Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

Dr. Feingold tells me that I need to work on “feeling my feelings,” in the interests of which I have to admit that ol’ Chaim got to me more than I’d expected.

I usually enjoy the way work forces everything else out of your head.

I think that’s what most of us want, really, isn’t it? A challenge that’s just hard enough that we can accomplish it, but it’ll take everything we’ve got. So that there’s no room left in us for the doubt, the worry, the internal crises. We have to let it fill us up because that’s the only way to get the job done.

maybe introspection is overrated. Anyway, I like my job, and I’m good at it.

If you can put a value on a soul, there’s probably someone out there just like me, crunching the numbers on the religious-zeal biz. And, yes, yes, Dr. Feingold would probably say that even thinking about that was a way to stop thinking about other things, but you know, sometimes I’m just too clever even for myself.

And a little voice tickled in my ear, saying, well, this is what you get. I knew that voice. It said it again: this is what you get, Ronit. All you have for comfort is a married man. All you have for strength is a job. What did you think was going to happen? And I gripped the sink tighter, drew a breath, and said, I’m not listening. * * * I didn’t realize I’d said anything out loud until Scott said, “What was that?” I said, because it was the first thing I could think of, “What do you think about my going back to England?” “What do you mean, what do I think?” “I mean, do you think I should go?” “Why the hell not? You’ve got the German project under control, haven’t you?” I’d forgotten this about him, the tendency to relate all life decisions back to work. I wanted to shout, you idiot, that’s not what I meant, and the anger snapped me back into focus and I remembered that I was here, now, in the middle of my own life. I said, “Yes, it’s under control. That’s not the point.” I think he said something then, but the kettle started to boil, so I didn’t hear it. As I walked out with the coffee I said, “I guess I should go. That’s what you do, right? I should go home, see my people, visit my father’s grave. That stuff.” He looked at me. “Sure.” I sat on the couch next to him and stared silently into my coffee. After a while, he said: “What is it that you’re afraid of?” And I almost laughed, almost but not quite. I said, “Maybe that he’ll still be there. Still disapproving. Still ...

What does it mean, that this world came into being at first through a blinding act, but then, subtly, slowly, as elements were teased away, as infinitely fine lines were drawn? It means, surely, that to understand the world, one must understand the separation.

Esti paid particular attention to the Venn diagrams. She enjoyed their simplicity and orderliness. Perhaps all characteristics could be broken down in this way, leading to a perfect understanding of human nature. People could be classified according to what they liked: some netball, some hockey, some both.

I thought I had come to all sorts of decisions about what I believe. That it is better for things to be said than remain unsaid. That I have nothing to be ashamed about. That those who live narrow lives have only themselves to blame when they find themselves shocked.

The more we examine marriage, the more absurd it seems. Marriage is only permitted between those who have little in common. One may not marry a close relative. One may not marry a person of the same sex. God, Who created the heavens and the earth, might easily have ordained that a brother and sister could marry, that two women together could produce offspring. He could have so ordered the world that those who were the closest were able to mate. And thus He might have given His creations more comfort. Why, therefore, did He not do so? To answer this question, we must first understand that this world exists to teach us. It is to be enjoyed, true, but also to be studied and pored over, as is the Torah, which is also the world. Just as every tiny stroke that goes to form a letter in the Torah contains an infinity of meaning, just so does every aspect of creation. Nothing is arbitrary, nothing has been left to chance. All has been foreseen and all has been intended.

Those who believe that marriage is an end in itself, that it is a guarantee of contentment, are fools.

Marriage is difficult. It is painful. And it was meant to be so. For in trying to approach more closely to a human being who is so different to us, we begin to understand the task before us in approaching the Almighty. This is our work upon the earth, and the work of marriage prepares us for it. And although marriage may, in slow and unexpected ways, bring us much joy and satisfaction, nothing of the sort has been promised. We may abandon this truth, but if so we shall have to abandon everything. We may declare that marriage stands for nothing but the desire in the hearts and the minds and the loins of two people. We may insist that our Creator could not have intended us to live in discomfort. We may, if we desire, stand atop a low mound of earth and declare ourselves lords of creation. But we should not then be surprised if we cease to burn with desire for the Source of the world, and if we cease to feel the warmth of His yearning for us.

It is a terrible, wretched thing to love someone whom you know cannot love you. There are things that are more dreadful. There are many human pains more grievous. And yet it remains both terrible and wretched. Like so many things, it is insoluble.

It had not been utterly simple, for no true knowledge is ever reached without pain.

Silence is not power. It’s not strength. Silence is the means by which the weak remain weak and the strong remain strong. Silence is a method of oppression.

the subconscious knows no past or future. For the subconscious, everything is happening right now. Trauma that happened when you were four still feels exactly as threatening now as it did then.

The past hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s right here.”

The tree of unhappiness, they say, grows from a seed of bitterness and brings forth the fruit of despair.

Happiness is not the same as comfort; it is not necessarily to be found in ease, in luxury and plenty. Ease, luxury, and plenty are not shameful, but they are not happiness. Too much comfort can, in fact, cause weakening of the body, depression of the spirit, and despair of the soul. We human beings, like the Lord Almighty Who created us, yearn to build. Our happiness, in this world at least, is to be found in creation.

Happiness is not a sensation of ease and comfort. Happiness is the deeper satisfaction we find when we create: when we construct a physical object, or compose a work of art, or raise a child. We experience happiness when we have touched the world and left it different, according to our will. We experience the greatest happiness when we have touched the world and left it better,

And though the work itself may be on occasion enjoyable, certain works can only be accomplished through struggle. Thus it is that happiness often resides where we find pain. And the greatest agony often presages the greatest triumph.

