A Well-Worn Tallis for a New Ceremony: Trends in Israeli Haredi Culture 9781618110664

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A W ell-W orn Tall i s for a N ew C eremony Trends in I sr aeli Haredi Culture

Jewish Identities ın Post Modern Society S e r i e s Ed i to r : Roberta Rosenberg Farber—Yeshiva University Ed i to r i a l B o a rd : Sara Abosch—University of Memphis Geoffrey Alderman—University of Buckingham Yoram Bilu—Hebrew University Steven M. Cohen—Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion Bryan Daves—Yeshiva University Sergio Della Pergola—Hebrew University Simcha Fishbane—Touro College Deborah Dash Moore—University of Michigan Uzi Rebhun—Hebrew University Reeva Simon—Yeshiva University Chaim I. Waxman—Rutgers University

A Well-Worn Tallis for a New Ceremony Trends in Israeli Haredi Culture

N u r i t Stadl er

BOSTON / 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: A catalog record for this title is available from the Library of Congress.

Copyright © 2012 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved ISBN 978-1-936235-82-7

Book design by Ivan Grave

Published by Academic Studies Press in 2012 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved uncles, Yitzhak, Reuven and Shimon

Ta b l e

of

Content

Acknowledgments

8

Preface

10

Chapter 1: Religion and Modernity

14

Chapter 2: The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

36

Chapter 3: Challenging the Citizenship Mold

49

Chapter 4: The New Haredi Family

66

Chapter 5: Militarism

87

Chapter 6: Haredi Voluntarism

105

Chapter 7: Post-Fundamentalism and the Idea of Freedom

123

Conclusion

141

References

145

Index

161

Acknowledgments

This work is based on a series of lectures that I gave in Mexico City in February 2010. I thus owe a debt of gratitude to the Grupo de Mujeres de la Asociación Mexicana de Amigos de la Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalem, especially Dolly Botton and Julio Botton, for inviting me to speak and for their warm hospitality throughout my visit in their wonderful city. Furthermore, the assistance of Basha Kasovich, Luba Becker, Batsheva Benbassat, Leonora Berger, Esther Chisikovsky, Dora Green, Chela Nissan, Martha Flisser, and Paula Tronik—all members of the Associacion—was instrumental to the organization and success of the tour. I would also like to thank my co-lecturers, Prof. Michal Baniyash and Dr. Yifat Prut from The Hebrew University’s Hadassah Medical School, for sharing in this adventure with me. I owe a debt of gratitude to my wonderful friend Avi Aronsky. Avi helped collect the material for this book and update some of the information. With the exception of chapter 7, which he translated from Hebrew, Avi edited the entire work. Moreover, his inspiring comments and advice throughout the writing phase encouraged me to delve deeper and frame my ideas in a more precise and penetrating manner. I was privileged to work with him on this project. Oren Golan read the various drafts of this book and commented on each of the chapters. I appreciate his help, creative ideas, and encouragement. Moreover, I would like to thank my research assistants, Einat Mesterman, Sagi Genosar, Liron Shani, Erez Maggor, and Lea Taragin-Zeller. This book would not have been possible without their important contributions out in the field and in the library. The generous support of different institutions at various stages of this project enabled me to conduct extensive fieldwork and sit down and write

Acknowledgments

the book. Special thanks are due to the Israel Science Foundation (ISF Grant no. 382/07), the Israel Foundation Trustees, the Jewish Memorial Foundation, the Shaine Center for Research in Social Sciences, and the Harvey L. Silbert Centre for Israel Studies. In addition, the Faculty of Social Sciences at The Hebrew University provided a grant for the editing of this text. It was a great honor to have this book commissioned by the Academic Studies Press. I benefited from the assistance and encouragement of Roberta Rosenberg Farber, the editor of the Jewish Identity in Post Modern Society Series, Deva Jasheway, the copyeditor, Sharona Vedol, the Acquisitions Editor, and the rest of the publishing house’s dedicated staff. Some of the ideas in this work are based on previous publications of mine. Chapter 3 draws heavily on an article that I wrote with Edna Lomsky-Feder and Eyal Ben-Ari titled “Fundamentalism’s Challenges to Citizenship: The Haredim in Israel.” Parts of the fourth chapter derive from my book Yeshiva Fundamentalism: Piety, Gender, and Resistance in the Ultra-Orthodox World (NYU Press). Elements from chapter 5 originally appeared in “Playing with Sacred/Corporeal Identities: Yeshiva Students’ Fantasies of the Military Participation.” There is a similar connection between chapter six and “Terror, Corpse Symbolism and Taboo Violation: the ‘Haredi Disaster Victim Identification Team in Israel’ (ZAKA).” Furthermore, chapter seven is an elaboration of my paper “The Post-Fundamentalist Yeshiva World,” a contribution to an anthology (eds. Tamar Rapoport and Ahuvia Kahane, Rethinking the Informal Code) that is dedicated to the memory of my doctoral supervisor, Prof. Reuven Kahane. I would like to commend the staff of the Department of Sociology and Anthropology at The Hebrew University for their continuous support. In particular, I would like to thank Revi Kamma, Ilana Amiad, and Dalia Bar Nahum for their day-to-day help and much-appreciated cordiality. I am especially indebted to Agnes Arbeli for her good-natured and highlycapable assistance on every facet of this project. Last but not least, I would like to thank my family for their support throughout this leg of my endless writing odyssey.

9

Preface

In late 2009, I was invited by the Friends of the Hebrew University to give a series of lectures on religion at several of Mexico City’s fabulous universities. This trip was not only an opportunity to go back to Mexico (a country of which I have many fond childhood memories), but an opportunity to review and update my ethnographies, observations, and writings on contemporary ultra-Orthodoxy in Israel, some of which I then converted into said lectures. This book is the fruit of this comprehensive re-evaluation process. My research falls under the general purview of the expansive discourse on religious resurgence the world over. Sociologists and anthropologists have long focused on how religious movements and communities integrate modern ideas and practices into traditional lifestyles. Alongside the penetrating criticism of the venerable “secularization thesis” during the late 1970s and early 1980s, researchers naturally assayed the global renaissance of faith. Among the topics that continue to attract scholarly attention are conversion, disaffiliation, and the social organization of fundamentalist and charismatic groups. Against this backdrop, I hope to shed light on new forms of religious piety, fundamentalism, and changes in scriptural movements by analyzing the transformation that Israel’s ultraOrthodox community is currently undergoing. More specifically, this book examines the ways in which certain Israeli Haredis challenge their society’s established norms and modernize, reinvent, revamp, create, and launch new ideas, outlooks, strategies, organizations, and behavioral patterns with the objective of reforming their community’s accepted lifestyle. Throughout the chapters of this book, I take stock of the ongoing reconstruction of Haredi culture in the Jewish state—a process which has been spurred on by the onset of modernity, the worldwide resurgence

Preface

of religion, and the strong sway of “Israeliness” (i.e., mainstream Israeli culture) on the ultra-Orthodox populace. Despite the persistent efforts on the part of the community’s founders and the present leadership to establish and cultivate an enclave society, numerous modernistic trends, such as secularization, consumerism, feminism, technology, militarism, and state institutions, are having a profound impact on the Haredi world. Put differently, modernity is making deep inroads into the “ghetto,” transforming every aspect of its inhabitants’ daily lives. Over the course of my extended research on this community, I have discerned changes in several key areas: religious life; family structure; citizenship; and interface with the state, government authorities, and the rest of the populace. This work endeavors to enhance our understanding on these develo- pments. For the past three decades, ultra-Orthodoxy has flourished both in Israel and the Diaspora, where enclaves have been set up in established Jewish communities, like New York, London, Sao Paulo, and Mexico City. Conspicuous manifestations of this success include the prodigious increase in the Haredi population, the impressive array of institutions that have sprouted up, and the rise in the number of “new recruits” (that is people who have decided to adopt the ultra-Orthodox way of life). Furthermore, over the last decade or so, greater society’s interest in Haredi culture and lifestyle has swelled. That said, not all ultra-Orthodox communities are of the same cloth, and the Israeli enclave indeed possesses unique attributes. Following the Second World War, the Haredi community in Israel dedicated itself to preserving the traditional Jewish way of life, which was all but destroyed in the Holocaust. With this objective in mind, the leadership sought to build an insular community that safeguarded its members from the perceived threats of modernization and secularization. A major component of this plan was to obligate all young men to study in yeshiva on a full-time basis. Put differently, seminary enrollment and its erudite lifestyle were defined as the sole normative path for ultra-Orthodox men. In addition, the most gifted yeshiva scholars are considered virtuosos of ancient texts and the exclusive interpreters of sacred codes that govern the daily conduct of the entire community. By dint of these activities, yeshiva scholars are deemed to be crucial links of an eternal chain that dates back to the bestowal of the Torah on Mount Sinai.

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Due to rigorous standards of devotion and lifelong sacrifices demanded of the flock, it was only a matter of time before this fundamentalist ideology started to falter. As in other utopistic communities, a process of institutionalization was inevitable. Drawing on Weberian terminology, the sheer force of charismatic leaders in religious environments stirs innovation and engenders new theological ideas, which reshape the devotees’ basic religious patterns and actions. This abrupt turn of events inevitably disturbs everyday life and renders the community fragile and unstable (Weber 1968, 1976, 1981; also see Turner 1984, 2009, 80). Soon enough, the unrest leads to routinization and the establishment of a new set of customs, habits, and practices. The Haredi community in Israel currently finds itself in the throes of this sort of transition from a utopian to a pragmatic culture. The rapid growth of Israel’s Haredi sector raises new questions about this institutionalization process and its effects on religiosity, social organization, and cultural distinctiveness: How is the utopistic ideology converted into pragmatic outlooks? What are the complaints that are being lodged against the traditional ultra-Orthodox lifestyle, from both within the community and the general public? In light of this criticism, how and to what extent are Haredis recalibrating their relations with the state and civil society? And to what degree have they altered their outlook on nationalism, gender issues, and the family? The changes to Haredi society in Israel do not only stem from internal discontent and fragmentation, but must be understood within the dramatic context of the massive terror attacks, repeated military confrontations, and deep-seated political instability that have plagued the Jewish state since the 1990s. In consequence, different sectors have been reevaluating their relations with Israeli culture, the state, and civil society. The ultra-Orthodox response to these vicissitudes has been to display greater openness to mainstream society, as some of its members have become active in Israeli national politics and others volunteer in not-for-profit organizations. The mounting exposure to the “outside world” has been facilitated by modern technologies, particularly computers, mobile phones, the internet, and DVDs. As a result, many Haredis now have access to “forbidden” sources of information that were hitherto safely out of reach. The different themes that have been selected for this book are based on years (1997-2011) of ethnographic research—interviews, field observations, and the analysis of relevant books, pamphlets, films, and photos—on

Preface

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the ultra-Orthodox community in Israel (also see Stadler 2008). Methodologically speaking, I availed myself of a multi-sited analysis, which focused on five crucial issues: citizenship, the family, voluntarism and the Haredi aid organizations, militarism, and the concept of freedom. In my estimation, the community’s attitude towards these topics is reflective of some of the distinctive characteristics of the ultra-Orthodox experience in Israel. The book’s discussions on each topic provide examples of the criticism that is being directed at certain features of the charismatic stage of Haredi society. Insights gleaned from this particular case study promise to broaden our perspective on religious life in general amid the “great awakening” of recent decades.

Jerusalem, October 2010

Chapter 1

Religion

and

Modernity

In the nineteenth century, sociologists boldly predicted the death of religion. Max Weber (1904/5, 1918-19, 1968) pointed to the growing rationalization of many fields of human enterprise and the corresponding decline of magical thinking and religion. At about the same time, Georg Simmel was conducting research on different realms of modern life. Simmel (1900, 1903, 1950, 1971) who was well aware of religion’s sway over various facets of communal life, drew attention to the intellectualization of modern urban society. He estimated that religion would continue to be felt in all social relations, but business transactions, politics, family life, fashion, and music was becoming more calculated. Furthermore, Simmel averred that religion itself would be transformed by these same developments, as it too would become yet another commodity that is consumed by human beings. Emile Durkheim (1912) also underscored the importance of religious beliefs and practices as catalysts of social solidarity throughout the course of human existence. In his study on totemism in various cultures, Durkheim unveiled the common denominators between religious and scientific thinking. Analyzing the organizational complexities of Australian aboriginal society, he explained how tribes divide and subdivide into exogamous moieties, classes, and clans. Each of these cohorts is associated with different species on the totem, in a system that incorporates all natural phenomena and reflects the particular society’s classifications of identity and belonging. This process demonstrates how people form groups and classify all the surrounding elements within the shared framework of the clan. As such, totemism is not only a way of thinking about culture, but

Religion and Modernity

a system that enables tribe members to define their actions, express their feelings, and organize life events around codes that distinguish between the sacred or profane—the orderly and disorderly. Put differently, totems are the symbolic representations of a much greater force—the mana: the way society portrays itself to its members. In light of the above, the mana is always concomitantly external and internal to the worshiper. Alternatively, Durkheim (1912) argued that when a society develops and variegates from a technological standpoint, the nature of magic and religion also change. In fact, this process of differentiation, according to Durkheim, is the main feature of what we call modernity. Due to the fragmentation of communal conscience and activities, the spheres that society usually considered to be sacred realities are increasingly subject to the individual’s own volition and thus separated from mundane activities (1912). He believed that solidarity will eventually be reconstituted, but this process will not necessarily be underpinned by religious or magical frameworks and practices. In sum, classical anthropologists conducted comparative studies on religious knowledge and systems, such as totemic classifications, taboo prohibitions, ritual frameworks, animism, and myths. On the basis of this sort of research, Bronislaw Malinowski concluded that supernatural beliefs and related practices serve to allay fears and anxieties stemming from the inevitable limits of practical knowledge. In an essay titled “Magic, Science and Religion” (1948), he argued that, depending on the circumstances, members of various societies employ either magical thinking or scientific knowledge. Malinowski also noted that magic is a body of knowledge that is passed on from generation to generation, and provides people with an accessible set of rituals, acts, and beliefs that minimize personal anxiety over existential matters, such as whether enough fish will be caught, their fields will yield enough crops, and if a newborn child will survive. In contrast to the magical deed, spell, or potion, religion is more abstract, for it is based on personal faith in a god(s). Drawing on the classical tradition and Malinowski’s research, Alfred Radcliffe-Brown (1929, 1939, 1951) devoted several works to the relation between magic and religion. He argued that religious beliefs generate at least as much stress as they assuage. In addition, the English social anthropologist placed an emphasis on the social aspects of human anxieties at different stages of the life cycle and how magical thinking and practices reassure the faithful that their basic needs will be met. Following in the

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footsteps of Durkheim’s analysis of totemic thinking, Radcliffe-Brown opined that the qualities of a particular religion are determined by social structure and solidarity. As such, a given religion changes in accordance with the shifts in society’s symbolic and technological attributes. Similarly, Radcliffe-Brown argued that edible species were likely to become totems, on account of their importance to all the clans of a particular tribe (1929). He also posited that the relations between specific totems are similar to the relationships between members of different clans (1951). In this respect, the “totem pole” is a representation of the classification system that people use in order to reinforce their sense of belonging to the overarching group as well as their identification with a specific clan. Likewise, Evans-Prichard assayed the manner in which the Azande—a tribe in north central Africa— use magical thinking and animism to get through the daily grind (1937). By helping members of the tribe resolve disputes and contend with uncertainty, witchcraft and the oracle are instrumental to the preservation of the social order (see Kahane 1982, 1993). These classical scholars elucidated the basic assumptions on magic and religion: rationally, magic, logical and pre-logical thinking (LevyBruhl 1910; Frazer 1950). Moreover, they were the first to conceptualize the differences between Western and non-Western societies and religions. Drawing on the data from the Australian tribes, Lévi-Strauss (1976) concluded that “real” totemism is based on the dissimilarities, rather than the similarities, between the matrilineal and patrilineal types. His basic model of the contrasts between the natural and cultural is a lucid example of this sort of pattern. Building on Radcliffe-Brown’s analysis, Lévi-Strauss perceived antithetical thinking as a key structural principle in totemism and believed that the strong resemblance between totemistic ideas in various cultures lay in the similarities between systems of differentiation, namely most taxonomies distinguished between the natural and sociocultural sphere. He thus concluded that the distinction between human and animal categories serves as the conceptual basis for social differences. As a result, Lévi-Strauss felt that totemism is an “illusion” and a “logic that classifies” ([1962] 1969). Put differently, it is a post hoc explanation in which the structure of social relations is projected onto the natural phenomena, instead of deriving from it. In short, the totemic logic is a universal, albeit complicated, metaphorical system of classification that reflects group and individual belonging.

