Our Bodies, Our Voices

In this talk Rabbi Andrea Kulikovsky connects Breast Cancer Awareness Month with the story of Sarah’s laughter in parashat Vayera, showing how communal responsibility can turn private pain into collective action. She argues that true listening—especially from men—turns silence into care, echoing the Jewish value of pikuach nefesh. Listeners will leave with concrete ideas for supporting those facing illness and a deeper appreciation of how ancient narratives speak to modern health challenges.

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What is Kolot: Voices from The Ark Synagogue?

Welcome to Kolot, the podcast of The Ark Synagogue, a bold, experiential and caring Progressive Jewish community in Northwood, London.

Through sermons, reflections and conversations from across our community, Kolot explores Jewish life, learning and values in the world we live in today. Rooted in tradition and open to new perspectives, these episodes bring together voices that inspire thought, connection and belonging.

Whether you are Jewish, exploring Judaism, or simply looking for meaningful reflection, you are warmly welcome.

To learn more about The Ark Synagogue, visit arksynagogue.org.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

It began in 1985, forty-one years ago, as a campaign encouraging women to have mammograms. Today, it is an international movement, raising awareness, supporting research and encouraging women to seek medical care.

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And it has made a difference. In the UK, breast cancer mortality rates among women have fallen by more than 40% since the early 1970s, thanks to advances in screening, diagnosis and treatment.

But perhaps one of its greatest achievements has been to transform something deeply private into a matter of communal responsibility.

An illness once surrounded by silence and stigma became something we could speak about openly. Something we could research, recognise and respond to together.

And this is where I find a connection with this week’s parashah, Vayera.

We encounter another deeply private story. An elderly couple who have spent their lives unable to have a child.

In the ancient world, infertility carried enormous shame, particularly for women. A woman’s identity was so often defined by her ability to become a mother.

Sarah had already tried to resolve her childlessness through Hagar, her Egyptian enslaved woman, whom she gave to Abraham to bear him a child.

An ancient form of surrogacy, although Hagar had no meaningful choice in the matter.

And now, three visitors arrive at Abraham’s tent, announcing that Sarah herself will have a son.

Sarah is listening from the entrance. She has passed the age of childbearing.

And Sarah laughs.

Vatitzchak Sarah b’kirbah.

Sarah laughs within herself.

She is 89 years old. I can only imagine the disbelief, astonishment, perhaps even fear that runs through her veins. A desperate laugh.

Rashi imagines Sarah thinking about her own body: “Is it possible that this womb shall bear a child, that these breasts shall give forth milk?”

But God asks Abraham: “Why did Sarah laugh?”

Not Sarah. Abraham.

The announcement concerns Sarah’s body, her future, her life. Yet the conversation takes place between God and her husband.

And when Sarah tries to explain herself, she is challenged.

Even more strikingly, in the previous chapter, Abraham himself laughed at the same promise.

Why is Sarah’s laughter treated differently?

Perhaps because, in a world where women’s bodies were so closely connected to their social value, their own experiences were not always taken seriously.

And I wonder how much of that world we have really left behind.

As an Ashkenazi woman, I have always carried, somewhere in the back of my mind, the fear that breast cancer might one day become my story.

Recently, that fear became more tangible. A very dear friend has undergone surgery for breast cancer.

I have been thinking about her a great deal. About the fear, the anger, the uncertainty, the difficult decisions. About the vulnerability of feeling that your own body is somehow turning against you.

Unlike Sarah, we do not wait for miraculous announcements.

We have science. We have screening, genetic testing, treatments that previous generations could hardly have imagined.

But science only helps when people have access to it, when symptoms are taken seriously, when women feel able to speak about their bodies without shame, and when someone listens.

This is why Breast Cancer Awareness Month matters.

It is not simply about wearing pink ribbons. It is about transforming silence into conversation, conversation into research, and research into lives saved.

And perhaps our Torah offers us another lesson.

Sarah laughs. Hagar suffers. Both women have experiences that others struggle, or refuse, to understand.

What would have happened if someone had asked Sarah why she was laughing, rather than questioning her through Abraham?

What would have happened if someone had asked Hagar what she wanted?

We cannot change their stories. But we can learn to respond differently.

I once took part in a project collecting, washing and distributing scarves for breast cancer patients. A small gesture, perhaps, but one filled with love and dedication.

Because communal responsibility is not only about medical advances. It is also about being present, offering practical help, and asking what someone needs rather than assuming we already know.

Men, too, have a particular responsibility to listen. To listen when women are laughing, when they are angry, when they are frightened. Not to dismiss their reactions, but to recognise the experiences behind them.

Forty-one years after the first Breast Cancer Awareness campaign, we have made extraordinary progress. But approximately 1,825 women still die from breast cancer every day around the world, and too many continue to face barriers to care.

Our responsibility is to ensure that awareness becomes action, and that no woman feels she must face illness alone.

May we learn from Sarah’s laughter and Hagar’s suffering that listening is not simply an act of kindness.

It is a sacred responsibility. And sometimes, it is an act of pikuach nefesh, the preservation of life.

Shabbat Shalom.

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