A Woman Not Stoned

Chapter 1

Early Life

Since I do not know where to begin, I will begin in the best place and the best place to begin is in childhood. So much of what happens to us in later years is seen in our childhood memories and is a result of what happens to us in childhood. I hope for your sake, dear daughter, that the things I have done do not taint you and somehow you come out strong and happy. My childhood was terrible. I can honestly think of nothing good in my childhood home. I may not be able to remember it, but if there was any good, surely, I would remember something. If there were some light in the darkness it would have shined to the future, but no light shined for me, only darkness. The deepest darkness in which there is not only absence of light but absence of love. 

One thing you should know from the beginning is my family is all about appearances and by all appearances we were normal. I cannot count the number of times my father has said, “Perception is everything! How people see you is the only important thing in life.” Father and mother have been married for many years and appear happy. They have four children, myself, born first, two sons, and then my younger sister. We lived in a small house to which was attached the small shop in which my father fixed things and stored the items he purchased to sell in Jerusalem. He does not want to be a laborer; he wants to be a shopkeeper. He wants to be the one that sells goods to others, not the one that fixes those goods. Although it is strange because he is so good at fixing things, if only he saw that this is where his gift is. He can fix anything brought to him: table has a broken leg, he can fix it; harness for the mule torn, he can fix it; cart need a new wheel, he can fix it. The only thing he cannot fix is the childhood he gave to me, that is broken forever. There is no fix for that and that brokenness followed me into adulthood. It forever tainted my life, but I get ahead of myself. 

I am guilty of ruining my parents’ life, according to my father, as I was born a girl and he expected to have a son first, everyone knows that a real man will father a son first. I have often heard of the conversation which took place when the midwife told him the baby was a girl:

“You are wrong. I am a man. I will have a son first. What did you do with my son?”

“I did nothing with your son, a son does not always happen first sir, oftentimes a girl comes first with many sons to follow.” 

“This girl will be useless, what will I do with her? Where is my son?”

“There is no son but come look at your daughter. She is lovely, she will be a good daughter for you, and you can still have sons.”

“I do not want to see her or her mother, leave me alone.”

“She needs a name. What name do you want to give her?”

“Call it useless, that is what it will be.”

“That is not a name for a child.”

“Name it yourself. I do not care.”

The midwife did name me, and I do not know if my father even knew my name. Certainly, he never used it. He did call me “useless” and for many years I thought that was my name. My mother herself once told me what my name was and that the midwife had given it to me, but it was never to be used. My father had not wanted me to be named and refused to hear my name. The only other time I heard my name was on my wedding day, that was the last day I heard it. I knew I had a name and I remembered it, even if no one else did. I hope that when I die someone says my name so that I can end this life with my own name and not the name my father gave me. The name of hatred and cruelty.

According to family stories, the midwife was upset and left abruptly, although she did tell everyone in town that my mother had delivered a beautiful baby girl. Looking back, I think she suspected something and wanted everyone in town to know that a healthy baby girl had been born. My father ignored me and my mother for the next year. Finally, he came back to my mother and would produce two sons and another daughter. He never came back to me, never saw me as worth anything and never accepted me. I was forever tainted for something I had no control over. I ruined his life and I was useless.

My very birth showed a flaw in him that not only did he not want to admit but did not want others to see. I represented a flaw in him. He was sorely disappointed in me and my mother and, I am told, he did not hesitate to express this disappointment. The blame must be totally ours, since he could not see himself doing wrong, and therefore we must pay the price for this indignation placed upon him, both in his family and in town. Although, I have heard that he was the only one that thought of it as indignation. Many people had first born daughters who they did not reject, they took great joy in them. This was not my father; he refused to look at me or allow me in his presence as a baby. I was not in his presence until I was old enough to start taking care of the house. Surely, I knew from the first days of life that I was unwanted, a soul knows when it is unloved. All I had done at this point was be born a girl and it was enough to cause my life to be one of hatred and not of love. Many times, I would ask why did God allow my existence if I was just to be hated? Does God create things to be hated? It seems unlikely and yet I was here with nothing in my life except pain and hatred.