Religion and Modernity

Unlike her predecessors, Mary Douglas focused on taboos and contamination. In Purity and Danger (1966), she offers an explanation for the belief in ritual pollution. Concentrating on accepted religious prohibitions, she suggested that dictates against touching, using, or seeing certain objects, foods, animals, plants, and people may be rooted in a belief that they are sacred or venerated. On the other hand, there are categories that are defined as dirty and polluting. For instance, certain classes of people or species of animals are considered untouchable. According to Douglas, societies tend to classify things, people, or animals as “taboo” when they are considered anomalous. These condemned entities usually exist on the margins and do not fall under any of society’s general categories. Consequently, they are viewed as possessing certain powers that, inter alia, make them dangerous. For example, in her analysis of the Book of Leviticus, Douglas stated that animals are classified according to whether or not they meet ancient criteria, namely their position in a taxonomy. Douglas pointed not only to deviant objects and people, but to special times or events, such as death, birth and pregnancy, that straddle the fence between the regular stages of the human lifecycle. As a result, these aberrant phases are also subjected to manifold taboos and prohibitions. For instance, in different cultures, corpses are deemed to pollute the earth, women are isolated for a number of days after giving birth, and the placenta is considered extremely harmful. By dint of these classical studies on religion, not least the discussions about magical thinking, totemism, and taboos, researchers of modern societies took stock of the decline of magic and the general weakening of religion. For the most part, these scholars claim that the social forces of modernity, especially the infiltration of rational ways of thinking into the mindset of the masses, will ultimately minimize the need for magical explanations and religious institutions. Robert Bellah (1967) argued that modern-day religion would steadily become a private matter, detached from the state, politics, and the public sphere. Following in the footsteps of Durkheim (1912) and Parsons (1970), numerous sociologists have turned to the concept of differentiation in order to explain the ostensible fall of religion. These earlier works gave rise to a general theory of secularization, which was widely accepted and remained in force until the late 1980s. At this point, however, researchers began to challenge the assumptions of the secularization paradigm. Due to myriad signs of religious revival, they began reinserting faith back into the theoretical equation.

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More recently, students of religion have contended that, while modernity indeed constitutes a significant challenge to the established faiths, it is also a fertile breeding ground for religious redefinition, innovation, and rejuvenation (Lawrence 1989; Ammerman 1987; Casanova 1994; Lambert 1999, 304; Berger 1999; Eisenstadt 2000). In other words, modern developments and frameworks have spawned new religious ideas, movements, and communities. Durkheim’s predictions notwithstanding, the modern process of differentiation and the ensuing fragmentation and specialization of various fields of human endeavor have failed to consolidate a secular mode of thinking that is detached from religion. Instead, it has created new possibilities for religious institutions and outlooks to put down roots and flourish. Jose Casanova (1994) understands societal modernization to be a process of functional compartmentalization in which secular spheres—the state, the economy, and science—are severed from the religious sphere. Casanova argue that during the 1980s, religious traditions around the world, from Islamic fundamentalism to Catholic liberation theology, began making their way, often forcefully, out of the private sphere and into public life, causing the “deprivatization” of religion in contemporary life. No longer content merely to administer pastoral care to individual souls, religious institutions are challenging dominant political and social forces, raising questions about the claims of entities such as nations and markets to be “value neutral,” and straining the traditional connections of private and public morality (1994). Recent decades have borne witness to new forms of spiritualism, piety, charismatic groups, and syncretism as well as wide-scale conversion and extreme interpretations of sacred texts (Lawrence 1989; Mahmood 2005; Emerson and Hartman 2006). Moreover, a broad range of ethnographies on religious life demonstrate that those same modern phenomena that the “old school” thought would lead to the secularization and liberalization of the state, education, the mass media, the labor market, and science have actually sparked a hearty religious revival throughout the world, which has swept up countless devotees of the three great monotheistic faiths. At the same time, the modern age has also given rise to a wide array of newfangled spiritual movements, such as neo-shamanic, neo-pagan, New Age, and therapeutic groups. While people tend to use religion to identify themselves as, say, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus, I would like to suggest that

Religion and Modernity

the topics latterly covered in the anthropological and sociological literature on religion, especially with respect to knowledge and classification systems (e.g., totemism), taboos, rituals, and myths, have exposed the need for new categories that go beyond religious denominations and streams. Within this in mind, I have divided religious resurgence at the turn of the millennium into three primary groups: fundamentalist movements, charismatic movements, and various forms of group worship. Over the remainder of this chapter, I will define the unique features of each category and provide examples of each group from Israeli society. Fundamentalism Over the last two decades, anthropologists and sociologists of religion have focused on the ways in which fundamentalists integrate modern ideas and practices with age-old traditions and laws (Ammerman 1987, 2005; Davidman 1991; Deeb 2006; Mahmood 2005). In researching the worldwide resurgence of fundamentalism from the late 1970s to the early 1980s, scholars have analyzed conversion, devotion, disaffection, and social organization in fundamentalist communities (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003; Ammerman 1987; Antoun 1989, 2001; Beeman 2001; Bruce 2000; Hervieu-Léger 2000; Kepel 2002; Riesebrodt 1993). Although these movements appear to be monolithic, non-liberal, and exceedingly conservative, they have always interacted with and been influenced by the larger cultures within which they reside (Stadler 2008). The antagonistic stance of fundamentalist groups towards essentially secular and liberal Western traditions renders the societies that champion these views the defining Other of fundamentalists. For this very reason, fundamentalists must digest “modern” ideologies in order to oppose them; and in the process, they adopt some of their rivals’ ideas. As we shall see, this process has indeed stoked major changes in the beliefs and practices of these groups. The word fundamentalism derives from an early-twentieth-century religious movement in the United States that took its name from The Fundamentals: A Testimony of the Truth, a twelve-volume work that was published between 1901 and 1915 by a group of Protestant laymen. This movement was part of the Evangelical Revival that had inspired the Great Awakening of the early nineteenth century. At the outset, this term

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was only applied to Christian sects, but its scope has since expanded to include other modern religions (Eisenstadt 1995, 2000, 83; Lehmann 1998; Stolow 2004, 110, 2010). The context along with various individual features of the modern era, especially secular state education, the mass media, and technology, seem to have catalyzed increments of religious fundamentalism. More specifically, the fundamentalist phenomenon can be explained as the product of modernity’s anti-religious pressures and a surprising series of counteractions: secularization spurred on religious revivalism; the dissemination of feminist ideologies caused a backlash of modesty and family-oriented ideologies; the rise of secular education inspired the cultivation of the religious ethos; technology and free access to knowledge seem to have intensified religious sequestration and cen- sorship. Movements that can be classified as fundamentalist tend to reinforce internal taboo systems with the objective of tightening prohibitions that pertain to modesty and morality. In these sort of communities, the ritualization of everyday life is inspired by a sacred past and canonical writings. Rules are tightened as are the community’s boundaries. Moreover, neophytes are urged to perform sundry tasks and are required to pass various exams that strengthen their bonds with the core group. Given the involvement of both long-standing and newly-coined symbols and genealogies that are deeply connected to the group’s identity, these initiation rites are akin to phases in the construction of a totemic ideology. In order to bolster their cohesion, totemic structure, ritualization processes, and taboo systems, fundamentalist groups assiduously refine their unique identity by means of scripturalism, namely the selective retrieval and amalgamation of doctrines, symbols, and beliefs from sacred texts that the faithful believe to be of divine origin, such as the Hebrew Bible, New Testament, and Koran (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003, 96). This process consists of redefining, transforming and repackaging symbols and meanings that are gleaned from an imagined sacred past into communal programs, life visions, everyday norms, and various taboos, in an effort to contend with what fundamentalists believe to be decadent and trying times (Antoun 2001). In turn, these elements help devise and sanction a certain interpretation or viewpoint, which ordinarily strengthens or empowers a certain authority figure (Asad 1986, 2003, 11).

Religion and Modernity

Shmuel Eisenstadt argued that fundamentalist movements are decidedly modern (1995, 259, 2000). Put differently, while fundamentalist groups indeed oppose modernity (Marty and Appleby 1991, 9), they are a quintessential product of the modern era (Ammerman 1987). Fundamentalist communities deem the institutions of modernity, foremost among them the modern liberal state, to be symbols of the outside world and forces of evil. A case in point is the Haredi attitude to the State of Israel. Although the country is officially a Jewish state, its government is perceived as Zionist and secular; consequently, it is rejected and resisted by many ultra-Orthodox Jews. That said, the community’s very existence in Israel is dependent on the protection and material support of the state, which Haredis vigorously demand as a minority in a liberal country. This oxymoron—rejecting the state’s legitimacy while welcoming its assistance— is indeed a defining attribute of fundamentalist movements throughout the world. Living in the heart of diverse modern cities poses quite a few problems for fundamentalist groups, such as exposure to sinful temptations. The community’s leadership copes with these challenges by means of a standard set of religious practices and ideologies. In Israel, the leaders of the Haredi community, such as Avraham Yeshayahu Karelitz (alias the Chazon Ish, 1878-1953) and Eliezer Schach (1899-2001), have always provided believers with pietistic strategies for safeguarding their religious identity and culture in modern surroundings (Caplan 2007, 69 and 77). Among their strategies, fundamentalists reject or disregard modernity by interpreting history, tradition, and contemporary reality through the prism of religious reasoning. The Haredi discourse inevitably touches upon the historical and mythical events in the life of the Jewish nation, including the foundation and existence of its secular state, yet points to a different causality than other narratives. To begin with, like other fundamentalist groups, ultra-Orthodox Jewry perceives itself as a link in a glorious tradition, which dates back to Judaism’s earliest saints and prophets. Ashkenazic Haredis are particularly conscious of this continuum on account of the Holocaust, as they consider themselves the sole remnant of European Orthodox Jewry. Therefore, Haredis have assumed the role of the custodians of a civilization that must be meticulously preserved. On the other hand, modern culture is viewed as the antithesis and nemesis of this tradition, so that the Western lifestyle is generally excoriated. For example,

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abortion and homosexuality are prohibited, and the community actively demonstrates against these “abominations.” Fundamentalist movements are usually led by male intellectuals who are experts on the group’s canonical texts. Moreover, these leaders aspire to lofty heights of virtue. Within their communities, these men are considered scriptural virtuosos as well as paradigms of masculinity, asceticism, and morality (Antoun 2001, 3; Riesebrodt 1990, 9). In order to defend the faithful against the temptations of a corrupt world and repulse challenges to the group’s existing hierarchy, these same elites are constantly seeking to maintain or ratchet up the faithful’s level of piety (Stadler 2008). One of the primary means at their disposal is their control over the transmission of the movement’s accepted ideas and traditions to new generations. For this very reason, scripturalism places a premium on the establishment of new and creative educational institutions, such as yeshivas, madrasas, and churches. The yeshiva hall has indeed emerged as the cornerstone of ultra-Orthodox fundamentalism, as it enables the community to maintain a cadre of experts with the ability to orchestrate a moral overhaul (Heilman 1995, 78). As alluded to earlier, fundamentalists imagine a period in their distant past to have been a golden era of true piety. Consequently, the devotees’ parents and grandparents are not considered to have been sufficiently religious. For this reason, the mimetic aspect of socialization, namely the strong tendency to imitate the behavior of elder kin, is of nominal significance in fundamentalist groups. For the purpose of devising a specifically Haredi model of piety in the modern era, new methods of socialization have been adopted. By gleaning particular elements of the group’s canonical texts and heritage, fundamentalists seek to reconstruct the world according to their unique goals and desires. For example, the commandment to study Torah “when you sit at home and when you are on the road” (Deuteronomy 6:7) has been mounted on the highest pedestal. According to the Israeli ultra-Orthodox interpretation of this verse, male membership in the community demands full-time enrollment in a seminary. Men are expected to spend the majority of their lives studying in a yeshiva. In the country’s Lithuanian yeshivas,1 1  Whereas Hasidic Orthodoxy stresses the spiritual aspects of Jewish tradition, the Lithuanian (Litvak) way places a premium on deeds and strict adherence to the halacha.