He was alone, in the smallness of the room, in the space within him. And yet they were both together, alone. He understood, as if the knowledge had been waiting for him in this windowless chamber. That was, at bottom, what it amounted to. To be alone, together. That thought returned to him as he lay in bed, crystalline pink, watching her sleep. Alone. Together.

There was nothing to look at except the photograph of Esti and Dovid on their wedding day. I thought about Scott and Cheryl and about how it always seems to work out this way with me. I wanted to take back everything that I’d ever done, to start again from the moment of birth and see if I could make a better job of it next time.

You can only save yourself,

I would have stayed forever. The Rabbis teach that we each hold worlds within us. Maybe both these things are true. But she never asked. And so I had to leave.

We hang suspended between two certainties: the clarity of the angels and the desires of the beasts. Thus, we remain forever uncertain. Our lives present us with choices, further choices and more choices, each multiplying, our ability to find our way forever in doubt. Unhappy creatures! Luckiest of all beings! Our triumph is our downfall, our opportunity for condemnation is also our chance for greatness. And all we have, in the end, are the choices we make.

She said, “What you saw. It wasn’t the first time. It began long ago.” The clouds moved silently through the sky, carrying shapes with them that would become other shapes and further shapes. Nothing remaining the same, not even for an instant. That was the truth of it. She said, “It began when we were schoolgirls. Before I ever knew you. And it has…” She stopped again. Where were the moon and the stars when she needed them? Where was the gentle comfort of the night? She said, “It has always been this way with me. No other way. I think I will never be any different than this.”

He was smiling. He said, “Have you thought all this time that I didn’t know?” See? said Esti’s heart. Now look what you’ve done. Nothing will ever be the same. Even the past isn’t the same anymore. Every element of your life must be reevaluated. Time to stop now. Say nothing. Be nothing. She said, “Since when?” He said, “Since before we were married, I think. In a way. Not completely.” She said, “Then why?” He said, “I just. I didn’t want you to shrink like this. I thought I could keep you safe. I was wrong. I’m sorry.” He leaned back and looked at the sky. “If you want to go, I won’t try to stop you.” “If I want to go with Ronit?” “Yes. Or not. If you want to go. Away.” “Do you want me to go?” Dovid thought, this is only pain. All that this can possibly be is pain. It cannot do anything significant. He said, “I don’t want you to stay if you want to go.”

tried to argue with my father so many times. He was a difficult man to argue with. He believed in silence. It doesn’t make for rip-roaring, gut-busting, passionate debate, trying to argue with someone who believes in silence. I could shout my lungs hollow at him and he wouldn’t respond. He’d listen, with all appearance of attention, and when I was finished, he’d wait for a few moments and then turn back to his books. Dr. Feingold reminds me of him, just a little. In the velvety softness of her silence, in the pause after I finish speaking. When he did speak, it was in allegory and metaphor.

My father said, over this, we pass in silence. Even the Torah does not enter into arguments between close family. Even the Torah uses silence here. That also made me shout at him. I can’t stand revisiting those memories now. Shouting at this old, silent man. And the truth is, I understood what he meant.

me and Esti; his mind didn’t work that way. But for all that, Esti changed my relationship with my father. With her, I began to question something. And questioning something, I questioned everything. And his answers no longer satisfied me as they had when I was a child.

But let us not deny that of the many things He asks, some few may perhaps seem to us not only difficult but also unjust, unfair. Wrong. And, in these moments, let us never doubt that we, too, have a voice within us to speak, that we, too, like Abraham and Moses, may argue with the Lord. It is our right. The simple fact of our existence has bought us the space to stand before Him and make our case.

The correct mode for a man is speech, while the correct mode for a woman is silence. I’ve spent a long time proving that this isn’t so. I’ve spent a long time insisting that no one else can tell me when to speak and when to remain silent. So much so that it’s hard for me to tell when I want to be quiet.

we must measure our words. We must be sure that we use them, like the Almighty, to create and not to destroy.

She doesn’t see the world in Dovid’s face either, but she can see it’s a better face than she thought. He is kind and he has a surprisingly good sense of humor. These things aren’t everything, but for now, they’re enough to make the journey not unappealing to her. She thinks if she had the choice to make again, the original choice from all those years ago, she’d still choose the same. It seems quite clear to her. Esti finds that, these days, she’s quite clear about a lot of things, as though a sort of fog had lifted from her brain. It’s as if she herself had been brought into focus, like a telescope drawing down the moon. She surprises herself, quite often, by thinking: it’s fine. Everything is just fine.

All things, when measured in spans of years, seem simple. But human lives do not occur in years but slowly, day by day. A year may be easy, but its days are hard indeed.

She has discussed her father with Dr. Feingold, who suggests that perhaps she could learn to remember what good there was in their relationship, to appreciate it, and to understand that no parent can give his child everything she needs.

So, I’ve come to a conclusion. I can’t be an Orthodox Jew. I don’t have it in me and I never did. But I can’t not be one either. There’s something fierce and old and tender about that life that keeps on calling me back, and I suppose it always will. I guess that doesn’t sound like much of a conclusion, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Dr. Feingold calls it “learning to forgive myself.” I call it learning that you don’t always have to answer every request. Sometimes it’s enough to note it and say: maybe I’ll get to this, and maybe I won’t.