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| Rivka Schwartz |
Rivka Schwartz belongs to a community which treats the very word ‘sex’ as taboo, but after finding out at 16 that her best friend had been sexually abused, she vowed to help victims of the phenomenon
By Shany Littman Oct 04, 2017
Attorney Rivka Schwartz remembers vividly the first time she ever heard about sexual abuse within the family. She was 16 at the time, attending summer camp. She and one of her best friends – also a Haredi, or ultra-Orthodox, girl from Bnei Brak – were having trouble falling asleep. They talked well into the night, and Schwartz’s friend revealed something that astounded her.
“She told me that a member of her family was forcing himself on her,” Schwartz recalls now, speaking with Haaretz at a café in Jerusalem. “I was stunned. I hardly knew anything about [sexual] relations then, and certainly I didn’t think anything like that – sexual abuse – existed. None of us had internet access, and it wasn’t something that people talked about. I was also shocked because I knew the man. I felt guilty for not having seen it sooner. I didn’t understand how I could have known her for so many years without having the least idea.”
Schwartz decided she had to help her friend. “I sat with my mother in the kitchen and told her the whole story. She said, ‘No way, it can’t be.’ ... She said that maybe my friend had dreamed it and that I should let it go.”
But Schwartz, who is today 36, did not let it go. “I thought I was being smart, and I persuaded my friend to tell her parents. Their reaction was to accuse her of being immodest. They said she had seduced the man. She was sent to a school abroad to keep her away from him. Finally, she left Israel [for good], and afterward also the religious way of life. She broke with her family – and with me, too, because from her perspective I was the one who had harmed her. I’d encouraged her to tell her parents, and the result was that she’d been punished and lost her family and her whole world.”
“She told me that a member of her family was forcing himself on her,” Schwartz recalls now, speaking with Haaretz at a café in Jerusalem. “I was stunned. I hardly knew anything about [sexual] relations then, and certainly I didn’t think anything like that – sexual abuse – existed. None of us had internet access, and it wasn’t something that people talked about. I was also shocked because I knew the man. I felt guilty for not having seen it sooner. I didn’t understand how I could have known her for so many years without having the least idea.”
Schwartz decided she had to help her friend. “I sat with my mother in the kitchen and told her the whole story. She said, ‘No way, it can’t be.’ ... She said that maybe my friend had dreamed it and that I should let it go.”
But Schwartz, who is today 36, did not let it go. “I thought I was being smart, and I persuaded my friend to tell her parents. Their reaction was to accuse her of being immodest. They said she had seduced the man. She was sent to a school abroad to keep her away from him. Finally, she left Israel [for good], and afterward also the religious way of life. She broke with her family – and with me, too, because from her perspective I was the one who had harmed her. I’d encouraged her to tell her parents, and the result was that she’d been punished and lost her family and her whole world.”
Schwartz was haunted by the realization that, instead of helping, she had only made matters worse. But the lesson was clear.
“I understood that there was no one to turn to in such cases,” she says. “I am not someone who accepts the idea that nothing can be done. I decided that one day I would do something about it, so other 16-year-old girls in similar situations would have someone to turn to.
“I understood that there was no one to turn to in such cases,” she says. “I am not someone who accepts the idea that nothing can be done. I decided that one day I would do something about it, so other 16-year-old girls in similar situations would have someone to turn to.
“The second thing I understood was that talking and exposure exact a steep price, so you have to know how to go about it. You mustn’t remain silent, but you have to know how to not stay silent. I decided that in the future I’d find a way to help other girls.”
However, that future had to wait. As one of 11 siblings in a family affiliated with the Vizhnitz Hasidic sect, Schwartz was steered from childhood into attending a Haredi girls’ school and marrying.
She only departed from the path to the extent that she refused to marry someone within the Vizhnitz court. And even that was related to the assault she’d been told about as a teenager.
“I didn’t want to marry anyone from a community where such things happen,” she explains now, adding, “Until then, I had the naive notion that it didn’t happen in other communities.”
However, that future had to wait. As one of 11 siblings in a family affiliated with the Vizhnitz Hasidic sect, Schwartz was steered from childhood into attending a Haredi girls’ school and marrying.
