Hasidic Jews in the 21st Century
Along the cracked
sidewalks of Brooklyn, we saw men whiz by in long black coats, full beards, black
hats, and earlocks. Women stole furtive glances at us as they pushed baby
carriages, some with turbans covering their heads, others with identical-looking
bobs and heavy bangs, their clothes modest and old-fashioned. It felt like we'd
stepped onto a movie set, or back in time. Only the kids playing on the
sidewalks paid any attention to us. As we approached our hotel, I
noticed that the streets were lined with minivans. It seemed impossible—who had
so many kids that they would need a minivan in Brooklyn? New York generally isn't known for
its high birth rate. Honestly, who wants to drag five kids on and off the
subway? Inside our hotel, every door had a mezuzah,
a prayer scroll, on the outside of it, including the elevator. The king-sized
bed was actually two smaller beds pushed together. And in the closet, a wig
stand waited empty. I was used to an ironing board or a blow dryer in a hotel
room, but why would a hotel need a wig stand in every room?
I recognized the strangers as
Hasidic Jews. I had seen them in pictures, and maybe once or twice
in person. But I knew essentially nothing about them. It was our third time to
New York, and we were staying in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Only
after our arrival did
we discover that Williamsburg is home to a huge population of Hasidic Jews.
Hasidic
Jews, New York, May 2010 (Michael)
So,
confession time: I'm a lapsed Mormon. (Saying that you're a lapsed Mormon, or a
lapsed Catholic, or lapsed Jehovah's Witness is a funny thing. It reminds me of
something that's past its expiration date, like milk or yogurt.) For most of my
life, I considered myself a religious person. Recently, though, I have
transitioned away from my faith. It has been both a disorienting and an
enlightening experience for me. Hearing about other people's experiences in
their religions is fascinating to me, as I know it is for others. And
nothing was quite as fascinating as staying among the Hasidim last September. I couldn't help but wonder—could a people so deeply religious
continue to cling to their own faith in the 21st century, especially in a place
as modern as New York City?
Hasidism is a branch of Orthodox
Judaism that was founded in mid-18th century Poland. Up until the early 20th century, most Hasidic Jews lived in Eastern
Europe, but after the Holocaust, many of the remaining survivors fled to the
United States, concentrating in areas along the East coast, especially New York
City. Hasidic Jews "believe that the
Torah, the five books of Moses, is the literal word of God" and "this
means following all of the 613 commandments found in the Torah that are still
practiceable" ("A Life Apart").
Many religions change throughout
their history, evolving with the times, becoming more liberal in their doctrine
and practices. We don't have to look any further than the modern-day Catholic church as proof of this. Pope Francis, whose papacy began in March 2013, has brought many back to the fold with his teachings of love and service and de-emphasis of teachings on things like homosexuality and birth control (Connor). The Hasidic community has gone in the other direction—most
sects have become more strict, more dogmatic in their views. They have resisted
change by living in tight-knit communities; marrying young and having lots of
kids; speaking Yiddish, the language of their homeland, almost exclusively
(Shapiro); and eschewing modern technology and information sources like radio,
TV, and Internet (Deen, "Sound of Sin"). They are people with 19th century values
living in the information age (Finkel).
Their numbers are certainly growing (Ain). Hasidic Jews typically
have their marriages arranged by a matchmaker, and by the time girls are around eighteen and boys about twenty, they will be married off (Copeland). The expectation is
for them to begin having kids as soon as possible. Birth control is generally
forbidden, so families of six or more are not uncommon (Deen, "Hasidic Women Feel Pressure
for Children"). It was striking to see these young women, many of whom looked no more
than twenty, push their baby carriages around as one or two little ones followed behind.
Once a couple is married and the children start coming, it's difficult to leave.
They're already in the system, so to speak (Copeland).
When
the Hasidic life is all you've ever known, you may never feel the need to look
over the wall to see what's happening on the outside. Their communities are
amazingly self-sufficient. The schools are religious-based, segregated by
gender, and teach the bare minimum of secular learning. Going to college is
frowned upon ("A Life Apart"). The pharmacies, grocery stores, clothing stores—all that they could possibly want—is
generally found in their community.
But as much
as the leaders of the Hasidic community would like to prevent the members of
their congregation from using the Internet, the cost of such large families has
forced many men to look outside of their communities for work. That means that
the Internet has become a necessary evil for many of them (Finkel). And with
smartphones so cheap and easy to come by, they have become another window into
the secular world. Teenagers have been known to get several cell phones on
family plans, then hand them out secretly to friends and cousins (Copeland).
We're at an
interesting time in history. You can find elementary school friends you haven't
seen in decades on Facebook. You can Skype with anyone, anywhere in the world,
for free. You can find the video to a song you haven't heard in twenty years on
YouTube. And if you have doubts about your religion, there are chat rooms and
forums with people in the same boat, waiting to talk to you.
“I had a theory that Hasidic life provided security from
infidelity, drugs, violence, loneliness—which made it incredibly valuable,” says
R. Vizel, a woman that split from her husband and left her community two years ago.
“I slowly began to learn about the price we pay” (Copeland). And the price that she paid was to live a life isolated from the rest of the world, and do it without questioning. When she asked her
husband why she needed to shave her head and keep it covered with a scarf or
wig, he screamed, "Because we have to!" But "because we have
to" had started to sound hollow to her ears. For the first time, she says
she started to think about her life and its possibilities (Vizel).
"We were told clearly, 'You so
much as step out of our little protective bubble, you deviate a hair, it's
murder and mayhem and rape, it's just Sodom and Gomorrah,’ " says Ari Mandel,
a 29-year-old Hasid that left his community several years ago (Copeland). When
these people find that the outside world isn't waiting to eat them alive, it's
impossible to go back.
Even those deeply entrenched in the
community may find that the cost of keeping silent, of living in a way that feels
stifling, is too high a price to pay, even if it means losing their families.
Shulem Deen is the founder of the site Unpious.com, a kind of group blog for
"voices on the Hasidic fringe." After 15 years of marriage and five
children later, he and his faithful Hasidic wife split. He had become too secular, and she was
clinging to her religion as tightly as she could. They couldn't bridge the
divide (Deen, "Sound of Sin"). 
Shulem Deen (Gabel, as cited in Turkewitz)
Perhaps
the battle that the Hasidic community faces can best be summed up in this paradox:
In May, an anti-Internet rally was held at Citi Field and was attended by thousands
and thousands
of ultra-Orthodox men. The event was sex-segregated, so women couldn't attend.
So they did what anyone else would do in this day and age—they streamed it live
over the Internet so the women would be able to watch, too (Copeland). It seems that even they cannot escape the fact that the world is moving ahead, and one way or another, they will have to deal with this new reality.
