Once upon a time, nearly five years ago to when I am writing this, I used to live in New York City, in Manhattan while I was studying Musical Theatre in College. There was a great deal of work that I had to do, and so, whenever I could, I would try to go out, enjoy the city, and live my life as an eighteen year old college student from the middle of nowhere in the busiest city I knew of.

    This usually meant going to the theatre whenever I could, whether it was Wicked on Broadway, or some little known, often not very good show Off-Broadway. But occasionally, I would try out the romantic field. 

    I met several very kind, very good hearted people that I enjoyed spending time with, but never really found anyone that clicked. So, I took the path far MORE travelled by, and downloaded Tinder. There was almost no hesitation from the dozens of men in a three mile radius around my dorm, and very quickly I found myself going on a lot of very short, very dry, dead-end dates. Things seemed destitute and hopeless for me, a lonely, touch-starved Theatre Student, who had barely been kissed. 

    Then, I matched with a very cute, very kind law student; let’s call him Mihail. We hit it off, pretty much immediately. He showed interested in my studies, he spoke another language, and he wanted to do things that I wanted to do. We texted back a forth for a few days, and set up our first actual date. I put on my nicest casual clothes— nothing too fancy, but clean, cute and very on brand for a new New Yorker. 

    The train ride took a longer amount of time than I thought it would. We agreed to meet at a park in his neighborhood of Brooklyn, because I wanted an excuse to see all five boroughs. So, I met him in Bayside, overlooking the harbor, about an hour before sunset.

    We walked around for a while, and talked. He was even sweeter and cuter in person. His accent and his blond hair were enough to make me swoon. It was one of the only times I had ever felt like someone looked at me, and saw ME. Not what people wanted to see, not what they were told to see, but what I actually was standing in front of him. He cracked jokes, and told me more about his studies, and asked me more about mine. 

    I felt like someone really cared about me— even if we had just met. The breeze started to get crisp and cool as the sun began to sink towards the horizon over the Bay in the fall, September air. We walked around a little more as the street lights started to buzz to life.

    I started to get cold, and he offered me his jacket. And of course, I wanted the storybook, movie, fairy-tale fantasy of walking down the street with someone else’s coat around my shoulder, as we stroll together in the evening light. It was as nice as I thought it would be. Eventually, it started to get dark, and so I asked what we should do. And he offered to take me back to his place to watch a movie. 

    My heart skipped a beat. Someone wanted to spend more time with me instead of less. At the time, there was no quicker way to make me swoon. I asked what he thought would happen, and I told him I wasn’t looking for anything more than a date. He told me not to worry, that he didn’t want that either, so I thought that our interests had aligned.

    So I said yes. We make it back to his apartment, and the television did not get turned on. He immediately disappeared into the bathroom, and changed into night clothes. He asked if I wanted anything to change into, and I refused. The storybook night was no longer so straight forward or simple.

    Suddenly, I was in a very real moment-to-moment experience, and I felt myself go into autopilot. He approached, and I went into my impulse responses, and I fawned. I let him start things, until they went too far.

    Before I was even aware of what was happening to me, our clothes were on the floor, and his hands were exploring parts of my body that he had not asked to explore. I repeatedly begged him to stop, to no avail. He did everything he wanted, and then, he went to sleep. 

    I knew the neighborhood I was in was not safe for me to walk at night, but neither was the situation I was in safe for sleep. So, I stayed in his apartment, and I stayed awake. I sat on the floor for hours, until the first hint of dawn peaked through the windows. I got myself together as quickly as I could, and left his apartment in the first light, before he woke up.

    The train ride back to my dorm was agonizing. The elevated Brooklyn train was my own hell on earth, and every time the doors opened, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself from the edge of the platform. But I didn’t. Something in me stayed, whether to prove to myself or to the world that I was strong enough to survive. The cold morning air hit me at every stop, until finally, we crossed into Manhattan, and the train went underground. 

    Finally, the train stopped at my station, I got out, and walked to my dorm in silence. No music in my headphones, no pep in my step. I was an empty shell of the person I had been just twelve hours prior. I dropped off my stuff in the room, quietly so I didn’t wake my roommate, and before any one else on the floor woke up, I took the longest, hottest, most agonizing shower of my life. I cried, and tried to burn the memories out of my skin, hoping that if the shower was hot enough, I wouldn’t feel this way anymore. Then I went to class.