Religion and Modernity

this obligation is highlighted by central symbols that are drawn from their imagined cultural and traditional past, especially the rationalist school of the vilna gaon (the Genius of Vilnius), Rabbi Elijah Ben Solomon. This evocation of Jewish heritage to warrant mass attendance in the community’s yeshivas stands in sharp contrast to the historical record. In Lithuania and other Eastern European Jewish communities, only a handful of prodigies dedicated their life to the study of Torah, while the vast majority of men were expected to acquire a profession and earn a living. Haredis rationalize life-long yeshiva enrollment by viewing themselves as an elite whose piety and dedication to the Torah will save the rest of world Jewry. However, as we shall see, the studious way of life is not for everyone, and there is a chafing desire for reform within the community. The case of Gush Emunim (Hebrew for “the Bloc of the Faithful”) sheds light on different aspects of Jewish fundamentalism (Aran 1991; Feige 2009; Fischer 2007). This group, which is comprised of religious-nationalist advocates for Jewish settlement of the occupied territories, combines devout scripturalism and a yeshiva orientation with radical interpretations of the Land of Israel’s sacredness and its centrality to the redemption of the Jewish people. While Haredi participation in Israel’s political game is attributed to pragmatic motives (i.e., to advance the community’s unique interests), members of Gush Emunim firmly identify with and are involved in all aspects of the state and civil society: the Israeli economy, civil duties, military service, culture and education. However, they are ready to violate the state’s laws and sacrifice themselves for the purpose of upholding their particular reading of the Jewish faith. For example, devotees have turned to violence to counter actions that “compromise the holiness of the land.” According to Gush Emunim’s ideology, the fact that it was secular Jews, of all people, who were most responsible for the establishment of Israel must be viewed as part of a multi-phase divine plan for messianic redemption, which is unfolding before our very eyes. In other words, the secular state provides the tools that are facilitating the return of the “Promised Land” to the Jewish people. For this very reason, the movement’s political activists are interested in influencing the state’s agenda, especially with respect to the territories. Unlike the ultra-Orthodox sector, Gush Emunim has been an active participant in Israeli society and politics from the movement’s very inception in 1974. The establishment of Gush Emunim was triggered seven

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years earlier by the Six Day War,2 which was interpreted as a profound and miraculous theological event by members of the national-religious camp, among others. More specifically, Israel’s swift victory over what many believed to be a vicious and numerically superior enemy, the return of Biblical Judea and Samaria (i.e., the West Bank) to Jewish hands, and above all the capture of the Temple Mount was understood as a sign that Jehovah has not deserted his people. Similar to ultra-Orthodox religiosity, the scriptural creed of Gush Emunim was articulated and transmitted through the reinforcement of the group’s own yeshiva system. However, in contrast to the Lithuanian yeshiva ideology that stresses continuity and traditionalism, Merkaz haRav—the flagship seminary of Gush Emunim—declared that its goals are to disrupt and possibly transform the previous order, thereby encouraging radical political activism. More specifically, Gush Emunim is committed to a struggle aimed at redeeming “the whole Land of Israel” and placing it under the control of the Jewish state. The spirit of Merkaz haRav (literally the Rabbi’s Center) was shaped and guided by the authoritative teachings of Rabbi Avraham Yitzhak Hacohen Kook (1866-1935), the first chief rabbi of Palestine. His philosophy was subsequently expanded upon by his son, Rabbi Zvi Yehuda Kook, who went on to become the spiritual leader of Gush Emunim. According to Kook the Elder, secular Zionism is a holy movement, and its rise was a sign that the redemption had begun. In other words, he couched the emergence of the Zionist movement and the Jews’ return to Palestine in eschatological terms. Building on these ideas, Merkaz haRav represents a new response to Zionism and modernity, as its adherents aspire to weave religion into all aspects of social life and provide sacred meaning to the process of modernization and the establishment of the State of Israel. Spearheaded by Kook the Younger, Gush Emunim’s platform attracted followers from among the religious-Zionist camp, especially the members of its youth movement—Bnei Akiva. Assuming the form of a religious sect, Bnei Akiva trained a cadre of young activists who strove to fulfill transcendental concepts under the guidance of Gush Emunim’s rabbinical authorities. These fundamentalists viewed the Jewish settlements of Judea 2  The Six Day War is also known as the June War and the Setback, inter alia.

Religion and Modernity

and Samaria as a way of safeguarding “the divine gift” of 1967 and thus pushing the redemption process forward. In so doing, Gush Emunim put a religious gloss on the old (secularist) Zionist belief that nurturing the Land of Israel is the only way to spark a true return to Zion. The results of the Yom Kippur War in 1973 galvanized the movement’s settlement activity. Instead of passively waiting for the redemption, which had been the traditional Jewish eschatological approach for nearly two millennia, the movement’s followers believed that the time had come to actively expedite the dawn of the messianic age. This juncture can be explained as Gush Emunim’s charismatic phase in which the movement forged its unique methods and ideas, particularly the settlement ideology. At the outset, the group’s modus operandi was non-violent demonstrations in support of Jewish settlements in the West Bank, in adherence to Kook the Elder’s doctrine of the sacredness of the land. However, by the end of the 1970s, the movement had adopted more militant strategies and actions against the Arab populace of the territories, under the premise that the state had failed to enforce the law or establish order. In their capacity as the “guardians of true Judaism,” the members of Gush Emunim assumed the right to defend themselves against the enemies of the Jewish people and protect the Land of Israel, so as to ensure the redemption and survival of the nation. By dint of these religious beliefs, the fundamentalist tension between the aspiration to return to a venerated past and modern realities, not least the Arab majority in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, has repeatedly erupted into violence. Students of religion have defined fundamentalist groups as “enclave cultures” (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003, 34; Sivan 1995). Drawing on Douglas’ observations (1966), they view these enclaves to be distinct entities with highly-demarcated cultural and moral boundaries. With the help of communal taboos, these barriers separate the “virtuous” and “morally superior” from the “depraved” (Sivan 1995) and thwart the efforts of “demonic forces” to subvert the enclave (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003, 34-36). Sivan (1995, 19) observes that the “outside” is deemed to be polluted, contagious, and dangerous, even or rather precisely when the general public seemingly “partakes of the same tradition as the inside, while being in essence its very negation.” For the sake of buttressing the walls around the community, fundamentalist groups invest a great deal in their educational institutions. What is more, every family in the community is

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obliged to belong to one of these institutions, which also serves as their main symbol of identity. In my book Yeshiva Fundamentalism (2008), I demonstrate how younger Haredi yeshiva students are casting serious doubts on the ideals, norms, and organizational structure of the ultra-Orthodox establishment, in the hopes of reforming their community and personal lives. This internal criticism has indeed precipitated dramatic changes, which are liable to threaten the community’s very existence. In the ensuing chapters, I will discuss various aspects of Haredi fundamentalism in Israel and explain the recent shifts in how the faithful perceive many elements of their communal life. Thereafter, I will analyze how these groups challenge various notions of citizenship, the family, and intra-denominational or society-wide norms. Charismatic Movements The second major religious trend at the turn of the millennium is the rise of charismatic movements. Similar to fundamentalist groups, the charismatic variety also focuses on canonical texts. However, whereas fundamentalists emphasize the behavioral and moral dictates of their scriptures, charismatic groups are mostly interested in the ritualistic, symbolic, and ecstatic dimensions. Charismatic movements believe that their exegetical methods elicit an outpouring of virtuosity and insight, which many devotees equate with the Christian idea of the “gifts of the Spirit.” Examples of these methods include the following: Pentecostal glossolalia (speech in tongues); numerous esoteric techniques that Jews, Christians, and Muslims use to calculate the date of eschatological events; the utterance of sacred words or phrases from the canonical texts; and revealing (in both senses of the word) numerical correspondences between words or phrases (Lehmann 1996, 2001, 2002, 2003; Martin 1990, 2001; Bilu 1998). Another method of this sort is bibliomancy. This divination technique involves balancing a revered book on its spine and allowing it to randomly fall open, whereupon a passage is selected with one’s eyes closed. The passage is then interpreted for the purpose of gaining insight into the future. For instance, Chabad (a Jewish charismatic group that will be discussed below) uses Igrot Kodesh (Holy Epistles), a thirty-volume collection of responsa and other correspondence by their leader, Menachem Mendel Schneerson,

Religion and Modernity

to seek counsel from the deceased author concerning, say, global events, private matters, and theological questions (See Bilu 2009).3 Charismatic groups place a great emphasis on personal experience, emotions, and spontaneity as well as prophecy and preaching. In contrast to fundamentalist versions of scripturalism, charismatic groups tend to adopt “literal interpretations,” even for texts that are exceedingly allegorical, symbolic, and cryptic. Moreover, the authoritativeness of a spoken word, to include direct quotes from scripture, derives from the personality and prestige of the speaker, such as a rabbi or pastor (Lehmann 1998). For the sake of “spreading the faith,” these movements take full advantage of modern communication technologies. The success of televangelism epitomizes this sort of outreach. In fact, most of the charismatic movements’ energy and resources are channeled toward proselytization. Trumpeting the curative power of faith, Pentecostals draw a close correlation between conversion and various forms of healing. Studies on Pentecostal churches illustrate the prominent role of devil exorcism in their rite, as widely disparate forms of this ceremony are practiced in congregations throughout the globe: from relatively discrete ceremonies in more established churches, like the Assemblies of God, to histrionic displays at, say, the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God—a movement which has spread from Rio de Janeiro all across Brazil, on to Portugal, and many regions in Africa (Lehmann 1998). As noted, charismatic groups accentuate the individual experience of the faithful. Accordingly, Pentecostal services are often dedicated to healing an individual or personal fulfillment. While the movement’s holy scripts are generally translated into a central set of rituals, they are subsequently combined with an assortment of customs that are drawn from the lore and culture of whatever country the particular branch happens to be in. For example, Pentecostal services in Brazil highlight Afro-Brazilian symbolism; Cuban branches incorporate elements of Santaria spirit possession; and voodoo practices inform Haitian ceremonies. Likewise, the movement’s churches in Israel have introduced a distinctively “Brazilian” religious hue into the local cultural arena, as the liturgy is in Portuguese and the stress is on African practices, possession cults, and devil worship. That said, the services also blend in Jewish-cum-Israeli rituals and symbols, which make 3  The Igrot Kodesh is also commonly referred to, in English, as Letters of the Rebbe.

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their churches more attractive to local devotees. Yet another prominent feature of charismatic movements is the importance they place on the original language of their canonical texts. For instance, Protestant streams have embraced Biblical Hebrew, while new Muslim movements in the United States and Indonesia read the Koran in Arabic. Certain Jewish groups in Israel have also embraced charismatic practices and strategies. For example, Breslov Hasidim4 put an emphasis on dance, music, and spontaneity and strive to cultivate an intense, joyous relationship with god. More specifically, devotees endeavor to serve God through the “sincerity of the heart,” namely by living as happily and intensively as possible. Breslov activists showcase all these elements while proselytizing in the middle of busy streets and at mass events, such as the celebrations on Mount Meron. At all these scenes, Breslovers arrive in their trademark sticker-laden minivans and immerse themselves in dance and song in the hopes of spreading their message to fellow Jews. The crux of their Hasidism is the idea of faith and repentance. As opposed to the Jewish fundamentalist view on scripturalism, the Breslovers believe that the study of the Torah not only undergirds a sacred life, but is the key to a jubilant existence as well. Although Breslovers study Judaism’s mainstream canonical works, they also draw heavily on texts by the group’s revered founder, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, and his leading disciple Noson. Another substantial portion of the Breslov canon consists of Nachman’s teachings that Noson took down. Like Evangelical movements, Nachman’s gospel personalizes learning and worship. Moreover, Breslovers practice a form of meditation that is achieved by certain mantras, most notably the ecstatic repetition of the Rabbi’s name and place of birth (na, nach, nachma, nachman, me’uman); this custom is indeed reminiscent of glossolalia. Nachman also established the Tikkun haKlali (General Remedy) ritual. During this ceremony, a fixed set of ten psalms are recited; after each psalm, the faithful express their desire to be part of the Jewish dynasty of tzadikim (righteous) and ask God for forgiveness for a particular sin they committed. Followers explain that the Tikkun haKlali can rectify all spiritual and physical flaws or maladies. In other words, the sacred words are used as magical symbols to 4  This Hasidic sect was founded in Braslav, a city in modern-day Ukraine, but their name is pronounced and written according to the Yiddish toponym.

Religion and Modernity

help members cope with commonplace taboo violations and moral predi- caments. Lubavitch or Chabad5 is a major charismatic movement on the global Jewish revival stage. While the Hasidic sect was founded in Czarist Russia, today the majority of its devotees reside in the United States and Israel. Like Breslov, and in contrast to mainstream ultra-Orthodoxy, Lubavitchers spread their “gospel” through missionary activity (Bilu 2009). Among the trademarks of Chabad’s members is a fervent conviction in the imminent coming of the messiah and that the group possesses the absolute canonical truth. Over the years, Chabad developed an eschatological theology which revolved around the charismatic leadership of Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (the seventh head of the Lubavitcher dynasty). Within the community, Schneerson—alias “the rebbe” (Yiddish for rabbi)—merited unbridled admiration and undisputed authority. During his helm, the movement was immensely popular throughout the Jewish world and had great success disseminating its message of spirituality. This accomplishment was part of a general resurgence of Haredi communities throughout the world (especially during the 1950s). Lubavitchers indeed consider themselves guardians of rabbinic law and Jewish heritage. Consequently, it is incumbent upon them to zealously fight against secularization and its impact on Jews of all stripes. In contrast to those Haredi movements that oppose modernity, shun its trappings, and perceive it as a threat, Lubavitch has taken an entirely different approach. The movement is not blind to the challenges that modernity poses for traditional Judaism, not least the problem of assimilation. However, it seeks a close dialogue and mutual relations, albeit complex ones, with the surrounding society. On the one hand, the movement endeavors to reshape reality with traditional Jewish symbols and values; on the other hand, it eschews segregation strategies. In fact, negotiating the trappings of modernity appears to undergird Chabad’s efforts to teach young secular Jews the tenets of traditional Jewry, prevent assimilation, and bring “the spiritually dispossessed” back into the fold of Orthodox Jewry. Similar to other charismatic groups, Lubavitch reaches out to its targeted audiences 5  Lubavitch is the Yiddish name of Lyubavichi, the town where the Hasidic sect was established in the late eighteenth century. Chabad is the Hebrew acronym for chochma (wisdom), binah (understanding), and da’at (knowledge).

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via modern methods and platforms, such as the mass media and the Internet. The movement also views the fulfillment of these goals to be prerequisites for another of its central objectives: to usher in the messi- anic age. From a theological standpoint, Chabad has developed an eschatological interpretation of world events according to which all temporal occurrences are part of a divine process aimed at preparing the world for the coming of the messiah. In 1991, Schneerson declared that the time was ripe for the redemption and that all Jews must ready themselves and clamor for the messiah’s arrival. Likewise, the movement described the First Gulf War (1991) as an eschatological struggle against Jewry’s enemies and the allies’ victory was seen as the work of god. Since Schneerson’s death in 1994, the movement has gone through a turbulent period, as it threatens to splinter into two different sects: those who continue to view the rebbe as the “chosen one” and thus reject the notion that he died; and the rationalist-reform camp, which believes that Schneerson has indeed passed on. Lubavitch’s outreach program is grounded on its network of Chabad Houses across the globe. At these “mission outposts,” the shlikhim (messengers) hold activities and distribute information on Judaism, pursuant to the sect’s unique interpretation. For instance, the emissaries offer classes on how to observe Jewish holidays and supply all the necessary items, such as Matzot for Passover, so that uninitiated Jews can observe the commandments on their own. Each branch is open to all Jews and the events are usually free of charge. The second pillar of Lubavitch outreach is grassroots campaigns in crowded areas of major cities. Young messengers take to the streets for the purpose of striking up conversations with Jews6 and persuading them to partake in a specific ritual, attend an event, or read a pamphlet. The best known Chabad campaign is the movement’s efforts to convince Jews to put on tefillin (phylacteries) in the middle of the street. Although Jewish law ordinarily requires a wholesome environment free of distractions for the tefillin ritual, Menachem Friedman (1994) clams that Chabad activists are willing to publicly desecrate the sacred in the belief that having unaffiliated co-religionists declare their Jewish identity in public outweighs the attendant transgressions. Furthermore, the tefillin 6  Messengers typically stop potential ‘customers’ in the street with the following question: “Are you Jewish?”

