Rebbetzin Rivka Munk
In the previous article, we discussed praise and support. Today we will describe the remarkable effect that praise, support, and trust can have on a child in a seemingly hopeless situation.
Our guest today is Rebbetzin Munk. For many years she was a teacher, and later a school principal. The school had a wonderful staff, but at times they still despaired over a pupil’s behavior and did not know what else they could do. But Mom was able, through praise, support, and trust, to help the girl find a way out of the situation and improve her behavior. Sometimes a child remains outwardly indifferent, but much is changing inside. We can compare this to a plant: we still see nothing on the surface, but in the soil the little seed has already put out shoots, and when the tree grows, the effects of those fertilizers, the nourishment we worked into the soil, will become evident in it. Even if it seems that we are talking to a wall, if we say the right things and speak “to the child’s heart,” our words will be heard.
[The following account is in the words of Rebbetzin Rivka Munk.] First of all, I want to say how moving it is to see Russian-speaking women in the class. My grandfather, Rav Moshe Aharon Reznik, was known as der Tsaritsyner Rov. He was a highly respected man, the rabbi of the city of Tsaritsyn (Volgograd). Everyone who knew him testified that he was an extraordinary person; people were proud to know him. One of his remarkable qualities was his ability to praise, encourage, and find the right words to support each person.
[Historical background. The righteous gaon Rav Moshe Aharon Reznik-Epstein (1874-1957) was one of the prominent figures of the Mussar movement, a student of the Alter of Kelm. He studied at the Telshe and Kelm yeshivas, served on the rabbinical councils of several Lithuanian towns, and then became the rabbi of Tsaritsyn (later Stalingrad, Volgograd). He made aliyah to the Land of Israel in 1919.]
I remember that when I was learning the alef-bet and later learning to read, it was sometimes difficult, but I knew that my grandfather would give me many compliments for my efforts.
That is why I put effort into my studies. He often visited our home. I remember that he had a distinctive rabbinic coat and hat, an upright posture, a long beard, and kind, radiant eyes. Grandmother died prematurely, and Grandfather was left alone. But his kindness remained.
Once you got to know him well, it was impossible not to love him. When he went with a group of rabbis to ask that the yeshivas not be closed, his words were: “My son is now 12 years old; he studies at a Talmud Torah. Will you really leave him without an education? Do you think he will go off to play soccer? At least do not close the Talmud Torah schools!” And the closure of the Talmud Torah schools was postponed for a couple of years. It was impossible to refuse him—such derech eretz (conduct in keeping with the ways of the Torah) was evident in his every movement and every word.
He was among the first students at the yeshiva in Kelm. In yeshivas, the custom was for the more “senior” students to welcome newer ones and show them where things were, where to go, and whom to approach. Since he was among the first students, he too often “took new arrivals under his wing.” One of these newcomers was Rav Eliyahu Lopian, now widely known. Grandfather helped him and looked after him in the yeshiva. After moving to Israel (Rav Lopian arrived in 1950), he became the mashgiach of the Kamenitz Yeshiva. Rav Lopian often came to visit Grandfather, and my brother, who was then a yeshiva student, would invite his friends so that they could hear firsthand stories that also offered guidance in Jewish ethics (Mussar). At the time, every yeshiva student knew who Rav Elya Lopian was, and we loved him very much.
Once, Grandfather was staying with us because his second wife was in the hospital, and Rav Elya Lopian came to visit him at our home. He also knew my parents. The rabbi called my younger brother, who was then 2,5 years old and still had long hair (boys’ hair is not cut until they are three): “Come here to receive a blessing from Reb Elya Lopian.” He placed his hand on the boy’s head, right on his golden curls, and said: “Zeh hakatan gadol yihyeh”—“This little one will become great,” meaning that he would become a great man. Mother said: “Amen.” My little brother began dancing and clapping, although he had not understood a single word. He ran to the neighbors and told them that Rav Eliyahu Lopian had blessed him with “Zeh hakatan gadol yihyeh.” My brother is now in his early sixties, but he remembers it. I remember it too, as though it happened yesterday.
Remembering my roots, I am doubly happy to see women from Russia attending Torah classes, listening to words of Torah, and reviving Torah Judaism.
Our subject today is praise, idud. I was asked to explain how I used it in my work as an educator.
When I was in my final year of seminary, at the beginning of the year, some people came and told us about their wonderful initiative. In those days, the Negev was truly a desert—there were only a few settlements between here and Beersheba. Then, suddenly, many new immigrants began to arrive. A ship from Morocco, whose passengers were settled in the Negev in a separate “village for Moroccans.” Another ship—from Hungary, and they were settled in the Negev, in a village for Hungarians. Yemenites—in a village for Yemenites. In this way, the Negev was gradually populated with small villages, one for each ship. The people who came to us explained that young families with many small children had been settled in a new village called Tifrach, 20 km from Beersheba. The oldest children were 12 years old. They had found a rebbe for the boys, but there was no teacher for the girls. To start with, they needed two young women willing to travel to teach in the village. I became one of the two.