    A terrible thing had happened to me, and I didn’t know where to turn, or who to trust anymore. My autonomy, my life had been taken advantage of in a way that I never expected would happen to me. For a long time, it made me very very angry at G-d, in a way that I never had thought I could be, especially as someone who had been raised as a Baptist, and was beginning to practice Judaism.

    At the time, I felt completely alone and isolated from the world around me. I didn’t know what was real anymore, and I struggled with even the simplest expressions of affection towards my friends, family, and classmates. I briefly turned from G-d, until I started to think about what that meant. I felt like I had no one left in the world on my side. And I wondered, how could an all knowing, all loving, all good, and all powerful G-d allow something so heinous, cruel and unimaginable to happen to anyone?

    I met Mihail on a Tuesday night, and spent the better part of Wednesday and Thursday struggling to articulate to my school Councelor what had happened to me, who cleared a large portion of her schedule for me, because somehow she knew I would need it. I took time out of several classes, and a great deal of time sitting in my Councelor’s office, until Friday evening.

    It was the first time I ever went to a Friday Night Shabbat service. It was quiet, the lights were low, and I felt like it was the space I needed to tell myself that I was safe, and could really tell myself what happened. There, in a Synagogue, in front of a G-d that I was very, very angry at.

    What’s my point in all this? Well, I’m sure that Dinah felt that way too. As she was violated by men she did not know, then had to watch as her family took violent revenge against these men, I think she too would have been very, very angry at G-d. A G-d who had promised to protect her family, to make a great nation of her Grandfather— a great nation that she was destined to be a part of. 

    Then to have her life turned upside down, in such a horrible way, I can imagine the pain, and betrayal she must have felt. And I think that G-d saw her pain, her anger, and her fury, and G-d knew that it was justified. In most instances, when the chosen people turned against G-d, or bad things like this happened, it was ordained by G-d for some reason. But in this case, G-d stays silent. I believe this is G-d’s way of giving Dinah her space. 

    I know, this is a far-fetched reading. But immediately after this, G-d speaks up and changes the subject. So, why wouldn’t G-d speak out against this crime against one of their own?

    If G-d were to be perfect, then why couldn’t G-d stop it from happening in the first place? I read this portion in a very different way than most people probably would. This portion includes the famous wrestling from which Israel gets its name, and this event is tucked quietly at the back. 

    But not, so I believe, as a way for G-d to keep it hidden away. Not as a way of hiding a great shame against G-d by us. But rather because Dinah deserved better. She deserved to be heard. She was not. Dinah deserved to be respected. She was not. And I believe that by viewing this story briefly, and without G-d, we see that it’s important for victims— survivors— to be given their space. Their time. 

    What happened to me was traumatic, and changed me as a person, overnight. In an instant, the person I was had gone, and I had fundamentally become someone else. I struggled to give myself space, to find out what I needed, and I wasn’t afforded the opportunity to see justice done. Dinah didn’t see justice either. Her family took it upon themselves to avenge her, without asking her what she needed, or what she wanted, and instead took revenge in her name, and in G-d’s name.

    I read that the mistake here was not the mistake of G-d allowing something terrible to happen to Dinah. I read an imperfect G-d giving their creation space to grieve. Instead, the ultimate mistake, and cautionary tale here is actually Dinah’s family seeking revenge rather than justice. Using her name as a justification for violence. 

    I don’t want any part view a world where nothing bad happens. Because when nothing bad happens, no one experiences times to become a better person. What happened to me greatly increased my understanding of how to be a better person. But I don’t think we should view an imperfect world with a vengeful eye. My experiences should not be glorified, nor should they be avenged. Instead, I believe silence from G-d tells us that instead, we should seek peace for the victims, the survivors, and for the whole world.

    And maybe then, perhaps, I will know peace too. So much has happened to me since that day in Brooklyn. And if I could go back, I would do things differently. But I can’t, so I instead choose to use my life, and my experiences for good. And I think that is what is to be learned from Dinah. So, Dinah, this one is for you. You’re not alone.