Preparing Bodies for Burial Changed Me
Participating in the chevra kadisha has been intensely spiritual
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I first encountered a chevra kadisha—a volunteer Jewish burial society—in 2002, when my mother’s sister passed away. It was the first night of Passover and my youngest child was barely a toddler, but I dropped everything and flew to Paris for the funeral. My aunt’s body could not be moved until after Shabbat, more than two days after she died, but a shomer watched over her body the whole time. The chevra kadisha came to our home to perform the tahara, and I was incredibly moved by their compassion and care—and by the knowledge that this ritual had been performed for generations of women in my family.
I was 32, and I felt a new connection to Judaism. My parents were raised Orthodox, but I grew up in a fairly secular home. As an adult, I had stood on the periphery of Jewish life. My kids attended preschool at the JCC and we celebrated Shabbat at home, but our family did not belong to a synagogue and we rarely participated in Jewish community events. When I returned from Paris, I was changed. I started volunteering with several Jewish organizations and learning Hebrew, eventually having an adult bat mitzvah.
Over the years, I considered joining a chevra kadisha myself, but I was scared. Scared of not knowing the right thing to do, scared of being distressed at the sight (and smells) of a dead body. It wasn’t until 2018, when my dear friend Alina mentioned her own work with a chevra kadisha, that I took the plunge. I have now assisted at several taharot for women in my community in Houston.
I have learned to set out the white cotton garments, prepare the casket (which often includes some earth from Israel), and recite the right Hebrew prayers. Along with three or four other women, we carefully clean the body with washcloths, removing any nail polish, makeup, or bandage closures to ensure there is no barrier between the deceased and the ritual cleansing waters. We don’t speak much, communicating in whispers as we lift, turn, and dress the body. Even though I often don’t know the other women, I find the tahara to be a powerful communal experience, a time to appreciate the kindness and gentleness of strangers.
During our training, we were told that performing a tahara is one of the highest-level mitzvot, because it can never be repaid by the recipient. Each tahara I have assisted has felt like a gift to the family, one they aren’t even aware of, allowing their loved one’s soul to be released of any conflict or struggle before burial. Each time I have performed this mitzvah, I have felt renewed and invigorated with Jewish purpose. It is an intensely spiritual experience.
Last month, when the bodies of Kfir, Ariel and Shiri Bibas were returned to Israel, I mourned along with Jews worldwide. When I saw their coffins on the news, I could not shake my concern about the condition of their bodies. Had their battered remains been ritually cleansed and prepared for burial? Had women in the Bibas’ community been able to perform a tahara?
I rarely speak about my involvement with the chevra kadisha, and, since October 7, I have been wary of showing vulnerability with non-Jewish friends. But that week, when one of them texted me about something else, I decided to open up. I told him that it was a difficult time for the Jewish people. I explained the sacredness of Jewish burial practices, the sanctity of cleansing the bodies of our deceased and returning them to their original, pure state.
I was afraid that he would respond without empathy or tenderness; I had been disappointed by other friends. But when I shared my experience, he told me that I had helped him understand the grief, anger, and worldwide response to the murder of the Bibas family.
For the last sixteen months, I have been angry. My resentment is justified, but my finger-pointing has not resulted in greater understanding or allyship. It certainly hasn’t produced less Jewish hate or antisemitism. Intimacy and openness, on the other hand, have drawn people in a little closer.
Outrage is an easy feeling for me to conjure; goodwill requires more effort. But as a member of the chevra kadisha, I have learned that, when we surrender ourselves to someone else’s care, spiritual transformation can occur.
Nathalie Ross holds a PhD in history and writes about Jewish food, memory, and Sephardic cookbooks.
Instagram: @arejewcurious and @nathalie_istrou_ross
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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