We embrace our differences

By Leon H. Olenick

There was a tremendous disturbance outside one of the hospital units. I was called to assist. Upon arriving I was told that a gypsy princess whose father was king of the gypsies for that geographical region, was recently admitted into the hospital. There were gypsies pouring into the hospital from all directions. They were camping out on the hospital grounds. The hospital administrators were concerned about disturbances and instances of gypsies stealing from the gift shop. I was not asked to offer spiritual care for the patient. I was asked by administration to follow them and report to security their acts of theft.

At that moment I thought of how we are programmed to fear people and cultures with which we are not familiar. I thought of Parsha “Schlach,” in Torah. It speaks of spies, sent out by Moses per the instruction of God, to explore the land that the Hebrew people are to travel. The spies are terrified by the ways of an unfamiliar culture and come back with a false report. They say there are giants in the land that “will devour us, and we must not enter.” They speak about the land swallowing up our lives and spirit if they enter. I believe this report resembles the report the hospital administrators gave me, and knew I must investigate for myself. I saw a picture of fear that must be in the hearts of the administration as I prepared to cross the “Narrow Bridge,” that Reb Nachman speaks about in his teachings. If we celebrate our differences, we ascertain God’s universal love, and we discover the dancer inside our souls.

I knew I had to unearth the facts. There had to be more to this story, and I believed that my assignment was not to merely follow these people to assure administrators they were not pilfering. I believed our paths came together from a divine space.

I traveled to the patient’s room. I was informed that the patient, a 22-year-old woman, had cystic fibrosis. She was intubated. The disease had destroyed her lungs and she would not survive the removal of the tube (extubation). Familiarizing myself with the facts, I was able to approach the family.

I entered a waiting area where there were no less than 30 people congregating. I introduced myself. I was greeted with some nods, however no one spoke with me. I passed through the crowd and entered the room of the young woman. Her name was Hilda.

The room was filled with equipment. The intravenous pole was supporting many bags of medication, with tubes that led to the arm of the patient. The woman was lying motionless in bed. Her long black curls masked her face, as her engaging brown eyes peeked through the bright colored blankets. There were colored fringes coming from beneath the blanket.

Staring at these fringes reminded me of the fringes on my Tallit that I wear to remind me of the commandments of life I am to follow. Over her, hanging like a mobile there was a string that contained a beer bottle, a pair of shoes, a pack of cigarettes, and some other ornaments that I later found to be traditional Gypsy healing tools. Her bed was surrounded by men. There were no women present.

I introduced myself as the chaplain. I was greeted warmly by an older gentleman. He wore a flannel shirt that was tucked neatly into his khaki pants, which were supported by wide, dark blue suspenders. He wore brightly shined boots that came to a huge point at the toe. His vest was made of the finest silk and was completely hand embroidered. I wanted one exactly like it.

His aura was that of a distinguished gentleman. He identified himself as the woman’s father. I knew from prior knowledge that he was also the Gypsy king. I told him it was an honor to meet him and offered my compassion for his daughter and his family. I gave him the honor I would extend to any person of high office I would meet. He called a young man over and introduced him as his son. His son was attired in a business suit. He appeared as a person who worked in an executive or white-collar office. The father said, “You will speak with him,” pointing to his son. We spoke at length of his sister’s condition and prognosis. I asked if I could offer a blessing for her. My request was granted.

“Master of our Universe, I stand with the family of Hilda, one of your precious children who will soon join you. Please give them the strength and energy to open their hearts to her that she may know how special and meaningful her life, although short, is to them and her family. Allow her to feel the love they send her, and let the energy from within your holy spaces show her not to be in fear. Let her always walk arm in arm with your angels. Make the space for this holy family and tribe to celebrate life and be free from the people-fabricated labels that cast shadows upon their life style. Amen.”

After I offered prayer, I asked if we could speak outside. He told me that he was not able to leave the bedside. He said that it is the belief of the Gypsy that when a person is facing death, they must be surrounded at all times by those close to them. He told me that “it is our belief that at the precise moment of death, the last person she breathes on will gain all of her knowledge. This is our way of passing knowledge.”

