Most of us are familiar with the fictional “Red Tent” – the quintessential image for liberal Jewish feminists of the segregation, discrimination, and general oppression that Hebrew women have allegedly faced throughout history. But truth is never that simple.
I recently read an article describing various practices of indigenous cultures that promote the wellbeing of mothers after childbirth, decreasing rates of postpartum depression to almost zero. Among these practices is social seclusion and mandated rest. The article relates that Punjabi women and their babies are separated from everyone but female relatives and their midwives for five days. The seclusion is believed to promote breastfeeding and physical recuperation.
The Chagga women of Uganda do not make a public appearance until three months after the birth of the baby, at which time they walk through the streets while onlookers sing the songs of warriors returning from battle, to signify the end of the dangerous postpartum period for mother and baby (our equivalent might be the mother’s public recitation of Birkat HaGomel). And women in rural Guatemala, Mayan women in the Yucatan, Latina women both in the United States and Mexico engage in ritual bathing to mark the postpartum period as a distinct time in women’s lives.
One of this week’s Torah portions (in Israel) is Tazria, which describes the laws of seclusion and ritual bathing of the mother following childbirth. When viewed within the context of traditional indigenous practices, the niddah state and mikveh toveling of a woman after childbirth appears authentic, practical, and respectful of the mother’s childbirth and postpartum experience.
In this regard, when Jewish women in 16th century Southern Europe decided on their own not to attend Synagogues while menstruating, it was viewed as an act of self-respect and honor, not one of degradation or restriction.
But for some reason, modern Jewish feminists rarely view the Hebrew woman’s experience through this lens. Instead, we complain about not being “allowed” to hug our husbands, or being made to feel like we are “dirty” because we are impure. But the woman’s state of impurity only exists as an opportunity for her to ultimately enter a state of purity. Men cannot achieve that state and are thus excluded from the cycle entirely. We are not dirty because we are impure, we are holy because we are able to be impure.
True, the niddah blood exiting the womb connotes death, and that is the reason given for the postpartum separation. But the postpartum niddah state is also a badge of honor, a symbol of survival of one of nature’s most dangerous yet vital states of existence, and an opportunity to recover from it with some peace, quiet, and TLC from other women who have either gone through it themselves or are eagerly awaiting their turns.
None of the above reasons are offered by our sources. But because we come from a tradition that believes our ancient laws put into practice create the perfect reality, it only makes sense that these laws would reflect perfection in several spheres of life, beyond the reasons provided by our sages.
We cover our bodies and hair for modesty, but it also protects us from the harsh Middle Eastern elements (which explains why the more Westernized sectors of Israeli society have one of the highest rates of skin cancer in the region). We wait to eat dairy after meat because that’s our law. But meat also takes longer for our bodies to process, so eating dairy soon after would negatively impact our digestion.
Niddah represents death and requires separation from our husbands, sure. But it also represents life through heroic struggle and the cycle of purity. It promotes recovery, female connection, and much needed personal care. We are often quick to praise other cultures for their empowering ancient traditions surrounding the female experience that are actually quite like our own. The difference lies only in our perception.
