As a naive 19-year-old Chasidic girl who had grown up in the sheltered strictly Orthodox community of Manchester, once my engagement had been announced, I wanted a kallah (bridal) teacher who could guide me on how to be the perfect eidel (gentle) wife.
When I sat at her dining room table with six other brides-to-be, and took in the family photos and children’s arts and craft works scattered across the room and the wall-to-wall bookshelves, I felt I had found the right teacher. I wanted my married home to look like hers, she was a Chasidic mother with children in double digits who I wanted to emulate.
A decade later, I am that happily married wife and mother. I might not yet have children in double digits, but I do have two sons and two daughters and hope to bring more into the world. And I guess that is why I have decided to write an article about my wedding night and the period leading up to it, my kallah classes, it for a mainstream Jewish newspaper. The Charedi community is an insular one about which misinformation abounds, and that can feel frustrating.
One popular misconception is that our arranged marriages are unhappy relationships in which women are forced to have sex they don’t want. Well, this is not my story, and I hope that in telling it I am both informing Jewish Chronicle readers and breaking down stereotypes about my community. I know some in my world will disagree, but I think talking about one’s personal experiences is a good thing, that is through sharing that we educate and enlighten others.
Back in 2014, I didn’t have any of this perspective, of course. I was an innocent teenager about to start her pre-marriage classes, and there were five sessions exploring the halachic rulings around niddah (the Jewish laws concerning menstruation and family purity) and mikveh (the ritual bath taken at the end of the niddah period). My teacher also talked about infertility and miscarriages and when she discussed shalom bayis (domestic harmony) with us she made a brief comment about how domestic violence is never acceptable. When it came to to baby-related issues, her advice was abundant.
Our kallah teacher also stressed that our bedroom was considered a holy space, and that we should keep it sacred and not allow others in. She also said that double beds were bad as they encouraged a couple to sleep in the same bed when they were niddah. Instead, she recommended that we buy two single beds, to be pushed together when intercourse was allowed. This was standard practice: In the frum world, you always buy two beds so that you can give the impression to the outside world that you are niddah. It is only for the couple to know the truth of the situation.
We were also told that intimacy should occur at night with the lights off. Marital relations in the daytime is a no-no in the Charedi world.
Despite not knowing each other beforehand, a bond quickly developed between us young women. After all, we had a big thing in common: we all hoped to enter a perfect Chasidish marriage. We swapped notes about our wedding preparations, the sheitls (hair coverings) we would wear when we became wives, the furniture for our new homes.
At the end, we each had a one-to-one session with our kallah teacher in which we talked about intimacy. This wasn’t considered appropriate for a group session as it wouldn’t be tzniyus (modest) enough. It was also understood that we might have individual questions. The focus of the session was how we would perform the act on the wedding night and what was and was not allowed.
We were taught that the full act must occur on the wedding night and that as soon as it had, we must immediately separate because a woman becomes niddah.
But, in the event, we weren’t able to consummate our marriage that night so the separation rule didn’t apply.
The kallah lessons had prepared us for consummation on the wedding night. The only circumstances in which you cannot consumate is if the bride is menstruating, a situation which we do everything to avoid. In some cases the woman might take hormones to regulate her cycle. Halachah dictates that a woman must not have menstruated for seven days before her wedding night.
Our wedding ended unusually early for our frum circles. We were home by midnight. I’d been told that my husband would help me out of my dress after which I could take a shower, and then go to bed to perform the mitzvah.
We chatted for a bit in the kitchen and then I did as I had been instructed: We knew that everything about that night was to done step by step, by time-honoured rote. My husband had had his own guidance from his chosson (bridegroom) teacher, but first and foremost he had been told to follow the wife’s lead.
We entered our new bedroom with our shop-new beds and bed linen. My husband had been taught that he should start by embracing standing up to create some sort of intimacy. It felt forced, but we did as instructed. We then went to bed. My outfit comprised a dusty pink long robe with a belt, and a sleeveless dress underneath.
