Reimagining the Mikvah - by Roz Bellamy
ISLAND | ISSUE 160
I have a routine when I visit Sydney, regardless of why I am there and where I am staying. I wake up and take the bus, or buses, to the beach. I don’t mind which beach. I huff and puff my way along the Bondi to Bronte coastal walk, avoiding the joggers in expensive activewear, and stop for a dip in the water along the way. Sometimes I visit McIver’s Ladies Baths in Coogee, the only ocean pool I love enough to make me, a non-binary person, self-identify as a ‘lady’.
I grew up in Sydney, on the land of the Gadigal and Birrabirragal peoples of the Eora Nation. The ocean brought comfort when I needed it. No matter what I faced at the Modern Orthodox Jewish school I attended, an evening swim at Camp Cove in Watsons Bay, after which my mother would present me with a plum and nectarine that were just ripe enough to drizzle down my chin, transformed the way I was feeling. Sometimes, a weekend trip to Nielsen Park for a swim and a picnic provided a sense of comfort that I hadn’t known I needed. It was the beach my mother used to take me to as a newborn baby and it is a place I will never stop missing, especially down in Melbourne, on Wurundjeri land, where it’s often grey and grizzly.
Water meant healing to me from a young age, but pools weren’t always a safe space. I had a particularly sadistic swimming teacher who taught me to swim with my head under the water by pushing my head down. When I surfaced, taking quick, sharp breaths, she would scold me for not staying under longer.
But the ocean was never scary, even when the waves were big, even if they were so strong that I found myself scraped against the seabed, spiralling under the surface. When I came up again, the foam soothed my body, begging for forgiveness. I always went back for more.
“But the ocean was never scary, even when the waves were big, even if they were so strong that I found myself scraped against the seabed, spiralling under the surface. When I came up again, the foam soothed my body, begging for forgiveness. I always went back for more.”
*
After my grandfather’s funeral, my wife and I walked along Coogee Beach. Rachel encouraged me to swim, right then and there in my bra and undies, while she sat with my clothing. I ran into the water, unfazed by the sunbathers and onlookers. The ocean felt warm and nurturing, and I frolicked in the waves, twisting onto my back and then front.
I enjoyed being moved around, gently for the most part, as I gazed at the sky. I thought about Deda and how much he loved the ocean. He used to drive to Bondi Beach, park his car facing the ocean and watch the waves. I hadn’t ever accompanied him on one of these trips. I don’t know how long he spent there or what he thought about. If I wanted to romanticise it, I could imagine him stretching out his neck and back, peering out to sea and admiring the coastline. Maybe he thought of his hometown, Odessa, the port city on the Black Sea.
That evening, Rachel stayed close to my side at Deda’s minyan. A minyan is a gathering of at least ten adults – men, if you’re Orthodox – who show up at the house of mourners sitting shiva, a seven-day period of mourning, to say prayers and eat together. It was the first time Rachel had met some of my extended Russian family. I’d previously kept these parts of my life separate, after experiencing rejection from them when coming out as queer.
I introduced Rachel to my cousin’s kids, the older boy a keen surfer learning surf rescue in the Nippers. He talked about how much he loved sport at school, the school I’d gone to, where PE had given me panic attacks. It was interesting to me that while he was strong and sporty, so unlike me, we both loved the water.
When I tried to sleep that night, I thought about the way the ocean soothed me when I felt distressed. That day hadn’t been the first time I’d turned to the water to grieve the loss of my grandfather.
*
A month earlier, I’d visited Deda in Sydney. He’d been declining for some time, but on that visit he didn’t recognise me for the first time ever. I felt sick with worry. The next morning, I left my stuffy, tiny room in a hostel near Central Station and boarded the first bus I saw with a beach listed in neon letters on the front.
It was one of those peculiar Sydney bus routes that seemed windy and obscure for no obvious geographic reason. I exited the bus as soon as I saw the first strip of turquoise through some trees, and made my way through a park and down some steps to Clovelly Beach. It was where I used to go for a dunk on a hot day with my grandmother, Baba, Deda’s late wife. Deda used to sit on the sand in a prim linen shirt and tailored trousers, while Baba and I waded in the shallows, remarking at the different species of fish we could see.
There weren’t many people at the beach on a weekday morning. I stripped off my clothes and went in, smiling at a mother and her baby.
There is something about being in the ocean that makes me feel embodied in a way I never quite do on land. On land, I feel clumsy and fall over quite often. I miss things other people pick up easily. I forget to focus on my senses, getting lost in a screen or book, and have to catch up with other people who seem highly attuned to minor details. In the ocean, I am aware of every sensation. I know how each part of me feels in that cool body of water.
