Opinion: Just one hug

Posted Tuesday, December 8, 2009 7:53 pm

By Rabbi Ron Yitzchok Eisenman

Issue of December 11, 2009/ 24 Kislev 5770

In my work as a rabbi, I get to meet all types of people and hear a lot of personal experiences.

When I became aware of the problem of molestation of Jewish children by Jewish adults and sometimes by Jewish rabbis and teachers, I did what any other caring and compassionate person does — I tried to help the kids, the victims.

When I realized that the heads of some Jewish schools were attempting to cover up the problem and were even demonizing victims by calling them unstable and mentally sick, I did what every other Torah Jew would do — I tried to help the victims.

However, all of this is beside the point. The point is that for whatever the reason I get to meet all types of people and many of them have suffered much at the hands of their fellow Jews.

The following story is painful to hear, however, hear it we must.

It is particularly painful when I hear about a case where the abuser is none other than a parent.

When I see a victim who is in constant pain; who is no longer functional; who is in a state of constant distrust, anger and bitterness, I can be sure that this person is the product of parents who did not act with the compassion and love with which a Torah person should act toward their child.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of visiting with such a person. He is currently confined to the psychiatric ward at one of the major hospitals in New York City.

The man with whom I was visiting was in obvious pain and was not at peace with his world.

However, one could still see, beneath the emotional scars and the physical tattoos, a beautiful, warm and precious neshama — one that, given the chance, would shine brightly with warmth and beauty.

However, at present, that neshama has been abused and injured; hurt and defiled.

I spent about an hour with this precious neshama and as we spoke and as I felt the pain and as I heard the anger that was primarily directed towards his parents, I asked the question I felt I had to ask.

“When you were growing up, did your parents ever tell you they loved you?”

“No. Never. Not even once.”

“Were you ever hugged?”

At this point my precious friend looked up at me and from the depths of his pained heart he said, quietly, “No, I was never, ever hugged. Not by mother and not by father.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

I looked at this abused, pained, hurt and injured neshama and right there and right then I knew what I had to do.

I knew what I needed.

After we parted and I was released from the locked ward I headed back home.

I came back to shul for Mincha and Maariv and then I headed home.

As I entered my home I made a beeline for my two daughters who were home from school.

I just hugged and hugged.

I hugged them for them.

I hugged them for me.

And I hugged them for the precious neshama who remains locked in the psych ward in Manhattan.

Don’t tell me about expressing your love in ‘unsaid’ ways.

Don’t tell me about being from a ‘European’ background.