Reva Unterman

Reva Unterman, originally from London now lives in Israel. Both her father and grandfather were internationally respected orthodox rabbis. She is currently working on a novel set against a backdrop of Halachic and Midrashic sources.

Excorcising my demons and saying my goodbyes

Thursday 28th 2007f June 2007

I quickly button my shirt up to the neck as I trudge after my friend Chaya through the winding streets of the ultra orthodox neighbourhood of Sanhedria. Men are dressed from head to toe in black, long sidelocks swing down their faces and little girls wear thick stockings despite the stifling heat.

“You’ve just got to meet Rebbetzin F.,” Chaya insists, pointing to a small courtyard. “She’s totally amazing.”

We enter the modest abode. An elderly but sturdy-looking woman is cutting cucumbers at the kitchen sink. She is wearing a long dowdy brown print dress and a black snood over her hair.
“Chaya!” She hugs my friend, singing her praises and then turns to me and offers the plate of cucumber. I accept a slice.
Chaya brings two plastic stools for us and we sit in the tiny kitchen. I am facing the fridge and examine photos of a family of strangers.
The rebbetzin looks at me and smiles. “You have some very intense energies surrounding you,” she says, “we must get rid of them.”

I look at Chaya who is nodding yes to me. The rebbetzin is clattering pans on the stove.
Unaware of what is really going on, I assume she is putting the finishing touches to dinner. She asks me my name and my mother’s name and then reads a psalm, whispering to the air as if she is talking to a spirit in the room.

I raise my eyebrows to Chaya as if to say, “where the hell have you brought me?”
But chaya lets a finger rest on her lips letting me know I must keep quiet. “Trust me”, she mouths, “everything is just fine”.

This is a waste of an afternoon. I think of my chores left undone at home, my dinner not made. But these negative thoughts are interrupted as the rebbetzin is now draping an old towel over my head.
I look up at chaya, giggling.
“It’s so you won’t get splashed by the boiling water,” she explains.
“Boiling water! Are you insane?” I’m not as worried about my head being burnt as I am about my silk pants getting ruined as they are dry clean only.

“Reva bas Rut”, the rebbetzin cries out. From under the towel I hear the hissing of boiling water above me as she stirs. The pot is then placed on the kitchen counter and the rebbetzin takes out a piece of mangled lead the size of an egg and sighs. “It’s as I thought,” she moans, “the evil eye…”
I look at this silver mass that could be mistaken as a pendant of modern jewellery design, or the map of an unknown country and notice the solid blob in the middle that reflects the trouble.

Again the towel is over my head and again like Shakespeare’s witches from Macbeth, the rebbetzin stirs her cauldron and cries out my name. After an inspection, the lead this time has flattened out, but results are still not satisfactory. We must go through this procedure one more time. My silk pants have held out so far, but can my luck hold, I think?

Satisfied that the metal is now smooth and the problematic ball has disappeared, the rebbetzin tells me “You will feel the effects immediately.”
A very satisfied expression is spreading over Chaya’s face.

I have obviously been exorcised here without my knowledge or my consent. That is fine with me but I just hope my head will not rotate 360 degrees around my neck like poor Linda Blair’s did in the horror film.

And why am I telling you this story you may ask? Because dear readers, I am saying my goodbyes. This is the last of the columns, and I want you to know that I am taking my leave of you in a perfect health without any ayin horeh on me, without any negative energies surrounding me and in this cleansed and purified state I want to thank you for reading and thank you for listening.

I’ve always hated goodbye’s – so instead lets just say - in Israeli fashion – Shalom ul’hitraot.