A quick thank you note to Donald Trump

by Leah Bieler


If you’re a woman, and likely some of you are, there’s one question, repeated nearly hourly these past few weeks in the media, that is making your head spin. 

 

“Why didn’t she report it?”

 

Indeed. Such a simple question. Why didn’t they report it? Surely - if it actually happened - they would have, right?

 

I decided to put this theory to the test. Recently, I posted this simple request on my Facebook page. ‘Women - comment here if you've ever been groped without your consent and failed to report it.’ I thought it would be a good way to begin a conversation about why women don’t always report. I had no idea what I was in for.

 

Within minutes, responses started pouring in. Most of the women said the first time it happened to them they were in middle school. So, ten to twelve years old. One woman reported repeated incidents, beginning when she was six. A close friend said her first encounter, a daily one with a camp counselor, was when she was only five years old. 

 

Just a sampling of the responses - 

 

“Camp- a guy took my hand and put it in his crotch and held it there tightly enough that it took me a few seconds to get free.”

 

“8th grade. Back of the science lab before homeroom by 2 boys in my class.”

 

“On a subway in 1986. A guy stalked me for a week and then stuck his hand up my shirt.”

 

“In the movie theater by the man sitting next to me. I had gone to see a matinee on my own. When I realized what was happening, he got up and ran. I was frozen in the dark theatre. Couldn't move or speak until it was too late.”

 

“Rockaway Beach. A man put his hand down my bikini bottom. I was in junior high.”

 

 

“Yes. More than once. I was full on sexually assaulted in my college dorm room and never reported it. I was drunk and he was a star football player. I was concerned with how he'd be treated. So backwards.”

 

“I was groped by a guy at the bus stop in Jerusalem, late at night. I was 19. He had a gun.”

 

That last one was me. 

 

Lots of the stories repeated themselves. There were numerous accounts of girls and women being groped on the subway, the bus or the train. Of girls being assaulted in school. Of women being grabbed at their jobs. 

 

The women who responded were not shrinking violets. I didn’t know all of them, but among the ones I do know, a quick count revealed 10 teachers, 7 Ph.D.s and 7 rabbis. There were at least 3 attorneys, and the same number of M.D.s and professional writers. The list included an architect and a school principal. 

 

All these woman are successful advocates for themselves and others on a daily basis. So why, in the face of such vile behavior, have they remained silent all these years? Why did they neglect to speak out? 

 

As children they were likely confused and embarrassed, their silence a piece of their willful forgetting. As adults, as professionals, they were aware that any such accusations invariably devolve into the type of he-said she-said that leaves them looking whiny and weak. Better to firmly reject and hope, even in the face of ample evidence to the contrary, that it doesn’t happen again.

 

Maybe we should consider sending Donald Trump a thank-you note. For being the grope that broke the camel’s back. For forcing so many women to finally speak out, so that they could drown out his nonsense. 

 

Most poignant to me, was a message I received past midnight from an old friend who had posted about a particularly upsetting incident, then deleted it, deciding that she didn’t want to be so public. She wrote that, 20 years later, she was at home shaking with anger, at herself, that she had never reported it. Because even though none of it was her fault, she was the one feeling guilty. 

 

And that’s how it goes, men. Women, nearly all of us, walk around every day weighed down by these accumulated injustices. feeling angry, and guilty, and angry at ourselves for feeling guilty. And the men who violated us are so free of shame that the denials flow like water, so smooth that we almost believe them. But only almost.


don't believe the headlines

by Leah Bieler


As I sit avoiding the news about tonight's debate, here's something to take your mind off. Ignore the sensational headline. We're all perfectly fine. No need to arrange a candlelight vigil or anything. But the Trumpian winds are blowing and they encourage just this kind of bad behavior. So, vote early and often. This piece appears in today's Kveller.

 

I live in a notoriously Jew-y suburb. Local summer camps serve only heckshered (kosher certified) snacks, club sports play on Sundays, and Supercuts has a line out the door right before Passover. For a religious family, this makes life easier in a whole host of ways. And, to ease my liberal conscience, the town has a startling diversity, with numerous churches, a mosque, and a Hindu temple.

So, despite alarms sounded daily on my Facebook feed, there are ways in which I am shielded from anti-Semitism here in my bubble, and my children are, as well. I feel unabashedly good about this.

 

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take the money and run

by Leah Bieler


This may be a bit esoteric for some, but in Israel the mikvah (ritual bath) issue is a big one right now. And, lest American feel superior, in many communities, Orthodox run mikvaot will not allow Conservative or reform conversions in their pools, because, cooties. No, actually, they believe they'd be seen as condoning non-Orthodox conversion. In the Forward today, I explain why sometimes separate but equal could be a step in the right direction.

 

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what I did on my summer vacation

by Leah Bieler


Sometimes as a religious feminist I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I am clearly hated by the religious establishment in Israel, and I've become accustomed to it. But when secular Israelis have no love for me either...I'm left wondering what else I can do but laugh. In today's Forward I tell a little story where my mouth may have gotten the best of me, but I'll blame that on my father. Heredity is a bitch. 

 

This is not a story about Women of the Wall. That is a story for someone else to tell. So many women have been dedicated to that cause for so many years. I am just a sometimes joiner. A tourist, if you will.

But my daughters really wanted to go. So, despite my dislike of crowds, and of getting up bright and early in order to be spat at and called a Nazi, how could I say no?

When we arrived at the Western Wall gate, the coffee I had chugged at home only 15 minutes earlier had not yet fully kicked in. And so it took a moment to notice that the women’s security line was moving at a snail’s pace while the men — carrying full bags, backpacks, even guns — moved quickly through their lane.

Next to our metal detector, there was a man with a velvet kippah going through each woman’s bag with a fine-toothed comb. He removed books and paged through them, and I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what exactly he was looking for.

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