The idea is that you wear both around the house and only remove the robe once in bed.
My new husband changed into his brand new cotton tartan robe, also purchased for this holy occasion.
He was extremely respectful as we started to become intimate but I found myself experiencing a range of emotions, from guilt to pleasure and comfort.
After an hour or so, I realised it was time to bite the bullet. We fumbled and tried to perform the mitzvah. Being the respectful person he is, my husband let me take the lead, and I tried to but I was terrified of the unknown and potential pain and I struggled.
I tried very hard to do the right things, the things I had been taught, but it just wasn’t working. After two hours, we were exhausted. It had been a long day and it was soon going to be light, when marital relations would be forbidden. We could see we weren’t going to complete the mitzvah, and we didn’t know what to do.
In desperation, my husband called his chosson teacher at just after 2am. “Go to bed, you aren’t doing yourselves any favours. Try again tomorrow,” he said. Relieved, we relaxed and did just that, but I still felt guilty for not having performed the mitzvah and assumed it was really unusual, because my kallah teacher hadn’t told me otherwise.
I called her the next day and she admitted that it was, in fact, very common. She advised that we nap in the day and that I drink some wine to get me in the mood before the night fell.
Looking back, I don’t think that this was very good advice, since alcohol doesn’t always make the best preparation for marital relations.
The next day was glorious. We were not niddah, so we were able to touch, and because it was daytime, we didn’t have the pressure of further intimacy. We spent hours and hours cuddling and kissing, and it was the best feeling I had ever had in my life.
We literally couldn’t keep our hands off each other and grew close, quickly.
After years of being starved of physical touch, we were two teenagers falling in love: there was a desperation in our kisses. I felt so fortunate that that I wasn’t niddah, secretly happy that the marriage had not been consummated because if it had, it would have meant a two-week physical break from my husband.
That night, my sister hosted the sheva brachos (a meal repeating the wedding blessings), but the truth was we were no mood for it or to meet any visitors.
At the end, I went to my sister and quietly asked her to give me some wine. Because we required a shomer (chaperone) in our home, and one had not visited, there was no other way for me to access alcohol. She rummaged through her kitchen and found me a bottle of wine, and put it in a bag so we could leave without anyone asking questions.
On our way to the sheva brachos, it had rained and my husband, being the perfect gentleman, opened an umbrella for me, which we shared while walking together. Later, my father pulled him aside and admonished him, saying that sharing the umbrella together isn’t allowed when niddah.
My husband sheepishly pretended to take this on board, but for me it added to my sense of failure. It was an unpleasant reminder that we had not consummated our marriage, had not performed the mitzvah on our wedding night.
When we got home, I had a glass of wine and we went to bed. Again, we were unsuccessful, and after some time, we decided to call it a night. This continued for the remainder of the week. When my period came, I was relieved – it meant I had break from all the trying.
But niddah was really difficult as we were in the honeymoon phase of our relationship and didn’t want to stop touching each other.
The next two weeks were lonely ones. I was in my double bed alone. (In the end, we had ignored my kallah teacher and bought two double beds.)
Finally, it was mikveh night. After submerging myself in the ritual bath, I was purified of my niddah and free to be intimate again. This time, I felt ready and well-rested and hoped to finally consummate.
I knew that success would mean an immediate return to niddah, but I also knew it was something that had to happen. Once again, my ever-respectful husband let me take the lead, but I just wasn’t brave or pious enough to perform the mitzvah. I felt like I had failed him and Judaism again.
This went on for a few more nights until finally one evening, we experienced some level of success.
My husband called his rabbi, who said it sounded as if the mitzvah had been performed. It was bittersweet, as it meant we couldn’t touch each other for ten days, but I had finally pleased my husband and completed the mitzvah.
I was also relieved that it didn’t hurt as I had feared. Since then, there has been no pain and the tension and anxiety has gone away.
Looking back, I am so grateful that my husband instinctively knew to let me take my time.
