The Orphanage Experiment That Shocked Phycology

[music] >> I want to talk about something that [music] at first glance feels almost exaggerated. And that is the story of [music] the talmidim of Rebbe Akiva. We're told that they were gedolei Torah, giants in Torah, the [music] kind of people whose every word of Torah would shake the world. And yet, Hazal tell us something shocking. They didn't [music] treat each other with as much respect as we would have expected. And because of [music] that, they died in a short period of time to Pesach and Shavuot. And you read that and you think, "Wait, [music] what? What does that even mean? They didn't say hello nicely? They didn't give each other enough compliments on a good shavua? Is that really enough to bring about such a tremendous tragedy?" [music] On the surface, it almost feels over dramatic. Like, "Okay, grow up. You don't need applause every time you say a good vart. [music] You don't need someone to pat you on the back every time you come up with a sharp chiddush. >> [music] >> What exactly was so serious?" But maybe we misunderstood what lack of respect actually means. >> [music] >> Here's a modern-day story that can help us understand this on a much deeper level. In the 1940s, right after World War II, [music] across Europe and even in parts of the United States, there were there were orphanages all over the place filled with babies, war babies, children who lost their parents. >> [music] >> These were infants left in hospitals, in state institutions, simply abandoned homes. And so, in places like foundling homes and pediatric wards, rows [music] and rows of cribs lined the walls. You could have dozens of babies in one room, each one with a chart, each one with a schedule. But here's what was strange. All of the babies were fed, their diapers were changed, they were kept clean, [music] the rooms were warm. From a medical standpoint, everything was being done right, and yet something disturbing was happening. The babies weren't developing. Some stopped gaining [music] weight. Some stopped crying altogether. Other babies eerily just sat there quietly lying in their cribs staring blankly at the ceiling. Nurses would walk in and walk out efficiently and professionally, but the babies weren't responding. And then it started getting worse. In some [music] of these institutions, despite having food and hygiene and medical care, babies started dying. There was no clear infection. They weren't getting any disease. There was no obvious cause. They were [music] just fading into death. And doctors couldn't understand it. How could a child die when all their physical needs [music] were being met? So eventually, a Jewish psychoanalyst from Vienna named René Spitz [music] set out to to understand what exactly was happening. And what he discovered was chilling. >> [music] >> He went to two very different environments to compare them. He compared a prison and an orphanage. In the prison [music] nursery, babies were being raised by their incarcerated mothers. And the conditions weren't great, it wasn't ideal. They didn't have the greatest medical care. And yet, the number of infants that died between the ages of [music] zero and two was a grand total of zero. While in the orphanages, 30 to 40% of the babies were dying. 40% made absolutely zero sense. Until Dr. Spitz made a shocking distinction [music] between the prison and the orphanage. In the prisons, the medical care wasn't great, but the babies were held. They were spoken [music] to. There was one consistent person who responded to them. And those babies developed normally. But in the orphanages, the babies had everything physical, >> [music] >> but the care was mechanical. A nurse would come in, feed a child, and then leave. [music] And then another one would change the diaper, and then move on to the next crib. No one belonged to that baby. >> [music] >> There was no consistent face. No one holding them longer than necessary. There was no one speaking to them just because they mattered. No one stopped to make them laugh. And so, in the place that had everything except human connection, the babies deteriorated. Spitz called it hospitalism, a kind of silent collapse. [music] Today, we call it attachment theory. But the idea is simple and terrifying. A human being can have everything and still begin to shut down if no one truly sees them. And here's the uncomfortable truth. This is not just about [music] babies. It's about every human being, no matter the age. Because >> [music] >> that need doesn't disappear when you grow up. It just gets quieter and more hidden and easier to ignore, but it's still there. Every person you meet walking around is walking around with a deep, constant need to be seen, to be acknowledged, to feel like their existence actually lands somewhere. Not in a fluffy, "It's nice to see you" kind of way. >> [music] >> In a real way, a necessary way, the way your body needs water, the way your lungs need oxygen. [music] A person can function without validation for a little while. But over time, without recognition, without respect, without someone signaling, "You [music] matter," something inside them starts to shut down. They speak less, they try less, they show up less, until eventually, they stop showing up at all. It doesn't matter who you are, a child, a teenager, [music] a ben Torah sitting in the beit midrash, a successful adult with a career and a family. No one is above this. Because >> [music] >> at the very core, every human being was created with a need to be recognized as someone who matters. [music] And when that's missing, you're not just lacking something extra, you're lacking something essential. So when the Gemara says [music] that the talmidim of Rebbe Akiva didn't treat each other with enough kavod, it's not talking about etiquette. It's talking about >> [music] >> something much deeper. I don't value what you bring. I don't care about you. I don't make you feel that your existence matters. [music] And when that happens, even between giants of Torah, something breaks at the root of human connection. And sometimes, the only way forward is to shatter everything and start over from scratch. You see, if we're being honest, we've all seen this happen. A teenager says a vart at the Shabbat table, something he actually worked on, something he was excited to share, and the father doesn't even look up [music] from his plate. He has a little quick nod, like a half smile, "Oh, very nice." And the conversation moves on. You have a talmid, he raises an idea in a shiur. He's trying, he's thinking, he's building himself up, and it gets brushed off immediately. Not even attacked, [music] just dismissed with a polite smile that really says, "Eh, it's not it's not a kasha." A child asks a question at [music] home, genuinely curious, and gets that tone, "Stop asking silly [music] questions." Or worse, no response at all, just silence, like the question did not land anywhere. A teenager opens up about something they're struggling with. And instead of being met with presence, [music] they get advice and correction or distraction, anything except being heard. >> [music] >> And slowly, quietly, without anyone noticing, something in them shrinks. They speak less, [music] they try less, they stop offering themselves. Not because they don't care anymore, but because they learned that the room doesn't [music] really make space for them. You can give your children everything physically, food, clothing, a home, tuition, a roof. They can be starving, not for [music] food, but for recognition, for respect, for the feeling that I matter when I speak. [music] And that kind of starvation doesn't show up immediately, it shows up slowly and quietly until one day you realize you didn't lose a child in one moment. You lost them [music] over a thousand small moments where they weren't really being seen. So when Hazal tell us that the talmidim of Rebbe Akiva didn't [music] act with kavod for one another, maybe it's telling us something terrifying. That you can be immersed in Torah all day and still fail the most basic obligation of the Torah itself, to recognize the tzelem Elokim in the person standing in front [music] of you. And this is why Sefirah becomes the time we mourn it. Because Sefirah is not just counting days, it's a counting of a transformation [music] from leaving Mitzrayim to becoming a people capable of receiving Torah at Har Sinai. [music] And between those two moments, we are asked to fix something very fundamental. How we see each other, how we speak [music] to each other, how we make each other feel. Because maybe the deepest message of the talmidim of Rebbe Akiva is this. You can feed a body without love, but you cannot build a soul >> [music] >> without respect. And if there's one avodah for these days of Sefirah, it's this. To stop treating respect like something extra and start treating it like something [music] essential. Because for a human being, it is. >> [music]