She only departed from the path to the extent that she refused to marry someone within the Vizhnitz court. And even that was related to the assault she’d been told about as a teenager.
“I didn’t want to marry anyone from a community where such things happen,” she explains now, adding, “Until then, I had the naive notion that it didn’t happen in other communities.”
The matchmaker suggested Meni Gira Schwartz, then a 19-year-old yeshiva student from a different sect, a businessman and also editor of Behadrei Haredim – which bills itself as “the world’s biggest Haredi website.” The parents on both sides weren’t enthusiastic, but the couple insisted, and three weeks after their first meeting they became engaged.
Schwartz, who was 19 when she married, subsequently continued her studies to become a teacher, training at an ultra-Orthodox seminary. She had two daughters, and at age 26 chose to enroll in the law faculty at Ono Academic College, in Kiryat Ono, near Tel Aviv. It was the only law school that would admit her without a high school matriculation certificate. She’s the only one of her siblings to receive an academic degree.
During her studies, Schwartz volunteered at the college’s legal clinic, the Noga Center for Victims of Crime. There, for the first time, she discovered that the scale of sexual abuse, in society in general, far exceeded what she had imagined, and was hardly confined exclusively to ultra-Orthodox sects.
“Not many Haredi women contacted the aid center,” she recalls. “But I realized that in the same way a woman would better understand another woman, a Haredi woman will understand another Haredi woman better. It was clear that a Haredi who was victimized should be treated with Haredi ‘tools.’”
Schwartz also volunteered at an Israel Bar Association clinic that offers pro bono legal assistance to indigent persons.
The clinic often received ultra-Orthodox who had experienced sexual assault, and referred them to the relevant organizations. That experience only reinforced Schwartz’s belief that a Haredi facility – with an understanding of that community’s special needs and language – was needed to help in such cases.
After completing her studies, Schwartz clerked in the criminal department at the State Prosecutor’s Office in Jerusalem, which marked the first time she encountered incidents of sexual assault – including in Haredi society – that were considered serious criminal offenses.
She also discovered that in some cases, ultra-Orthodox assailants were simply ignorant of the law. She cites the case of a man from the Haredi town of Modi’in Ilit, who wanted to appeal a 13-year prison term to which he had been sentenced after being convicted of having sexual relations with a boy of 12.
“The man had a business, where the boy worked as a messenger, and the close working ties between them led to forbidden relations,” Schwartz relates. “Years after those relations ended, when the boy was 21, the man tried to hug him when the two met by chance on the street. The victim re-experienced the trauma and filed a complaint. The assailant had no idea why he was being investigated. He told the interrogator, ‘The boy didn’t resist, it didn’t hurt him, he wanted me. He even came to me on his own.’”
The man was aware he had violated Jewish law, having had relations with another male, but wasn’t familiar with the concept of statutory rape, when a minor is involved – and a crime even if consensual.
“For him, it was like someone turning on a light on Shabbat,” explains Schwartz. “He said it was between him and God. He didn’t know there’s no such thing as consensual relations in such a case. The ignorance stemmed from a lack of awareness. We live in a closed community, but I see that not as [a means of] silencing but as protection. The community wants to protect its members.”
Schwartz, who was 19 when she married, subsequently continued her studies to become a teacher, training at an ultra-Orthodox seminary. She had two daughters, and at age 26 chose to enroll in the law faculty at Ono Academic College, in Kiryat Ono, near Tel Aviv. It was the only law school that would admit her without a high school matriculation certificate. She’s the only one of her siblings to receive an academic degree.
During her studies, Schwartz volunteered at the college’s legal clinic, the Noga Center for Victims of Crime. There, for the first time, she discovered that the scale of sexual abuse, in society in general, far exceeded what she had imagined, and was hardly confined exclusively to ultra-Orthodox sects.
“Not many Haredi women contacted the aid center,” she recalls. “But I realized that in the same way a woman would better understand another woman, a Haredi woman will understand another Haredi woman better. It was clear that a Haredi who was victimized should be treated with Haredi ‘tools.’”