We left for Tifrach by bus at 5:15 in the morning and returned in the evening—there was no transport service to Tifrach in between. The bus went to Beersheba and stopped in Tifrach on the way. The journey there was very long and difficult. The road was unpaved, so the bus bounced the whole time. It was very hot inside—there was no air conditioning, so we opened the windows. But a desert wind carrying sand blew in through the window. It became impossible to breathe. We closed the windows—and it was hot again. Every day someone vomited (forgive the word) on the bus, and we arrived to teach with no voice. By the time those several hours on the road were over… Our principal, Rav Schindler, advised us that since we arrived with no voice, we should assign only written work that day. Eventually, we stopped traveling there every day and spent the whole week in Tifrach, going home only for Shabbat.
At that time, Tifrach itself, now known to many, did not even have houses—there were caravans, little trailers like that, with poor roofs, and mice often jumped down into them from the roof. There were no toilets inside the caravans—you had to go outside, sometimes quite far. The ground was covered with small stones that would get into your shoes.
That was where I had the privilege of teaching. I was very young.
At that time, the age of children entering first grade was not monitored so closely—I started school at 5,5 years old. I was one of the youngest in my class. I had no substantial teaching experience. In many situations, I acted correctly and avoided disastrous mistakes thanks to the first principal of the girls’ school in Tifrach. As it turned out, my principal was a man who had once studied with my father in the city of Hebron. He was principal of both the Talmud Torah and the girls’ school. I learned a great deal from him: how to behave toward the girls, how to notice important things. He gave us very valuable advice, but we also learned directly from the way he behaved in different situations.
One incident involving him, for example, went like this. We teachers were asked to gather to discuss handing out report cards with grades for the trimester. The principal, Rav Schindler, was present at the meeting. There was a great distance between the caravan homes in Tifrach. And then, through the school window, we saw a boy approaching from far away. The houses were far apart—during the time it took him to walk over, all the teachers and the principal had time to get a good look at him. The closer he came, the more clearly we saw his hands trembling. He came into the school and said that he needed the principal. The principal saw that the boy was terribly frightened about something. He eased into the conversation: “Shalom! You have walked such a long way. First of all, you get a glass of water!”
Later it emerged that this boy was a real fidget. He had behaved badly in class, and the melamed had threatened that if the pupil did not stop, he would send him to the principal—and things would go badly for him there.
Apparently, the boy was terribly frightened of what the principal would do to him, so he trembled the whole way, so much that we noticed it from a distance.
The boy picked up the glass of water and recited the Shehakol blessing aloud: “…by Whose word everything came into being.” We all answered: “Amen.” The principal was delighted: “Well done! What a beautiful blessing! Wonderful! If you can say a blessing like that, you can grow up to be a great Torah scholar! But if you are remembered as a troublemaker, you will be ashamed in the future. You need to stop behaving like that; you need to start growing.” That was the entire “punishment” received by this boy, who had already imagined the most terrible penalty from the principal. The principal’s wife took the boy aside to calm him down completely, and before he left, the principal said goodbye to him: “So we are waiting to hear from you! That you have begun to grow and become a scholar!” The boy happily replied: “Yes, yes!” and went skipping back.
I learned this way of educating from the living example of our principal—educating through praise and support. And there were many such examples.
I began teaching in Tifrach 61 years ago. I was 17,5 years old. Tifrach in those days was shaped like the letter “shin”—three streets joined by one common street. On it stood the school, the synagogue, and a little grocery store. At that time, neither Tifrach nor the other settlements had stationery stores. To buy a pencil, for example, you had to travel to Beersheba. We received all our school supplies for the entire year from the Negev Regional Council, based on the number of pupils. If the children needed notebooks, regular pencils, erasers, or pencil sharpeners, all of these were purchased centrally and stored in a cabinet in each classroom. The teachers’ chalk, both white and colored, was also kept in this cabinet. All these things were very expensive, and people had no money to spare. If a girl wasted pages of her notebook on silly things, she was not given a new one, and her parents had to buy a new notebook in Beersheba. When I opened the storage cabinet, the girls would peer over my shoulder and marvel: “Wow, so many notebooks! A whole treasure! So many pencils!” The teacher, of course, had the key.
One of the girls in my class turned out to be… a thief.
She would wait until everyone went out for recess, then take a pencil from one classmate’s bag, a notebook from another’s. The girls quarreled, but then realized who was stealing. This pupil could not stop—it reached the point where the other girls were afraid to sit next to her. No one knew how to stop it. Once, I went to her home for a “teacher’s visit.” They had a dog by the house that I was afraid of. That time, the dog almost bit me—I never went to her home again. Her father was a terribly hot-tempered man; at the slightest thing, he would start shouting. Very unpleasant. And this was what his daughter was like: turn away for just a moment, and things would disappear from right under your nose. I understood that talking to her was useless. As for frightening her or shouting at her—she was used to shouting. What could I do?