I thought of Torah, “L’dor v’dor,” from generation to generation; the importance of humanity standing on the shoulders of our ancestors transcends time and space; the teaching that we are an important link with the past and the future. We must learn from the old, live in the present, in order to create the new.

I was also told that the ornaments hanging over the bed were important in the life of a Gypsy and gave respect to the culture. I realized that this family was observing religious practice. I wanted to honor them with honesty, so I told the son about the theft concern. He assured me that there was no theft going on. He said the many people were present out of respect and they would not prostitute this respect with theft. At that moment I knew that there was no theft happening, nor was there theft about to happen. His eyes told me this was so. The theft threat was the administration’s inability to take the time and learn this people’s unique cultural values.

I thought of how many lives over the centuries have been lost because of this same mindset. They were being denied freedom of movement or “watched” because of seemingly unwarranted suspicion. I spoke with the administrators and assured them there was no theft. They told me I was responsible. It was ironic that the administrators were in greater fear of losing something material than these holy people were of death.

I immediately thought of a Reb Nachman of Bretslov teaching. He said that when we are in fear, our hearts fill up with the fear and it intensifies. After a while it dominates our hearts and our heart drowns. This is called spiritual death. I could not help feeling deeply sorry for these administrators whose hearts were drowning in the sea of nontrust and their inability to honor the uniqueness of a nonfamiliar culture.

Time passed and I saw the family at least twice per day. The people knew me, and I knew them. I sat in the waiting room and spoke with the people who initially snubbed me. I learned some of their prayer ritual and prayed with them. Their way of prayer was not really different than mine. They went to the same place via a different route.

The only person I was not able to connect with was the young woman’s mother. Each time I approached her, she would look down and spit on my shoes. After a while, I finally accepted this strange act without asking why it was so.

he days passed and the young woman’s father summoned me. He said it was time to extubate (remove life support from) her, and he would like me present. I walked with him near the room. There was a man I had not noticed. He came out and introduced himself. He was a short man, in simple dress. His eyes, however, were intense, and told the universe that he was holy. “My name is Yaakov. I am the priest.” Although we had not met, he was aware of each motion and prayer I had said in the previous weeks. In a commanding voice he said, “You will be by my side as they disconnect the life support. You will pray with me.”

I thanked him, the father, and the brother for including me, and said I would rather wait just outside the room, as I was not a member of their tribe. Yaakov glared at me with his huge, dark eyes. He said nothing for a few moments, and I was feeling tense. He then took my arm and said, while gently tugging me toward the room, “We walked into the gas chamber together as brothers, we will be together now.” My insides were on fire. He had pierced my soul.

We prayed together, and I was privileged to join in the traditional vidui, or end of life prayer, of the gypsies. I had entered holy space. After the young Gypsy woman died, her mother approached me. She explained that her way of mourning was not to engage in any talk. She said she had to be in complete silence in order to clear a connection and create a path to her ancestors for her daughter. She said the community knew not to approach her, however to those outside the community, she would spit on their shoe. She thanked me for my prayers and concern for her family. The father said “Shalom rabbi, live in peace.” I wished him the same.

This family had taught me much about respect, acceptance, dedication and love. They authenticated their faith through living action. They opened the path for me to become closer to being able to open my heart. They broke down the barriers of eliteness dictated by the outside world, and we became partners.

It reminds me of the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, “God’s dream is to be not alone, but to have humanity as a partner in a dream of continuous creation. By whatever we do, by whatever act we carry out, we either advance or obstruct the drama of redemption.”

I was not alone in the short time I caravanned with my gypsy family.

Updated 6/27/08

Leon H. Olenick is a rabbi and board certified chaplain. He offers spiritual and pastoral care to his patients, families and caregivers spanning a multicultural and religious sphere. He currently is employed by VITAS Innovative Hospice in South Florida. He is married to Jackie Olenick, a Judaic artist. He has three children and nine grandchildren. The stories are taken from a book of short stories that is in progress, Encounters with the Last Dance. His intention in sharing his real life stories is to help people who are facing difficult health, caregiving, and end-of-life issues. The stories are true, only the names have been changed.