Caught Red-Handed: Rachel’s Journey from Shame to Healing

“I learned to steal at the age of six, and kept honing my skills until I became a professional thief,” recounts Rachel with painful honesty. I protest, “Don’t call yourself a thief. That’s too harsh. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But it’s the truth,” she insists. “I really did steal nonstop. I told myself countless times a day that I was wicked and that Hashem hated me. Yet even in those dark days, I wasn’t evil. I’m not justifying my actions in any way, but I was miserable, frustrated, and starving.”

Real Hunger

There is a mournful tone in Rachel’s voice as she speaks about those years. Though the events took place ten to seventeen years ago, their weight is still very present.

You said you stole because you were hungry. How is that possible? We’re talking about the early 2000s, not ancient history.

“Exactly,” she says. “I grew up in a very poor home. We ate bread with a spread morning, noon, and night. Sometimes we ate leftover fruit my father collected from the market late at night, already spoiled. Chicken was only for Shabbat, and even that felt like a miracle. We had a roof over our heads, thank Hashem, but my father went into heavy debt to keep it that way. He believed there was no need for sweets or new clothes. As long as there was one container of cheese a week, that was enough. My mother, to this day, cries when she remembers those years. We were little children, hungry, asking for more food, and there simply was none.

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“By the time I was slightly older, I already had seven siblings. We lived in a tiny apartment that my parents sold to buy one just slightly larger. Things improved a little, but the poverty remained.

“I remember those years from age five or six as being dominated by one feeling: envy. At kindergarten and school, I was constantly jealous of friends with sandwiches filled with things I had never tasted. My most special sandwich had an egg in it, and even that was rare. Cottage cheese, yellow cheese, schnitzel, cookies, and American cereals were fantasies. The only ‘treat’ we had was a block of Tzfat cheese shared among us on holidays.

“It wasn’t only the food. My friends were well-groomed and dressed nicely. I wore old hand-me-downs and worn-out shoes. My parents struggled to buy even one uniform shirt. My classmates had colorful backpacks, pretty notebooks, and matching accessories. I was born with a strong aesthetic sense and a deep desire to look good. More than anyone else in the house, I felt the shame. I couldn’t bear how neglected I looked.”

How did you cope with all this?

“Sadly, when I was around my ‘wealthier’ friends, I couldn’t resist. I took whatever I could: chocolates, cookies, small toys, coins, stationery, notebooks. I knew it was wrong, so I hid everything. I ate the sweets in secret and hid the items in drawers and corners. Soon, the girls began to suspect me. They mocked my appearance, and when something went missing, they looked at me. Sometimes they searched my bag but never found anything.

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“I don’t know how I managed to watch their distress. I didn’t feel compassion. It was as if my heart was covered with stone. I didn’t even enjoy the things I stole. I just moved from one theft to the next, trying to fill something inside me that could never be filled.”

Did your parents know?

“Not really. Once, in second grade, they found a stash of colorful stationery in my drawer. They understood immediately. They gathered everything into a large garbage bag and gave it to my teacher. What she did with it still moves me today. She entered the classroom with the bag slightly open, placed it on the desk, and began teaching. After a few minutes she said she had to step out. Curious, the girls approached the bag, peeked inside, and began recognizing their items. ‘That’s my pencil!’ ‘Here’s my marker!’ Within minutes the bag was empty. The teacher later returned and said nothing. She saved me from unbearable humiliation. I will always be grateful.

“But I didn’t stop. The stealing continued year after year. In fifth grade I stole a friend’s special sticker. She searched my bag but didn’t find it, and again I escaped. I still didn’t learn.”

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How did things change as you grew older?

“They didn’t improve. They worsened. In sixth grade I began doing housework for a family. Earning money felt amazing, until my father said I would need to use it to buy my own clothes. The joy vanished and resentment took its place. I worked hard, earned money, and spent it immediately. I bought food, clothes, sweets. Nothing was ever enough.

“So I continued stealing, only more cleverly. I’d pay for some things and steal others. I’d go into fitting rooms, hide clothes in my bag, cut off tags. At home, I stopped hiding my things. I claimed I had bought everything on sale. My parents believed me. Slowly, I transformed. I could finally dress beautifully. My classmates saw a new Rachel: confident, generous, stylish.

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“And I gave. I gave my siblings clothes, I bought food for everyone. I loved to give. Maybe I was trying to compensate for the crushing guilt. Inside, the voices never stopped: ‘You’re a thief. You’re wicked.’ I hated myself. But I couldn’t stop. There wasn’t a single day I came home without something new.”

The Inevitable

“But Hashem did not abandon me. At eighteen, I was caught.

“I went to a mall and entered a Zara store. I didn’t even have money, but that had never stopped me before. I cut security tags off two skirts and hid them. Then I saw boots. They didn’t have a visible tag. I hesitated. I knew it was risky. But I couldn’t resist. I took them too.

“As I left the store, a loud alarm echoed. Guards stopped me, took my bag, and led me through the mall while everyone stared. The shame was unbearable. I wanted to disappear.

“They dragged me into an office and began yelling: ‘Thief! Wicked girl! Is this what they teach you in religious school?’ They emptied my bag, accused me of stealing everything, mocked me, humiliated me. The things I had screamed at myself for years were now screamed at me by strangers. It shattered me.

“They called my parents and demanded payment. My sister came with the money. I paid and went home broken.”

How did you survive that?

“I collapsed completely. I couldn’t function. The humiliation burned inside me. But that moment saved me. From that day on, I never stole again.

“Still, I felt permanently stained. Two years later I married, carrying this secret with me.”

Did you tell your husband?

“Only after six months. I asked him what the heavenly punishment is for someone who steals. Slowly, gently, he understood. When I finally told him everything, he said, ‘We are returning everything. Every penny.’

“We used our wedding money. I listed every store. We went store to store across Jerusalem, returning money. Sometimes I admitted the truth, sometimes I said it was someone I knew. Some store owners were moved, some were angry, some asked us to donate instead. It took time. It was painful.

“But when it was over, I felt something I had never felt before: peace. A clean heart. Real joy. After years of guilt, light returned to my life.”