"Is there an opening?" Imber asks
Iwrey. "I signed up for Kadima
myself."
She tells him about the waiting
list and asks about his glasses. He
plans to get them fixed soon.
They find an empty room, musty
with chipped paint on the walls. The
room overlooks a large meeting
room, where patients watch televi-
sion and anxiously wait for ciga-
rettes.
Suddenly, a line forms in the tele-
vision room. It is cigarette time. Pa-
tients are allowed two cigarettes per
hour.
Imber doesn't smoke. He can't
stand it.
"This is a bleak existence. It's a
confining environment," he says. "I
don't do anything. I am in a holding
tank. It is like detention camp."
Imber, a teacher, holds a master's
degree in education. At one time, he
taught in a local school district. He
loves being Jewish and attends re-
ligious services when Rabbi
Elimelech Silberberg visits the
hospital.
He speaks fluent Hebrew, which
he learned during a two-year visit to
Israel. Imber also attended the Heb-

rew University in Jerusalem. For a
while, he lived on a kibbutz.
Imber doesn't teach anymore, but
he would like to work at a Jewish
day school.
Imber talks about his manic
depressive illness in detail, explain-
ing that he needs lithium to control
his mood swings. He is calm today,
thanks to the medicine.
"In the same way some people
take insulin, I take lithium," Imber
says.
He has been at Clinton Valley for
seven months, living in a barren
room with four other patients.
In the past 10 years, mental illness
has dominated his life. He has been
in and out of hospitals for treatment.
He knows he needs medication but
doesn't understand why he must live
at Clinton Valley.
"It's us against them in here," he
says. "This is a place where you
make very little progress.
"All day long, people walk the
halls, drinking water," he says. "It
is like waiting for the Messiah. You
are up at 6 a.m., in line at 6:15 for
medication, then comes breakfast at
7:20.
"The only thing to do here is watch

television," he says. "It is hard to
read because of the noise from the
TV. It's hard to play pool because
you need staff supervision and there
is never a staff person there.
"There is some recreational
therapy like arts and crafts — paint
by numbers," he says.
His family doesn't visit much.
"The worst thing is the big stigma
attached to all of this," Imber says.
With a staff member at his side,
Imber escorts Iwrey to his room,
which he says is better than most. A
social worker overhears the discus-
sion and asks a janitor for Imber's
room number. Imber knows the
number: 205.
"There's no 205," she says, walk-
ing briskly beside Imber and his
guest until they stop at the room.
"Oh, yes there is."
A ward nurse notices a guest.
"Get them out of there," she
screams. Varghese walks down to
the nurse's station, explaining he
will take responsibility. The nurse is
not happy, but she backs off.
Iwrey's next stop is the women's
ward, where Lois Hassan is waiting.
Hassan, 36, is schizophrenic. She
has lived in the institution for six
years.
"I've already been to hell,"
Hassan says. "I am there now.
"My whole life has changed. I did
drugs. I was twisted in the brain."
She was released twice to adult
foster-care homes, but readmitted.
"I've been locked up here for six
years," she says. "Please take me to
Kadima. I'm a Jew. I need a
chance."
She talks about her classes —
math, grammar, history. She goes
twice a week now.
Hassan wants a cigarette. She
smokes two packs a day.
"I smoke a lot," she says. "But I
don't have anything else to do.
"Can't you please tell me this is an
interview for Kadima?" she asks. "I
don't want to be here.
"I'm miserable," Hassan says.
A few weeks after his visit with
Iwrey, Imber was discharged to an
adult foster-care home. He and
Hassan remain on the Kadima
waiting list.
Iwrey doesn't know when a spot
will open.

T

he phone rings at the Kadima
offices in Southfield. It is a
woman trying to get her son
placed in the group home.

"He is on the waiting list," Iwrey
says. "I don't know when we will
have an opening. I am sorry. We
only have four beds for men; they
are all filled."
Iwrey is beginning to sound like a
broken record. She is frustrated. She
wants to place everyone.
"This is hard for the parents and it
is hard for the children," Iwrey says.
"The community is scared. These
people are like you and me. They
need housing, which is sorely lack-
ing."
Under the auspices of the Mich-
igan Department of Mental Health,
Kadima is plagued by financial con-
straints. It operates on a tight
$250,000 annual budget, which
depends upon the uncertain state
budget.
Last year's Michigan mental
health budget was $1.2 billion — 11
percent of the total state budget. But
mental health officials, who say
their department averages 2 percent
annual funding increases, are brac-
ing themselves for a round of budget
cuts.
Iwrey says the program needs
more financial support from the
Jewish community. A fund-raiser,
which would provide subsidies to
expand the apartment and outreach
programs, is slated for October.
"No matter what the amount, we
will never have enough to meet
human needs," state mental health
director Watkins adds.
Kadima's budget allows the pro-

There is no cure for
mental illness. Doctors
say medication can
control it.

gram to assist a tiny segment of the
Jewish community in need of mental
health services. Yet Kadima leaders
are optimistic they will someday
adequately provide assistance to all
mentally ill Jews.
In fact, within six months, Kadima
plans to begin a private pay
outreach program offering social
and therapeutic counseling for men-
tally ill individuals who are isolated
in the community.
Watkins is one of Kadima's
greatest fans. He, too, is optimistic
the program will expand.
"Kadima is a special program be-

THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS

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