P

ermit me to share a painful scene that I witnessed recently on my street, an image so sad it’s been seared into my brain and I haven’t yet been able extricate it. A father and son were walking in front of me, the father dressed like a typical yungerman and the son, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven, wearing Shabbos clothes. Every few minutes, the father’s hand came down on the boy’s neck, and before this poor little fellow had a chance to recover, he was given a swat on his rear.

What can I say? It was literally stomach-churning — a blow to the neck, a potch on the behind, repeat. It was quite obvious that the child was struggling with all his internal strength not to burst out crying, his tear-filled eyes darting nervously around, checking to see if anyone was witness to his humiliation — and maybe, also, as a silent plea for help.

In one hand, the father held an open sefer, a Chumash, or maybe a pocket Gemara or Mishnah, to peruse while his other hand was busy with “chinuch.” The boy tried to grasp the hand of the man who was meant to be his protector, seeking an anchor of sorts to save him from the suffering he was enduring in the street, but the father rejected the little outstretched hand.

A silent conversation was running in my head. “Tell me, Mr. Ben Torah, what did this little boy do to you that you’re showering him with such unadulterated loathing? Did he take away your yogurt? Spill your coffee? Forget to wash negel vasser? I notice your son is wearing Shabbos clothes on an ordinary weekday. Maybe you’re returning from a farher in your child’s cheder, and he didn’t succeed in answering the questions posed by the examiner, who might have been a prominent rav. Maybe those questions were really pretty easy and even so, your little boy couldn’t handle it? Not only did he fail to meet your expectations, he humiliated you in front of everyone. Does that justify the public torment you’re subjecting him to — and while learning from a sefer?

“Dear father, I’d like to tell you about a trip I took recently. I traveled to Switzerland with my grandson to a small village in the Swiss Alps near the French border, where during World War II, a camp was set up for refugee children. I showed my grandson the building where I stayed, 73 years ago, without my parents. Even though I knew my parents were alive and safe, I’ll never forget the feeling of isolation, of orphanhood. Although my parents were actually not so far away, that relatively short separation was profoundly traumatic for me. (And without getting into American politics, the images of immigrant children who were separated from their parents at the Mexican border crying “Papa! Papa!” — whether or not it was “fake news” or manipulated disinformation — pulled at my heartstrings, bringing back my own excruciating memories from the past.)

“And so, dear father, it suddenly dawned on me that a child can be an orphan even while walking alongside his father. During the minutes that I watched your son, I realized that he essentially has no father — because the man walking next to him was refusing to act like one. When your child is a teen at risk, will you then look back and finally take stock of your actions?

“Permit me to share with you the following: A cheder rebbi from Bnei Brak once brought his class to be tested by Rav Aharon Leib Steinman ztz”l.

“After the farher, Rav Aharon Leib called the rebbi aside and said, ‘When children go to an elderly Yid to be tested, the mothers customarily dress their youngsters in their Shabbos best. I noticed that two boys here are wearing Shabbos clothes but have torn shoes. Take 200 shekels and buy them new shoes. But do it discreetly, so that no one should be ashamed.’ Rav Aharon Leib added, ‘And another thing. Another boy here stutters and gets all flustered when tested. Try not to test him in front of everyone, or maybe just give him a written test.’

“This, dear father, is how careful we must be with the feelings of young children. And since everything Rav Aharon Leib did was strictly according to halachah, treating children this way — making sure not to cause trauma to a young child — is the halachah as well, something you, as an obvious baal halachah, should appreciate. I would like to point out that the threadbare cliché that ‘time heals all wounds’ may be true when it comes to a physical injury, but the scars to the soul from being beaten unjustly remain forever.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 716)