Purim, a day of festivities, is the first day that I was ever in a prison. When I was a rabbinical student at Yeshivat Maharat, we were asked if some of us would go to Bedford Hills Correctional Facility (BHCF) to read Megillat Esther for the women inmates and bring some joy into their lives. Bedford Hills is the only maximum security women’s prison in New York State. I knew nothing about the prison or the women there, and had some trepidation about going there. Prison felt foreign, completely out of my wheelhouse. Do we owe something to women who are incarcerated?
I listened to the conversations swirling around me in the beit midrash. One woman said something that touched me and has stayed with me ever since. She said, “Judaism puts such an emphasis on teshuvah (repentance), but we’re not very good at forgiving people who end up in prison.” I decided at that moment to join the group going to Bedford Hills.
What I remember most about that day was the bare, grim surroundings—the starkness of the walls, the barbed wire, the endless checkpoints, and being allowed to carry in only a few papers and tissues. A special dispensation was made for the Megillot—a scroll for us to read from and paper copies for the inmates to follow along. Walking into the Jewish chaplain’s office was a relief; I let out my breath that I had been unconsciously holding while we were led through the grey corridors. At any point, we might have been turned back.
Prison felt foreign, completely out of my wheelhouse. Do we owe something to women who are incarcerated?
The chaplain’s rooms held cheer and warmth. She had laid out snacks on the table and hung Purim decorations on the walls. There were four of us who came to read and six inmates in the room, coming and going at various times. One woman was very religiously observant and thrilled that she would be able to fulfill the mitzvah of hearing the Megillah.
A maximum security prison is for women who have committed heinous crimes. I wondered: How did these women get there? What were their stories? It was disconcerting to be sharing the space with them, but I resolutely put these questions aside and concentrated on simply being there and bringing kindness and geniality.
We took turns passing around the Megillah and reading chapter after chapter. Some read with “voices,” imitating King Aḥashverosh’s kingly manner or Queen Esther’s placating tone. It wasn’t clear how many women understood the Hebrew, but attending the reading did offer them a break in their routine, a welcoming smile, and a respite from their usual prison fare. As we read, sang, and banged on the table at the mention of Haman’s name, an amiable glow lit the room.
Before this visit I had rarely, if ever, thought about female prisoners. If I did think about them, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t in the kindest way. They were behind bars, both literally and existentially. Meeting them in person forced me to see them as real people, in an extremely hard place, receiving little kindness or compassion. I left that day with a changed attitude toward the women in the prison
Interning in the Prison
Two years later, I was offered an opportunity to serve as an intern in the same prison, together with another Maharat student. This time I didn’t hesitate. I said yes, and also was glad for the company each time I braced myself for a visit.
We were blessed to have our internship with a wise and compassionate chaplain. Rabbi Joanna Katz is a Reconstructionist rabbi and chaplain who became a mentor and guide for us in this bleak setting. During our first meeting, I asked her what we needed to know about the women and the crimes they had committed. She told us we had two options: check the tabloids to read about their stories, or just meet them where they are and see them as who they are—“…wonderful women who perpetrated horrendous acts.”
Each visit to BHCF required thoughtful planning, including the best way to bring the women spiritual support given their circumstances. In prison, each inmate has the option once a year to choose which religion they identify with. A woman may choose Judaism for any reason. Therefore, as chaplains, we assumed zero previous knowledge of Judaism by the inmates.
On one visit, I prepared a teaching on Jewish morning practices to help the inmates begin their day with a spiritual reflection and intention. We learned about reciting Modah Ani, thanking God for returning our souls after sleep. Each woman shared something she was grateful for.
I had read, in a book on Jewish meditation, about turning the morning washing ritual into a meditative practice. I described the ritual: “Using pleasantly warm water, take some time to pour the water over each hand three times, then recite the blessing, thinking about your day and setting an intention for yourself.”
I learned to see the inmates as who they are—wonderful women who perpetrated horrendous acts.
The women looked at each other uncomfortably. One woman spoke up. “We don’t have warm water in the sinks, only ice-cold water, which is not pleasant to pour over our hands.” There was an awkward silence. Another woman finally said, “I have a small window high up over my bed. I will look at the sky in the morning and set myself an intention for the day.” The other women murmured in assent, each finding a way to bring some hope into her life.
On a later visit, we brought a Tu B’Shevat seder to the prison. We brought fruits, nuts, and grape juice, as well as supplies for an art project. I led a meditation connecting us to trees and nature. The women closed their eyes, relaxed, and started to enjoy themselves. As we moved through the stages of the seder, the comfortable atmosphere sparked thoughtful conversation, as women compared themselves to some of the nuts and fruit. One woman said that she came into prison with a hard shell, but found softness buried deep inside. Others said that they were “too soft” when they arrived, and developed a tough outer shell just so that they could survive. As the clock inched closer to 5:00, the relaxed atmosphere ebbed away; the women thanked us warmly, joined the guard waiting outside, and were returned to their cells.1
During another visit, a woman in her thirties whom I had come to know came in looking distraught. I asked her what had happened. She fell into my arms sobbing. “Today is Mother’s Day. I was supposed to receive a visit from my daughter. I have been looking forward to it for weeks, and I was just told that it won’t happen. I can’t even organize a phone call with her. I need to speak with her. I don’t feel like her mother any more. Maybe she doesn’t even love me!”
There were no adequate words to comfort her. The best I could do was just to be there with her. We sat in silence for a bit. Then she took some art supplies and created a card for her daughter, to be sent, somehow, at another time
When a woman is pregnant or has an infant, Bedford Hills is the only prison in New York where women are allowed to keep their babies—until age two. I can’t even imagine the agony of separating a mom from her newborn or nursing baby. Seeing the pain that moms felt when they cannot be with their children was heartwrenching. I had never given a moment’s thought to a woman giving birth while in prison and what would happen to her baby. Here, I could not ignore it.
Over time, some of the women opened up and told me their stories. One woman, who had a peaceful, calm presence, had been in Bedford Hills for over 30 years. Her crime? A mistake of youth, she had joined a gang and participated in an armed robbery. Sadly, someone was killed. The woman was only the driver of the getaway car, but by law she had committed a serious felony and was not easily eligible for parole. She studied law while in prison and learned how to present her case to the parole board, but was disappointed over and over. Even so, she had a sense of serenity about her. She had learned that the hot passion of youth did not serve her well.
Less than two years later, she finally received her parole. I thought about the vital years of her life having slipped away during her decades in prison— without a partner, unable to raise a family, perhaps even without the skills to get a job and support herself on the outside.
My own journey as a chaplain brought me to the realization that I want to shine a spotlight on these women who are so easy to ignore. They paid a great price for their actions, and are deserving of our compassion and benevolence. They should not be forgotten or hidden away in the darkest of corners. They are human beings deserving to be seen for their humanness. They are b’tzelem Elokim, created in the image of God.