My mother had two sons after myself, so she redeemed herself in the eyes of her husband. She was allowed back into the family fold. As for me, there was nothing I could do to redeem myself and I remained the girl who kept my father from having a first-born son. Even the birth of my sister after my brothers did not change his attitude towards me. He commented frequently, within my presence, that first-born girls were useless and his life would be so different if I had never been born. Different in a good way, not different in that he would miss me. I can still hear his voice day after day, “You ruined my life,” and “Why were you even born?” I was soon saying those things to myself and believing them. 

You might think, as I have, at this point: why did he even allow me to live, why not get rid of this useless girl? He could have, I believe he considered it. However, perception was important to my father. People in town knew of my birth, the midwife had spread the word of my birth and the health of the baby. Therefore, if he had got rid of me the taint of a girl would still be there as well as questions about what really happened to her. No, my father was stuck with this useless first-born daughter and in some ways, I think that made my life worse. He was stuck feeding and clothing me and being constantly reminded that I took away his right to a first-born son, he liked to remind me of this by shouting out, on a regular basis:

“You stole from me what was mine!”

“How? How did I do that father?”

“You were born! Born a girl!”

“I am sorry father; I do not know how to change it.”

“You ruined my life and there is nothing you can do. You are useless. I wish you had never been born!”

I worked hard to please him. I thought if I could just find a way to make him happy, he would care for me as he cared for my brothers and sister. I would no longer be the one who ruined his life, but rather the one that started his family. The one that started the generations that would come from him. I learned to cook his favorite foods. However, they were never cooked right. As soon as he saw the food he would comment, “I hope I can choke this down tonight. A working man needs his food, and you would think a worthy young woman could at least get it right, of course nobody ever accused you of being a worthy young woman now did they.” I tried to make him happy, “I made your favorite tonight father, I hope you like it.” “Little chance of that,” would be the reply before he even took the first bite.  He would then visibly force it down, “in our family we cannot afford to waste food, no matter how bad it tastes.” 

            He would then beat me so that I would work harder on cooking. I do not know why I was forced to continue cooking when the food was nearly inedible, but I was. My mother was helping in the workshop or doing things for my brothers and sister and so I continued to cook food that was not fit to eat and getting beaten for it until it became a part of my day. It soon became a daily ritual: preparing a meal, listening to what a horrible cook I was and why I could not get any better all the while knowing the next step and, as soon as the meal was finished, taken out for a beating before cleaning up. The speech never changed, “I work hard to earn money for food, and you ruin it!” 

“I am sorry father; I will work harder.” 

“You will work harder and you will learn not to waste my money and ruin my food. You useless thing. I named you properly didn’t I, you are totally useless.” 

“I am sorry, I will try.” 

“You are trying to kill me, aren’t you? I know you are trying to kill me; I will teach you.”

 “No father, I am not trying to kill you. I am just not a good cook, but I will try harder. I promise I will try harder.” Again, and again until I can still feel the strap on my back to this day. 

I would never be able to cook a decent meal. How did I expect to get a husband and get out of this house? He would yell at me, “I am going to be stuck with you forever. Always taking care of you and you just eating my food and being your useless self! What am I going to do with you?” I did not know how to answer him. I know I had ruined his life, but I did not know how to change it. Looking back, I am not sure he wanted me to. I am beginning to think my father just needed someone to blame his failures on and it fell on me to be that someone. Everything that went wrong in his life was my fault, because I was a useless girl. It does not really help me to understand that, and it does not change my life.  Apparently, I was born to be the one my father could take out his anger over his own life. I was the one to carry all the blame.

Every day it tore more of my soul apart, but I sat still and listened and waited for what I knew was coming, I had no choice. I was useless and maybe I deserved everything that was happening to me. I just did not know. I did not know how to get better or even what I was doing wrong. I did not know how to change my father’s life, to make it what he wanted it to be. I did all that I knew how to do, but his life did not change and therefore my life did not change. 

I also cleaned our little home. I cleaned every day as my father always wanted a clean home, a spotless home. As with cooking I could not seem to get it right. If I spent all day cleaning, including beating the dust out of the rugs, he would comment that I forgot to wipe the top of the shutters. First, he would take me into the room, in the beginning I thought perhaps he was going to compliment me, but I quickly learned that was not to be. “Look around this room,” he would shout as he forcibly turned my head to look around, “What is wrong here?” “I do not know father. I cleaned the room this morning,” I would tell him as I tried not to cry from the pain of his hand on my head. “That is because you are useless,” as he dragged me over to the window and pushed my face onto the shutter, “Look at that shutter! Does that look clean to you? Do you even know what clean looks like?”  Then the berating and beating I was used to would begin: “Can you do nothing right?” and “You are useless and I am going to be stuck with you,” “What man would want a wife who could not cook or clean properly?” I tried so hard and tried to explain that I was trying but it did no good. I was useless, my life was useless and there was no hope that I would change. 

