I didn’t expect to say Kaddish with any regularity. When my father, Morris Robinson, z”l died in late January, 2020, I intended to recite only the three Kaddishes at the end of the Shabbat davening each week, and instead focus on helping raise three young children. At the shiva minyanim at my parents’ house, however, I realized that I would never experience a more supportive environment in which to say Kaddish, with my mother, sisters and aunt by my side, and my brothers and uncle on the other side of the mechitza.

My husband encouraged me to continue, as well as some friends who have experienced loss; surprisingly, in addition to Shabbat mornings, I was able to attend shul several times a week for Mincha/Maariv. Without fail, I found myself echoing my fellow mourners by lapsing into the traditional Ashkenazi pronunciation, and this amused me every time, as it ran counter to a dozen years of day school education.

I brought a lot of anxiety to the recitation of Kaddish. When I was in middle school, one day a female classmate insisted that, at the necessary time, she would say Kaddish for her parents. Although I was sympathetic, I remember thinking that this was not typical practice. And now I found myself wondering many times whether anyone on either side of the mechitza would be offended by my vocal participation. How loud should I be? Should I recite the words, or was it OK to chant them? What if my Kaddish recitation ran counter to someone’s idea of what a shul’s should be?

Sometimes someone with a more traditional outward appearance joined the minyan, and I started sweating. How would I have responded if he had asked me to remain silent? Would it have been OK if I had said that I’m a member, that the rabbi allows women to recite Kaddish here, that my father died a month ago? Did I need to defer to his potential expectations, even leave without attempting to pray, or consider that perhaps he was more open to possibility? In these moments, he morphed from a fellow parishioner to a potential challenger, but the feared confrontations did not occur. Rather, the only men who approached me after davening did so with words of compassion—including one who told me that he peeked over the mechitza to make sure I was done with aleinu before starting Kaddish. These small gestures of kindness helped me feel welcome at the three shuls among which I rotated.

I want to thank the women and men, whether mourners or not, who helped reset communal consideration over the past 30 years by giving a face to a concept, and thus helping normalize the practice of women reciting Kaddish in shul. There are enough horror stories of how women who attempted to say Kaddish in shuls were traumatized because their efforts were misunderstood and misinterpreted. The shul sanctity conversations from the 90s didn’t fully consider the needs of the bereaved, who, having experienced irreversible loss, are seeking solace in the sanctuary. When I shared some of my concerns with a man, he was astonished and responded, “But how could anyone be upset? It was your father,” and I think this reaction reflects an altered awareness.

I also want to thank the woman who let me know that a shul that I hadn’t considered for Kaddish would indeed be a place where I would be welcome. I asked the rebbetzin about it because of my concerns of how I would be perceived, and she responded, “Women have been saying Kaddish here for years.” I realized how easy it is to make assumptions about faith communities based on externalities and assume that the flashpoints of yesteryear reflect current discourse.

I also want to thank the women who sat next to me (pre-COVID), who took care of my children during Shabbat services when they suddenly were seeking my attention precisely when I was trying to say Kaddish. Also, I am grateful to the women who prepared meals for my family after the shiva had concluded (and to the rabbi of one of our shuls, who delivered one of them), which allowed my husband and me to focus for the first week on transitioning into our new Shabbat routine of getting to shul on time with three young children instead of on food preparations.

Although COVID shut down indoor minyanim for several months, once outdoor minyanim began, I became very grateful to my husband for his kindness in getting up early for hashkama minyanim, which allowed me to attend some outdoor minyanim and resume saying Kaddish once again.

Because I had been so concerned with context, it took me a long time to reflect on the meaning of the words in the siddur. By reciting the Kaddish, the mourners announce their presence, a sub-community seeking support. We attempt to match each other’s tempo, to create a unified plea from our private thoughts. After the collective gaze has moved on to the next shiva, the next crisis, the avel continually vocalizes his/her often complicated grief, and reminds the fellow congregants that he/she is still in need of attention.

The Kaddish is a positive, affirmative prayer, and the congregants, even if they don’t know the mourner, cathartically respond again and again, “Amein”—we agree, we affirm the truths of your complex relationship with the one you have lost. The congregants thus verbally comfort the bereaved, and I find it meaningful that this interaction both with God and each other is part of the daily davening.

Kaddish comes at various times in the service. And sometimes I ponder: Here it is, at some random time in the day, and I find myself in shul, contemplating the one I lost. Here, at this random moment, I remember you. I consider the dreams that you merited to fulfill, one of the most important being that you raised six children to lives of Torah and mitzvot, which was your way to symbolically rebuild the Jewish people after the Holocaust. And I also ponder the dreams which you were not given the time to fulfill, including having more time to learn Torah and write.

I vocalize my grief by chanting a well-worn prayer of positivity, ultimately wishing peace and serenity to the Jewish people, and I hope, somehow, that these prayers resonate and reach the heavens.

*****

Epilogue:

On December 16, mid-Chanukah, I said the final Kaddish in my neighbor’s backyard at Mincha as the darkness and snow descended in tandem, as surreal as the rest of the past 11 months. And, with Maariv, I was the agent to others’ memories when I responded to their Kaddish, as I was done reciting mine.

I would like to thank the indoor and outdoor minyanim at Beth Aaron, Netivot Shalom, and The Jewish Center of Teaneck for making me feel welcome. I found saying Kaddish to be very meaningful in helping me maintain a connection despite the ultimate distance.

By Yehudit Robinson