“In the ocean, I am aware of every sensation. I know how each part of me feels in that cool body of water.”
I left the water and sat on the sand. Then I felt the need to return, to submerge myself again, before leaving. Sinking my body beneath the water, I felt completely peaceful. I drew myself out slowly, reluctantly. I threw clothing on over my wet bathers and sat at the bus stop, trying to process my swim. I pulled a notepad out of my bag and wrote for a while. On the way back to the hostel, I listened to Jeff Buckley, the music I always turn to when I’m sad, that helps me process my feelings and end up even more sad.
I posted on Facebook about the experience later that day, including this image.
A friend, Jenny, commented that I’d had a ‘Jeff Buckley mikvah’. As soon as she said it, I realised that my swim had felt like the Jewish ritual immersion, even if it didn’t follow the religious requirements.
*
I have been intrigued by the concept of the mikvah since Rachel and I got married. Jewish women are meant to go to the mikvah before getting married. Other reasons to use the mikvah include converting to Judaism, after childbirth, and after menstruating each month. Even after death, a Jewish body is washed, purified and dressed by volunteer members of the Chevra Kadisha, the Jewish burial society, in a process called tahara, which involves a flow of water that is said to be analogous to a mikvah, followed by the words, ‘(S)he is pure, (s)he is pure, (s)he is pure’.
The mikvah is intended to be purifying, to deepen one’s spirituality and introspection. Before our wedding, we asked around about whether there was a mikvah that would ‘take us’ as a queer couple. The resounding answer was no.
“The mikvah is intended to be purifying, to deepen one’s spirituality and introspection. Before our wedding, we asked around about whether there was a mikvah that would ‘take us’ as a queer couple. The resounding answer was no.”
‘Sorry,’ an Orthodox family friend told us. ‘The woman at the mikvah asks a bunch of questions before you can go in. As Jewish women, you can go if you’re about to marry a Jewish man. And if you’re in a Jewish (heterosexual) marriage, you obviously go in monthly.’
She was referring to traditional Jewish family purity laws that consider a woman who is menstruating to be niddah, referring to ritual impurity. Sex, and even touch, is prohibited during menstruation and for seven days afterwards. After this time, observant Jewish women go to a mikvah, which literally means a gathering of water, for a ritual immersion. At the mikvah, the woman removes all clothing, jewellery, makeup and nail polish – any physical obstacles – so that there is nothing between her and God.
‘How would they even know your marital status?’ I asked.
She gave me a wry look. ‘Oh, they know. Some young Orthodox women who are sexually active before marriage wear a fake wedding ring when they go to the mikvah and pretend they’re already married. Some of them get away with it. You’d have to lie.’
I have never visited a mikvah. Most of the mikva’ot (the plural of mikvah) in Australia are Orthodox-run, and I wouldn’t be welcome, as a progressive and queer Jew. Even if I was somehow allowed to use the mikvah, I imagine my tattoos, piercings and shaved hair would raise eyebrows.
I tried to find a mikvah that is LGBT+ inclusive and open to progressive Jews, and discovered that there is a mikvah at the Melbourne City Baths that is used by Progressive Judaism Victoria. It doesn’t meet the strict requirements of Halacha, Jewish religious laws that Orthodox and Conservative Jews follow, so it isn’t an option for many.
I found Mayyim Hayyim in Boston, a mikvah where ‘people of all genders and ages can celebrate milestones like weddings and b’nai mitzvah; where conversion to Judaism is accorded the honor and dignity it deserves; where survivors of trauma, illness or loss find solace; and where those who immerse monthly can explore the ritual on their own terms.’ Reading those words, and looking at the pictures, I wished we had something like it in Australia, where we have a much smaller Jewish population.
The US also has Immerse NYC, a pluralistic, feminist community mikvah project. They don’t have their own mikvah; their staff, which includes queer Jews and Jews of colour, facilitate immersions at two mikva’ot in New York. They model themselves on the Jewish community they want to see, which they describe as ‘a pluralistic network where Jews support one another through life transitions with love and authenticity’. The description made me think of my Jeff Buckley mikvah, of the healing I wanted.
I searched for representations of mikva’ot on TV. Orange is the New Black, Sex and the City, Younger and Transparent have featured them in very different ways, and Oprah toured a mikvah in Brooklyn Heights for an episode of her show. Like the mikva’ot I’d found online, the TV representation is all North American.
All I could find in Australia is a two-part documentary called The Pool on ABC iview. It turns out the segment on the mikvah itself wasn’t screened on TV but instead can be found on YouTube separately.