I came up with an idea and decided to put it into practice without asking the principal’s permission—at my own risk.
I came into the classroom and said: “Girls, I have a very difficult task for you, one that carries great responsibility. Every morning, take the key, open the cabinet, take out the chalk and sponge and put them in their place at the board, check how many notebooks are left and whether everything is in its place. And before going home, the girl in charge will check that the cabinet is closed. I want to choose a girl who can carry out this mission.” A forest of hands went up. This girl stretched her hand up so high that it was impossible not to notice it. I chose her. Of course, I had doubts, but I decided to take the risk. How did I dare put all those treasures into her hands myself?! I thought that we had already tried everything else and it had not helped—so I would try trusting her. But I warned her that she would have to come to school early, keep an eye on everything, and be responsible for ensuring that nothing went missing.
Everyone was astonished by what I had done! With my own hands I had given her the keys to the treasure vault! The most astonishing thing was that she did not touch anything! She did not take even a single piece of chalk for herself! The cabinet held things that were so desirable, and she had such a passion for stealing! Yet she took nothing. Moreover, she carried out her duties zealously—for a day, a week, a month—and stopped stealing altogether.
My trust in her changed her completely. I thank the Almighty, who gave me this idea that proved so successful.
Another incident in Tifrach involved our principal. At the time, the inspector from the Ministry of Education was Dr. Bolheim, a very strict, principled man. He instructed every principal to come into classes and supervise the teachers—to check the quality of their teaching. Our principal said: “I do not want you to think that this is my requirement. Besides, I do not want to make you uncomfortable or inhibit you during a lesson by my presence. But to meet his requirement, from time to time I will walk past the classroom windows (the classrooms were also in caravans) and listen to the lesson. Just do not think that I am checking up on you! I have complete trust in your ability to teach a class. But this way, I will be able to tell the inspector honestly that I heard the lesson.” This was the lesson in trust we received from our principal. We could also learn humility from him, because when he shared his opinion with us young women, he spoke as though we were his professional equals—with great respect for our opinion.
I taught in Tifrach for 2 years, then moved to Beit Hilkiya, and then to Jerusalem—to the school where I later worked as principal. Many of my pupils were new immigrants.
For example, Shmuel HaNavi Street in Jerusalem was a street populated by new immigrants.
At first, there was a field there. Families arrived, a new caravan was brought in for them, and later apartment blocks were built. To this day I remember which family lived in which block, because at the time it was customary to visit pupils’ families and find out what conditions the children were studying in and whether the family needed help. Secular teachers would come to these people to persuade them to send their children to their school. These families were religious, but the women could not read. The men’s religious observance, too, was more a matter of tradition, but over time we managed to influence these families. When I became the school’s principal, I countered these recruiters with seminary girls, who went from house to house persuading families to send their children to a religious school.
I must say that I had the support and help of Rabbi Moshe Porush (Menachem Porush’s father). At the time, he served on the Jerusalem City Council. I remember him from my childhood; he often visited my grandparents. My mother would sometimes prepare food for them and bake challahs for Shabbat (one kind was made without sugar because my grandfather’s wife had diabetes, and another without salt because my grandfather was not allowed to have salt). My mother would send me, the eldest of the sisters, with food to help my grandparents. Where did the food go? Into the “refrigerator”—a cabinet containing ice, an icebox. Ice was bought in blocks, broken into pieces, and put into the “refrigerator.” My mother often sent me to my grandfather with ice as well. Naturally, the ice shrank considerably along the way, leaving a trail of drops behind me.
Rabbi Moshe Porush also served on the council of Agudath Israel. Our paths happened to cross when he was on his way to the Agudath Israel office and I was going to my grandfather’s on an errand for my mother. Once, when he met me carrying ice as usual, he said, “Are you going to your grandfather and bringing him ice? How wonderful! What a good girl!” I was so happy to receive praise from such an important person.
From then on, I looked for him along the way so I could hear his praise again.
Later, when I had grown up and was working at a school in Jerusalem, I often turned to him for help, and it came very quickly. For example, the school had a yard, but it was not fenced in. I asked him to put up a fence—workers were sent, and the fence went up. He never once turned me down. He treated the girls with respect, visited the school several times, asked the students questions, and gave prizes for correct answers.
