Let Me Hear Thy Voice

Abstract

Let Me Hear Thy Voice Avital Chizhik-Goldschmidt (bio) When I chose to pursue journalism as an Orthodox Jewish woman, I don't think I realized what an odd path it was to take. While other reporters may choose to write about whomever they want, however they want to, I have to reckon with the fact that if I write something critical about a Jewish organization, I may have to sit next to the president of that very organization that week in shul or at a wedding. It's complicated, and it has caused its own degree of paranoia. Case by case, I have to determine what is important, what my motives are as a journalist, and whether my hesitation to write about a certain subject is tied to social relationships or to a fear of ruffling the wrong feathers. But I find the interplay of community and writing essential, because it challenges me to remember constantly the power of words. Whether it's exposing the reality of abortions in the Orthodox community, commenting on the fetishization of Orthodox women in film, or investigating a rabbi accused of sexual abuse—the stakes are always high. Writing on the Orthodox and wider Jewish communities has toughened me. This happens when you're the recipient of hate mail and public shaming on social media for your beliefs. Perhaps it's more painful because my readers are so close to me. I can't tell you how many times I've been the target of ad hominem attacks for even daring to state a political opinion. (I can't help but wonder if it would be as bad if I were a man.) As much as I try my best to look poised and flippant, it's not easy to ignore. Long ago, I adopted a policy of never reading the comments on my articles. And funnily enough, this has been a sort of extreme training for the life of a rebbetzin. "Every woman in public life needs to develop skin as tough as rhinoceros hide," Eleanor Roosevelt once said. It's an endless sequence of social faux pas; sometimes you wonder if you've become a character in a comedy film, and sometimes you become the [End Page 273] object of tireless personal comments. And the comments are further compounded when you're someone who has the occasional public opinion. It's not just my shoes people will comment on—it's also my stances, my ideas, my op-eds. But you have to swallow it all and smile through it. My husband often reminds me of the verse in Esther, "And Mordechai the Jew was held in high esteem by most of his brethren." By most of his brethren—not all. Because a true leader will never please everyone. As an Orthodox Jewish woman, I get plenty of frowns for working at a liberal newspaper. (Not that this is new for me—previously, I wrote for Haaretz.) But every time someone gave me trouble for it, I looked back at them and asked: Where do you want me to go? Who will publish free-thinking ideas, and by a woman no less? While I respect the work that some Orthodox publications do within their niche communities, I couldn't work for one. My parents are from the Soviet Union; I know how Pravda works. And I couldn't work for a publication that would refuse to print a photograph of my female subjects. So I have found alternative platforms. And I've been happy working at The Forward, truly able to write unencumbered by ideologies and agendas. Here, I have always been treated with respect and given freedom to write as I please. I wish the Jewish community wasn't so afraid of the media (though, granted, it has its flaws). Part of it is the political climate we live in now. It doesn't help that both the American president and the Israeli prime minister have chosen journalists as their number one enemies, in total ignorance of the role of free media as a watchdog, a founding principle of both countries. Isaiah Berlin once wrote, citing Chekhov, "A writer's...