Religion and Modernity

ritual might ultimately help a “lost soul” find his way back to Judaism. This public violation of the sacred is indicative of the fundamentalist tension between the aspiration to reach the levels of piety of an imagined sacred past and the obligation to be actively involved in the contemporary world, especially through “outreach” programs. Another manifestation of charismatic religiosity in Israel is Shas, a movement that includes a political party and educational system dedicated to advancing the interests of Sephardic Haredis in Israel. In his comparative research on charismatic groups, Lehmann argued that conversion has become a pervasive feature of contemporary religion (1996, 1998). Campaigns to bring people into or, no less importantly, back to the fold have become commonplace. Moreover, these efforts consume substantial resources and have had a huge impact on the religious culture of presentday Judaism, Christianity and Islam. A case in point is Pentecostalism, a global federation of churches possessing a roughly similar devotional and organizational model (Martin 1990, 2001; Lehmann 2001, 2002, 2003). Drawing on the case study of Pentecostalism, Lehmann and Siebzehner (2006) demonstrate that Shas also constitutes a quasi-conversion movement. Many converts and ba’alei t’shuva (regenerate Jews) speak of how the conversion process triggers a moral transformation in their lives as well as far-reaching material changes in the following areas: social milieu, mode of dress, body language and comportment, personal financial arrangements, sexual relations, and eating norms. As neophytes see it, they shun ephemeral or illusory pleasures for more enduring happiness and renounce temporal aspirations for the “world to come.” Since its founding in 1984, Shas has raised the banner of social and, above all, ethnic struggle. More specifically, the movement undertakes to redress, through political means, what it deems to be the injustices that the Israeli establishment has committed against its constituents. Social and religious identities are closely intertwined in the movement’s historical narratives, terminology, and kinship habits (2006). Although the law precludes Shas from stating so, its educational network (Ma’ayan ha’Chinuch ha’Torani, the Wellspring of Torah Education) exclusively targets Sephardic children, regardless of their religious background or particular Eastern sect. Lehmann and Siebzehner argue that, in contrast to the fundamentalist streams in Israeli Judaism, Shas does not object to Jewish diversity. For example, in his halachic rulings, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef—the movement’s

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founder and spiritual leader—explicitly recommends that people follow their own traditions in matters such as women’s dress, liturgical ceremony, and the starting time of prayers. Shas has yet to decide, and probably has not even discussed, whether the party’s long-range goal is to transform the State of Israel into a halachic theocracy. That said, it is evident that the movement is taking advantage of the political foothold it has established to promote Ovadia Yosef ’s loosely structured form of Israeli Judaism. Like Chabad, its functionaries actively pursue the means and space for running their outreach campaign. However, in sharp contradistinction to the fundamentalist streams discussed herein, Shas does not seek to impose an ultra-Orthodox lifestyle on the entire country (see Caplan 2001). Mass Worship Religion in the modern era abounds with pilgrimages and other mass gatherings that revolve around cult worship at graves, the site of apparitions, and other relevant places. By virtue of anthropology’s longstanding preoccupation with worship and ritual, scholars have yielded a cornucopia of studies on contemporary rites. In addition to elucidating the symbols, meanings, and customs that inform these sites, they examine the degree of communitas between the various devotees. Many of these researchers also shed light on the political aspects of religious events, such as the different antagonistic and conflicting nationalist narratives that crop up during services, ceremonies, and rites across the globe. Mircea Eliade conceptualized the idea of hierophany—the manifestation of the sacred at specific places. In his estimation, this process is what gives structure to and orients the behavior of people at holy sites (1974). Drawing on this terminology as well as Eliade’s distinction between the sacred and profane, Victor and Edith Turner (1978, 34) argue that the crux of the pilgrimage experience—the trek to holy shrines—is a shared universal experience in which the participants reach a state of communitas for the sake of, say, completing their vows or bolstering their struggle against evil. In fact, Victor Turner contends that liminality is “the optimal setting of communitas relations, and communitas—a spontaneously generated relationship between leveled and equal total and individuated human beings, stripped of structural attributes,” who “together constitute what one might call antistructure” (Turner 1973, 216). During these kinds

Religion and Modernity

of events, Turner writes, “symbol becomes associated with human interests, purposes, ends, and means, whether these are explicitly formulated or have to be inferred from the observed behavior.” As a result, the symbols that are evoked or engendered instigate a social ferment that arouses individuals and groups to action, be it orderly or chaotic (1967, 36). This sort of phenomenon informs many of the burgeoning pilgrimage sites in the modern Christian world. Shrines of charismatic figures, like Padre Pio in Italy, have become immensely popular. Similarly, the age-old pilgrimage to the Basilica of Santiago de Compostela in Spain has been transformed into a prime destination for modern pilgrimage and tourism, and the ancient cult of the Virgin Mary has attracted immense crowds to Marian shrines throughout the world. Partially on account of the development and affordability of rapid means of transportation, over the past few decades there has been a marked increase in the amount of visitors—both foreign and local—to Muslim and Jewish sites. Pilgrimage to Mecca has blossomed, as the holy city attracts millions of Muslims from around the globe. Likewise, hitherto dormant Jewish shrines have shed off their cobwebs. For instance, thousands of Jews belonging to dozens of Orthodox groups flock to the tomb of the aforementioned Nachman of Breslov in the remote Ukrainian town of Uman. During Nachman’s lifetime (1772-1810), thousands of Hasidim would travel long distances to spend Jewish holidays in the rabbi’s company and listen to his sermons. On the last Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) of his life, Nachman stressed the importance of his followers joining him for this particular holiday. Consequently, the rabbi’s top disciple instituted an annual pilgrimage to Nachman’s gravesite on Rosh Hashanah. Throughout the early twentieth century, this annual event drew thousands of Breslov Hasidim from throughout Eastern Europe, but attendance fell off drastically during the Communist Era. It was only after the fall of the Iron Curtain in 1989 that the gates were fully reopened and Uman regained its standing as a vivid shrine. A Jewish example of the global trend of female saint worship is the cult veneration at the Tomb of Rachel. The rites performed at this shrine have resurrected fertility cults that have been popular in the Middle East since ancient times. In her comparative study of pilgrimages to Rachel’s Tomb and the Milk Grotto of the Virgin Mary, Sered (1986) explains that the Matriarch Rachel died after giving birth to Benjamin and, according to

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Jewish Midrash,7 was buried in Bethlehem. Similar to the perception of Mary in Christian sources, Jewish tradition views Rachel to be a suffering mother who had problems conceiving, accompanied her children into exile, cried for them, and interceded with god on their behalf during their hour of need. Against this backdrop, visits to Rachel’s sepulcher are usually spurred on by problems concerning marriage, pregnancy, and childbirth. For instance, the most popular ritual at the shrine is to tie a red string around the tomb seven times and then wear the thread as a fertility charm. Located in close proximity to Bethlehem’s Church of the Nativity and several minutes from Rachel’s Tomb, the Virgin’s Milk Grotto is a spot where the Holy Family presumably rested upon taking flight to Egypt. While nursing Baby Jesus, the Holy Mother spilled some milk and the cave’s black walls miraculously turned white.8 Apropos of these events, lactating women believe that eating a few specks of the white powder from the Grotto’s walls will augment their milk supply (1986, 9). According to Sered, the uniqueness of these shrines rests in the fact that both Rachel and Mary are deemed to be the prototypical women of their respective faiths, namely mothers benefitting from special relationships with god and embodiments of female yearning for fertility (1986, 17). Sered argues that a woman’s pilgrimage to either site constitutes a sacred act that endows her with some power. In this respect, the female pilgrims who partake in these rites are essentially coping with the marginal status of women in patriarchal societies (1986, 19). Sered also refers to constraints at the two sites. Rachel is considered a local saint, so that only women from the general vicinity visit her tomb. Additionally, the Milk Grotto is “a dark, private, and even antisocial” shrine. For example, pilgrims must ring a doorbell to gain admittance and are chaperoned by a male Franciscan guard throughout their stay. There are also popular Jewish saint tombs in Israel’s southern and northern periphery. The popularity of some of these sites has led to the construction of adjacent synagogues and enclosed candle-lighting receptacles (Bilu and Ben Ari, 1992, 1995; Ben Ari and Bilu 1997). Moreover, the bustle around both living and deceased saints has triggered an outburst of new activities 7  The Midrash is a corpus of homiletic exegeses on the Bible. 8  According to Sered (1986), the earliest evidence of this site dates back to at least the twelfth century.

Religion and Modernity

(Bilu 2010). A case in point is the mass pilgrimages to kivrai tzadikim (tombs of the righteous) on the hillulah (anniversary) of the given saint’s passing. More often than not, the number of attendees at these events far exceeds the local community’s entire population (1997, 62). One of the most thriving sites is the grave of the Baba Sali, Rabbi Yisrael Abuhatzeira (1890-1984), in the Negev town of Netivot. Abuhatzeira was a prominent figure in the Moroccan-Jewish community. Considered a miracle worker during his lifetime, his burial place has become a sacred pilgrimage site where throngs of believers pray for health, fertility, and livelihood. Among the most venerated burial sites that dot the Galilee is that of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai on Mount Meron. Shimon Bar Yohai is considered one of the most devoted disciples of Rabbi Akiva, a leading light of the Tannaic Era. Moreover, he is deemed to be a leading kabbalist and the author of Sefer haZohar (Book of Splendor, the canonical text of Jewish mysticism). R. Shimon’s tomb attracts pilgrims throughout the year, but his hillulah on the festival of Lag Ba’omer is probably the largest annual gathering in all of Israel. Bilu describes the h. alaka (first haircut) ceremony during this event (2003, 173). According to kabbalistic tradition, a Jewish boy gets his maiden haircut at the age of three. At Meron, the h. alaka is performed by the proud fathers against the ecstatic backdrop of the mass pilgrimage to the tomb. From morning to evening, the site’s courtyard is packed with Hasidim dancing rapturously to deafening music. In the inner circumference of the seemingly endless layers of dancers, the recentlyshorn children are showered with gifts and encouraged to live up to their newly-acquired status as boys, rather than babies (2003, 184). Fundamentalist movements, charismatic groups, and mass group worship in Israel usually fall under the purview of Orthodox and Haredi streams. However, these phenomena are far from the only signs of religious rival in the “Promised Land.” Many Israelis, secular and otherwise, have embraced various aspects of the new religiosity and spiritualism within the framework of New Age movements and similar groupings. As in other countries, there are Israelis who have reacted to monotheistic ideals of religiosity by creating an assortment of religious practices that fuse elements of paganism, shamanism, and Buddhist spirituality with New Age content and some Jewish elements as well.

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The Haredi Communit y in Israel: An Ov er v i e w o f t h e R ecen t Li t er at u r e Over the past ten years, there has been a renaissance in the study of religiosity in Israel, as scholars have explored the myriad streams, sects, and spiritual groups that dot the country’s confessional landscape. The present chapter succinctly reviews the literature on the focal point of this research enterprise—the ultra-Orthodox community. Some two decades ago, Menachem Friedman (1991, 1993) characterized Haredis as successors to the East European Jewish tradition of meticulous observance of halacha (Jewish law). In contrast to earlier generations, though, Friedman demonstrated that the post-war norm in Israel is for all ultraOrthodox men to occupy themselves with the study of Torah on a full-time basis. Moreover, the community proclaims to be united around a sense of trauma at the fact that most of world Jewry has “abandoned” the traditional Jewish lifestyle. That said, ultra-Orthodoxy is far from monolithic. Haredis are divided into dozens of sects, rabbinic courts, and movements which struggle for power, authority, and resources. The historical Jewish schism that erupted in the 1800s between the upstart Hasids, who placed a greater emphasis on spirituality, and the more rational-minded mitnagdim (or Lithuanians, literally “the opponents”) has for all intents and purposes been patched up. However, new sub-groups have emerged in the modern Jewish state. Whereas Friedman (1991) divided Israel’s Haredis into four principal groups—Lithuanians, Polish Hasidim, Hungarians, and Jerusalemites— in the early 1990s, Kimmy Caplan (2003b, 2007) asserts that today the primary camps are Ashkenazim (Jews of European or latterly American descent) and Sephardim (Jews from Asia and North Africa). This ethno-

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

cultural distinction is sustained by separate political parties, educational systems, and lifestyles (see Lehmann and Siebzehner 2006). After the state’s establishment in 1948, the Hasidic and Lithuanian factions of the ultra-Orthodox Ashkenazi sector were represented by the Agudat Yisrael (Union of Israel) Party and Degel haTorah (Flag of Torah), respectively. However, since 1992, the two parties have run on the same ticket under the name Yahadut haTorah haMeuchedet (United Torah Judaism). The party’s politicians are beholden to the rabbinical elite. Throughout the years, Yahadut haTorah’s main objectives have been to ensure that yeshiva students can continue studying on a full-time basis after the age of eighteen (i.e., to renew Haredi youth’s exemption from military service) and to increase government funding for the ultra-Orthodox educational system and state stipends for large families. In the 1984 elections, Yahadut haTorah emphatically translated its constituents’ demographic growth into political clout, as the faction swelled from two to seven Knesset members.1 Among the other reasons for this success were the party’s increasingly nationalistic orientation and the muting of its opposition to Zionism (Liebman 1993, 72). Although Agudat Yisrael’s influence on Israeli culture and public policy has been rising since the Six Day War in 1967, its first major strides came in the aftermath of the 1977 elections, when a right-wing coalition put an end to nearly thirty years of Labor Party rule. In 1992, the ultra-Orthodox factions (Yahadut haTorah and Shas2) secured major concessions from the government in return for their support of the Oslo Accords (Horowitz 2002, 11).3 That said, the Haredi public usually leans to the right of the political spectrum; and due to the escalating violence between Jews and Arabs since the late 1980s, the community has gradually intensified its hawkish position towards the Arab-Israeli conflict. For example, many devotees now demonize local Arabs as arch enemies of the Jewish people. What is more, the conflict has drawn ever more Haredis to the ballot box, which has obviously bolstered the sector’s political influence. 1  The Israeli parliament totals 120 representatives. 2  See Lehmann and Siebzehner 2006 for a detailed portrait of Shas, a Sephardic Haredi party/movement. 3  It bears noting that the Haredi parties’ clout has always surpassed their actual dimensions thanks to Israel’s fractured multi-party system.