There was nothing I could do that was right, no matter how hard I tried. I knew I was a horrible person who nobody would ever want. I once asked my mother what I had done and how to fix it.  “Your father was just upset about you being a girl. One day he will see that it is not that bad,” she would tell me. Often, she would say, “He is having a hard time in his business. Just stay out of his way.” This did not make me feel better and how could I stay out of his way in this small house. I felt like there was something she was not telling me, unfortunately she would die before she could tell me anything. I wonder now if he was still hurting her and she could not fight him. Perhaps she knew I was bad, maybe just not as bad as he thought, but still bad and useless. Perhaps this was easier for her to accept since she had given him sons after me, so he was not as mad at her. She had found a way to make up for the first born being a girl, while I could never stop being that first born daughter. My sister, my last sibling, arrived when I was eight years old and I thought things would change. You should have heard my father talk when she was born.

“A girl, a girl after two strong boys. I am truly a blessed man,” he told all the visitors. Meanwhile I was making food for all these visitors and did not get one kind word. You would think I was invisible. That was when I realized it was me, not that I was a girl but that I was a useless girl who would never bring joy to my family. I truly believe, now, that my father thought if he ignored me, I would just fade away, and nobody would remember me. He did not want to be reminded that his first born was a girl. It was well and good for his last child to be a girl, that is the way it should be. I was the one out of place, not she. I was the wrong one with no place.

I saw myself begging in the streets because nobody wanted me. I could not cook or clean and it would be obvious. Everyone would know that not only was I a first-born female, but I could not even do female tasks. I began to doubt that I would even have children of my own. Why would God give such a useless female a child of her own? I was a true failure. I was the one even God could not love. I was the one made to hurt and hate. I was useless. My life had no meaning. 

            I was not allowed to associate with anyone outside my immediate family, this might have led to me learning that I was not useless. I see now that my father kept me isolated not to protect me but to protect himself, to keep me beholden to him for the very bread I ate and believing I was unworthy of that bread. My brothers just imitated my father, knowing that not only would they not be punished but he encouraged them to do so. It was not unusual for them to say to me, even as small children, “Nobody loves you, nobody even likes you. You are useless.” I took care of them and told them that was not true, but my father’s words were too strong to overcome anything I might do. So then when something went wrong, I was immediately blamed and they knew it. How many times they broke a vase or spilled water, and it was my fault. Of course it was.

            “Who spilled water all over the floor?” would be heard throughout the house when my father came home. The boys immediately would point at me and say, “She did it, we saw her.” When I protested that I had been in the yard or working in the garden they would tell him, “She said she was going to blame us, she does not like us.” You can guess who he believed?

            “Why would you blame your brothers for something you did,” he shouted as the strap came out.

            “I am not blaming them. I was outside, I do not know what happened. Please do not hit me again.” 

            “You are responsible for this house. You should know what happened. I will teach you to pay attention to your duties. I will teach you not to blame your brothers for your own faults.” The beating would then continue until I wondered how I would cook dinner that night, but I did, of course. 

            Things were no different with my sister. She was the youngest and therefore her life was much easier. It was not necessary for her to cook and clean, that is what I was there for. She was not as bad as the boys, but it hurt to see her doing no chores at an age when I had been expected to keep the entire house for the family. I once asked if she could help me clean and you would have thought I asked if she could live in another house. 

            “Is there any way she can help me with the dishes tonight?” I asked innocently enough.

            “Help with the dishes!” my father yelled, “she is barely five years old. How can she possibly do the dishes? You are just trying to get someone else to do your chores. You are just lazy and I will have none of it”

            “I was doing dishes at five, can she not at least help?” I would ask.

