Choosing the Scarf

The first Syrian Jew I ever met was my husband. We were both students at the University of Florida, political science majors involved in Israel advocacy and the Chabad house.

“There aren’t Jews in Syria,” I scoffed.

“Well, not anymore,” he calmly replied. And so began my lifelong education about Sephardic Jewry. A few years later we got married, and I plunged into an exotic world of henna, gold bangles, and of course, delicious cooking.

As our religious journey unfolded together, my husband introduced me to the teachings of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef. Rav Ovadia’s halakhic responsa were brilliantly logical and well-sourced. They were surprisingly easy to learn and understand. We both deeply admired Rav Ovadia’s rise from a simple shopkeeper’s son to a great Torah scholar. Rav Ovadia restored and reconstructed Sephardic Torah for millions of Jews who had been forced to flee their ancient communities, galvanizing many others along the way. Rav Ovadia also helmed a revolutionary political movement in Israeli society, which struck a chord with my activist spirit.

We moved to Har Nof, a lovely neighborhood on the edge of Jerusalem where the elderly Rav Ovadia lived. My husband began praying at his shul. There was only one problem: Rav Ovadia was famously opposed to women wearing wigs as halakhic head coverings. While there are Sephardic sources that rule otherwise, Rav Ovadia that a wig did not signal that a women’s hair was actually covered, and therefore one should instead wear a scarf or a hat. This perspective resonated with me.*

Rav Ovadia’s opinion on head coverings was so well-known that there were jokes about it. One joke alluded to the rabbi’s otherwise lenient stance on many matters: A student came to ask Rav Ovadia a question, but the rabbi was not available. He had, however, left a sign on his door. The sign read, “Everything is permissible. Except wigs.”

At that time, we had been married for about a year, and I usually wore a wig. However, the wig was not that comfortable in the summer heat, and many women in Har Nof wore scarves, so it was easy to wear a scarf instead. At first.

It became more daunting when I was hired to manage an advocacy organization that brought student leaders to Israel for political training. I was expected to move back to America, where I would be overseeing campus activism across the continent, replete with frequent public speaking appearances. How could I continue wearing a scarf while interacting with so many non-Jews and secular Jews? Would I be taken seriously? Would I be comfortable?

My scarf was, in some ways, an external symbol of an internal shift I was now contending with: Was I even the same girl who a few years earlier was eager to get on stage and rally for Israel? I had since adopted a more “modest” lifestyle and I was not sure if it should include such a public position.

Rabbi Noach Weinberg of Aish HaTorah encouraged me to take on this role, which he felt I was uniquely suited to fill, and my teachers at She’arim seminary gave practical guidance. As I sought to reconcile my competing self-identities, it became not a question of if, but how. I was going to take the job, but how would I do it?

If I wore a wig, most non-Jews and secular Jews would not even realize I was covering my hair. I would blend in. This would make advocacy much easier, of course. But hadn’t that been Rav Ovadia’s exact objection?

This felt like a direct test of my faith. It was also perhaps an opportunity for me to harmonize the outspoken advocate I was with the religious woman I had become and the dignified individual I hoped to be.

So I chose the scarf.

With more than a little trepidation, I prepared to greet my first delegation of student leaders at Ben-Gurion Airport. I dressed in a black skirt and white collared polo shirt. Crisp and professional. A seafoam green scarf completed the look.

We greeted the new students, loaded up, and headed for Jerusalem. I was anxiously settling in at the front of the bus when the student behind me tapped my shoulder. I turned around and she peered up at me with bright eyes, ready to pepper me with questions about Israeli topography. We struck up a lively conversation.

After a bit of time, she remarked, “I like the color of your scarf.”

“Thanks,” I replied nervously.

She hesitated, then continued, “Can I ask you a question, since you’re wearing a scarf? My rabbi’s wife back home wears a wig and I never had the nerve to ask her to explain hair covering to me. Please tell me all about it!”

The feeling was more than a rush of relief. It was the moment where I felt that covering up was the way for me to reveal my true self. If I had not been wearing a scarf, she would not have asked to learn from me. The scarf that I thought would make me less approachable actually made me more approachable. To paraphrase the Stoics, the obstacle became the way.

I would go on to wear the scarf as I spoke in front of hundreds of audiences. Whether moderating a panel at an Ohio university, premiering a film in Georgia, meeting a prospective donor in Los Angeles, or leading a pro-Israel rally in Manhattan, I wore the scarf. And frankly, some of the hardest places I wore the scarf in those early days included speaking engagements at the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs and while chairing a conference of several dozen rabbis.

In some respects, choosing the scarf was limiting. Behavioral psychologists have demonstrated how first impressions are virtually impossible to erase. My scarf immediately signaled to others that I was different. It gave away so much about me before I even opened my mouth, creating a deficit of power when my goal is to win the debate about Israel.

Sometimes I wondered whether the scarf was distracting. Were my personal modesty goals truly being realized when most other people were not walking around with cloths wrapped around their heads?

The scarf also gave me a bit of an identity crisis. My husband and I spent the first several years of our marriage in kollel, and we saw ourselves continuing down a Haredi hashkafic path. But Ashkenazi haredi women generally wear wigs (as do some Sephardic haredi women), so in choosing the scarf I would be signaling to everyone that I was Sephardic, I was different. And if I did not adhere carefully to other aspects of tzniut, such as wearing tights, I might be mistaken for not belonging to the Haredi community at all.

Yet as my experience broadened and my confidence grew, choosing the scarf became quite powerful. Firstly and most importantly, it was my choice. And it was a choice signaling that what I believed was more important to me than what others thought about me. Shiviti Hashem Le’negdi Tamid. I was keeping Hashem with me at all times.

Curiously, and to my delight, I found that a scarf done up in a certain style actually lent authority while I was speaking. I channeled the regal energy of Jerusalem rebbetzins (and maybe a little Cleopatra), and it seemed to work. I wore the scarf and the scarf wore me.

Besides, the scarf was fun! I could alternate between authoritative, mysterious, and playful impressions by experimenting with various fabrics, colors, and styles. I reminded myself how much money I was saving by not owning a wig, and bought myself as many scarves as I fancied. Some of my scarves are reminders of precious memories, others are cherished mementos from special occasions, and some are tried-and-true friends.

I have been profoundly fortunate to have many deep discussions with others about the power and the beauty of the scarf. The most meaningful discussions have been with my students, as they think about the individuals they want to be. Like Yaakov battling with the angel, I get to relive the pain and the glory of making that decision, and I am proud that I have wrested my own blessing out of it.

It has been 18 years since I wore a wig, and I still can’t say for sure that I won’t ever wear one again. There are still times when I want to blend in, and there is some anxiety as age reshapes my face. But at this moment, in reflection, I have immense gratitude for the journey on which the scarf has taken me. Like the threads of the cloth, the scarf allows me to weave together the different pieces of me: wife, mother, teacher, speaker, learner, laugher, dreamer. Jew. Woman. Me.

This essay appears in the new second edition of “Reclaiming Dignity – A Guide to Tzniut for Men and Women” by Bracha Poliakoff and Rabbi Anthony Manning, published by Mosaica Press and available through the publisher, on Amazon, or from Jewish bookstores worldwide.

* I want to unequivocally communicate my respect for women who chose to wear wigs, and all women who choose to perform this deeply personal mitzvah as they see fit.