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The spike in Haredi political involvement is also tied to the community’s precarious economic state. According to Eli Berman (1998, 2000, 913-914), the proportion of Haredi men between the ages of 25 and 54 who did not participate in the labor market shot up from 41 percent in 1980 to 60 percent in 1996, and these numbers continue to mount. Despite the sector’s meager income level, members wed earlier than the general public and have over three times the number of children.4 These factors stand behind the community’s dire need for external funding, be it government supplements or philanthropic donations. As it now stands, Haredis constitute between 6 and 10 percent of Israel’s population (Caplan 2007). Their largest centers are Mea She‘arim, a Jerusalem neighborhood, and the city of Bnei Brak. In order to cope with the community’s rapid growth and the limited capacity of its existing neighborhoods, new Haredi quarters were built in towns like Ashdod, Netanya, and Beit Shemesh (Shilhav 1991, 1998, 6). Furthermore, new cities and suburbs, such as Modiin Ilit, Beitar Ilit, and Elad, have been constructed specifically for ultra-Orthodox families, with all the necessary communal institutions and services: yeshivas, synagogues, kosher groceries, ritual baths, and bookstores, among others. Another wrinkle in this development is the fact that Haredis—both regular citizens and entrepreneurs—were deeply involved in the planning of these settlements, and community members participate at every level of the municipal government (Shilhav 1998, 7). In light of the above, the majority of Haredis maintain a modest lifestyle, live in crowded quarters, and rely on state support (Berman 2000; Dahan 1998; Shilhav 1991). While the quality level of the sector’s religious education is quite high, poverty and unemployment are ballooning. The steep cutbacks to the welfare state since the 1990s have also hurt the community, which is particularly susceptible due to its large number of children per family. These developments have hindered the ultra-Orthodox father’s wherewithal to fully devote himself to the yeshiva. Likewise, the community’s ascetic ideology has become a heavy burden on the average family (Stadler 2008). While some families earn income from property in Europe or receive war reparations from Germany, these sources are steadily drying up. Not only have these hardships stoked intra-communal 4  Haredi families have 7.7 per family versus 2.6 for the Israeli population as a whole.

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

tensions, but have engendered far-reaching transformations in Haredi society. Changing Haredi Society There is a consensus among scholars (Friedman, 1987; Selengut 1994, 246; Soloveitchik 1994ab, 222; Heilman 1983, 1992, 1994) that, unlike the ultra-Orthodox communities in other countries, the Israeli branch was originally intended to be a quietist society. In other words, its founders sought to sequester the devotees and their “sacred” culture into enclaves, so as to shield them from liberal, corrupting influences. It is also worth noting that the community was officially against the establishment of a Jewish state. Only on rare occasions, both before and after Israel’s founding, did the Haredis exhibit activist zeal. Foremost among the exceptions were political demonstrations when some sort of religious right, inviolable precept, or status quo was perceived to be violated, such as the heated rallies against the opening of Jerusalem’s first public swimming pool in the late 1950s. The ultra-Orthodox ethos of Talmudic erudition and the effacement of temporal concerns stood in sharp contradistinction to the newfangled secular and nationalist symbols of the fledgling Jewish state, especially the image of the productive Zionist worker and the selfdependent and self-sacrificing Hebrew warrior (Morgan 1994, 165). Conversely, Israel’s Haredis passively waited for divine intervention, while rejecting Zionism, secularism, and all other activist models of behavior. In a similar vein, they deem aggressiveness to be coarse and refrained from participating in the affairs of state, politics, the military, and the labor market. Until recently, scholars investigated these fundamentalist norms by means of the isolated-enclave culture model—an approach that is now under fire. Scholars of religion in Israel have turned their attention to shifts in the aforementioned Haredi paradigm (El-Or 1994; Goodman 1997; Bilu 2000; Caplan 2007; Ben-Yehuda 2010, 25). Over the past twenty years, the ultra-Orthodox community has undergone radical changes in a wide range of lifestyle and cultural areas. The dedication to the Torah, exclusion of women from public life, male yeshiva asceticism, and sector-wide separatism—all features that defined the quiescent nature of Israeli yeshiva fundamentalism at its inception—have all been challenged by members of

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the community. In consequence, ultra-Orthodox leaders, who previously saw themselves as the “guardians of the walls” (shomrai ha’h. omot) of authentic Judaism, have been compelled to rethink their outlooks. As we shall see, the community’s rabbis and politicians have clearly reached the conclusion that major reforms are vital to the survival of the yeshiva world in Israel. Shifts in the Haredi fundamentalist lifestyle can be explained using different analytical paradigms—political, economical, cultural, and more. These changes are transpiring within a dynamic social context. The wars, terrorism, and political instability that have plagued Israel since the early 1990s have led different social groups—immigrants, religious-Zionists, and ethnic minorities—to start redefining their relations with the state and civil society. This sort of soul-searching also informs Haredi relations with the Israeli mainstream. By slowly accepting certain elements of the Israeli identity, the ultra-Orthodox community has ratcheted down the tension with the state and civil society. Some researchers (e.g., Lupo 2003, 12) claim that the economic crisis is, and will continue to be, the major impetus for change in the Haredi yeshiva world. Although the ultra-Orthodox ideal of “poverty by choice” is still rather buoyant, even its most fervent standard bearers wish to improve their living standards. Consequently, there have been numerous internal discussions about professional training, namely secular education, for Haredi men. These on-going debates, as well as the underlying economic pressure, are generating a great deal of controversy, as the heads of the community nervously vacillate over how to tackle this problem. The realization that the time has come for change has indeed transformed many aspects of ultra-Orthodox life. For example, Haredis have changed their views on politics, religion, economics, medicine, government aid, modern technology, the state, citizenship, culture, gender, and the family. A case in point is the new relations that community members have forged with the state and secular segments of Israeli society (Caplan 2003b; Sivan and Caplan 2003).5 To begin with, many devotees are becoming more nationalistic. Moreover, young Haredi men are exhibiting a greater interest in serving in the army, entering the labor market, and cooperating with state institutions. 5  This topic is discussed at length in chapter 3.

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

The growth of the Haredi community has been accompanied by a general increase in religious frameworks. Ultra-Orthodoxy is no longer the exclusive option for authentic Judaism, as alternatives are being offered by Hasidic groups, like Chabad and Breslov, the Conservative and Reform movements, and more recently by Jewish New Age groups and a medley of Sephardic congregations. On the other hand, many devotional frameworks, such as elements within the national-religious camp and Sephardic groups, are slowly fusing with Haredi sects, thereby expanding the borders of the enclave. All told, this brisk intra-faith competition testifies to a spiritual revival in Israel and beyond. The heightening presence of ultra-Orthodox factors in mainstream society has placed the spot light on interactions between Haredis and their fellow Israelis. Additionally, since the 1980s, internal Haredi matters have been covered by the mainstream press, and ultra-Orthodox themes and lifestyles have been portrayed on television, in the cinema, and theaters with greater frequency than before. At the same time, some Haredi or exHaredi writers, like Dov Elboim, the late Israel Segal, Naomi Ragen, and Chana Bat Shahar, have become very popular in Israel, despite or by virtue of their unique ultra-Orthodox style (Caplan and Stadler, forthcoming). In sum, Haredi themes and issues that hitherto only concerned members of the community have found a highly receptive audience beyond the walls of the enclave. There has also been a sea-change in all that concerns modern technology, as the Haredi sector has embraced computers, cellular phones, the Internet, and DVDs. During the 1980s and 1990s, most ultra-Orthodox rabbinical authorities sought to keep computers out of their devotees’ homes. However, the floodgates have opened, and today computers, along with cellular phones and other technological innovations, have been warmly embraced by the Haredi public. Not only have the internet and other advances proven to be a dynamic format for Haredi-authored content, but they have enabled new and previously censored ideas to infiltrate the ultraOrthodox consciousness (Golan 2011). In recognition of the inevitability of these changes, the community is trying to scrutinize and negotiate the ideas that are flowing in, but these developments are expanding the faithful’s horizons and altering the Haredi way of life. Over the next few pages, I will survey some of the research that has been done on transformations in Haredi society with respect

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to authority, education and employment, gender, politics, and con- version. Authority and Leadership In the anthology Leadership and Authority in the Israeli Haredi Society (Caplan and Stadler 2009), various scholars discuss the changes in the ultra-Orthodox hierarchy. During the 1980s and 1990s, the community founded new institutions that are dedicated to meeting the numerous and, at times, conflicting demands of its burgeoning population. These organizations have stepped into the vacuums that the established rabbinical authorities are incapable of filling. In other words, the traditional leadership has been forced to cede some of its functions and power to new factors. For instance, the dearth of halachic rulings on family life, education, and gender divisions has created a demand for relevant information on these topics. Young Haredi writers have identified these needs and articulated fresh, straightforward approaches to pressing issues, like the weight that the ultra-Orthodox wife must bear as the family’s primary breadwinner and home keeper.6 More importantly, they have articulated plans for new educational institutions that are slated to meet these demands. It bears noting that these new publications and institutions are not always religious per se. Most of them are predicated on technological knowledge and the findings of modern Western disciplines, like psychology, medicine, or pedagogy. This trend has spawned unique fusions between scientific and theological content that is influencing different areas of Haredi life. For example, this sort of knowledge is being used by emerging leaders that were previously unaccepted by the community, such as female therapists and the heads of ethnic groups. These new authorities are not only challenging the old order, but are extending the borders of the enclave culture to include modern advances that were previously off-limits. These changes are quite evident in the Haredi educational system. Orit Yafeh (2009, 2007) has tracked the development of new pedagogical administrators in Haredi kindergartens for girls. According to her findings, a synthesis between Jewish law and psychological-pedagogical knowledge has enabled Haredi female educators to maintain their authority, while 6  For a disquisition on this problem, see chapter 4.

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

securing the crucial imprimatur of the community’s traditional male elites. More specifically, these experts devise strategies that help them work in an unhindered and creative fashion with their pupils, so as to impart them with practical knowledge and a sense of freedom. In a similar vein, Vered Ba-Gad Elimelech (2009) analyzes the relations between the rabbinical elite and the new Haredi film industry. She shows how the role of rabbis in the industry’s films is much smaller than expected (also see Vinig 2011). Unlike other ultra-Orthodox platforms, such as children’s’ books, in which traditional rabbis and yeshiva students assume center stage, these films tend to showcase Haredi figures who are initiators, combat soldiers, and business men. This new paradigm of the Israeli Haredi is reminiscent of none other than the typical Zionist male protagonist of Israeli films and novels from the mid-twentieth century. Nissim Leon (2009) examines new Sephardic Haredi leaders on Israel’s periphery. Leon’s case study is Danni Ezra, a rabbi that takes advantage of his cultural marginality to revive ultra-Orthodox institutions and create a vivid community around his ideas. For example, Ezra established his rabbinical bona fides by drawing on the Jewish concept of zehut avot (birthright). The rabbi’s genealogy helped him win over the respect of his target audience. Similarly, Tamar El-Or (2006) illustrates the struggle of young Sephardic Haredi women to wrench away some of the local leadership responsibilities from the all-male authority. As part of their efforts, these women have devised a creative approach to interpreting Jewish rules for their followers. Career Students Enrollment at post-high school yeshivas in Israel continues to soar. During the eighties, the number of seminarians who were exempt from army service under the category “torato omanuto” (Torah is his vocation) was upwards of 30,000. Within ten years, though, there were over 70,000 and the numbers continue to rise (Schiffer 1998). In contrast, Haredi men in the United States participate in the modern labor market and fulfill civil obligations. Accordingly, most members of non-Israeli ultra-Orthodox communities are part of the middle class, whereas the majority of their Israeli counterparts find themselves in the lower or lower-middle class (Caplan 2003a, 79). The principal reasons for this are the extremely low

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participation rate of Israel’s Haredi men in the labor market and their above-mentioned espousal of a poverty-by-choice ideology (Cohen 2005). In addition, one of the mainstays of the Israeli welfare policy—the encouragement of a high birthrate by offering generous support to large families (Horowitz 2002, 18)—has helped entrench this culture, as the extra income for each child helps the father stay in yeshiva. Jacob Lupo (2003) examined Israeli ultra-Orthodoxy’s unparalleled approach to employment. Through historical analysis, he shows how the Haredi public has cultivated an increasingly hostile attitude towards secular education (limudey h. ol) and professional training since the Holocaust. This outlook is partially responsible for the relatively poor living standards of the country’s Haredis (Berman 2000; Dahan 1998; Shilhav 1991), as they lack the skills for decent jobs and large families are thus dependent on communal support systems. According to Lupo (2003), finding the right balance between sacred and profane knowledge has long been a topic of debate in ultra-Orthodox circles, especially over the last century and a half. At times, the community has preferred a more ascetical approach, while at other junctures it has leaned towards integration. Lupo argues that, during Israel’s first fifty years of existence, Haredi authorities adopted a policy of total isolation from and hostile attitude towards the outside world, work-related or practical knowledge included. However, 1996 constituted a watershed in all that concerns professional training and education, as new institutions were set up to qualify Haredis, albeit mostly women, for modern jobs. While ultra-Orthodox leaders continue to trumpet the importance of defending the community’s “pure boundaries” by means of universal yeshiva attendance for males, different Haredi factors are trying to reconcile between ideology and economic reality. Yet another motivation behind reforming the system is the Israeli mainstream’s criticism that the yeshiva students are taking a “free ride” at the expense of others (Stadler 2002, 2008). At any rate, the community now offers more vocational training and academic education for both men and women alike (Lupo 2003). That said, Cohen (2005) demonstrates how even those Haredi men who want to leave the yeshiva are still hard pressed to find gainful employment because of insufficient skills and the paucity of work places that are suited for the singular needs of an ultra-Orthodox man. Cohen places the blame on the Haredi leadership, which is still equivocating over whether to fully implement these reforms.

