Chaya’s ordeal could be yours

CHAYA WAS beautiful, with the sweetest set of dimples I have ever seen. Wrapped up in a pink scarf, she was shy, nervous and polite when we met. I liked her immediately but found the initial distance unsettling given that we were both Jewish women in our early twenties from similar backgrounds in north-west London. I mean, we knew a lot of the same people.

Despite this, our stories could have not been more different.

I’d just joined the as a trainee reporter looking to make my mark. Chaya and her daughter were on the run from her husband.

Along with her daughter, she’d spent months avoiding his calls, living out of a suitcase. She relied on Jewish Women’s Aid, the lead UK charity supporting Jewish families affected by domestic violence. They helped her when family and friends could or did not.

Chaya feared going to a kosher coffee shop or restaurant in case her husband, or someone he knew, spotted her.

We headed to a local library and sat huddled together as she told me her story. She spoke about her stint in a Jerusalem seminary, an experience that led to her shidduch. He came from a good family, studied at a respected yeshivah and was respected in their local community. He was handsome, our age and, initially, kind. After marriage, that changed.

He beat her frequently, and his sister warned him to avoid her face or neck in case people talked.

It felt unnatural, but I forced myself to make notes, between gasps, between making eye-contact, between cuddling her as she cried.

Shockingly, she blamed herself. She saw it as her job to act as a release for his stress and temperamental nature. She covered the bruises and tried to be a good mother, telling herself that the child would not be affected as long as she wasn’t hit herself. .

She asked a rebbetzin, what should she do?

“Have another child,” came the advice. “It will bring out the fatherly side in him. You’ll see”.

I swore — which for a moment, made her laugh.

That was until she recalled coming out of the shower, to wails. She saw her husband pinning down their child, his knees on her wrists, his hands smacking her face.

She intervened, taking the brunt of the beating. That was the moment everything changed. Then she turned to JWA.

Today, the charity supports 600 women across the country; a 50 per cent increase since 2015. JWA says at least one in four women in our community are affected by domestic violence, be it physical, sexual, financial, emotional or even religious abuse. What’s that? Here’s an example. A Charedi husband told his wife to perform sexual acts on him, on demand. That was a religious duty, he claimed,contained in scripture that she had no right to read. So she called the charity, wanting to triple check whether he was correct.

It is not hard to see why we need a specifically Jewish charity for such cases.

That’s why the work of JWA — and other charities supporting ethnic minorities — is so important.

JWA has seen an influx of grandmothers who have suffered decades of abuse, but never felt able to talk about it. Its employees support women from wealthy homes reduced to begging for money from their husbands. They support Charedi women who fear alienation from their community if they speak out. They speak at Jewish schools and JSocs across the country, and have found that students come forward, recognising the signs in their own homes. They talk about porn, consent and the impact of “lad” culture.

But it not just the job of JWA to support those affected by domestic violence. Everyone from educators to religious leaders, politicians and the media has a duty to tackle domestic violence. The Ending Violence Against Women and Girls Media Awards was launched this year to recognise the impact reporting on the issue has on public debate. I’ve been shortlisted on the basis of my articles on the subject. But the many stories to tell in our community are not something to boast about.

What is worth shouting about is that so many people are now dispelling myths. Myths claiming abuse is infrequent, or localised. Speaking to people from more Orthodox backgrounds, I’ve been told that it’s a secular problem because they’re exposed to porn. Ask a secular person where community abuse lies, and they’ll point towards insularity and stigma in Orthodox communities. But the truth is, this issue is equally dispersed, one in four affected.

I have never forgotten Chaya’s story. I will never stop questioning why a beautiful young woman in love went through what she did.

I believe that pure bad luck played a big part in her ordeal. What happened to Chaya could have happened to me. It could happen to you.

Chaya blamed herself. She left only for her child