JERUSALEM – When the coronavirus pandemic swept through Israel, it strengthened Racheli Ohayon’s life in unexpected ways.
The 21-year-old call center worker had previously questioned her ultra-Orthodox Jewish education, but had always suppressed such thoughts by drowning them in even stricter religious observance.
Suddenly she was locked up from work and down, her routine disrupted, at home with seven younger siblings and enough time in her hands.
“When I had a lot of time to think, the questions flooded in again,” she said. ‘Suddenly the rabbis did not know what to do. They are not doctors. ”
She came to a decision that is one of the worst transgressions in the ultra-Orthodox world: she left the community and adopted a secular lifestyle.
As the virus has plagued Israel over the past few months, it has made the assumptions of some in the ultra-Orthodox world swell, and the numbers of those who decide they want to swell.
Organizations that help ultra-Orthodox navigate the transition from the highly structured, rule-based lifestyle to modern Israeli society have noticed an increase in demand for their services.
Experts attribute the departure to an outline of surveillance and routine, an increase in internet use during the pandemic and generally more time for interrogation and self-discovery.
“If they are not in their usual educational frameworks and are on the internet, meeting friends and going to the beach, it leads to a lot of exposure,” said Gilad Malach, who leads the ultra-Orthodox program at the Israel Democracy Institute. . an independent brainstorm in Jerusalem. “They think of options they do not think of when they are in a yeshiva, and one of the options is to leave.”
For many, breaking away means cutting off their families and leaving behind a close support system for an unknown culture. In extreme cases, parents of the offspring who go away sit shiva and observe the traditional mourning rituals as if they are dead.
There is no comprehensive data on the extent of the deviations, but Naftali Yawitz, who heads the division of the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs that helps fund these organizations, said there had been a “very important wave” in recent months. of both new leavers and more veterans seeking help.
One of the organizations, Hillel, which runs an emergency shelter with the ministry, as well as rent-free, half-way apartments for leave, has a waiting list for the shelter in Jerusalem, the first stop for many people who can go nowhere. It also noted a 50 percent increase in former ultra-Orthodox seeking help in recent years.
Out for Change, the other main organization, gave the holidaymakers the option to report to the group for the first time last year, partly to formalize their status in contact with the authorities. Although many have been traumatized and contradicted by the disruption and are reluctant to identify themselves, more than 1,300 people have entered.
This was exactly what the ultra-Orthodox rabbis feared and why some so insisted on keeping their institutions of religious education open in violation of the lock-up regulations. In a letter reopening girls’ schools, Leah Kolodetzki, the daughter of one leading rabbi, said her father said “boredom leads to sin” and puts girls in “serious spiritual danger”.
Israel Cohen, a prominent ultra-Orthodox political commentator, has expressed concern about the increasing flight of the ultra-Orthodox, known in Hebrew as Haredi, and accuses Hillel for the first time of exploiting the health crisis to attract more leavers with a to recruit publicity campaign. But he acknowledged that the Haredi leadership was afraid of losing control.
“There was a feeling that the coronavirus did not only cause physical damage in terms of illness and death, but also mental damage,” he said.
The pandemic has only accelerated a growing trend.
Even before the coronavirus crisis, the number of young adults leaving ultra-Orthodox communities reached about 3,000 a year, according to a study by the Israel Democracy Institute, based on data up to 2018.
The deserts do not threaten the Haredi demographic influence. The more than one million Haredim make up more than 12 percent of the population, and their high birth rate compensates more than the number leaving.
Studies show that many deserters do not completely abandon Judaism, but seek more individualism and the ability to make their own choices about their lives.
But the deserts often find themselves in an underworld, alienated from their families, community and the only way of life they knew, and lacking a secular education, unfit to deal with the outside world.
Most Haredi boys’ schools teach little or no secular subjects such as mathematics, English or science. Girls tend to study more math and English in school and go to nursery schools where they can learn certain professions like accounting.
After years of campaigning by activists, the Israeli government and military have recently introduced new policies recognizing the former Haredim as a distinct social group, giving them the right to receive special grants and courses to attend university, as well as funding for vocational training programs.
“These are strong people who have left their comfort zone, where they had to make few choices and everything was clear,” said Nadav Rozenblat, CEO of Out for Change. ‘If you choose to leave, it shows that you have motivation and backbone. It’s like being a new immigrant in Israel. ”
The pandemic also opened the fault line between the Israeli mainstream and the ultra-Orthodox, who were hit hard by the coronavirus and attacked by critics for their resistance to antivirus measures.
The fight over health and safety has only exacerbated existing resentments. For years, officials and experts have sounded the alarm that the rapid growth of the ultra-Orthodox population is threatening the economy. About half of all Haredi men study Torah full time and earn government welfare. Most Haredi women work in low grades to support their families, while also being primarily responsible for raising the children. Under a decades-old arrangement, most Haredi men avoid military service.
These concerns persuaded the government to offer young Haredi adults financial incentives to drop out of full-time study in religious seminars, to enlist for military service (an obligation for most other Israeli 18-year-olds), academic or training courses to follow for the gaps in their training and to join the workforce.
Under the new policy, those leaving Haredi communities will be eligible for the same benefits, including educational and vocational programs offered to Haredi soldiers serving in special Haredi military units.
Similarly, the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs has recently begun to define Old Haredim as a special category that is eligible to receive vouchers for vocational training courses, the same as those awarded to Haredim.
The ministry also plans to open a preparatory course for those hoping to pursue higher education.
“It’s not only about the learning of the ABC in English, but also about the social ABC,” said Mr. Yawitz, of the ministry, said. “It’s about how to talk to people. To learn from scratch what is normal and what is not. ”
Mr. Yawitz left the ultra-Orthodox world himself as a young teenager. Cut off by his family, he lived on the street and was arrested at 17 for drug dealing before being pardoned and rehabilitated. His personal struggle becomes the subject of documentary film.
However, the definition of ultra-Orthodox has become increasingly flexible as the community frowns at the edge. Some Haredim who joined modern life found options in some of the less rigid sects, allowing them to remain on the fringes of the community rather than leave it altogether. Others live a double life and outwardly maintain a strict Orthodox lifestyle, but secretly break the rules.
Dedi Rotenberg and his wife, Divan, discovered that they were both just doubters in the closet after getting married in a match, the traditional way of arranging marriages in Haredi communities. About 15 months ago, they finally moved out of Bnei Brak, the ultra-Orthodox city near Tel Aviv where they both grew up, for a secular life in the south.
“There are a lot of things I still have to get used to,” he said. Rotenberg said. ‘Slang, movies. I hear my friends talk at least once a week and I do not know what they say. ”
Me. Ohayon attended an ultra-Orthodox girls’ school where Jewish history was taught only. The school had computers, she said, but it was not connected to the internet. She has never seen a movie, nor has she ever worn jeans.
When she had to stop working due to the pandemic, she started testing the limits. She bought a smartphone and discovered new worlds of information and music through Google and YouTube. She joined her local library in Petah Tikva and began reading secular literature that was previously out of bounds.
One novel in particular, “The Sweetness of Forgetting” by Kristin Harmel, ripped her out of her convent world. The novel follows the discovery of a Cape Cod woman of her secret family history, which spans the Holocaust and three different religious traditions.
The exposure to new cultures, people and ideas had a profound effect.
“I grew up feeling that the Haredim is special and different,” she said. ‘I have discovered that I am not so special or different, that there are millions of people like me. This is what suddenly made me say, “This is it, I’m going away.”