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

Gender Tamar El-Or (1993ab, 1994, 2002, 2006) has put her finger on many of the changes that Haredi women have undergone through the years. As part of her research, El-Or takes stock of the central role of literacy in their attempts to live more pious lives. A prime example of this is the thriving female learning circles. Moreover, she documents the creative involvement of women in the revival and reshaping of Haredi culture. In fact, she contends that female literacy is sparking a profound transformation in ultra-Orthodox Judaism. Erudite women are deemphasizing the gender of the believer so as to enable themselves to take part in the community’s public discourse for the first time. Last but not least, their efforts to acquire advanced Torah knowledge have heightened the tension between Haredi piety and the modern secular world. In the process, these developments have fomented a change in the social standing of the community’s women.7 Following in El-Or’s footsteps, Yael Shenkar (2009) examined a new group of ultra-Orthodox female novelists whose writing gives voice to the woman’s authentic perspective on family, gender roles and work in Israel’s Haredi community. Shenkar claims that these novels are commanding the attention of ultra-Orthodox women. Furthermore, the very existence of these works constitutes a break from the status quo, as heretofore only the community’s men were encouraged to occupy themselves with writing and purely religious texts were the only legitimate genres. According to Shenkar, these female authors accept the fact that the Haredi elite is comprised exclusively of men; however, their writing expands the repertoire of acceptable Haredi genres and calls into question the patriarchal structure of their community. In the process, these women have gained a measure of authority, while setting a precedent for other ultra-Orthodox women seeking outlets for their own creative urges.

7  Cf. Tamar Rapoport’s study (1999) on the link between female piety and the construction of subjectivity in fundamentalist religious-Zionist schools. Based on her fieldwork at an all-girls boarding school, she argues that the teenage pupils reinterpret their daily experiences with adhering to the community’s standards of modesty and discuss their anticipated experiences as wives and mothers (also see Rapoport, Penso, and Garb 1994, 1995; Rapoport, Penso, and Halbertal 1996).

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Haredis on the Move The above-mentioned resurgence of ultra-Orthodoxy in Israel has instilled Haredis with a great deal of self-confidence, to the point where the community feels the need to make its mark on mainstream civil society (Caplan and Stadler, forthcoming). For example, a handful of Haredi notfor-profit organizations have been established that cater to the needs of the entire Israeli public (see chapter 3). This sense of accomplishment has been bolstered by the strong influx of new individuals and groups into the Haredi ranks. To contend with the many and manifold needs of these neophytes and attract more “recruits,” the community has been forced to broaden its institutional reach (Caplan and Stadler forthcoming). In the wake of the Holocaust, Israel’s small ultra-Orthodox community expended most of its energy on maintaining a culture of isolation, building defense mechanisms, and concocting survival strategies. While the Haredi message to the outside world continues to harp on these same themes, in reality this mentality is in the grips of change. Refusing to rest on the laurels of its demographic and political gains, the ultra-Orthodox brass is pursuing various plans to reinforce these trends. One area of improvement has been Haredi education for girls. As part of this enterprise, the community has rehabilitated the legacy of Sarah Shnirer (1883-1935) (Shaul forthcoming). Born in prewar Krakow, Shnirer was a pioneer of Orthodox education for girls. In 1917, she established Bais Yaakov (the house of Jacob), an innovative network of all-girls schools that merited the approval of Poland’s leading rabbis. In her historical study, Michal Shaul (forthcoming) explains how the community in Israel has incorporated Shnirer’s dual religious-secular curriculum into the presentday Bais Yaakov system. While this approach was once frowned upon by Israeli ultra-Orthodox leaders, today Shnirer’s ideas dovetail neatly with the changes that the community is undergoing and its aspirations for women. Yet another example of an Israeli synthesis between traditional and modern elements is being spearheaded by Shas, a Sephardic revival movement.8 Lehmann and Siebzehner (2006) describe how Shas has both restored and invented ethnic and quasi-ethnic barriers that are altering the face of popular religion in Israel. In addition, this movement is changing 8  Shas is discussed at length in the first chapter.

The Haredi Community in Israel: An Overview of the Recent Literature

traditional Sephardic lifestyles by adopting the practices and beliefs of Ashkenazi Haredis. The stated objectives behind these reforms are to resist the secularization of its flock and “rescue” Sephardic youth from the temptations of modernity. According to Lehmann and Siebzehner (2006), Shas purports to help people cope with secular society by establishing certain social norms to regulate their behavior. While the movement’s declared goal is to perpetuate Sephardic heritage, in practice its rationalization of religious praxis has eliminated quite a few traditional customs. In many respects, Sephardic Haredis are integrating into mainstream Ashkenazi ultra-Orthodox life, but they also embrace many aspects of popular culture. For example, Shas’ leaders have taken advantage of modern media outlets, like radio stations, to spread their message to the masses. Against this backdrop, the Israeli religious scene is probably no different than other countries. The globalization of religion appears to involve three inter-related developments. The first is various forms of revivalism, especially the waves of alienated people “finding their way back to God.” The second is the cultivation of personal piety through the adoption of religious norms, such as attire, worship, and locution. Finally, revamped versions of religions are interacting with elements of popular culture. This particular development entails a certain degree of commodification. To wit: there is quite a bit of competition in the new religious marketplace between different groups, movements, or denominations. As part of their efforts to “attract customers,” clergy resort to Madison Avenue staples like product differentiation of religious lifestyles and the development of denominational brands. *** Shmuel Eisenstadt (2011, 34) claimed that Israel’s constitutional parliamentary system, which was grounded on universal legal rights for all its citizens, has basically remained intact since the state’s establishment in 1948. Even if the country’s semi-consociational and sectoral arrangements have undergone incremental change, this framework is still rooted on the basic premises of the modern nation-state. The system has indeed been put to the test by the following events and developments: wars in 1967 and 1973; the exhaustion of the above-mentioned hegemonic labor-Zionist mold, the concomitant proliferation of heterogeneity and pluralism in Israeli society; and the rise of many hitherto secondary or marginal sectors.

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These shockwaves culminated in the 1977 elections with the defeat of the Labor Party, which had ruled the country since its founding. As we have seen, even Haredi has been swept into the mainstream sociopolitical mix. The community’s own successes have pushed it closer to the center, while its shortcomings are forcing it to implement reforms. This is not only a cultural process, but a natural outcome of its demographic growth. The different avenues of change, which scholars have recently documented, attest to the across-the board efforts that Haredi society is making to revamp its lifestyle. While assimilating new bodies of knowledge, the ultra-Orthodox sector is nevertheless maintaining its religiosity. These substantial adjustments are indicative of how Haredis believe that authentic Judaism should be practiced in the modern era. I have analyzed these very changes through a number of prisms, not least Reuven Kahane’s informal model (especially in chapter 7). Following in his footsteps, I show that the expansion and institutionalization processes within the ultra-Orthodox world have given rise to an alternative order. Thanks to the sector’s buoyant confidence (due to its aforementioned revival), new paradigms of Haredi thought have emerged that afford members with greater freedom and more room for innovation. These developments have spawned, among other things, another model of fervid religiosity. More specifically, the institutionalization has weakened communal attributes like asceticism, insularity, and defensiveness. While these trends have been formalized, some of the informal norms, which have always existed—albeit inconspicuously—at the heart of ultra-Orthodoxy, have concomitantly been strengthened. In other words, alongside Haredi society’s established institutions and its penchant for continuously tightening modesty codes, the rules and behaviors that pertain to other fields of life have become less rigid. For example, community members are now reading an array of newspapers; families are going on recreational trips (e.g., visits to the zoo or large parks); a diverse Haredi film industry has taken root; and much more. All these developments testify to the fact that what Kahane refers to as “the informal code” is steadily expanding, at least with respect to the Israeli ultra-Orthodox community. In the chapters ahead, I will shed light on Israel’s emergent “new Haredism” by focusing on issues that pertain to citizenship, family life, the military, voluntarism, and personal freedom.

Chapter 3

Challenging

the

Citizenship Mold

This chapter examines the ways in which Haredi organizations in Israel challenge and negotiate hegemonic notions of civic duty. Drawing on the research literature about fundamentalism and citizenship, I will examine how Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community, which is widely-perceived as being indifferent or hostile to the secular state, nevertheless participates in civil society and contributes to the “greater good.” This very development has indeed prompted sociologists to reevaluate key issues of citizenship against the backdrop of religious resurgence, the rise of conservative political ideologies, and changing perspectives toward the secular state. On the basis of my ethnographic work in ultra-Orthodox environments, I contend that members of fundamentalist communities have translated new conceptions of participation into realistic strategies and tangible steps for partially integrating themselves into mainstream society. More specifically, over the last decade, the country’s Haredis have adopted a more pragmatic approach to the state and civil society, while maintaining their high standards of piety and religiosity. These trends have given rise to new modes of fundamentalist citizenship and new avenues of inclusion. For the sake of elucidating these new forms of fundamentalist citizenship, I will survey two prominent Haredi not-for-profit organizations: ZAKA, a recovery force that specializes in responding to terror attacks; and Yad Sarah, a medical services and equipment provider. As we shall see, each one of these voluntary outfits has introduced new definitions of and approaches to citizenship that have transformed the relationship between their fundamentalist community and society at large. Although other Haredi organizations have also chosen this route, I will concentrate on ZAKA and

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Yad Sarah because they were the first to embrace and institute the necessary changes. Furthermore, in my estimation, they have sparked a broader shift within Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community. With this in mind, the present chapter will center around the following questions: What is the context for the changes in the Israeli-Haredi outlook towards citizenship? And what are the ramifications of these developments on the general public? Before tending to these questions, let us survey the relations between the ultra-Orthodox community and the State of Israel through the prism of the expansive scholarly debate over the relations between fundamentalism and the modern state in general. Fundamentalism and the State In an article on the Israeli welfare state, Michael Shalev (2007, 201) argues that, as opposed to other countries where the political disagreements are over the extent of the government’s involvement in social issues, the public discourse in Israel is primarily concerned with the religious character of the state, especially questions concerning the enforcement of religious norms and practices in the public sphere, entitlement to immigration and citizenship (“who is a Jew?”), and government support for religious education. Needless to say, the ultra-Orthodox sector has always been a focal point of these long-standing disputes. However, changes in the way Haredis understand citizenship may alleviate some of the core problems and tensions that pertain to religion and the state in Israel. Since the mid-1980s, Israel has borne witness to two critical developments that have undermined the state’s monopoly over various resources and services. The first is the sea-change in the nature of the country’s conflicts. During the First Intifada (1987-1992), the Second Intifada (2000-2005), and the Second Lebanon War (the summer of 2006), it became glaringly obvious that Israel’s first-line enemies, such as the Hamas and Hezbollah, are not only attacking soldiers and military installations, but targeting civilians as well—both Jewish and Arab Israeli citizens alike. This has forced the state’s leadership to reconsider basic concepts of warfare, first and foremost among them the distinction between the battle front and the civilian rear as well as the very boundaries of the Israeli collective. Among the consequences of these new threats is that the Israeli republican consensus surrounding the importance of army service has increasingly

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

been called into question (Levy 2003, 2007; Levy, Lomsky-Feder, and Harel 2007; Peled 2007). The second trend is steep cutbacks in the welfare net. As in many industrial countries (Isin and Turner 2007; Joppke 2007), this development stems from the sweeping implementation of neo-liberalist policies that have vitiated the welfare state by down-sizing or cancelling government and state-mandated social and health services. In response to the state’s retreat from these commitments, private stakeholders have established new forms of civil participation with the objective of picking up the slack for the dwindling welfare state (Ben-Eliezer 1999; Peled and Ophir 2001; Ram 2007; Shafir and Peled 2002). Aside from compromising the public’s sense of security, these two trends have also paved the way for fundamentalist groups operating in the fourth sector to oppose, complement, or even support the institutions of state. Israel’s Haredi community thus constitutes an illuminating case study of how fundamentalist groups, which are usually perceived as oppositional elements, help fill security and welfare vacuums. Martin Riesebrodt (1990) and other sociologists have shown that, like other fundamentalist groups,1 the Haredi community is led by an intellectual male elite—yeshiva scholars that are considered scriptural virtuosos and paradigms of masculinity, asceticism, and morality (Antoun 2001, 3; Riesebrodt 1990, 9). As a defense against the temptations of a “corrupt” world and challenges to the group’s existing leadership, fundamentalist elites constantly strive to preserve and heighten the community’s level of piety (Stadler 2008). In so doing, they also seek to intensify the flock’s commitment to the group, to the exclusion of the state and other competing objects of loyalty. One of the primary means at their disposal are the community’s insular institutions, such as madrasas, churches, or theological schools, where the movement’s accepted ideas and traditions are passed on to new generations. At these centers of learning, fundamentalist groups train and replenish the ranks of experts who are charged with vigorously supervising and cultivating the community’s moral environment (Heilman 1995, 78). In the estimation of many researchers, most fundamentalist leaders are convinced that the secularist-leaning establishment is a demonic apparatus plotting against them. As a result, they devise strategies aimed at repulsing 1  See the definition of fundamentalist groups in chapter 1.

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the inroads of secularism or modernity and preserving their movement’s distinctive qualities (Ammerman 1987; Sahliyeh 1995, 135; Sivan 1995, 12). However, Marty and Appleby (1995, 1-2) show that certain fundamentalist groups do participate in the public discourse on modernization, political structures, and economic planning. In sum, scholars have hitherto classified fundamentalist approaches to the state under one of two headings: resistance to government-backed modern ideologies; or pragmatic and selective participation in the public sphere. The strategy of resistance is often undergirded by a “chosen people” or “holy warriors” ideology. In addition, the fundamentalist brass spares no effort to shield the faithful from what they see as venality, profligacy, and temptations of the modern world. With this objective in mind, a cadre of senior members fully devotes itself to perpetuating the group’s “virtuous” lifestyle. The radical Sikhs in India and the pious Shiite movements in Lebanon exemplify this kind of censorious attitude towards secular life, as their male leaders undertake to safeguard the boundaries between the pure community and the outside world by, inter alia, keeping their members out of the political sphere (Sahliyeh 1995, 147-148). On the other hand, there are fundamentalists who throw themselves into the political cauldron in an effort to influence state policy. Those who choose this path are inevitably forced to strike a compromise with the powers that be and strategically accommodate themselves to state ideologies, practices, and obligations. Susan Harding (2000, 12) and a team of scholars led by Almond (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003) expound upon this practical approach in their analyses of Jerry Falwell’s Evangelist movement in the United States and Italy’s Comunione e Liberazione, respectively. According to these studies, there are indeed some fundamentalist streams that consider politics a useful tool for securing resources and protecting their movement’s interests, such as their enclave culture and private religious schools. In my estimation, this schema of two mutually exclusive forms of relations between the state and fundamentalist groups is in the grips of change. More specifically, I would like to suggest a different theoretical approach that points to the emergence of a new fundamentalist strategy towards citizenship and the state, which I discerned over the course of my extended research on ultra-Orthodoxy in Israel (Stadler et al 2008). Although this collective is widely-viewed as quiescent and passive, in recent years Haredi activists have blazed a new path of civic action by