            “You are useless, you have to learn how to be useful. Your sister is useful, she is going to make a fine wife someday, so she can enjoy her childhood. There will be time later for her to learn household skills.” My father replied, as if I were never a child who needed to enjoy her childhood. I knew that my sister was never going to help me. She would take advantage of me just as everyone else did. In some ways I was grateful that she did not experience what I experienced, and yet, this showed me how truly horrible I was. Two girls in the same family are treated so very differently, one must be good and one bad. I knew which one I was. Dear daughter, I do need to let you know that as she got older my younger sister did not turn out to be like my brothers. She did try to help and, after she got married, we became good friends. This is why I can trust her with these papers and if you have any difficulties do not hesitate to ask for her assistance.

My childhood was a very lonely time. There were times when the girls in town gathered to share work, but I did not do any outside work at the times the other girls did. I was to have water available as soon as my father awoke. This was a very strict requirement for me, and I did not want to face his wrath if the water were not fresh from the well when he woke. It just created more work for me as he would yell and throw the water, which I would have to clean up, and then hear him complain there was no water for him, which was of course all my fault. I learned to go to the well early in the morning, before the sun rose to get fresh water, and this also meant I never saw the other girls who gathered after the sun had risen to get their water. It was always dark when I went to the well, but I would rather face the dark than my father’s anger at not having fresh water first thing in the morning. Even if there were someone there, we would not have been able to see each other. I felt like this was my life, just darkness and being alone. I lived in the darkness where there was no love. I never got to leave that space. 

My workday was different from theirs so that when I went to tend to the goats the other girls would be at the well gathering water and when they were tending to the goats, I would be at home cleaning. I saw the girls and I am certain they saw me, but we never talked. Perhaps they knew how bad I was and did not want to have anything to do with me. Perhaps their fathers had told them to stay away from this awful girl. I do not know, I only know that I saw them talking and laughing together and I was left out. “They are probably laughing at me anyway,” I would think so I tried to stay away from them also. 

Since I never did anything with them the other girls acted as if I was not around, or as if I had a sickness and would make them ill. I remember one girl, who shall remain nameless since you may know her, telling me I was strange and would I please not speak with her in public as she did not want anyone to know we were related, that struck my heart. I will always remember her words, “Please do not talk to me, I do not want anyone to know that we know each other and especially that we are related,” she told me. This especially hurt because we are relatives and I had hoped to have some sort of friendship with her if, for no other reason, we were family. I was so bad that even extended family members did not want to be with me. I was very lonely and did not understand any of this.

I began to wonder why God would do this to me. If I was to be so hated and have such a bad life, why did God allow me to be born? Why would God bring a soul into the world to be unloved? I tried to have faith; to believe there was a reason, but it got harder and harder with each passing year. Perhaps that is why I did what I did as an adult, at some point I lost my faith and no longer cared to keep the laws. I just did whatever I wanted and figured God could not harm me anymore than life already was. Again, getting ahead of myself.

When there was a festival or some event in town that everyone was going to attend, I was always left at home. “Someone has to tend to the animals and keep the house,” my father would tell me. I noticed my brothers never had to tend to the animals on festival days or keep to the house. I was the one that never got to attend local events or have any fun. Luckily, I did get to go to Jerusalem, that was my only relief from the house and its environs. I say relief, I do not say a good time. Certainly, there was no fun involved in these trips, at least not for me, there was always work to do and my father to keep happy, an almost impossible task.

My one reprieve, such that it was, was going to Jerusalem with my family. We went every year for Passover. In addition to taking what we needed for prayers and offerings we also took merchandise for my father to sell. This was always to be the beginning of my father’s life as a shopkeeper. Many people did not bring what was needed or did not bring enough to last all the days they were there and my father saw this as an excellent time to make money he could then invest in his own shop, although the money always seemed to disappear before we got home. I still wonder what he did with that money, but I do know he was not able to open a shop when I was a child. If he had perhaps things would not have turned out as they did, I do not know. 

We would bring extra goods with us and my father would set up a small table at the entrance to the Temple and sell goods to those in need. Of course, these goods were higher priced than in town, but the people paid so he saw nothing wrong with it. If people were dumb enough to not bring enough and to pay his prices, he was smart enough to take advantage of them, that is what he kept telling us as we were packing up all the merchandise. It was the same words every year, with that bit of joy in his voice that knew he was going to make money.