Schwartz also volunteered at an Israel Bar Association clinic that offers pro bono legal assistance to indigent persons.
The clinic often received ultra-Orthodox who had experienced sexual assault, and referred them to the relevant organizations. That experience only reinforced Schwartz’s belief that a Haredi facility – with an understanding of that community’s special needs and language – was needed to help in such cases.
After completing her studies, Schwartz clerked in the criminal department at the State Prosecutor’s Office in Jerusalem, which marked the first time she encountered incidents of sexual assault – including in Haredi society – that were considered serious criminal offenses.
She also discovered that in some cases, ultra-Orthodox assailants were simply ignorant of the law. She cites the case of a man from the Haredi town of Modi’in Ilit, who wanted to appeal a 13-year prison term to which he had been sentenced after being convicted of having sexual relations with a boy of 12.
“The man had a business, where the boy worked as a messenger, and the close working ties between them led to forbidden relations,” Schwartz relates. “Years after those relations ended, when the boy was 21, the man tried to hug him when the two met by chance on the street. The victim re-experienced the trauma and filed a complaint. The assailant had no idea why he was being investigated. He told the interrogator, ‘The boy didn’t resist, it didn’t hurt him, he wanted me. He even came to me on his own.’”
The man was aware he had violated Jewish law, having had relations with another male, but wasn’t familiar with the concept of statutory rape, when a minor is involved – and a crime even if consensual.
“For him, it was like someone turning on a light on Shabbat,” explains Schwartz. “He said it was between him and God. He didn’t know there’s no such thing as consensual relations in such a case. The ignorance stemmed from a lack of awareness. We live in a closed community, but I see that not as [a means of] silencing but as protection. The community wants to protect its members.”
On the condition that it’s really protection and doesn’t expose others to danger.
“Right. In the past, the community prevented exposure and wider publicity of these cases. The Haredi media didn’t report them. The Haredi public didn’t hear about them. When offenders were put on trial, I [as a member of the community] didn’t know about them.
“When I started to work in the State Prosecutor’s Office, I was shocked by the scale of the phenomenon. I realized that people who had suddenly disappeared from the landscape, and were said to be abroad, were actually in jail. The public wasn’t aware they’d been punished, so there was no deterrent effect.”
While clerking six years ago, during a tour of a Social Affairs Ministry center in Jerusalem that treats sexually abused children, Schwartz learned that 75 percent of the youngsters treated there came from ultra-Orthodox families. Though this was due in part to the high proportion of Haredim in the city, the information staggered her.
Schwartz: “I wrote about this in a Haredi Facebook forum, noting the high percentage of Haredi victims and the fact that people were in prison and we didn’t know the first thing about it. In response, people accused me of defaming the community. They said I was making things up. The forum’s manager told me we don’t wash our dirty linen in public, and deleted the post. I felt helpless. I wanted to fight the ignorance, so that potential offenders would know what lies in store for them from the legal standpoint, and preclude such cases.”
“Right. In the past, the community prevented exposure and wider publicity of these cases. The Haredi media didn’t report them. The Haredi public didn’t hear about them. When offenders were put on trial, I [as a member of the community] didn’t know about them.
“When I started to work in the State Prosecutor’s Office, I was shocked by the scale of the phenomenon. I realized that people who had suddenly disappeared from the landscape, and were said to be abroad, were actually in jail. The public wasn’t aware they’d been punished, so there was no deterrent effect.”
While clerking six years ago, during a tour of a Social Affairs Ministry center in Jerusalem that treats sexually abused children, Schwartz learned that 75 percent of the youngsters treated there came from ultra-Orthodox families. Though this was due in part to the high proportion of Haredim in the city, the information staggered her.
Schwartz: “I wrote about this in a Haredi Facebook forum, noting the high percentage of Haredi victims and the fact that people were in prison and we didn’t know the first thing about it. In response, people accused me of defaming the community. They said I was making things up. The forum’s manager told me we don’t wash our dirty linen in public, and deleted the post. I felt helpless. I wanted to fight the ignorance, so that potential offenders would know what lies in store for them from the legal standpoint, and preclude such cases.”
