What NOT to say to a woman saying Kaddish

I recently completed the 11-month period of Kaddish following the passing of my beloved Abba, Rabbi Prof. Avraham Holtz. For nearly a year, three times a day, I joined a minyan (traditional Modern Orthodox prayer quorum) for services. And throughout this time, several things surprised me, including how much I cried. 

Sometimes my tears stemmed from sadness; my own personal loss mixed with the tragedy and heartache of the People of- and in- Israel since October 7, 2023. On a few occasions, I found myself crying out of sheer gratitude– to my parents who raised me to be a committed, knowledgeable Jewish woman and to the wider Jewish Modern Orthodox community for giving me the opportunity to honor my father in this way. As the only woman in shul (synagogue) on most (week)days, my crying often expressed a sincere loneliness. The men who came to pray each day had each other; their presence counted toward the requisite ten. I had no one sitting with me; it didn’t matter if I was there or not. There were days when I silently screamed my frustrations, and other times when tears flowed from my own self-affirmation and sense of accomplishment.

My tears notwithstanding, overall I actually enjoyed saying Kaddish. There was comfort to be found as a mourner reciting the mourner’s prayer with other mourners. With each recitation of the ancient words, the burden of my  personal loss was lifted; the community’s response to the mourners’ prayer was a welcome form of support and strength.

Throughout my Kaddish days, I tried to focus not only on my personal commitment (to Kaddish? to mitzvot? to the community?), but also on the practical ways the experience could be improved. For instance, the physical setting of any prayer service. 

If a minyan is publicly advertised (i.e. listed on a synagogue’s website, posted on a big sign in the mall, included in a community’s minyan list, etc.) a respectable place for women to pray must be available (more on this below). There were too many times I found myself praying in less than respectable- or even acceptable- conditions. Standing outside in the scorching 34C (93F) heat, angling my ear toward the open window where the men prayed in the comfort of an air conditioned room. Sitting in front of the men’s bathroom door (credit to the man who so thoughtfully brought me a chair). Straining to read my siddur in a darkened balcony. Tilting myself between a dusty broom and dirty mop in a storage closet, consciously avoiding any shuckling motions for fear of displacing the dirty rag hanging above my head.

These situations were compounded by the pitiful explanations (even jokes) made by the men in attendance: the floor in the main sanctuary is being washed, there is no other place for us to pray; the weekday automated schedule for the lights does not include the women’s section; the guy with the keys isn’t around; would you rather daven in the kitchen?

Whether intentional or not, these rationalizations and justifications were all unfortunate ways of excusing away the all too prevalent truth: women at shul are an afterthought; female attendance at daily prayer is an inconvenience; my (woman’s) tefilla is less important than that of men.

Given these discomforting experiences, I made it a priority – for my own emotional and mental wellbeing- to daven at minyanim and in shuls where I knew that my presence would be tolerated, where my Kaddish would be answered, and where I’d have a normal place to sit. And while I recognized every effort made to make me comfortable, every kind word and supportive statement, there were still a fair share of head-scratching, “what did s/he just say?”  moments. I present to you my curated collection of what NOT to say to a woman saying Kaddish.  

The first, and my personal favorite: “Don’t you have brothers?”
Yes, I have two brothers. And a sister. We all said Kaddish for our Abba.
The existence of male siblings in my familial constellation was irrelevant to my decision to say Kaddish. Knowing that my brothers, for whom the obligation is perhaps more “obvious”, were saying Kaddish did nothing to relieve me of the onus I felt to actively and regularly sanctify my Abba’s memory. Reciting Kaddish three times a day was a tangible way for me to honor my father  and his legacy. To say the prayers he loved, to ponder the Hebrew words he cherished, and to give form and formula to my mourning.

In the tied position for first place — and along the same lines of the above: “Oh, so there is someone saying real Kaddish.”
This particular utterance was made by a fellow shul-goer after being introduced to one of my brothers. The implication that my Kaddish was in any way less “real” than my brothers’ was both hurtful and distressing. It was hard to get past the suggestion that my daily prayer was in some way “fake” simply because I am a woman, that my father’s memory could only be truly and really honored by his male children.

Then there was “You know there are people you could pay to do it for you, right?”
Outsourcing is a thing, I get that. I am all-in on hiring people to do some of the more arduous tasks of daily life. And yet, delegating my own obligation to honor my father and his memory? That feels a bit  disingenuous. With each and every recitation of Kaddish, I felt as though I was sharing a cherished moment with my father. Making room in my day and my daily prayers for my dad was special, almost sacred. How could the Kaddish of a complete stranger, who had never met my dad, possibly be more commemorative than my own? For a woman who has chosen to take on Kaddish, there really is no contracting-out kibbud av v’aym (respect for the father and mother). 

Another one I heard a few too many times: “Shhh!” or “Quietly, please.”
A more frequent variation of this sentiment was not actually verbalized, but rather an attempt by other (male) mourners to drown out my Kaddish with the sound of their own. Men who were so offended by my recitation that they would practically scream to ensure others could not and would not hear me. There were those who asked me- albeit not to my face- to say the words softly, “so that nobody hears you.” The Kaddish prayer can only be recited in the presence of a minyan; the point of saying the Kaddish is so that others respond. Suggesting that I say Kaddish silently was a tacit request that I not say it at all. 

[On most days, there were several male mourners present at minyan. Sometimes, though, I was the solo Kaddisher. Some congregations permitted my solitary recitation, while others mandated that a man accompany me. In the synagogues that necessitated a Kaddish chaperone, I found myself playing an uncomfortable- and often tedious- game of identifying which non-mourner I could rely on. No matter how sincere, willing, or even gracious the non-mourning man was about saying Kaddish with (though it felt like “for”) me, being accompanied by a non-mourner  always felt demeaning. His Kaddish was not an expression of grief; he was not sharing in the pain of a recently lost loved one. His recitation felt like a strained and unwilling “favor” he was doing to “humor” my need to say Kaddish. At these shuls, I felt censored- even suppressed.]

