Kol Nidre 5783

Here is an understatement: It is kind of hard to pray when someone is yelling in your face. When thousands of men have gathered with little pink whistles to drown out your prayer. When other men have aimed a speaker at you to make their prayers louder than yours. It’s a little bit hard to pray when women are coming up to you to mock your prayer garb – your tallit and tefillin – holy items that act as spiritual technology to connect you to the divine. 

I was at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, the Kotel, with a group called Nashot haKotel, Women of the Wall. Every Rosh Chodesh–New Moon–they gather at the Western Wall to pray as a protest against the lack of rights women have in that holy space. Because of their activism, they have managed to change many of the laws at the Western Wall. Because of Women of the Wall, women are now “allowed” to wear a tallit and tefillin on the Women’s side of the mechitza (gender divider), although it is still deeply unwelcome. Because of Women of the Wall, women may pray in a minyan, prayer quorum, together as they please, although, again, it is deeply unwelcome. Because of Women of the Wall, there is now an egalitarian side of the Western Wall where there is freedom to pray in a mixed gender group, although it is deeply unwelcome and you may be met with some protesters. Until it is legal for women to have a Torah on the women’s side of the mechitza, however, Women of the Wall will keep meeting monthly, gathering to pray despite thousands of counter protesters. 

I had heard about Women of the Wall for many years, and had seen pictures of men throwing chairs at women praying, or tear gas, or bomb threats, or other horrific acts of violence. Despite all of this, I decided to see it for myself. And, even with the photos, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of being there in the flesh. 

I arrived at 6:45am as instructed, and as I waited in line for security, the first thing I noticed was the noise. From afar it was pure cacophony. I couldn’t identify any one sound, just the feeling of chaos in the air. Normally the security at the Kotel is extremely quick; go through the metal detector, they glance at your bag and you’re good. This morning, however, preparing for the drama, they really took their time. They looked at every item in my small leather backpack. They asked about the tractate of Talmud I had in it. They asked where I was studying, what I was studying, and even why. 

Finally, when I got through, I noticed that the path to the women’s side, which is normally open, had metal police blockades to make a clear but narrow path, prepared for male protestors to block our way. I noticed the shrieks of the whistles and the thousands of men in black who were blowing them. I noticed the police intimidating the Haredi men, pushing them and screaming at them. 

I walked through the narrow path to the women’s side and saw our group. About 20 women stood in a tight circle, with tallit and tefillin, yelling the words of the morning prayers to rise above the cacophony around us. The leader, a beautiful woman in her 50s, stood on a chair with a huge smile, occasionally closing her eyes to connect to the words of the tefillah. 

I joined them, standing on the periphery of the circle, having donned my tallit and tefillin, straining to hear the leader over the sounds of the blaring speaker, the men with whistles, and the women who gathered near us to mock us. Of all the counter protesters, the women were the most interesting to me. I was familiar with straight up misogyny, but the way it manifested in the orthodox women who gathered around us felt fascinating. A few of them mocked my tallit and tefillin, asking where my kippa was. Another tried to take photographs of a woman’s bag to try to prove we were breaking the law by having a Sefer Torah with us (we did not). Another woman screamed loudly in a long single pitch, with her face buried in her siddur, occasionally moving around the circle to find a new spot. I learned quickly that she did not like being harmonized with. Another woman, during the amida, gave a speech in Hebrew about how we were the reason why the Messiah hasn’t come yet. 

Leaving was another ordeal. We were escorted out by the police and rushed around the corner where bulletproof vans were waiting for us, surrounded by more counter protestors. Right as I approach the van, I feel something hard on my face and just barely miss my eyes. I touched my face and felt dirt and gravel, and looked up to see a man with another fistful of gravel aimed at us, being blocked by the police. Once in the van, I read the signs of the counter protestors. One of them read “Reform denies the Torah and all Jewish traditions.” 

Every night before bed, Jews traditionally recite an order of prayers which includes the Shema–the six word declaration of God’s oneness. Before the Shema there sits in the siddur a short but beautiful prayer: 

Ribono Shel Olam, I hereby forgive anyone who has angered me, antagonized me, or sinned against me. Whether physically or financially, against my honor or anything that is mine, whether accidentally or intentionally, inadvertently or deliberately, by speech or by deed, by thought or by speculation, in this incarnation or in any other: I forgive every Jew, may no person be punished on my account.

As I laid down that night to go to sleep and started to say this prayer out of habit, I paused. I thought about the eyes of the man who threw a fistful of gravel at my face that day for having the audacity to pray at my ancestor’s holiest place. I thought of the woman with her face buried in her siddur screaming, trying to prevent the Divine from hearing our prayers. Could I summon forgiveness for them? And, even if I could, why should I? 

I laid there thinking about it for a while. Why did the Rabbis write this prayer and instruct that it be said every night? Perhaps it’s one way of embodying the old saying about relationships, “never go to bed angry,” knowing that our relationships with others, and maybe especially other Jews at times, can breed tension that can tempt us into holding grudges and even hating one another. As I laid in bed, I felt my own hatred and rage. My resistance to saying these words of forgiveness. I felt my rage at the man who threw gravel at me. The women who screamed in my face and mocked me. I wondered if they were saying this same prayer, and if so how they felt about it. If they were paying attention to the words. 

Suddenly, my feelings expanded to include my rage at misogyny and all of its manifestations, including internalized misogyny. Then it expanded again to include antisemitism and internalized antisemitism, which makes us turn against eachother instead of trying to understand eachother. It included all the forces of oppression that divide us, make us turn on one another and ourselves, making us less powerful to fight the sources of our dismay. Perhaps the Rabbis, on some level, understood that. Perhaps they prescribed a nightly ritual of forgiveness because they knew that without one another, we aren’t nearly as powerful. 

I believe, with the backing of our tradition, that the men with the whistles and the gravel, and the women screaming and mocking all need to be held accountable for their actions, as does everyone who causes harm to another. And, as I laid in bed about to say these words of forgiveness, I got a birds eye view. I saw that the man throwing gravel was just a part of a larger system of oppression. That I could forgive him and still allow my anger to fuel me to fight the larger systems of oppression in the world. 

This Yom Kippur, may we learn to not go to bed angry. May we internalize the power of forgiveness to transform our rage and fuel us to fight oppression. May we know that we are not alone in the fight, and that through forgiving ourselves and others we can truly begin the work of repairing our broken world. Gmar Chatima Tova, may we all be sealed in the book of life, blessings, forgiveness and justice.