Beyond the divorce: The World of GET-Refusers

“Am I an Agunah Yet?” is a story about an Agunah, and will describe the systems and the processes she needed to go through in order to obtain freedom after her marriage ended. The story will highlight what works? What doesn’t work? 

What is useful? What isn’t? 

What are some things that could be done to prevent a divorce from turning into a situation of Iggun, and to resolve it once she is an Agunah?? 

I have been interviewing Agunot after they finally got their freedom for three years now… Three years of hearing very personal and unique stories, and also starting to recognize patterns in the process they needed to go through to officially receive notice of their freedom, when it finally came. The dysfunction in all their marriages followed similar patterns, but the dynamics played out differently. The dysfunctional systems these women (or men) turned to, the support systems they relied on for help that went nowhere, also followed similar patterns. 

I wrote this series to give you a more informed, realistic idea of what those patterns are, and what the process looks like. 

I called the column, “Am I An Agunah Yet?” 

The point I want to make- the message I want to spread, clearly and firmly, is this: 

The ‘Agunah’ label is not given lightly. An Agunah only becomes an Agunah after a long, long road. An Agunah is not simply a woman who tried to leave a marriage: That’s a divorcee, and she has moved WAY past that stage. 

An Agunah is not a he-said, she-said situation, “Oh, I don’t really know the whole story, I don’t want to judge…” It’s not: She asked him for a divorce, and he said, ‘No, I don’t want to give you one.’ (or vice versa. Yes, women can refuse a Get, too, and they do!... although arguably less often.) 

BAM! He’s a Get-Refuser. She’s an Agunah now. 

Nope. 

It’s a process. 

A long, arduous one, from being ‘separated’ to becoming an “Agunah” (or ‘Agun’).

Get-refusers are nearly always highly dysfunctional people. 

If the Agunah stage has been reached, there is dysfunction present. 

No perfectly healthy, stable person reaches this stage. 

It takes a while to get here, to the ‘Agunah’ and the ‘Get Refuser’ stage, and you could be 100% certain that a Get-refuser who holds a spouse hostage in this way has already made a whole lot of bad choices to get here. 

Refusing to sign a Get after a Bais Din has ruled that it is necessary is always wrong. (Yes, sometimes the Bais Din was corrupt and it is your only leverage. But!) You signed a legally binding arbitration agreement with a religious court, because religion was important enough to you to go that route, so you ought to follow the ruling. 

If someone was issued a Seruv from Bais Din, you are allowed to publicize their name and the facts of the Seruv.

You can’t give any details about the person in general… 

Because details are not necessary. 

The Seruv tells you everything you need to know. 

Chazal knew it. Anyone who works in this field knows it. A person holding his spouse hostage is a difficult person and should be dealt with accordingly. (‘Dealt with accordingly’ basically means that you need to approach him as you would a patient in a psych ward- carefully, and ready to figure out which hallucinations of his are feasible to work with.) 

Is this a true story? 

This account is a compilation of three true stories, merged to protect identities. All the anecdotes are true, and I mostly quote directly, but the order of events didn’t happen in the order it’s presented here. 

I hope the information in this column gives you a whole different perspective on what an Agunah is, and a better idea of how you can be helpful if you ever meet anyone in a similar situation. 

Enjoy!

Faigie Carmel.

Part One: The End… Or the Beginning

As told to Faigie Carmel

This series is an account of an Agunah, who describes the systems and processes a woman may encounter on her way to obtaining freedom after her marriage ended. What works? What doesn’t work? What means are useful in preventing a divorcee from becoming an Agunah? 

I was done. 

We had only been married for a year and a half, and this wasn’t the first time I was done. It wasn’t the first time I felt like someone had pulled a plug out of me and drained all my energy. It wasn’t the first time I moved through my home, feeling like my feet were sinking in quicksand and the walls were closing in on me. It wasn’t the first time I stared at my baby’s face with a sinking sense of dread, knowing I could not protect him from this. 

Something is not right here. Am I losing my mind? I need to get out. 

Check the diaper bag. Pack stuff up. 

The first time I wanted to leave my husband, I cried. I told him how miserable I was, how wrong I felt. “It’s just… the baby,” he said. “Isn’t it normal to feel like this after a baby? I heard it happens.” “No… It’s not postpartum depression.” I couldn’t stop sobbing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain what is wrong with me.” 

“So you want to leave?” he said. “You want a divorce?” 

“I can’t do this anymore,” I cried. 

“You’re very emotional,” he said. “Don’t make any big decisions until you are calmer, okay? I will call the Rav.” I huddled on my bed, listening to my husband tell the Rav ‘postpartum depression’. I wanted to protest that diagnosis, but found that I had no strength. ‘Psychiatrist. Pills. Court-ordered treatment.’ When I heard that, I made myself get up. “I’ll be better soon, I think. Maybe it’s just my hormones.” 

Another time, I snapped before my friend’s Vort. 

“I want a divorce,” I managed to say firmly. 

My husband’s face changed. “Don’t do this again. Not now. Everything was going so well!” But it wasn’t. 

“I’ll join you at your therapist tomorrow. I’ll come every time from now on. I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you want,” my husband said. 

I just shook my head. 

I couldn’t verbalize what I wanted. 

I want to feel safe,” my gut whispered, but my husband was so much louder, and certainly clearer, than my intuition. 

I found myself with my baby in my arms, staring mindlessly at my clothes, feeling paralyzed. This time, I am not coming back. 

So what should I wear to the Vort? 

Impending doom. Can’t smile. Maybe I am having a stroke, I thought.

My husband showered first, and then I showered- in freezing water. “Sorry!” he yelled through the door after I yelped. “I forgot to warn you. I’ll check the boiler when we get home. Hopefully it’s an easy fix.” I couldn’t find my phone. “It was right here,” I insisted. 

“Sometimes you drop it in the kitchen drawer,” my husband said. “You’ll use mine.” I couldn’t dial down the distress. The phone seemed crucial, somehow. I know where I left it. Eventually, I did find it in the kitchen drawer. 

My husband waited for me in the car, leaving me to steel myself, get the baby, stroller, and the bag, and cart them down two flights of stairs, alone. 

I don’t remember much of the Vort. 

THIS TIME, when the walls started closing in, and all my alarm bells were ringing, loudly and incessantly: Not Safe Here; I decided not to tell my husband. 

I didn’t want to call my Kallah teacher. Again. 

What would I even say? I have a bad feeling. Again? Couldn’t find my phone? Was my shower cold? “Life is full of frustrations,” she’d say. “What does your therapist think?” 

Or, maybe, this time she’d say something else? 

I should call her, I realized, before I think it over too much and get cold feet. I had to call someone. When I dialed, I felt some of the heaviness lift. 

Maybe she’d help me make sense of my situation.

to be continued...