Kfar Shaul Hospital most resembles a mid-range Soviet rest home
On May 15, 1988, after a suicide attempt, the police brought me to the Jerusalem psychiatric hospital Kfar Shaul. I went to hang myself in the basement, but my neighbors, among whom I had a solid reputation as a crazy person, called the police. The police broke down the door and found me on a stool with a noose around my neck.
This was preceded by many interesting events – being fired without pay for three months, divorce, being thrown out of the apartment by my wife, an unpaid bank loan, frozen accounts, complete lack of demand as a writer... So I, a former author for Khazanov, became a patient in a mental hospital – without a home, job, family, or friends.
Kfar Shaul Hospital most resembles a mid-range Soviet rest home. It is located on the site of a former Arab village, where in 1948 members of the Jewish underground organization LEHI massacred the entire population, including children, women, and the elderly, which caused the panicked flight of Arabs from the country. The buildings – former Arab houses – are set in a park where patients stroll and staff hurry about their business. It is not always possible to distinguish patients from psychiatrists. I was not in the closed ward – God spared me – but I will tell you about the open ward.
Patients in the open ward are given maximum freedom – at the checkpoint, no one ever asks where you are going or whom you are visiting. That is, a patient can freely go into the city or anywhere they please. Doctors only ask that you tell them where you are going and when you plan to return. On Saturdays and holidays, you can go to relatives or friends.
After breakfast, patients go to work. They work in the kitchen, the carpentry shop (they are not allowed near the machines), the shops and the local cafe, the souvenir shop (selling items made by patients), the library, and the laundry. For their work, patients receive a symbolic wage – one shekel per hour (the minimum hourly wage in Israel is 18 shekels). Those who are able work outside the hospital, at the printing press across the street.
After lunch is free time: patients watch TV, read books and newspapers (those who can), socialize, and receive visitors. The TV here only has two channels, while we have about a hundred on cable – who's counting.
There is a category of day patients – that is, they live at home and come here for treatment. There are also chronic patients who live here permanently.
Most patients receive a state pension for psychiatric disability – half the minimum wage. Today that is $370. And those who are able to rent an apartment and live independently receive additional money for that. Obtaining such a guaranteed minimum living standard is not difficult, and anyone who wants to can do it.
The Russian press has published articles about abuse of patients and beatings by staff, which made me terribly afraid of being hospitalized. It turned out – all this is the fruit of idle female journalists. Nothing of the sort can happen in an open ward – a doctor or nurse who strikes a patient loses the right to work in medical institutions forever.
When I first entered the hospital, I ran away from the doctor – I simply did not believe that anyone could help me anymore. The doctor chased me around the grounds, talked to me, admonished me, set me straight. The most interesting thing is that Dr. Polyakova from Moscow – a psychiatrist by the grace of God, God bless her – actually cured me: with pills and psychotherapy.
It never occurs to any staff member that food could be stolen, so there are always leftovers in the refrigerator, including meat, fish, eggs, fruit, and everyone takes what they want. Kitchen workers come with tiny purses – so that no one thinks they could take anything.
People who have been here once can come at any time to a special department of the hospital, where they can stay for several days or even weeks until their condition improves. Meals and accommodation are free.
After three months at Kfar Shaul, I was sent to a so-called rehabilitation center, Maon Yerushalayim – a kind of dormitory for people in difficult life situations. Rooms for three people, orthopedic mattresses, a lounge with a TV, a garden, various daily cultural activities, no supervision – come and go as you please. Each person has scheduled appointments with a psychologist and a psychiatrist, a refrigerator with food – you cook for yourself in the kitchen, and the duty staff cook lunch. No obligations – just some kind of kindergarten for adults. My stay here played a decisive role in restoring my social, work, and creative abilities.
Interestingly, none of the patients (except the author of this opus) ever thought of pocketing a can of cod liver or a piece of sausage – there have been no food problems in Israel since 1951, when ration cards were abolished.
I lived in this facility for two and a half years, and most of the texts you can read on my website and in my books were written there. While living at Maon Yerushalayim, I already went to work – caring for the elderly, publishing in newspapers, and giving solo concerts. Then the director of the facility said, "Enough – we've kept you here longer than we should," and released me into the big world.
Once, for violating the rules of kashrut in the kitchen – I brought pelmeni from a Russian store – I was punished: I was expelled from Maon for three days and had to stay with a friend.
Maryan Belenky,
Jerusalem, Israel.
Specially for "Zagranitsa".