One year ago, I spent a weekend in New York City’s Upper West Side with three friends. Shabbat morning presented a dilemma: I preferred a congregation with a mehitza, but my friends preferred an egalitarian service. We compromised on a synagogue with a mehitza, a Rabbanit, and hazzaniot for specific prayers. I sat with my girl friend toward the back of the synagogue. As the hazzan proceeded through Shaharit, a woman approached us. She spoke briefly with my friend, and then turned to me. “Would you like to carry the Torah through the women’s section?” she asked.
I hesitated. My instinct was to refuse her offer for the simple reason that I wasn’t confident, having never before held a Torah. The woman kindly replied, “It’s your first time? Don’t worry, we’ll help you.” Again, I turned her down.
What held me back? The dominant emotion at the time was fear. I saw an image of my mother, firmly Orthodox, adhering stringently to the tradition cherished by my ancestors. Her face bore an expression of bewilderment with a hint of betrayal. At that moment I was not afraid of God. I was not afraid of the congregation. I was not afraid of my friends. I was afraid of someone who was not even there.
• • • •
It is Simhat Torah nearly a year later. I settle discreetly in a corner of my Young Israel shul. I practice chanting the text of V’zot HaBrakha under my breath from the humash in front of me, knowing that I will not be performing publicly on the bimah as the men did minutes ago. This practice of the trop is just for me; it is how I bond with the words. Enviously, I watch the men cradling my shul’s seven sifrei Torah, gingerly raising them above the heads of the dancers with such care and attention. I yearn to understand, explore and connect with the scrolls. Particularly, as it is Simhat Torah tonight, I want nothing more than to establish my personal relationship with the Torah, as men do on a daily basis. However, I sit with the women, banished behind a barrier. I have never touched, carried, or read from a real sefer Torah. I seem forever destined to a place in the audience.
“I do not wish to remain a spectator.”
But I do not want to be in the audience. I do not wish to remain a spectator. I have a strong desire to find meaning here. I rise from my secluded area, close the humash I have been practicing from, and join the congregation, which has moved outside to celebrate in the street. My father is holding the Torah scroll. He beckons to me. It beckons to me. He offers, and I accept.
The Torah is massive. Its tremendous weight leans directly on my heart, and its delicate, white linen cover presses against my cheek. Here, resting on my body is a scroll of parchment, elaborately written by a scribe with attention to every sacred, perfect letter. In my hands, I hold my history, my culture, and my beliefs. The Torah is mine. After all, it was given to both B’nei Yisrael and Bet Ya’acov (i.e., not only to men but to women as well).
Other women come. I quickly become part of a circle of women with knotted fingertips. They sing in Hebrew, about their commitment to God and their love for mitzvot. I am captivated, practically entranced by the passion on this Simhat Torah night. We pass the Torah around to those women who wish to hold it. The face of each woman shifts from uncertainty to utter joy, as she balances this precious and holy object in her arms.
The feeling of ecstasy ends abruptly as two intertwined female hands are thrust apart and a man enters the circle. He strides toward the woman who is dancing with the Torah. She is alone in the circle’s center. Almost violently, he removes the Torah from her arms, declaring, “Women cannot have the Torah. Not in our shul.”
There are exclamations of disbelief, misunderstanding, and fury from both males and females in the street outside the synagogue. “I thought it was a great idea,” says a man. “They do it in Young Israel of X,” says a woman. However supportive, the comments blur together and echo in the distance. I feel the unexpected sting of a suddenly severed spiritual bond. I am silent, even amidst the emerging female rebellion. My eyes are still fixed on the man. I wonder whether I will ever forgive him.