A number of years ago, I had occasion to travel to Japan with a few friends. It was a wonderful opportunity and gave us a chance to experience firsthand a strikingly different culture from our own, as we encountered the combination of ultra-high modernity and Old World heritage for which the Japanese are famous. One of the highlights of that trip was visiting a Japanese hot spring. It was both relaxing and rejuvenating – a much-needed respite from the hectic pace of the trip. Amidst the cherry blossoms that filled the landscape of the idyllic spa set at the foot of Mt Fuji, I had the opportunity to reflect on my own upbringing and cultural conceptions. As I sat in the spa, surrounded by naked Japanese women of all ages, the thoughts that most prominently surfaced were on the meaning of tzniut. These graceful women, who appeared to be so at ease with themselves and so comfortable with their bodies, seemed (in almost a paradoxical way) to epitomize the concept of tzniut. They neither gazed at each other nor hid their blemishes; each respectfully nodded as another woman passed by, acknowledging her presence (or essence) but respecting the atmosphere that allowed each to commune privately in the context of this public setting.
The Japanese women’s grace and ease contrasted sharply with that of one of my travel companions, Bracha. 1 Though adopting a more “modern” orientation in her own lifestyle, Bracha had attended Bais Yaakov throughout her school years. She studied special education in college after learning for a year in Israel and has worked in both the yeshiva and public school systems. I remember that she often commented about the restrictiveness of the dress code she was forced to follow when teaching in a yeshiva school (long sleeves and long skirts with hair tied back). Although Bracha said that she felt confined by these regulations, it was interesting to watch her in the context of the hot spring. Bracha stood in a corner to change. She waited until the shower stalls were almost empty before she cleaned herself in with a few friends. It was a wonderful opportunity and gave us a chance to experience firsthand a strikingly different culture from our own, as we encountered the combination of ultra-high modernity and Old World heritage for which the Japanese are famous. One of the highlights of that trip was visiting a Japanese hot spring. It was both relaxing and rejuvenating – a much-needed respite from the hectic pace of the trip. Amidst the cherry blossoms that filled the landscape of the idyllic spa set at the foot of Mt Fuji, I had the opportunity to reflect on my own upbringing and cultural conceptions. As I sat in the spa, surrounded by naked Japanese women of all ages, the thoughts that most prominently surfaced were on the meaning of tzniut. These graceful women, who appeared to be so at ease with themselves and so comfortable with their bodies, seemed (in almost a paradoxical way) to epitomize the concept of tzniut. They neither gazed at each other nor hid their blemishes; each respectfully nodded as another woman passed by, acknowledging her presence (or essence) but respecting the atmosphere that allowed each to commune privately in the context of this public setting. The Japanese women’s grace and ease contrasted sharply with that of one of my travel companions, Bracha. 1 Though adopting a more “modern” orientation in her own lifestyle, Bracha had attended Bais Yaakov throughout her school years. She studied special education in college after learning for a year in Israel and has worked in both the yeshiva and public school systems. I remember that she often commented about the restrictiveness of the dress code she was forced to follow when teaching in a yeshiva school (long sleeves and long skirts with hair tied back). Although Bracha said that she felt confined by these regulations, it was interesting to watch her in the context of the hot spring. Bracha stood in a corner to change. She waited until the shower stalls were almost empty before she cleaned herself in preparation for going into the spring – a requirement for entry into the hot springs that was strikingly reminiscent of our mikveh preparations. She bent down, attempting to shield most of her body from the sight of others, and promptly wrapped herself in a robe when finished. In contrast to the Japanese women, who held up a small towel to cover their private areas or else walked naked, Bracha remained wrapped tightly in her robe until half her body was in the water. In fact, so conspicuous was the contrast between her entry and that of all the other women that the eyes of almost everyone turned to watch as she removed her partially soaked robe. Watching this scene I asked myself, what is it in the education of Japanese women that leaves them so reserved in public but so comfortable in this context? What are the messages that our education and (religious) cultural milieu impart about our bodies? And what attitude and relationship should we take toward our bodies?
I often revisited my thoughts from the Japanese hot spring during the course of my doctoral fieldwork, in which I interviewed American and Israeli Modern Orthodox women and men about their practice of niddah and its experiential impact on their marital lives and identity. Of course, topics related to tzniut and body image often arose in this context; the rules of niddah intimately affect our bodies, and almost all facets of the mikveh ritual revolve around it. It is these mitzvot (particularly the mikveh) that most directly require that we examine and uncover ourselves, then bare ourselves to another, and enter into a relationship (first with God and then our husbands) free of external trappings or physical barriers. In discussing a mitzvah that requires that we fully uncover ourselves, I was able to discern messages implicitly transmitted by those injunctions that require that we cover ourselves. These interviews also provided insight into how ideas of tzniut shape women’s personal body image and the way women feel about themselves, and the impact these feelings can have on the marital relationship and on sexual satisfaction and enjoyment. 2
For some women, negative body and self-images seemed to be reinforced by the mikveh experience itself. “I feel so exposed when I’m in the mikveh,” Shifra commented. “I have a bad image of my body, so having to inspect it, and then having another woman do so, makes me feel fat and accentuates the discomfort.” Shuli, a woman in her thirties and the mother of four, spoke openly about the anxiety she has about her body and how that affects her experience of mikveh and her intimate relationship with her husband:
I hate going to the mikveh. I don’t know what it is. Some people see mikveh as such a beautiful thing and you’re cleansing your soul and blah, blah, blah. And to me, you’re getting naked in front of this woman, who has to watch you dunk your head under. It’s just uncomfortable.… I hate my body. I really want to lose weight, but I can’t. So I hate my body and I’m not okay with it. And then, it’s an issue because if I really hate my body, how can somebody else love it if I think it’s disgusting?
