Elul Reflection #2

Nasiyah Isra-Ul
Sep 8
7 min read

It's officially September, and we've only got two more weeks of the month of Elul. Time has definitely flown by. But it's been productive! Elul has been a powerful time of reflection and insight for me, a time to wrestle with the past and plot a course for the future. I've taken the past two weeks to really sit with my own thoughts and sort out my past, allowing myself the space to forgive myself and others while also acknowledging the pain I have caused other people. It has been the first time I've really gotten to embrace the silence and wade through the murky waters of trauma, pain, and grief with assurance and direction.

Elul hasn't just been about forgiving people for petty things I've taken offense to. This year's Elul has been about reconciling within myself the painful experiences that, even though they led me on a journey to get closer to God, rocked me to the core and caused me grief. I've taken this month to sort through a lot of emotions and feelings of the past few years, from having to go minimal-contact with a close relative I care deeply about to losing all of my childhood friends after leaving a toxic religious community.

One of the biggest ways I've been processing these events and feelings is with writing. For the first time, I'm sharing my story and sharing in intimate detail what happened, and I'm in the final stages of editing before it goes live. That project alone has helped me participate in the Elul reflection process, and it's been an emotional rollercoaster for sure. Yet, it's helped me realize that my voice matters, and sometimes there is strength in being vulnerable and introspective. I don't owe anyone my story, but it came bursting out of me during this reflection period (and a bit before), and I have decided to be brave and share it with the world.

This week, I've been especially reflecting intensely on my journey from religious trauma to spiritual freedom. It has made me even more grateful for God's love and guidance when I wasn't sure what to do next.

The Hidden Struggle of Trauma in Forgiveness

When we think of forgiveness, we think about erasing all memory of the pain. It seems popular culture and toxic religious systems both like to conflate forgiveness with allowing abusers to not be held accountable for their actions.

I grew up with the stories, movies, and books focused on forgiveness as a means of not bringing up the past, or by letting the person who harmed you back into your life, and trying to understand why they harmed you instead of the fact that they did. It never sat right with me to think that God commanded us to trust our abusers again, regardless of whether or not they asked for forgiveness before He would even think about forgiving us. That's a dangerous task for many, and an especially impossible task for me.

If we, as survivors of traumatic events, don't get to name the pain, how will we heal? Do we have to let the people who harmed us back into our lives, and if not, how do we know we've really forgiven them? If you're like me and have PTSD, the harsh memories play back in your head regardless of whether you want to forget or not. It's not always an option to forget or avoid naming the wrong, and for many, it's not healthy either. I've seen so many people in my lifetime who use the idea of forgiveness to justify staying in or returning to situations that are not safe for them.

So, I began to wonder this week, how can I, as a trauma survivor, name the pain while reflecting, forgiving, and doing teshuva during the month of Elul? I think the answer lies in the hidden meaning of forgiveness.

Naming the Pain

Last week, I wrote the two major words for forgiveness in Hebrew. Selicha and nasa.

Selicha typically means a pardon, and nasa usually means lifting up or taking off a burden related to a fault. There's also an even more challenging word for forgiveness, mechilah, which means a wiping away or erasing of fault and the restoration of a relationship. Wow.

All of these words tend to imply that forgiveness boils down to forgetting or no longer naming a fault.

Yet, this got me thinking, do we have to forgive? Is there ever a time when it is better not to forgive? The answer might surprise you as much as it did me.

After doing some research, I found that the first step after someone has hurt you in a severe way (i.e., abuse, neglect, etc.) is not forgiveness, but reflection and the naming of the pain. In fact, that is the first step for any kind of reconciliation or repair. The person who harmed is supposed to name what they did, same as the person who was harmed is supposed to name the pain they experienced. This is an entirely different responsibility than what I expected.

In fact, according to Maimonides, if the person severely harmed you and did not ask for forgiveness, or you are not emotionally in a place to grant it, you are excused from forgiveness. Forgiveness is not supposed to feel forced or dangerous to one's mental health. Instead, forgiveness is supposed to feel like the end goal of a laborious process of introspection and healing. If you're not ready to deal with the person in question, or doing so would put you in harm's way, you are not obligated to do so until you are ready. This is not to say we can or should go our entire lives without forgiving that person, but it most assuredly means that we are not to put ourselves in harm's way to score brownie points with God, and we never have to forget.