“Make sure you pack the extra merchandise. If you must leave some of your stuff behind do so. You should not take up so much space,” he would yell at me as I was packing the cart. I would tell him, “I got everything in the cart. All the merchandise is ready to be sold as soon as we arrive.” The last thing I put in the cart was the table for displaying the merchandise, which made for quicker set-up and quicker sales. I wanted to please him by selling as fast as possible and as much as possible.

I used to think my father was a religious man, but I now know that he was never a religious man, rather he was a businessman who knew where the people would be and how to make money off the faithful. He knew the importance of the family looking faithful and I suspect is one reason I was allowed to go every year. Also, I was a good salesperson and made money. It was always about perception and making money, never about God. He would tell my brothers, “Remember, there is always someone willing to pay and someone who is going to be paid. Make sure you are the one being paid, not the one paying.” I understood this lesson and tried to sell as much as possible to make money for him. If money was what he wanted I would try to deliver. He never noticed.

As for me, I enjoyed the trips in my own way. I met many people while working at my father’s tables who engaged me in conversation. They did not know me or how awful I was and that brought me some limited enjoyment. “What a lovely piece of cloth?” one would ask, “Did you make it?” “Yes, sir,” I would answer with a smile, “and you will see it is well priced. Shall I set it aside for you? Would you like this other piece that matches it so well? It would make lovely outfits for your wife and daughters.” Often, I would sell both pieces of material at a high price. Or someone would be looking over the display of incense, and I knew just how to give them the best aroma, so they purchased from us. “Smell this mixture. I make it special. No one else will have this scent,” I would tell them as I passed it lightly under their nose. “That is lovely. No one else will have this scent you say?” Was the usual response. After I assured them that I only made one mixture of each scent they would purchase the incense, confident that they had the most unusual scent in the Temple. To be honest I did mix only one of each scent at my table, but I do not believe that I was creating unique scents. Whatever it took to sell the goods and make money for my father. 

Of course, I knew it would end but I tried to enjoy the moment. It was another opportunity to prove to my father how valuable I was, I was good at selling and making money for him. However, he never saw it-no matter how much I made he always wanted more. If we had not sold everything before heading home, it would most certainly be my fault. Of course, if we did sell everything the demand must have been high and we, meaning myself, should have gotten more money for the goods.

“If you did not talk so much you could have sold more merchandise.” 

“That was the last one in the marketplace, why did you not double the price when you saw how much he wanted it!”

“Did you not see how excited that customer was to talk with you, why did you not sell him more or charge him a higher price? Can you do nothing right?” 

“Do you even realize what I paid for that merchandise you were giving away? They would have paid more, and we would have had more money, you are just useless.” 

I could not satisfy him, and it took me many years to realize nothing I would ever do would make him happy. If I had been a boy I would have left home and made my way in the world (of course if I had been a boy I would have been treated differently and may not have wanted to leave) but as a girl I had nowhere to go. I would forever be in this cycle of being blamed for everything that went wrong, even if the wrong did not seem so very wrong. Any excuse to show me how useless I was and how bad his life was because of me. 

Life continued pretty much in this fashion for my childhood. The other girls in town laughed and did chores together while I stayed apart. I was very lonely, but I learned to live with loneliness and the dream that one day I would have a husband who would care for me and not blame me for everything that went wrong. One day things would no longer be my fault, when I was married and in my own home. This dream kept me going day after day. One day a man was going to see me in the yard or at the market stall at the Temple and he would look at me and then ask someone, “Who is that girl over there? I wish to speak with her father.” Then he would tell my father he wished to marry me and take me to his home, preferably in another village. However, this never happened, but I continued to dream. The dreams of young and foolish girls.  

As I look back on it, I realize how foolish I was. How did I expect to meet this amazing husband? The only times I saw other people were on trips to Jerusalem and my father kept me at the market table the entire time. The men who purchased from us were older and likely already married. I was not meeting future husbands at the table. I was meeting other women’s husbands. Even when making the trip it was my task to watch over everything and help my mother in the camp. I never remember talking with anyone who was outside the family except for customers and never did I meet someone whom I thought would ask for my hand in marriage. No, this dream would prove false as my father would be the one to find me a husband and it would be someone who helped him not me. That will be the next story my dear daughter, an even harder one to tell.