When Children Are Too Afraid to Tell Us the Truth

Two weeks ago, as part of my work with yeshivas (Jewish schools of Torah study), I sat with a group of students in a Hasidic yeshiva in Jerusalem.

Next to me sat the Rosh Yeshiva (head of the yeshiva), who shared a true story that took place several years ago about a man from the neighborhood, someone well known to the students.

This man had one child, his beloved son Yossi, who was already a young adult learning full-time in yeshiva.

One morning, the father left his home and was stunned to find his car missing from its usual parking spot.

Still shaken from the shock, he turned back toward the house to double-check something and then noticed something even more disturbing. The spare car key was gone too.

A worrying thought crept in: Could his dear Yossi, who had recently learned to drive, have taken the car?

He immediately called the yeshiva and asked to speak with his son. But the supervisor couldn’t find him. Yossi wasn’t in the beis midrash (study hall), and his roommates said he hadn’t been seen since the middle of the night.

Panic began to set in. The father set out to look for him, following a hunch toward a narrow, winding road not far from their home.

And tragically, he was right.

His heart stopped as he saw shattered pieces of his car scattered in a valley below.

Yossi, had died in that crash.

In the hours that followed, the whole story came to light and it shook me deeply.

That morning, Yossi’s close friend Meir had forced himself out of bed very late.

When news of the accident reached the yeshiva, everyone instinctively turned toward Meir. He stood trembling, barely able to speak. It was clear to everyone that Meir knew something the rest didn’t.

Within an hour, a full investigation was underway. It was revealed that Meir had been with Yossi that night. They had planned the drive together, and Meir had been in the car during that final, fateful ride.

At 4 a.m., the car veered off the road and rolled into the valley. The driver’s side took the brunt of the impact. Meir, who had been sitting on the passenger side, managed to climb out completely unharmed.

Terrified that his involvement might be exposed, Meir walked quietly back to the yeshiva, slipped into bed, and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

But the truth couldn’t stay hidden.

The rescue teams’ report revealed a heartbreaking fact.

Yossi had suffered no major injuries to his head or chest. The only wound was a deep gash in his abdomen. The medical team concluded that Yossi had been alive for hours after the accident.

He could have been saved.

Yossi died of blood loss.

To say it clearly: Yossi died because his closest friend remained silent.

The boys in that workshop already knew the first half of the story, that a local yeshiva student had been tragically killed while driving his father’s car.

They even knew that the grieving father had passed away just two years later after falling seriously ill.

But they didn’t know the second half, the part about Meir.

They sat there, stunned.

I waited a few long moments, and then gently broke the silence.

I asked them a simple question:

“What do you think could have made Meir stop and call someone, his father, a teacher, anyone for help after the accident? What would he have needed to hear or feel in that moment to give him the courage to speak up?”

I went around the circle, thirty students and heard their answers, one by one.

And I was shocked by how similar they were.

Out of thirty, twenty-six students said the same thing, just in different words:

“Meir thought he’d be punished.”

Can you grasp the weight of that?

If Meir had felt just a basic sense of safety and if he believed that someone would hear him out, understand him, and not immediately punish him, it could have saved a life. It could have spared a grieving mother, prevented a father’s tragic decline, and ensured a future for this precious soul.                                                       

You might be wondering if this story is real.

I understand your doubt. You may know me as someone who sometimes shares stories that are more inspirational than factual.

But I want to tell you clearly: this story is completely true.

The workshop. The Rosh Yeshiva. The boys. Their shocked reactions. All of it happened.

And ever since that meeting, I’ve been carrying the weight of it with me.

I’ve realized just how low the bar is for what our children hope for from us as parents, as teachers, as mentors. And yet even those modest hopes are too often unmet.

Our children don’t always feel safe coming to us.

They don’t tell us when they’re struggling with a test.

They don’t tell us when something scary or confusing happens and they don’t know why.

They don’t tell us when they’ve slipped up, or when a “friend” is dragging them in a bad direction.

They don’t tell us when something painful happens because deep down, they worry that it might be their fault.

And each time they keep something like that to themselves, something inside them begins to “die.”

After nearly twenty years working in chinuch (Jewish education) as a yeshiva teacher, a cheder (elementary school) principal, and someone who writes about education, I can say this with full confidence:

Sometimes, the only thing your child needs to feel safe is to know this:

“My dear child,
No matter what happens, you can always come to me.
I promise you I will never blame you.
I will always try to understand you.
And I will always be here to help you.”

It doesn’t mean we always have to agree with their choices. And they don’t expect us to justify every action.

But they do need to know that we are with them, not against them.

That feeling of being unconditionally supported can save a life.

Maybe not in the dramatic way Yossi’s life could have been saved.

But in quiet, everyday ways... it can make all the difference in the world.