I’ve been receiving phone calls with male strangers who wish to speak with another human being who understands their issues of abuse. “No Explanation. No Exposition. No Judgement” appears to be the standard operating procedure for these engagements.

 I was put in touch with “David” by a friend who told me he was a witty, kind man who wanted to meet other survivors in London for the odd chat. 

 Over the course of a few phone calls David and I struggled to agree on a place to meet.  David turned down Starbucks (too noisy) and Costa (too crowded). I’d begun to fear we were going to end up on a deserted common at 3am watching ducks together when he offered up the lobby of the Crown Plaza hotel in Blackfriars (he’d enjoyed his time there before). I said sure and the meeting was on.

 The Meeting. After forcing my way through a shoulder crushing revolving door that appeared to have been designed to spit out anyone over five feet eleven who was stupid enough to try and risk entering the hotel, I found David sitting on a couch right where he said he’d be. 

 First impressions. The soft light from a low hanging bulb highlighted the bright colour of his tight-fitting kippah. He was shortish. Maybe sixty-three or sixty-five?  Physically unimposing. Poker faced. Everything about him was “not quietish”. His gaze was not quite direct. He was almost, but not quite, unnoticeable. I had the feeling he could wilfully disappear into any environment. Here was a man who liked to see any threat coming and move out of the way with plenty of time to spare. I was unsure of how I was going to put David at ease. No need. A huge open smile lit up his face as soon as he saw me and he called out my name with genuine warmth. I immediately relaxed. He appeared to be a good man. 

 We discussed what to do and settled on having tea together in the hotel bar/dining area. David didn’t want to disturb anyone with our conversation or have his words overheard so we sat by ourselves. He ordered a pot of mint tea. I ordered lemon and ginger tea. The waitress made sure to let me know my tea was only infused with lemon and ginger… The exorbitant cost was enough to fuse my wallet shut. I looked over my shoulder and saw the front end of an immaculately polished Silver Ghost Rolls Royce parked outside the entrance to the hotel. There was no point wincing about the cost of the tea because the Rolls Royce said all that had to be said, if you can’t pay, don’t stay. 

 The chat. We got talking. David didn’t want to speak about his experiences; he saw no need to ruin my mood and depress himself. He wanted to know if I’d be willing to join a group of survivors who might meet up every couple of months and have a drink together. Maybe go for a walk. Nothing heavy. 

 “You’re looking for some social company”, I said. 

“Yeah”, he said, “My wife doesn’t like to hear me talk about this kind of thing. And it’s not good for the kids. I don’t like to talk about it, but when I do it’s best to be with other people who have been through the same thing. But I don’t want it to get too heavy. Why talk and make yourself suicidal and have to deal with everything that’s come out?”

 The conversation moved on. David was witty, bright, charming and full of hard-earned wisdom. I was enjoying his company and felt lucky to meet him, irrespective of our original motives for meeting. 

 David told me that he’d given evidence to the Truth Project about his experiences and said he thought the project suffered from a big lack of representation of people of colour; maybe I should consider speaking to the project about my own experiences.

 I shrugged the question off and asked David if his Jewish background had been specifically relevant to his testimony. 

 “Only because my experience involved Jewish men,” said David, “Other than that, not really.  I did speak to several rabbis about them helping me to start up a group. None of them wanted to get involved. They thought they lacked the training to manage such a group and were worried about any potential fallout. Every other group I’ve approached, the social services, you name it, turns me down or isn’t interested.” 

 David went on to reveal that he’d once worked as a social worker. The notion that someone with so much valuable experience, both professionally and personally, could struggle to successfully navigate his way past any of the naysayers, doubters and bureaucratic road stops I was potentially heading towards, was immediately depressing.

 We decided to change the subject and discuss lighter stuff. Somehow, we ended up discussing bar mitzvahs. I mentioned that I’d recently attended a bar mitzvah with two friends of mine and had been blown away by the positive, life-affirming nature of the ceremony. I hadn’t realised until I saw the bar mitzvah, that I’d actually needed one.

 David burst out laughing. “Hang on, don’t get too carried away. My bar mitzvah was an absolute nightmare for my parents. The pressure of the occasion, getting the cake right, making sure I had everything right. It wasn’t nice at all.”   

 I held up my hands in mock horror. “Whoa, now. Don’t take my fantasy bar mitzvah from me. I’ve got this perfect fantasy playing out in my head of how it goes down. Leave me with something positive.”

 David came over all serious again. “I’ll leave you with something, then.”

 “Alright.” 

 “This business,” said David solemnly. “Treat it like a tour of duty.”

 “A tour of duty?”

 “Yeah, a tour of duty. Do one year of it. Get what you need out of it and then walk away while you’re still okay. This business, it’s not good for you. Do one year, walk away, and put the whole thing behind you.”

 David’s unexpected words came from a sincere place in his heart and I trusted the message and the messenger completely. I was sure he had paid for this knowledge and conviction with a heavy emotional price and saw no good reason that I should also experience a similar emotional liability.

 While I silently digested this important last- minute advice David stood up from the table without warning, pulled on his coat and announced he had to leave. I wished him well. Head down, not making any eye-contact, David said he was going to be busy for a while and would be out of touch until June. We could meet up then, if I was up for it.

 I said sure and thanked him for his good advice.

David was several feet away from me when he said, without looking back. “I trained as a Rabbi. I think I would have been quite good at it.”

 “You can be my rabbi,” I said to David’s slowly retreating back.

 I think I almost saw him smile.