Shame and the Negiah Narrative

“What will you think of me if I am physical with him? Will you still think of me as a good person? Will you still really respect me?”

Her questions astonished me. We had been friends for a long time. I knew our friendship was strong. Yet here she was, earnestly asking me these questions. What had led my friend to believe that her sexuality somehow reflects her entire self-worth? What was it that made my friend feel that by engaging in a physical relationship, I would respect her less or look at her as less of a person?

Sometime later while relaxing with peers, I began to understand the source of her concerns.

“I know for a fact she hooked up with a few guys,” I hear one guy say, as he goes off about a fellow friend and judging her based on her private interactions with men.

Everyone is laughing. I try to interject about the sexism that is so inherent in shaming women based on what they do behind closed doors. I try describing the male/ female double standard when it comes to sex and why the way he is speaking about this girl is so insidious (not to mention blatant loshon hara). I am interrupted when one girl, who hears what I am trying to say, asks in the most incredulous voice, “Are you saying that it is okay for a girl to have sex before marriage?”

Her tone of voice suggests that I am trying to convince her that the earth is flat.

Everybody else nods in agreement with her.

How can I be this crazy.

It would be easy to write these events off as unrelated and rare phenomena. However, judging people, especially women, by their sexual activity seems to be part of a larger trend in the Orthodox community.

To me, this attitude, which has become so pervasive in our community, seems to be just one more negative effect of the “shomer negiah narrative” that so many of us have grown up with.

Now, before I discuss the harm that the narrative surrounding shomer negiah has caused, I want to make something very clear. I am not criticizing in any way the practice of shomer negiah nor suggesting that we abandon these halakhot.

In fact, in the right context, “being shomer” can be extremely rewarding. The concept of taking complete ownership of one’s body by making conscious decisions about when and with whom one chooses to be physical with can be incredibly empowering. Furthermore, the idea that sex should be viewed as a deeply meaningful component of a healthy relationship, and not just as a purely physical act, can be very fulfilling.

What I do take issue with is not the practice of shomer negiah, but the way in which we discuss and promote the practice of “being shomer” today.

When I say the “shomer negiah narrative,” I refer specifically to the ways in which the practice of shomer negiah has been taught—or, to put it more bluntly, marketed, in the Orthodox community today. I refer to the notions of human sexuality that are promoted among Orthodox young adults, in the effort to persuade us to observe the laws of negiah.

In this narrative, men are depicted as players in “the game,” who will throw all morals away, lie, trick, and deceive in order to have sex. Women are described as hapless victims who will not only feel “used” and taken advantage of when engaging in any sort of a physical relationship, but will also lose the most important possession they have: their chastity.

In this narrative, shomer negiah is portrayed as a solution implemented by our rabbinic Sages because of their awareness of the emotional and psychological damage sexual interaction supposedly causes; and because of how beautiful and important they felt it was for people to confine themselves to one lifelong monogamous relationship.

This narrative isn’t true. Men are not raging animals. Women, far from being passive observers to the male sexual desire, can actually have a healthy sex drive as well. The laws of negiah, I would argue, were not intended to suppress one’s sexual experience entirely nor were they intended to ensure one only has sexual interaction with one partner in their lifetime. In fact, they were instituted during a time when having more than one wife was the norm. Long-term abstinence was never idealized by Chazal and the significant challenges caused by long-term sexual suppression are a relatively new phenomenon.¹

Another serious issue with this narrative is the untold damage it has caused men and women by perpetuating gendered stereotypes. By telling men that their sex drive is inherently bad, and women that they are more or less passive victims – tools for the enjoyment of men at the appropriate time – we imply an exaggerated sense of male sexuality and deny female sexuality.

This explains why my friend was so concerned about the way I would relate to her after she told me she was thinking about having sex. It also explains why my fellow peers were so confident in their assertion that a girl having premarital sex was worth casting judgment.

The constant feelings of guilt this causes for many Orthodox women can permanently damage the way that these women relate to sex for their entire lives.² Men, on the other hand, often feel like they are giving into damaging instincts when it comes to sex, and even in a completely mutual relationship they experience feelings of guilt due to being taught that their partners are doing them a favor rather than engaging in a mutual interaction. Even when entering marriage, these men carry the “knowledge” that a male’s sex drive is immeasurably stronger than a woman’s, such that sex is somehow a male-centric experience.

These feelings only serve to encourage distrust between men and women. Why, after all, would we expect women to trust men when they have been told all their lives that they are not to be trusted when it comes to sex? How often do we hear a woman in a relationship ask or question silently if her boyfriend is just “using” her for her body? Multiple studies show that a person’s introduction to sex and first sexual experiences will play a large role in the way he or she will relate to their sexuality for the rest of their lives.³ And so, it is about time we evaluate the damage and ask ourselves if it is justifiable.

Is it justifiable to risk creating lifelong negative feeling towards sex in order to try to increase the popularity of being shomer negiah?

Is it justifiable that in an attempt to encourage abstinence we perpetuate a narrative that marginalizes female agency in a situation where equality is not only necessary but is paramount?

Is it justifiable to view shomer negiah itself, not as the “means” to an end of a loving relationship, but as an “end” that justifies all means?

I think not.

I think that we have gotten lost. I think that in our attempt to create a community that does not objectify sex and the body, we have let sex itself become one of the primary ways in which we judge people—and especially women. And I think we can do better.

It is time we abandon the narrative that has come to define shomer negiah and begin discussing negiah in Judaism in an honest manner. Rather than denying, shaming, or undermining men and women, let us work together to come up with ways to empower Jewish singles to make choices about their bodies and halakha that do not rely on a damaging narrative that has never even been a part of our tradition in the first place. Let us allow for its steep roots in halakha to be a sufficient reason to encourage the practice of shmirat negiah, and not rely on a detrimental narrative.

I am not saying I have all the solutions; in fact, I know that I don’t. Modern day Jewish living is not simple, and the issue of shmirat negiah is no exception. However, I do believe that the first step to a solution is to begin a discussion. Like our Sages before us, we can argue, debate, and disagree, but as Jews, it is our tradition to confront issues, not bury them.