A few years ago, I worked with an adolescent boy who had
been sexually abused as a child. As part of his therapy and to help him work
through the immense shame, self-blame, rage and confusion he felt, we wrote
down together his story - what had happened. As we were finishing I asked, “Do
you have any questions for me about what happened to you?” He said, “Yes. Why
did this happen to me?” I was at a loss for words.
As a psychotherapist who works with traumatized children, I
feel profoundly powerless and sad every time I sit with a child who has to face
the story of his/her betrayal. How do you explain to a child the depth of the
pathology of the perpetrators who shattered his childhood? Or help him believe
that not all adults in his life will fail him and that intimacy with the right
people is worthwhile?
Yet I know that, in some ways, this was a lucky child, one
whose parents heard him and got him help. Many were not so lucky. At Yeshiva
University, the adults who failed the children in their care were teachers,
rabbis. A lawsuit and complaint filed last week by victims of abuse at YU’s
Manhattan High School for Boys, alleges that trusted YU leaders covered up, and
thus enabled, horrific abuse for decades, despite repeated requests for help
and protection by victims and their families.
Growing up in the Orthodox Jewish community, having attended
YU, embracing its values and practicing as a psychotherapist in the Orthodox
community, I have struggled to grasp why cover-ups happen and, particularly,
how people can stand by and allow abuse to flourish. I believe the answer lies
in understanding how people cope in the face of shocking, traumatic
information.
When we hear that a child has been abused - especially when
the accused is a respected rabbi—our first impulse is often denial. This
defense mechanism, identified by Anna Freud, protects us from feeling
powerlessness and distress in the face of overwhelmingly painful information.
Even parents of victims may initially have this urge to deny a child’s abuse,
to avoid devastation and self-blame.
Consider this: How might it feel for you to learn that a
close friend was accused of sex crimes against a child? You would be shocked
and might have an inclination to defend him/her, at least initially. But then
what? Would you ignore the information about his harm to children? If so, what
might motivate you to do so? What would it take for you to open your heart and
imagine an adolescent boy being brutalized by a trusted adult? Would it have to
happen to your child in order for you to connect with the abject terror of this
act to a child?
Rabbis and administrators at YU may have felt an impulse to
deny allegations against abusers who
were also their colleagues. But, as spiritual leaders and educators, they had a
moral obligation to investigate reports, which victims allege they repeatedly
ignored. Their persistent denial turned innocent boys with great potential into
deeply wounded men; this resulted in some leaving their faith, others
attempting suicide and/or requiring lifelong psychiatric care. This obligation
to acknowledge abuse includes current YU leaders who were approached by victims
in recent years and not only did not act until their hand was forced by the
Forward’s breaking story, but repeatedly ignored victims’ requests for a
response.
Denial is a normal process that evolves through childhood as
we mature and learn to make sense of reality. But when a child’s wellbeing is
at stake and adults deny and obstruct truth, the impact on children is
devastating. We put the rabbi and the institution before the child. We put our
own discomfort or agendas ahead of the destruction of a child's whole world. We
use arguments such as: “You have to understand, they didn’t know much in those
days.” or “Well, it was only wrestling,” or: “It was in the past. Why should
that be the current YU administration's issue now?” Our minds create one excuse
after another, or blame the victim, in an effort to preserve the goodness in a
respected person or institution - or as we have been seeing lately with members
of the Orthodox Rabbinate, to preserve their established network of friends.
What motivates the denial? Some leaders have a dangerous
inability to differentiate between compassion for a perpetrator’s struggles and
excusing their criminal behaviors. Others deny allegations because they deny
their own abuse histories or fear that their own indiscretions, sexual or
otherwise, could be revealed. For instance, there have been suggestions that
several rabbis who still defend a convicted Orthodox child abuser and rabbi
were themselves abused by him. Many are protecting their friends and their
networks or an institution. Regardless of the reasons, all of these motivations
reflect profoundly disturbing gaps in empathy and leadership.
When the story of alleged abuse at YU broke, the Chancellor,
Dr. Norman Lamm excused his failures to report allegations by saying, “It was
not our intention or position to destroy a person without further inquiry.” Not
destroying a rabbi’s reputation trumped saving hundreds of children from harm.
In Judeo-Christian communities, an important factor to
consider is the desperation many of us feel to be “good” and do the “right
thing” in “God’s eyes” and in the eyes of others. This urgency can lead to a
phobia of anything deemed “bad,” leading us to exclude anything that threatens
the image we wish to hold for ourselves or our people. Our compassion for our
children gets lost if we act from the fear about how things might “look” and a
desire to preserve reputations.
Ironically, by denying our darker sides, we actually become
our fears and avoid facing all of who we are: imperfect beings. Trying to live
within rigid parameters such as, “I am only a good person or “Rabbis are above
reproach!” forces what Carl Jung called “the shadow” and what the Kabbalah
calls “Sitra Achra”—the other side— to always backfire on us.
How can we heal our community? By heightening awareness of
how denial works and learning to slow down and listen with the most open of
hearts when there are allegations. This means we commit to allowing all that we
experience within ourselves and towards others when we hear shocking news,
possibly noting an initial impulse to deny, even intense discomfort and
confusion, but always prioritizing our responsibility to the innocent children
entrusted to our care.
We can also heal by accepting that everyone, ourselves
included, falls into the grey zone of having both good and bad traits. (This
can be particularly challenging in religious communities if members believe
that God, too, only sees in black and white.) Someone can be a beloved rabbi
and a child molester. Someone can be a respected leader who errs in his choices
and requires pressure from his community to do the right thing. We have a
difficult time grasping the “and” because it leaves us unable to resolve our
wish to put people neatly into categories of “good” or “bad.” We have to
instead, hold the space for our discomfort while maintaining the need for
accountability for those who have may have committed crimes.
Lastly, for the sake of our beloved children, we must demand
more of our future leaders - that they have the capacity for self-reflection,
humility and compassion first and foremost for the terror of the sexually
abused child.
Stacey Klein, LCSW is a psychotherapist in private practice
in Manhattan specializing in the treatment of anxiety, OCD and child trauma,
and she blogs at "Is There Life After Therapy?" Follow her on Twitter
@StaceyKleinLCSW
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