Eating around the bruises – a Mikvah story

I am in the middle of writing a book about sexual abuse in the frum community. As you could imagine, my list of required reading for this book is tough. Some books I read in parts slowly over time, some I read in one sitting, and some I listen to on audio.

A few months back, I had just finished listening to Dassi Erlich narrate her own book, “In Bad Faith,” on Audible. I had known her and her sister’s horrific story and followed the saga of the infamous Malka Leifer for many, too many, years. But while listening to her painfully reading out every word of every chapter, I realized I actually hadn’t known the story at all.

There were many shocking moments in this book. I absolutely loved her writing, her honesty, her authenticity, her vulnerability, and I loved everything about this book, besides the actual content, of course.

One of the things I had heard about the story (this was years ago) was that Leifer — and I’m just assuming you already know the story — was a part of the Ger chasidic dynasty. If you know anything about me, then you know that I know a lot about a few chasidic sects, including Belz, Slonim, Square, Amshenov, and Breslov, just to name a few. But I also know a thing or two about Ger chasidim from when I worked in Se’each Sod for three years. Se’each Sod was founded by a very special man named R’ Dov Levy a”h, and although he has passed, his sons, family, and his community have built the empire that Se’each Sod is today. I also knew that the former health minister, Yaakov Litzman, was a Ger chasid, which I am sure didn’t hurt the ferocious speed of Se’each Sod’s growth over the last two decades.

Somewhere along the way of following the sick Leifer saga, I heard that Litzman had assisted Leifer in numerous ways to escape prosecution. I won’t go into more detail, but a quick Google search will give you more background on that. Now, I’m the last person to judge Judaism by Jews, or the Israeli government by its MKs, but let’s just say the news of Litzman’s involvement in this case really upset me.

Fast forward a few years, to a few months ago. I’m listening to the horrific details of the triumphant survival of Dassi, and I’m reminded, and learning more details, of Litzman’s involvement. I began wondering if the Gerrer Rebbe had anything to do with her saga as well. After a thorough Google and AI search, I didn’t see anything blatant about his involvement in the Leifer case. Phew. I sighed a breath of relief. Just please not the Rebbe too!

Now pivot with me. As you could imagine, reading, interviewing, listening, and writing about sexual abuse for many, many hours could have an effect on one’s own relationship with sexuality. Hypothetically speaking, of course. So it was only a short time after finishing Dassi’s book, when I was struggling internally with the frum community and its many bruises in this arena, together with my usual (perhaps inflated) struggles around taharat mishpacha, that I had to go to the mikvah. And then it happened. Something that my husband and I have never done in our 7+ years of marriage! My wonderful husband booked us a two-night getaway, the first night being timed perfectly with mikvah night. Because it was all extremely last minute (read: he booked it that morning), he took what he could get for our allowed budget, last-minute availability, and a location that didn’t involve too much traveling. Oh yeah — and a mikvah nearby.

We arrived at a relatively small community, which is not stamped religious on the map, to a small and cozy tzimmer where we would stay. As we drove into the neighborhood, I noticed, and commented, how there was an unusual amount of chasidim walking around. They seemed really out of place in this deserted desert community, and I was shocked when my husband told me there was a decent sized chasidic community in this “city.” That seemed totally random to me, considering they looked right out of Meah Shearim, but to each their own.

As we settled in, and as I started to prepare for the mikvah, with Dassi’s words still echoing in the caves of thoughts trapped in my head, I created a needed wall between my feelings about my recent interviews, my research, the books I had been reading… and my actions. No matter what residue was left from the hours of speaking to survivors and pioneers dealing with this epidemic, I was going to prepare and go to the mikvah, like I do every month. I’d have to figure the rest out in therapy some other time. The problems of the frum community at large were not my problem tonight.

I looked up mikvah options in the area, and after viewing 3 locations, I chose one at random. I put it into Waze. I arrived at the tiniest mikvah, which was under heavy construction, smack inside the insular enclave of the chasidic community.

Luck had it, I have been to my fair share of chasidish mikvahs in my life, and although it had been many years since I was checked head to toe, I decided I could handle it. I just prayed the chasidic ba’alanit wouldn’t give me a hard time about my bright colored gel nail polish.

As I was paying at the “desk,” I saw a big picture of a rabbi hanging on the wall. I have never seen a picture of a rabbi hanging in a women’s mikvah, so I was surprised. “Naively,” I asked the heavy, short chasidish woman in black: who is that? She said, very nonchalantly, like it was the most normal thing in the world: that’s the Gerrer Rebbe.

Boom. Right where it hurts. Oh G-d of the universe, how ironic you are. Even though he was not a part of (as far as I know) protecting Malka Leifer, somehow his picture represented something that I was struggling with.

And suddenly, tears that had been collecting within the wells of my eyelids overflowed from this trigger. I cried.

All the writing I had been doing suddenly poured out in dams of tears. I cried as I walked down the steps into the warm water that would soak me in purity. I cried as I said the blessing. I cried as I dunked 7 times. I cried as the ba’alanit declared me “kosher,” and I cried as I walked back to my assigned room.

The ba’alanit, I’m sure, either thought I was the most spiritually connected tzadakis she ever saw at the mikvah, or that I was off my rocker and totally insane. But certainly nothing in between those two options.

I came “home” to the tzimmer, to my husband, and didn’t tell him about what had just transpired. I took a deep breath and realized, for the millionth time in my life, G-d is always talking to me, testing me, teasing me, humoring me, almost being playful with me. Although the mikvah was not what I was used to, and the picture of a Rebbe (that Rebbe!) in a women’s mikvah really provoked me, I was able to put it to the side, even laugh a little after all the crying, and just tell myself: tonight, I chose to go to mikvah, despite all my feelings about the rotten parts of a beautiful fruit. If I eat around the bruises, or cut them off, I can still taste the sweetness of the juice and feel the delicious sensation on my tongue. The bruises and rottenness don’t mean the fruit needs to be thrown out. And I didn’t that night. And I continue not to.