had caused her meltdown—

and I understood it had nothing to do with me.

At that moment, I didn’t hate her anymore. Great wells of pity opened and all I wanted to do was help her. All the buried sisterly feelings overwhelmed me, and suddenly I felt whole again.

It was as if that big, open hole in my stomach that I’d carried around for all those years was finally healing.

I came home every day to rest in my sister’s room. Together we’d listen to music or play a game, or cook. And believe it or not, we’d laugh together.

I was happy to see her get a new dress and shoes. I was happy for her to be happy.

I learned that the one who had suffered the most was me, because I was doing the hating. She never hated me for a second.

Sisters can’t be whole if they hate.

Sometimes I wonder why all these years had to pass like that: so much time lost.

On the other hand, I’m grateful it didn’t last a lifetime.

My husband and I are planning to move out of the country. Had I known I had a real sister and a best friend, I don’t think I would have chosen that path.

We will only have another week to spend together before we have to go.

I’m leaving after the holidays, but in the same way that the holiday of sukkah is only a week, its effects last a whole year— actually whole lifetimes.

The sukkah came to tell us that some things are temporary, but not kedushah, love and sisters. 

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days Bragging Rights

What my father taught me about humility

OF COURSE I WOULD NEVER HAVE INTRODUCED MYSELF THAT WAY, BUT BEING SINGLED OUT FROM THE OTHER GUESTS WAS NEVERTHELESS FLATTERING.

By Rina Segal

I

was really enjoying the rice pilaf and roasted chicken, until my host said something that almost made me choke.

It was during my year in seminary.

I was at the home of some good family friends, the Schwartzes, who were from the Old Country (America, obviously).

They always had a table full of guests, and it was their custom to go around and have each person introduce himself. When it was my turn, Mr. Schwartz always added: “Rina’s father was our first rabbi—he taught us when we were just becoming religious!” Of course, I would never have introduced myself that way, but being singled out from the other guests was nevertheless flattering.

But that Friday night, Mr. Schwartz

took the introduction a step further.

“Rina’s father grew up in an unaffiliated Jewish home himself. He went to Harvard Divinity School to study theology in order to clarify his religious beliefs...” He went where? Mr. Schwartz, who loved a good story, continued talking, but I was fixated on his opening sentence. How did I not know this fascinating bit of history about my very own father?

Later, I thought about it more. I realized how different my father was from almost everyone else I knew. It was this scene that led me to an epiphany. In order to understand it, let me tell you about a couple of other people I met that year in seminary—people who irked me, actually.

There was a girl in the seminary who had one habit that annoyed me: she

name-dropped. (“Oh, Rabbi Levy? I’m very close with his wife. Actually, I was just there last Shabbos!”) Then there was a charismatic Rabbi who often, during class, shared anecdotes about the fascinating places he’s been, the amazing discoveries he’s made, and the famous people he has known. The way he loved to talk about himself made everyone squirm.

We all have a story as well. I am acquainted with some interesting people too. My parents are well-known in certain circles for their outreach work. I have a few accomplishments that I’m proud of, and I have experienced some interesting things. And you may be waiting for me to make a quip about being humble.

But as tempting as it is, I try not to bring these things up in

casual conversation. It feels like an announcement, “I’m great because I have connections. I’m awesome because I know so-and-so, because I’ve been there, and/or done that.” And bragging? Well, that’s just not cool at all.

And yet, if there’s something you learn when you’re away from home and meeting all kinds of characters, it’s that each person loves to tell “his (or her) story.”

And there’s nothing wrong with that— stories of personal growth and discovery are always interesting and inspiring, and by all means, they should be shared. But this is what I realized that Friday night at the Schwartz’s: I had never, ever heard my father “tell his story”—not to any of the thousands of guests we’ve had at our Shabbos table over the years, not in a class, and not anywhere else.

It’s not that he had anything to hide.

It was simply obvious to me that my father simply didn’t find it an important subject of discussion. As he likes to quote, “Small people talk about other people.

days Mediocre people talk about things. Great people talk about ideas.” My father is a man of ideas. He asks questions, he thinks, and he listens. He likes to talk about concepts, philosophies and outlooks. He can even converse fluently about things, if that’s what someone insists on talking about. But people... He doesn’t need to talk about other people, including himself.

If I’ve ever met someone who had bragging rights, it would be my father. He has an interesting background, heaps of talents and accomplishments, and a real story. Yet everything I know about him I have learned either from observation, or from other people!

I know he’s a talented athlete because he taught my brothers to throw and bat and catch, and to play golf and shoot hoops. (He also tried to teach me to play tennis, but after a few lessons I gave up.) We’ve watched him swim furious butterfly strokes across the pool many times, but we didn’t know that he won a bunch of medals at competitive swimming until my grandmother brought them over on one of her visits. It was Grandma, too, who informed us that my father had played fullback on his college football team.

I grew up hearing his beautiful voice singing zemiros on Shabbos, improvising harmonies with my brothers, and I’ve heard him play his guitar. He leads the beginner High Holiday services every year and people are blown away—not just by the meaningful ideas he shares, but by his powerful and beautiful davening. I knew he was musically inclined, but it was my grandmother (once again) who told me that he had the lead part in his high school musical.

I realized my father must have had formal dance training, because at every wedding we’ve been to he leaps and pirouettes, to the delight of the bride and groom (not to mention the other guests) who don’t expect this serious-looking, black-hatted rabbi to know ballet. And I know he used to square dance because I once sneaked a peek at his high school yearbook.

I figured out that my father is a great outdoorsman when I found the black-and-white photographic evidence to prove it. In one photo he’s a boy holding a rifle, and in another he’s posing with a dead deer. I even have a picture of him proudly displaying a string of live fish, but I’d have known about his fishing expertise

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SO NOW I’M LEFT TO WONDER: WHAT ELSE DON’T I KNOW ABOUT THIS FASCINATING MAN WHO IS MY FATHER? anyway, since he’s led us on a few family fishing expeditions, cleaning and frying our catches himself as the grand finale.

I’ve always known my father was brilliant—even before I found out about Harvard. I know that he spent fourteen years in yeshivah learning about his heritage and getting semichah. He went back to graduate school. He teaches and writes. He’s wellread, well-educated and cultured. And did I mention that my father can speak French like a Frenchman? (That’s one fact he’ll deny, but Grandma insists that it is so.)

As a rabbi and a therapist, my father has helped many people gain clarity and work through issues. I know that he’s changing lives, perhaps even saving lives, even though I’ve never heard him share professional stories (even without identifying the people involved). He’s doing important work, but he doesn’t feel a need to talk about his accomplishments.

My father has taught me that the most successful and accomplished people do not seek the applause of friends or the admiration of strangers. He’s shown me that humility speaks louder than anything else. And thus he personifies the maxim of our sages, “He who runs from honor, honor runs after him.”

So now I’m left to wonder: What else don’t I know about this fascinating man who is my father? Maybe one day, if I work up the courage to ask, I’ll finally get to hear “his story.”  To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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