The mikvah remains a mystery in Australia. Non-Jews may at best be able to link it to cleansing after a menstrual period, which makes it sound old-fashioned and shame-inducing. And maybe it is. I read a website for Orthodox Jewish women that declares that after a minimum of twelve days of abstinence, sexual intimacy is heightened, arguing that women are ‘in charge’ in the relationship since their husbands can’t have sex with them until they visit the mikvah. My own views about these biblical laws are less charitable. I can’t help but see the body-shaming and the biological essentialism rather than the supposedly feminist appeal of the whole thing.
“I can’t help but see the body-shaming and the biological essentialism rather than the supposedly feminist appeal of the whole thing.”
*
Other religions and cultures use water in religious, spiritual and cultural expression, including the Christian sacrament of baptism, the ritual of Hammam, Hinduism’s sacred connection to the River Ganges, and the ancient Egyptians who viewed the Nile River as a passageway between life and death. Water also means healing in so many cultures. In 350 AD, Hippocrates, the ‘father of medicine’, prescribed bathing in spring water, noting that it improved respiration, reduced pain and allayed ‘lassitude’, all of which many of us could do with today.
I’ve read accounts of immersion that describe the mikvah as transformative, evoking some sort of metamorphosis. As a non-binary person, I love the sound of transformation and metamorphosis. But first I have to get past the mikvah attendant, and assumptions around the immutability of biological sex and heterosexuality.
*
Although an indoor setting is considered to be the most convenient and safe, a mikvah doesn’t have to take place there. Oceans are valid mikva’ot. I have immersed myself, or been immersed, in oceans since I was a baby. An ocean mikvah takes place on my terms, with the sound of the waves and birds, the smell of salt and seaweed, and a sense of embodiment, safety and nurturing that doesn’t require anyone’s approval.
“An ocean mikvah takes place on my terms, with the sound of the waves and birds, the smell of salt and seaweed, and a sense of embodiment, safety and nurturing that doesn’t require anyone’s approval.”
*
Five days after Deda died, my friend Jenny died unexpectedly. It was a month after she coined the ‘Jeff Buckley mikvah’, which lodged itself in my brain during the Jewish death rituals for her, which I had just experienced after Deda’s death.
Jenny used to go to Coogee Beach daily. Once, on Facebook, she wrote, ‘Coogee is my best place, my home, my favourite place in the universe. I know every rock on that coastline. One day I’ll become King of Coogee and then I’ll throw all the horrible new bogan-gone-posh incomers out and I’ll demolish all the buildings from the sea to Brook Street.’
I like to think that Jenny is King of Coogee now. I like to imagine she had so many ocean mikva’ot that the words ‘She is pure, she is pure, she is pure’ echoed around her long before her own tahara and burial.
“I like to think that Jenny is King of Coogee now. I like to imagine she had so many ocean mikva’ot that the words ‘She is pure, she is pure, she is pure’ echoed around her long before her own tahara and burial.”
*
In 2017, I read Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water. The book spoke to me and my loss in a way that therapy hadn’t. One line, ‘In water, like in books – you can leave your life’, helped me work out how to survive my grief.
Yuknavitch writes, ‘When we played in the ocean we forgot ourselves: sister, self, father, memory loss’. I knew what she meant. The ocean is transformative. Every time I swim in it, I come out a different person.
In an essay Yuknavitch wrote for LitHub, called ‘I will always inhabit the water’, she writes, ‘Swimming in water is the only state of being I know where I feel free’.
*
In Rivkah Slonim’s book Total Immersion: A Mikvah Anthology, she says, ‘The mikvah personifies both the womb and the grave; the portals to life and afterlife. In both, the person is stripped of all power and prowess. In both there is a mode of total reliance, complete abdication of control’.
The idea of this loss of control and power is that a person can then achieve oneness with God. Slonim writes, ‘Immersion indicates the abandonment of one form of existence to embrace one infinitely higher. In keeping with this theme, immersion in the mikvah is described not only in terms of purification, revitalization, and rejuvenation but also – and perhaps primarily – as rebirth’.
Ritual immersion isn’t for everyone. Not everyone has access to an appropriate body of water. Not everyone is willing to lower their head below the surface, naked or clothed.
I’m a water baby. In my life, water means play, ritual and rebirth, as well as self-care and self-soothing. I also see it as a privilege.
I may never find a formalised mikvah that works for me, but I will always turn to water to mark transition and change. I know it will carry me, my identity, my quirks and my questions the way it has carried my grief and sadness many times before. ▼
This article appeared in Island 160 in 2020. Order a print issue here.
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