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
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