Although not all the interviewees spoke in such extreme terms, many expressed tension and awkwardness at being naked in front of another woman. More than that, a significant number stated that they felt uncomfortable revealing their bodies because doing so conflicted with the messages of tzniut with which they were raised. Naava, a postmenopausal interviewee, had felt this conflict for years: “I’m sort of a very shy, modest kind of person.… There are some women who walk around with no clothes on and it doesn’t worry them at all.… [At the mikveh] they just walk around openly without any bushah (embarrassment). I don’t know how!” For Naava, as for others, resolving the tension between the perceived messages of tzniut and the requirements of immersion is an ongoing struggle.
My findings revealed multiple negative messages in the way that the concept of tzniut is currently portrayed, which seem to have debilitating repercussions for many women. These repercussions included feeling ill at ease with one’s own body, being embarrassed that others should see it, feeling afraid to engage in bodily pleasures, and being unable to enjoy doing so. Though not all interviewees articulated these negative expressions, the themes recurred enough to warrant notice. They pointed to the fact that whereas messages about the need to cover and conceal one’s body are explicitly (and perhaps neutrally) delivered by the tzniut requirements, negative overtones were conveyed implicitly through the education and culture that teach about and delimit them. Gila, a lawyer by profession and mother of three, addressed these issues. Gila had attended an all-girls’ religious high school in the New York area. She said:
I had such a bad image of my body, and negative associations with what my body could do [to men]. Those messages had been drilled in by the endless repetition in [my high school] of the need to wear sleeves and long skirts all the time; to never use my body in a way that would allure men, of a million and one things that were not “tzniusdik.”… It took a long time until I felt comfortable enough with myself to feel anything positive about having a physical relationship. In fact, when Meir (my husband) and I were dating seriously I went for therapy because I knew that I could never have sex, let alone enjoy it, if I didn’t…. I think that my decision not to cover my hair and to wear pants was part of taking back my body, gaining comfort with myself, and the need of my feminist side to free myself of the tznius shackles.
Zara, a new mother and graduate of the Israeli religious Zionist school system, made mention of similar issues. Her comments show the extent to which the negative messages associated with tzniut pervade elements of the religious Zionist community and where their sometimes extreme consequences lead. Here are Zara’s words (in translation from the original Hebrew):
The message came across loud and clear that a (religious) girl is supposed to be tzenuah (modest) and tehorah (pure). The obvious corollary was that she should be afraid [of sex]. If you want to be a good, religious girl, then you have to be afraid of it.… It was immodest not be afraid.… I think that there was something in the education that told us that if we were not afraid that there was something wrong. It wasn’t formal, but it was definitely there.… And it wasn’t necessarily only from the teachers; the dynamic amongst the girls [in my high school] said that “good girls” were afraid.
In addition to the educational setting instilling a fear of physical intimacy, Zara suggested that her social circles conceived of the laws of modesty as a complete negation of women as sexual beings. Sadly, a number of the interviewees expanded upon how this perception created great difficulty for them in their marital and sexual lives. This difficulty was particularly apparent when they described the transition into marriage, a time when cultural expectations shift from encouraging a girl to be chaste and uninterested in sexuality to becoming an active marital partner who is alluring and available for her husband – a shift that some found to be extremely jarring. So deeply engrained were the psychological effects of these messages that a few interviewees, even years into their marriage, still suffered each month as they transitioned back to sexual permissibility at the end of a niddah cycle.
These findings lead me to suggest that we seriously need to re-examine the messages of tzniut as currently taught and rethink the methods by which this subject matter is transmitted. We must challenge ourselves to find a way to teach modesty while instilling a healthy body image and sense of self. And we must ask ourselves, is there a way to teach modesty as part of a greater context of “הצנע לכת עם אלוקיך – walk humbly with God” (Micah 6:8) without an excessive focus on clothing?
The Japanese women whom I encountered, and maybe even all of Japanese society, have successfully cultivated a culture of humility and modesty – perhaps sometimes even in excessive amounts. Despite that, I saw no evidence that this culture led to a negative self-image or discomfort with their bodies. I hope that we will rise to the challenge of teaching a healthy humility and modesty that will ennoble rather than crush the sense of self in our young women.