This is reassuring for me on a number of levels. It is easy to think of forgiveness as the first step instead of the final one. People often jump to the I forgive you's before they've had a chance to heal, reflect, or even acknowledge they've been hurt. That is not healthy, and it doesn't seem to be what the rabbis recommended either. So, what do we do?

How to Release Emotional Weight

One thing the rabbis seem to agree on when discussing the concept of forgiveness: regardless of whether you are ready to forgive or not, you must release the anger or contempt (AKA, the grudge) held against the offender in question. This can seem just as daunting as forgiveness. So, I decided to think deeply about what this actually looks like in practice. I'll give a personal example.

When I left the toxic religious community I was raised in, I was swiftly excommunicated. Essentially, I was cut off by all of my friends and those I considered family simply because I disagreed with their theological beliefs and wanted to pursue a thoroughly Jewish and observant way of life. My neshama was calling me home to my ancestral religion in its purity, and they couldn't see it. I was so angry at them for a long time.

Every day, I'd talk about what they did, how it hurt, and reminisce about the days when we'd talk so often we knew almost everything about each other. I was anxious for any chance to rub my success in their face and show them how much my life had improved since leaving. My anger was primarily because they said we'd always be family, that they cared about me, and always encouraged me to grow and aspire. It was unthinkable that the folks who were there for my birth would turn cold and bitter when I decided to leave. But it happened. And they insisted they did nothing wrong.

No matter how many times I tried to change things, replaying alternative ways of handling things in my head (I left on amicable terms), or reaching out and trying to still be friends, nothing changed, and I became extremely emotional. It hurt terribly, inflicted a huge cost on my health, and triggered my existing PTSD. It wasn't until I began researching grudges that I realized I was carrying one.

The rabbis classify a grudge in Tractate Yoma (23a) as being either of these two possible reactions (my version):

A person needs their neighbor's axe, but when they ask for it, the neighbor refuses and practically says, "Get your own darn axe, genius!" The next day, the same neighbor asks for a hammer from them. Response A: The person blows up in their face, stating, "You didn't give me the axe when I needed it, so forget ever getting anything from me!" Or, Response B: The person graceously gives the neighbor the hammer, but reminds them often, "See how much more generous I am than you!"

Both examples reflect the action of weaponizing remembrance to intentionally harm another person. AKA, a clap back. So, naming the pain is important, especially in reconciling with a person, when attending support groups, with a therapist, or during journaling activities, but not to stay angry with someone with no end goal for personal healing, intentionally punish a person instead of allowing God to handle it, or rub in their face how much better you are than them.

So, I have thought long and hard about forgiveness, and came to the conclusion I'd forgive them-- or at least release the emotional baggage -- a while ago, but this Elul solidified how important that was to process and think over. I called up a few folks I was holding out on forgiving and told them a.) I want you to know what you did was wrong, it hurt me, and here is why, and b.) I forgive you/release the anger I've felt towards you for what happened. This doesn't excuse their behavior, justify their means, or immediately erase my pain, but it eases my recovery and helps me focus more on my own healing instead of getting even or staying mad at people who are no longer in my life for a reason.

In other instances, there may be moments when I can only release or name the pain instead of forgiving them because I'm just not there yet emotionally, but I have a goal to be. And releasing the guilt, anger, sadness, or other emotional baggage is a good first step when forgiveness or reconciliation seems too daunting.

You can do this in a number of ceremonial ways, including journaling, writing letters you never send, writing a poem, or leaving a voicemail for the person. There are many more ways you can probably come up with.

Conclusion

One thing is for certain in all of this: naming the pain is an important part of the Jewish process of healing, forgiveness, and (optionally) reconciliation, and it is the single most crucial step towards personal growth. Whether you release someone from a debt, carry or take away some of their burden, or simply relieve yourself of the emotional weight you've been carrying about the situation, Elul represents a time to heal, reset, and prepare for the new year and a new you. Until next week!