On a few occasions men approached me to say the opposite, something along the lines of “We can barely hear you. Speak up.” 

Given how offensive I found the ‘sushers’ and the ‘screamers’, it might seem strange to include this particular request in my ‘no-no’ list. And while I embraced and valued the concern and interest these men demonstrated for my Kaddish, the additional onus they were putting on me- the (female) mourner- was unfair. It took a lot of internal strength, discipline, and determination to get myself to minyan three times a day. Adding the responsibility of guessing how loud (and simultaneously quiet) I was meant to be so everyone could hear me was just too much.

Furthermore, in many of the places I davened, the women’s section was not optimized for even the most minimal female participation. My view of the prayer service was limited, as was my ability to hear what was being recited. If the (male) individual selected to lead the service was less than eloquent or in a particular rush, it was practically impossible to follow along. How could I be expected to make myself heard?  In some communities, the (male) mourners are encouraged to come together for the recitation of Kaddish, usually around the bima (main prayer podium), almost always far from the women’s seating area. There was no practical way for me to be included in that Kaddish cluster while still maintaining the Orthodox mandate for separation between men and women during prayer.

Instead, I suggested- and continue to suggest- that those men who want to support and respond to the women Kaddish sayers of their community move closer to the mehitza (partition dividing the male and female spaces for prayer). I sincerely appreciate(d) the men who recognized that I couldn’t get myself closer to the men saying Kaddish. They didn’t ask me to change my voice or volume. They intentionally positioned themselves in the rows adjacent to the mehitza- for the full service or just at Kaddish times- so they could hear and respond to my recitation.

[To the men who schmooze near and around the mehitza, with the misguided and mistaken impression that it is a prayer-free zone: the women sitting on the other side can hear you! Same to the men who come to the women’s section to take a phone call or answer a text message. Your talking is disturbing and inappropriate anywhere in shul. Take the conversation outside. Better yet, wait until davening is over. If your intention is to not disrupt or bother your prayer-mates, remember that might include women as well.]     

I  can remember two prayer services at which a man walked into the women’s section, saw me sitting there, and said some version of: “Oh, you’re here. Are you davening?”  Both times, I resisted the urge to respond with “No. I have five kids; this is the only place I get some peace and quiet.” Instead I raised my siddur (prayer book) and clearly-but silently- indicated that I was indeed immersed in prayer. This interaction- both times it happened- was irksome for two reasons. 

One, because the baseline assumption of these men was that a woman comes to shul (morning, mid-day, or night) to do something other than pray. It is unlikely that similar presumptions are made regarding the other men in attendance. Why make it about a woman? 

And two, because I understood- and later had it mansplained to me- that these men wanted to use the women’s section for their own prayer. Had I not been davening, these men would have asked me to vacate the space dedicated for women worshippers for their own use. The “respectable space for women to pray” I referenced early on in this essay means exactly that: a respectable place for WOMEN to pray.

To all the men who come late to shul (for whatever reason), want to have some privacy, look to escape the crowds, or seek quieter environs for their tefilla: THE WOMEN’S SECTION IS OFF LIMITS. It is not an auxiliary men’s section; it is not a spare room for men to pray that happens to be currently occupied by a woman.  Even if no woman has ever come to shul, or even that particular service, annexing the women’s space as part of the men’s facility- which almost always has spare seats available- is not acceptable.  No man I know would enter a public women’s bathroom even if it was empty, attend women’s hours at the gym or swimming pool, or commandeer a seat at a women’s only concert. Shul has the same- if not higher- status.

I have always loved tefilla, both individual and communal. I cherish the opportunity to pause my day and reflect, to connect to something bigger (and older) than myself. When Abba died, on 2 Kislev 5784, I did not know what my Kaddish journey would be. But for eleven months, my day revolved around one primary activity: getting to minyan so I could say Kaddish. In many ways, it was all-consuming. Appointments were set based on minyan times; my attendance at school meetings depended on prayer schedules; routines were adjusted to accommodate shul.

At no point did this obligation (that I admittedly placed on myself) ever feel burdensome. It consistently felt like an opportunity. 1055 times I got to commune with HaShem; to remember my father and the prayers he taught me; to search for a prayer community even when the traditions of aveilut (Jewish mourning) had me refraining from communal gatherings; to not be so easily bristled or intimidated; to proactively and ardently advocate for myself; to sound my voice as a dedicated modern Orthodox woman.  

So now that you know what not to say, I am here to suggest some things you can- and should- say to a woman saying Kaddish. Things like:

May you find comfort.
Tell me about your father/mother/loved one.
How are you doing?
Your commitment is inspiring.
What can I do to support you?

These were the words that gave me strength the past 11 months and I believe they are the words that every mourner- male or female- needs to hear.

Every person who cares about all the members of their community should find vocal and silent ways to be supportive, to champion the mourner and the commitment they have made to Kaddish, to honor them and their loved one.

You can be the person who demonstrates a strengthened promise to (female) mourners, ensuring that they can be seen and heard. You can use your voice not to question a woman’s Kaddish motives, the volume of her prayer, or the commitment she has made. Be the person who sounds the case for heightened sensitivity to the prayer needs of all, the men and women, the regulars and the newbies, the faithful and the searching. Say things that account for the vulnerabilities of others. If you feel the need to make any remark(s) at all, ensure that they are supportive, helpful, friendly, and understanding.

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In the merit of my father, HaRav Avraham ben Eliezer and Pessel Frimmet z”l. יהי זכרו ברוך.