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fusing Judaism’s traditional outlook on philanthropy, compassion, and death with liberal notions of voluntarism. In contrast to other segments of the country’s population (e.g., Palestinian groups) that are largely excluded from mainstream civil society, thanks to its members’ organizational skills and collective dedication, the Haredi community has managed to establish and integrate itself into quite a few social outreach frameworks. Haredis and the State: Exclusion and Inclusion Haredis in Israel are united around three main ideas. First, they are highly committed to the study of Torah (i.e., the body of Jewish law and lore). Second, the community has long espoused a firm anti-Zionist stance. In other words, ultra-Orthodox Jews are generally critical of the idea of Jewish sovereignty over the Land of Israel. Lastly, they are traumatized by the fact that most Jews have abandoned the traditional Jewish way of life, in favor of other streams or secular options (Friedman 1993, 177). While the entire community is indeed unwaveringly dedicated to the most rigorous interpretation of halacha the level of adherence therein to each of the aforementioned ideas varies appreciably, so that Israel’s Haredis do not comprise a monolithic whole. Instead, they are partitioned into several distinct groups, which are embroiled in an on-going, intra-denominational power struggle over authority and resources (Heilman 1983, 1992). According to Kimmy Caplan (2007), the community is essentially divided between Ashkenazim (Jews of European descent) and Sephardim (Jews of Asian or North African descent). Each of these sub-groups has its own political parties, communal institutions, and educational systems. Moreover, the Ashkenazic and Sephardic communities have their own unique relations and strategies for dealing with the state. Over the next few pages, I will expound upon ultra-Orthodoxy’s ascendant yeshiva culture. In these circles, it is incumbent upon the yeshiva student to shun all worldly practices and devote every waking hour to intellectual and spiritual activities. One of the principal objectives of the yeshiva system is to produce scriptural geniuses who interpret the sacred codes that govern everyday life. Interrupting these studies for practically any reason is deemed to be a sin, so that national duties—most notably military service—or business dealings are considered no less than blasphemous (Stadler 2002, 2004, 2008). In light of the above, the Israeli

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ultra-Orthodox yeshiva has evolved into an “all-encompassing” institution that covers every facet of its students’ life cycle. It is a place of prayer and learning; a framework for socializing and leisure; and a community center that provides substantial assistance—from housing to psychiatric care—to its members. This development has engendered an isolated enclave culture amid the Israeli city. Since before the founding of the state, the proximity between communities with such divergent lifestyles and disparate demands of the government has triggered heated disputes between Haredis and other parts of Israeli society. However, over the last twenty years, these tensions have only been exacerbated by an ultra-Orthodox population boom and resurgence. The vast majority of ultra-Orthodox couples in Israel get married no later than their early twenties and have an average of 7.7 children, compared to 2.6 among the general population. According to Berman (2000, 913914), the number of Haredi men in Israel between the ages of 25 and 54 who do not participate in the labor market because they attend yeshiva on a full-time basis (or as the popular refrain goes, “their Torah is their occupation”) shot up from 41 percent in 1980 to 60 percent by 1996. These are indeed unprecedented levels, far exceeding those of other Orthodox Jewish streams both in Israel and abroad. As a result, the community is reliant on state subsidies and private donations for its sustenance. Under the circumstances, most Haredi families in Israel make do with frugal budgets and live in cramped apartments within poor and densely-populated neighborhoods (Berman 2000). Despite the above-mentioned ideologies, Israel’s ultra-orthodox community has undergone profound changes since the 1990s. The group’s defining features—dedication to Torah study, male-based asceticism, and insular enclaves—have come under fire from both mainstream society and elements within the community itself. As discussed in chapters five and six, this criticism has significantly altered Haredi views on politics, religion, economics, medicine, aid, gender, and the family (Caplan 2007). With this brief survey behind us, let us turn to our case studies.

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

ZAKA and the Management of Death ZAKA is a voluntary, all-male, emergency recovery organization that, according to its official website (2011), is the brainchild of a dedicated yeshiva student from Jerusalem: In 1989, while studying in a yeshiva, Yehuda Meshi Zahav, the founder and chairman of ZAKA, and his fellow students were startled into reality by a thunderous boom, 2 minutes of silence and then scores of bloodcurdling screams. The number 405 bus was steered over the mountainside by a terrorist. The bus exploded and 17 people died and scores were injured. Yehuda and his colleagues rushed to the scene and began to care for the wounded and dead. It was chilling and horrifying chaos, Yehuda relates. For six years after this incident Meshi Zahav and a dedicated group of volunteers continued this work of Hesed Shel Emet [true kindness], the . work that ‘makes God smile.’ The volunteers of ZAKA selflessly overcame the horror of terrorist attacks to recover human remains—fulfilling the biblical commandment to bury the dead ‘on the same day.’

This passage encapsulates ZAKA’s own story behind its provenance. Deeply moved by a gruesome terrorist incident, Meshi Zahav decided to launch a new framework for Haredi practices. In stark contrast to his community’s established and well-accepted yeshiva-based norms, he offers ultraOrthodox men a respectable structure that revolves around something other than the seminary. It bears noting that ZAKA’s emergence coincided with a regional spike in terrorism.2 While Haredis are accused of failing to pull their weight in Israeli society and even of being outright enemies of the state, ZAKA’s volunteers were a regular presence at the scene of terrorist attacks throughout the mid-1990s. Israeli society was deeply moved by the willingness of ZAKA’s members to carry out the grisly task of retrieving the sundered body parts of terror victims on a voluntary basis. Numerous op-ed pieces and news reports portrayed ZAKA in glowing terms, and its volunteers gained public legitimacy to tend to the victims of attacks. Some newspaper articles portrayed ZAKA volunteers as the “good Haredis.” Pundits also commented that this was the first time that the ultra-Orthodox 2  Although the organization was not officially incorporated until 1995, its volunteers already began serving the public a few years earlier.

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community had stepped up and made a contribution during trying times of conflict and loss. In stark contrast to the dearth of Haredis serving in the IDF (Israel Defense Forces, namely the Israeli army), numerous articles portrayed ZAKA volunteers as carrying out the venerable Jewish tradition of ensuring the dignity of the deceased (Stadler 2006). In assuming this role, the ultra-Orthodox organization was lending a hand in an arena that was hitherto exclusively under the purview of state insti- tutions. The organization’s success has given rise to a new model for Haredi interaction with greater society, which is beginning to expand to other fields of enterprise. For instance, in the wake of a huge fire that ravaged much of Israel’s Carmel Mountain range in December 2010, many ultra-Orthodox leaders called upon their followers to join the Israeli fire and rescue services. While the age-old Haredi narrative of catastrophe being a divine punishment to the people of Israel for forsaking God’s commandments still pervaded the ultra-Orthodox press’ coverage of the fire, it was accompanied by a call urging Haredi men to help the country respond to this disaster (see ZAKA’s official website). The image of the ZAKA volunteer deviates from prevalent Israeli stereotypes of “parasitical” Haredis who are dependent on state support and unwilling to contribute to greater society. Moreover, the organization has merited public recognition for its efforts from the Israeli establishment. For instance, the organization’s founder was invited to light one of the ceremonial torches in the state’s central Independence Day ceremony. The organizing committee explained its decision to bestow this distinguished honor upon Yehuda Meshi Zahav thus: Eight years ago after suicide attacks by Arabs, he established ZAKA, which trains its volunteers in three areas: first aid, locating missing persons and identification [of bodies] in disaster scenes while preserving the dignity of the dead (Ben-Haim 2003).

Many of the volunteers I interviewed claimed that ZAKA now wields exclusive responsibility for the retrieval of body parts during instances of sudden death, especially acts of terror aimed at Israeli civilians. Since the 1990s, the organization’s ranks have indeed swelled to over a thousand volunteers, and it has broadened its scope to the following areas: conventional emergency medical assistance; support for victims and their families, the

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

rescue and recovery of missing persons; and assorted educational activities (Stadler 2006, 2008). ZAKA (the Hebrew acronym for Identification of Disaster Victims) is indeed a unique phenomenon in fundamentalist attitudes toward citizenship. The presence of the organization’s members out on the streets marked the first time Haredis found themselves in the public spotlight as quasi-allies of the State of Israel. In other words, the largely nonZionist ultra-Orthodox community was outwardly helping Israeli society contend with attacks against the very existence of the state. However, as opposed to the country’s more established rescue and recovery forces— such as the army, the police, or ambulatory services—ZAKA volunteers specialize in responding to emergency situations in accordance with traditional Jewish law and culture. In assuming these responsibilities, they have devised new modes of organizational practices and relations with the state. When asked about their motives for joining ZAKA, most of my interviewees started out by explaining their commitment to time-honored religious obligations that pertain to death, burial, and salvation, all of which are deemed to be of utmost importance in the doctrinal hierarchy of Jewish tradition. They described how meaningful ZAKA’s mission is by invoking religious justifications and symbols. Several volunteers even went so far as to say that recomposing a body after an explosion is the pinnacle of Jewish devotion (Stadler 2006). For example, one volunteer described saving a Jewish soul as the most rewarding, otherworldly act that he could possibly undertake: [I]t is much more sacred to be in ZAKA [than any other framework]. Your place in heaven is much higher. If you have saved someone else’s life, you deserve the world; as we say, “He who saves a soul is one with Israel” … You can go to Abu Kabir [The Israeli Institute of Forensic Medicine] and see how we honor the dead… [E]very piece of flesh is collected.

At one and the same time, ZAKA personnel have also devised new interpretations of death that justify their contribution in terms of civic duty—an unmistakably secular notion. Accordingly, some of my interviewees stressed the importance of performing this act of compassion in the public spotlight (Stadler 2006).

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Yet another major part of serving in ZAKA is the emphasis on both religious and nationalistic ideals of sacrifice (Stadler et al. 2005). For example, the organization’s volunteers must be ready to respond to the call of duty at all times. In the event of an alarm, they are required to put everything else aside—even their Torah studies—and rush to the scene. Along the same lines as the republican discourse on citizenship, ZAKA members believe that their special contribution and lofty altruism entails a degree of sacrifice for the common good which can only be provided by an elite group. Their unsparing devotion is underscored by the fact that the lion’s share of their reward is strictly symbolic (Levy 2007). The idea of sacrifice is indeed a recurring theme in the organization’s discourse. For example, most of the PR statements that ZAKA releases, including the example below, evoke this image (American Friends of ZAKA 2010): ZAKA: RISKING THEIR LIVES TO SAVE OTHERS. December 2, 2010 11:39PM The 170 ZAKA volunteers from ZAKA’s Northern Command are risking their lives tonight, as they join the emergency forces who are currently dealing with the largest forest fire Israel has ever seen. The fire, which began near Beit Oren on the Carmel mountain range earlier this morning, has already claimed the lives of at least forty Prison Service cadets who had been called to the area to help with the evacuation of the Damon Prison. The victims were trapped in a bus, as they were surrounded by the fast-moving fire. Thanks to your ongoing support, the ZAKA Rescue and Recovery Organization is ready and able to offer an immediate and professional response to any emergency situation—whenever and wherever it happens.

Meshi Zahav paints similar images in an appeal to potential donors (Meshi Zahav 2010): Around the world, Jews are united in the prayer for life during the month of Tishrei. In this newsletter, you can read about the many places around the world—not just in Israel—where ZAKA volunteers can be found, saving those who can be saved and honoring those who cannot. Our volunteers seek no reward—only the desire to help others in their times of greatest need. However, we were proud to receive the special award from the World Jewish Congress for our life-saving work in Haiti.

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

Notwithstanding their contributions to greater society, ZAKA is a qu- intessential example of a fundamentalist organization that challenges republican ideals. Its volunteers do not justify their activity in terms of the Israeli hegemonic outlook, which emphasizes fulfillment of civic duty by means of army service. Furthermore, they insist on participating via their own frameworks, rather than under the purview of state institutions. Through organizations such as ZAKA, ultra-Orthodox Israelis have created new modes of voluntarism that broaden the state’s definition of citizenship, while remaining true to their own fundamentalist worldview. ZAKA has also cast doubt on hegemonic notions of citizenship by establishing an all-male, non-military organization that is widely-respected for its efforts in the struggle against terrorism. In the process, ZAKA volunteers have reshaped their own fundamentalist beliefs by conferring new meanings on their community’s ideas of mutualism, sacrifice, and nationalism. Yad Sarah: Filling a Vacuum the Haredi Way Established by Haredis in response to the curtailment of Israel’s social welfare net, Yad Sarah is a more conventional philanthropic organization than ZAKA. While there are at least a dozen ultra-Orthodox charitable trusts—ranging from soup kitchens to environmental advocacy groups— that cater to the needs of the entire population, Yad Sarah is far and away the largest and most recognized Haredi organization in Israel. Likewise, its mission statement (Yad Sarah Website 2011) appreciably differs from that of ZAKA or any other Haredi organization: The backbone of Yad Sarah is its “army” of volunteers. From town and country, from all walks of life, men and women of all ages, in every corner of Israel, give of their time and abilities to make Yad Sarah work. There would be no Yad Sarah without them. With over 6,000 volunteers, of whom about 2,000 work on a regular basis from two to six times a week, and only a minimum number in salaried positions, this is virtually a volunteer-run organization. It is no small matter to deploy and make efficient use of such a large and diverse population. Much effort and skill go into their training, placement, welfare and esprit de corps. Motivation and morale are nurtured and enhanced by activities that include lectures, excursions and entertainment.

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A central office in the Jerusalem headquarters coordinates all volunteer matters. The professional staff here is highly sensitive to the overriding importance of correct placement, in order to insure that the volunteers maintain the initial enthusiasm that brought them to Yad Sarah. For many volunteers, working at Yad Sarah is a rehabilitative experience in itself: the “corps” of volunteers includes retired people, people who are themselves somewhat disabled, people who could easily be on the “receiving” end of the services they supply. The new volunteer undergoes special training for the job. In the more demanding jobs, there is professional supervision and trouble-shooting. With time, the volunteer is given more specialized training and up- grading. Yad Sarah is known throughout Israel for its success in recruiting, training, placing, upgrading, administering and rewarding the largest corps of volunteers in the country.

What is more, Yad Sarah offers its services to and accepts volunteers from every sector of Israeli society, including secular Jews and Arab Muslims. As far as the organization is concerned, the objective of providing succor to all Israelis, regardless of faith or creed—is rooted in the ancient sources of Jewish culture. Unlike ZAKA, Yad Sarah is open to both men and women. As such, it offers an opportunity for ultra-Orthodox women to participate in the civic sphere and for non-Haredi volunteers to interact with their fervently religious colleagues. Yad Sarah was founded in Jerusalem in 1970 by Uri Lupolianski, a respected Haredi educator and public figure, who also served as the city’s mayor from 2003 to 2008. Officially named after Lupolianski’s mother, who perished in the Holocaust, the organization’s name combines the Hebrew word for memorial (yad) with a biblical name (Sarah), which is not uncommon among secular Israelis. Yad Sarah thus commemorates the Holocaust with a more humane touch than the State of Israel’s highlynationalistic official narrative (Segev 1991). According to the organization’s figures, its 103 branches throughout the country (in both Jewish and Arab towns) consist of over 6,000 volunteers, many of whom are not ultraOrthodox. Yad Sarah’s stated raison d’être is to keep the ill, disabled, and elderly in their homes and out of institutions for as long as possible (Yad Sarah Website 2011):

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

The organization provides a spectrum of free or nominal cost services designed to make life easier for sick, disabled and elderly people and their families. Today, only 26 years after it was founded, Yad Sarah… saves the Israeli economy about $300 million a year in hospitalization and medical costs. Yad Sarah’s annual operating budget is financed almost completely by donations, over 70 percent of which are raised within Israel. No government assistance is received.