One of the things he helped us with a great deal was organizing classes for women. The women on Shmuel HaNavi Street were illiterate; they could neither read nor write. But worst of all, they also lacked knowledge of Judaism. For example, they counted the 7 clean days incorrectly, ending up 1 day short. I heard this from several women and realized that it was a common mistake. I approached a woman who taught these matters and asked her to give classes. To encourage the women to come, I organized light refreshments and sometimes entertainment. I called it a “parents’ evening” and asked the girls to spread the word among their adult female neighbors and relatives. More women came each week. The question of funding arose—my own resources were no longer enough. I turned to Rabbi Porush. He welcomed the idea with great enthusiasm and helped with the money.
One of my students was the daughter of the great Rabbi Ovadia Yosef (zatzal). To counter the constant campaigning by nonreligious groups, I asked him to come and speak at a parents’ evening to persuade them to send their children to a religious school. He arrived 5 minutes before the start and asked me to tell him a story about one of the girls. I told him about a former student of our school who, despite speaking Arabic at home, had become an outstanding student and now had a position as assistant principal in Tiberias, where she was doing very well (I had arranged the job for her myself—provided a recommendation and called the school—because she had been an excellent student, and they were delighted to hire her). The rabbi spoke very clearly and convinced the parents.
Our school had wonderful teachers and girls, but there were exceptions. One of the girls was troublesome.
Sometimes she drew in the notebook of the girl sitting next to her, took things without asking, and was very disruptive in class. In the yard, she interfered with other girls’ jumping rope and playing games. During breaks, especially the breakfast break, one of the teachers had to supervise and make sure that the girls performed netilat yadayim (handwashing) properly, remembered the blessing, and went straight to eat afterward rather than crowding together. The teachers on duty complained every time about this girl, whose name was Kochava. None of the teachers could manage her. One incident was outrageous: she filled a handwashing cup and doused all the girls standing behind her. All the teachers, who were very good and professional, refused to work in Kochava’s class.
Still, we made it as far as grade 7. Her teacher complained to me that she could no longer put up with such behavior: the girl would pinch her classmates, tear their notebooks, and prevent them from listening to the lesson. I said, “Send her to me.”
The girl came into my office. I spoke to her and explained things, but she remained silent, clamping her mouth tightly shut. She showed no remorse, not even any sign that she understood she was at fault.
I was at my wits’ end and was ready to expel her. But remembering the example of my first principal, I kept her in the school. She scraped through to grade 8 and finished school. After graduation, we would bring the graduates together for evening gatherings—she never came; she had no friends. I still keep in touch with most of the graduates. The girls (now grandmothers) call to tell me their news.
But one day we met. I went to the Western Wall. A woman praying the Amidah with two children caught my attention there. One boy was tugging at his mother’s skirt and calling, “Mom! Mom, come on!” The other, who was older, said, “Quiet! Mom is saying the 18 blessings; you mustn’t distract her now!” I wanted to see these little boys’ mother—I deliberately held off beginning my own prayers so I could look at the woman who had taught her son so well not to interrupt someone during prayer. The woman takes three steps back, finishes praying, and turns around… “Teacher Rivka! Oh, I’m so happy to see you!” She hugs me, kisses me, and says, “Could you ever have believed that Kochava would turn out like this? Could you ever have believed that my children would be religious and my husband would study in a kollel? This is all because of that conversation in the principal’s office. I remember word for word what you said to me then. I just didn’t want to show at the time that I accepted that you were right.”
I often used “home visits” to learn more about a student rather than immediately scolding her for poor academic performance or untidiness.
One of my students at school was very untidy. When she received a notebook, I wanted to tell her, “Keep it clean for at least one day,” but by the very next day there were stains on the cover. The girl’s clothes were always stained too, and her uniform was dirty. I decided to visit her home to see everything for myself rather than immediately scolding her. Of course, I asked her parents’ permission, and we agreed on a convenient time for me to come. They lived near the market in the Bukharan Quarter (not far from the Mir Yeshiva). I came to her home…
When I asked her to write what each of her parents did, she wrote, “My dad works in garbage.” I didn’t think she meant it literally! The girl explained, “He rides on the back of a truck through the streets and collects garbage!” I came to this family’s home and saw terrible poverty. Instead of a table, they used a vegetable crate discarded by the greengrocers at the market. There was not a single chair in the house—they sat on crates as well. There was no cupboard, either for clothes or for notebooks. The girl kept her notebooks in one of the crates—there were two kinds, cardboard and plastic. I understood why her notebooks were always crumpled and dirty. It was impossible to be angry with her… I turned to Rabbi Moshe Porush, and he allocated an apartment to them in a new block on Shmuel HaNavi Street. We also tried to find furniture for them.
These days, teachers no longer make home visits, but in any case, before getting angry with a child, it is worth paying a “visit” to their inner world and finding out whether perhaps we have nothing to be angry about, but need to help them cope with their problems. Patience is needed. Praise, support, and the trust we place in a child can often help—experience bears this out.
Prepared by Mrs. Zissi Skarzhinskaya