Similar to ZAKA, Yad Sarah is dedicated to grappling with some of the more rudimentary problems facing mankind—disease, hunger, loneliness—in a particularly “Jewish” way. Put differently, volunteers are urged to lend a hand to their fellow citizens as part of their religious duties and aspirations. In this respect, volunteers are asked to fuse together elements of civil conscientiousness with Haredi fundamentalist piety. This point is underscored in a piece about Yad Sarah in aish.com, the popular website of a Jewish institution that is dedicated to bring secular Jews “back to the fold” of Orthodox Judaism (Coopersmith and Simmons 2003): The growth of Yad Sarah shows how one person, translating the most sublime values of Jewish life into deeds, can capture the imagination of thousands, galvanize them into action, tap their deepest resources of love and goodness—and make a difference.

Jewish “values” are thus presented as the organization’s chief impetus for serving the general Israeli public. In that same article, Lupolianski explains the social enterprise of Yad Sarah in religious terms (ibid): From the start, our guiding principle has been to help everyone who needs help. Judaism teaches us to respect and care for every human being, created in the image of God. But the Jewish concept of chesed goes beyond that: We should actively seek out ways to help.

Alternatively, Jweekly.com, a non-denominational Jewish website, lauded Yad Sarah for constituting an exemplar of devotion to wider communal values (Bedein 2003): One of the most fundamental ideas of a vibrant Jewish community involves the idea of voluntarism on all levels. It is the spirit of the dedicated volunteer that has bound the Jewish community together through the centuries… In Jerusalem, the Yad Sarah organization, which supplies every level of service to people with special needs, represents one of the shining examples of voluntarism.

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These sentiments are echoed by other secular factors. For example, during his tenure as Israel’s Minister for Pensioner Affairs, Rafi Eitan called the organization’s enterprise “holy work” (Yad Sarah Website). A similar yet much more common refrain was issued by a secular journalist who observed that Yad Sarah is “the only nice part of the Haredi experience” (Keshet 1992). Moreover, the state’s acknowledged the organization’s achievements by awarding it the Israel Prize, the country’s highest civilian honor. When describing its activities for non-Haredi audiences, Yad Sarah’s leadership also turns to general notions of voluntarism, and compassion, while soft-pedaling or entirely omitting the particularly Jewish aspects of its activities (Bedein 2003): Discussing the volunteers, Lupolianski said there were many older Israelis who wished to launch a new career that involved community service upon their retirement and there were many practical reasons for that desire. The retiree gets satisfaction out of giving to others and a sense of being productive, as well as social contacts and the joy of contributing to the greater society.

In a similar vein, the organization’s founder touched upon the friction between mainstream Israeli society and the ultra-Orthodox community (Coopersmith and Simmons 2003): I’ve gone to Arab villages to help set up Yad Sarah branches, and I’ve served in the IDF. So I’m sensitive to the different worlds… Some secular Jews think that religious people don’t care enough about them. But I believe the opposite is true. If a Jew eats bread on Passover, he may not understand how that could affect me. But from my perspective, all Jews are one family, responsible one for another. So every Jew affects me.

In his public statements, Lupolianski not only attributes his knowledge of both “worlds” (i.e., ultra-Orthodox and otherwise) to his tour of military service, but merges notions of national membership, namely Jewish belonging, with ideas on civic responsibility, thereby encompassing Israel’s Arabs in the collective. Yad Sarah takes pride in the many joint ventures it runs with private corporate factors and the government. In 1989, for example, a shopping mall in downtown Tel Aviv allowed the organization to hold a fund-raising drive on its premises (Kotesberg 2002). Yad Sarah also teamed up with business people to supply medical equipment to peripheral communities

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

in 2000 (Alush 2000). Three years later, its volunteers distributed gas masks and material for sealing rooms in the event of a non-conventional attack in Israel. This particular venture was carried out in conjunction with state authorities (Ben-David et al. 2003). Volunteers explain that the growth of Yad Sarah is related to government cutbacks in programs for the needy. According to the organization, one out of every two households in Israel has benefited from its services. All told, Yad Sarah provides medical and social care to over 380,000 senior citizens, among others (Pietrokovski and Zini 2006), in the following fields (Yad Sarah Website 2011): [L]ending of medical and rehabilitative equipment on a short-term basis free of charge to anyone who needs it... In addition, Yad Sarah provides a wide range of other services, including transportation and day care centers for the disabled, drop-in centers and minimum-charge dental clinics for the elderly, personal computerized emergency alarms monitored 24 hours a day and guidance centers which help disabled people choose the devices most suited to their needs. The organization also provides equipment and services for new mothers, infants, recently discharged hospital patients and others in need.

Yad Sarah also sees itself as fulfilling a universal mission. With this in mind, it has taken steps to become a global outfit. For instance, it has launched aid and training programs in manifold countries, from Angola, Cameroon, and Jordan to South Korea and China (Ichner 2007). In what appears to be an effort to showcase its distinguished social standing, the organization joined an all-Israeli coalition, including the IDF, the Prime Minister’s Office, and El-Al Airlines, that sent emergency aid to victims of Hurricane Katrina (Ichner 2007). Last but not least, in 2005, it became the first Jewish-Israeli NGO to be granted observer status at the United Nations (Ichner 2007). The activities and discourse of Yad Sarah expose a new Haredi model of altruism that circumvents the state, reinforces the idea of the Jewish collective, and endeavors to cast doubt on the Israeli hegemonic notion of citizenship. While the weakening of the frameworks of state has allowed or compelled various social groups to cut themselves off from general public and retreat into enclaves, this same process has paradoxically enabled the ultra-Orthodox community to establish a foothold in the mainstream society by virtue of its philanthropic enterprise.

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As we have seen, Yad Sarah constitutes a communal equivalent of private business-related stakeholders that are stepping into the welfare void left by the state, which is increasingly less willing and able to tend to the needs of its disadvantaged citizens. While different segments of Israeli civil society, such as corporations or youth movements, get involved in community projects out of a conscious and conscientious desire to give back to society, the ultra-Orthodox community engages in these sort of activities for what they consider to be religious reasons. That said, the leaders of Haredi notfor-profit organizations also publicly justify and extol their enterprise in secular civic terms. Inclusive Fundamentalism For the most part, sociology of religion scholars divide the relations that fundamentalist groups maintain with the state into two general categories: the hostile rejection of government institutions and the state’s hegemonic conception of citizenship; and a pragmatic approach whereby fundamentalist leaders cautiously participate in the political arena by selectively accommodating themselves to the majority’s norms, ideologies, and rules in order to advance the movement’s interests. However, as we have seen, another fundamentalist attitude to the government and society at large has recently surfaced in Israel: by introducing new definitions of citizenship and patterns of voluntarism that suit their community’s principles and lifestyle, ultra-Orthodox organizations have assumed various responsibilities in the fourth sector. Although large swathes of Haredi society remain sequestered in enclaves (thereby affording the country’s majority the religious legitimation to engage in an ethno-national discourse), certain members of the community are actively seeking wider public recognition and legitimacy by adapting themselves to popular liberal models of citizenship, which place an emphasis on, say, “giving back” to society at large. Haredi volunteers at ZAKA and Yad Sarah have widened the boundaries of the citizenship discourse by creating new modes of participation that are anchored on a theologically justified ideological framework. Rather than couching their actions in terms of either separation from or instrumental integration with mainstream society and the state, they have embraced a uniquely Haredi form of citizenship that I refer to as

Challenging the Citizenship Mold

“inclusive fundamentalism.” This brand of fundamentalism is grounded on a religiously-inspired worldview which demands wider circles of belonging and active engagement with the community’s surroundings. The adherents of this approach continue to take a pragmatic, limited approach to state institutions in which the fourth sector has been chosen as the field of enterprise for making their unique mark on the country-wide stage. While framing their voluntary activities in theological terms (especially the idea of Jewish mutualism), thanks to these new modes of participation, and by challenging the hegemonic notion of the military as the principal outlet for filling civic duties, ultra-Orthodox volunteers have expanded the boundaries of the public discourse on citizenship. In this context, ZAKA should be viewed as a response to the escalation of terrorist attacks and the inability of government institutions, such as the police and the army, to furnish all the victims’ needs. Likewise, Yad Sarah was founded to make up for the steadily narrowing safety net of the state. Rather than taking advantage of the institutions of state to advance their community’s specific goals and interests, the Haredi members of ZAKA and Yad Sarah seek public recognition through active involvement in the wider civic sphere. That said, there are vast differences between the two organizations. While Yad Sarah offers basic medical assistance to all sectors of Israeli society on a daily basis, ZAKA provides an exclusive religious service, namely traditional Jewish treatment of dead bodies, under daunting circumstances. On account of these efforts, both organizations quickly earned the imprimatur of the general public to operate in their respective fields. What is more, by dint of their international operations, each of these organizations has, in some respects, transcended the purview of the state. On account of what are widely viewed as global trends, not least the mass dissemination of neo-liberal outlooks, states have steadily withdrawn from many areas of its citizens’ lives. This development has indeed spawned a cavernous welfare vacuum, which has been partially filled by multifarious civic stakeholders. Among the players that have stepped into the void are fundamentalist groups. In Israel, Haredi activists have established philanthropies that cater not only to their own community, but to the general public as well. They have pulled off this complicated feat by introducing new models of citizenship that suit both the ideology of the secular state and the norms and sensitivities of their fundamentalist movement.

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T h e N e w H a r e d i Fa m i ly “Listen woman, do you know what bittul Torah means? And not letting a husband study in peace, to be always worrying about livelihood, ha? And who feeds the little birds, tell me? Always this want of faith in God, this giving way to temptation, and taking thought for this world . . . foolish, ill-natured woman! Not to let a husband study! If you don’t take care, you will go to Gehenna.” —I. L. Peretz, A Woman’s Wrath

Owing to the challenges of the modern era, fundamentalist groups find themselves in the midst of far-reaching change, especially in all that concerns the family unit. In Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community, many of these transformations pertain to the concept of “piety,” namely preparing the body to assume the spirit of god (Brown 1988, 68)—a notion that has long stood at the heart of faith. Living a pious life remains a high priority in most religions, not least among fundamentalist groups that preserve many age-old expressions of devotion, such as zealous mourning, sexual abstinence, and asceticism (Stadler 2008). As opposed to monastic paradigms of male piety, the Haredi version has long been tied to the family unit. Besides attaining a high level of yeshiva erudition, the Haredi male is expected to marry early and bring many children into the world. The apparent contradiction between the aims of scholarship and family elicits several questions on piety in fundamentalist contexts: How is piety shaped, institutionalized, and transformed? Do traditional notions of piety accord with the on-going changes to the typical Haredi household? On the other hand, can proposed revisions to the model of piety be reconciled with the

The New Haredi Family

accepted ultra-Orthodox paradigm of the family, to include the accepted gender relations therein? Most scholars believe that models of fundamentalist piety tend to be monolithic and static, for these sort of communities are interested in preserving the status quo. In other words, piety is attained by assiduously and ingenuously performing the group’s rituals and abiding by its stringent moral precepts, which are meant to safeguard the community’s boundaries and the “purity” of its flock (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003; Antoun 2001; Eisenstadt 2000; Marty and Appleby 1991; Emerson and Hartman 2006; Lawrence 1989; Riesebrodt 1993). That said, I contend that fundamentalist piety is in a constant state of flux, as it is always being scrutinized, challenged, and reinterpreted by some of the movement’s own elite (Stadler 2008). Insofar as Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community is concerned, I hope to demonstrate the ways in which a new generation of devotees is contesting and revising models of piety as part of their unceasing “negotiations” with the movement’s senior ranks, the Israeli state, and civil society. Although one would expect fundamentalist leaders to jealously guard and vigorously consolidate their power, it is usually the most devout members of the elite that seek to reform the movement’s ideals and their own role in the family. Drawing on Weberian ideas regarding the allure and transformation of sacred realities (1904-1905), the hypothesis of this work is that at certain junctures members of fundamentalist elites produce new meanings for core issues in their group’s lifestyle, thereby casting doubt on its elementary beliefs. In Haredi society, the brunt of this sort of internal criticism is being directed at the most rudimentary familial norms. The male-dominated yeshiva culture of Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community attests to the malleability of fundamentalist models. Yeshiva students are taught that immersing themselves in the Talmud and its commentaries is the sole path to virtue. What is more, they are inculcated with the belief that their full-time learning is critical to the very survival of the Jewish people (Friedman 1993, 184). Members of distinguished seminaries who excel at their studies go on to become rabbis, adjudicators, and sages—the authority figures of the Haredi world (Heilman 1983, 1). Over the course of my extended research on yeshiva life in Israel, I was surprised to find that those students who are considered to be the most scrupulous and prestigious agents of fundamentalist piety are the ones who are most likely to resist the community’s accepted scriptural and ascetic

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forms of piety. Those holding powerful positions in the yeshiva are its most formidable internal critics and reformers. The search for a “new Haredi piety” stems from the desire of certain elements within the community’s male elite to incorporate key elements of Israel’s secular model into their everyday lives. As part of this effort, yeshiva scholars are redefining the following mainstays of the group’s ethos: relations within the nuclear family, yeshiva piety and masculinity, and the accepted outlook towards “Israeliness” and secular ideas. Moreover, there are young Haredis who wish to participate in the country’s affairs through the labor market and state institutions (e.g., the army), or by establishing volunteer organizations that cater to the needs of not only their own community, but the greater public as well. These developments are the outcome of quotidian pressures, such as terrorist attacks, factional politics, and most importantly the economic and mental stress of rearing big families in modern urban settings. However, for these reforms to succeed, they must be implemented in a consensual manner—an undertaking which requires new communal frameworks and notions of fundamentalist conduct, praxis, and power. While there are manifold areas in which yeshiva students have introduced reforms, this chapter will focus on the changes to the Haredi family. Division of Labor Similar to evangelists in the United States and various Islamic revival movements (Griffith 1997; Mahmood 2005; Neitz 1987), the Haredi way of life is geared around the family. Along with religious schools, the family unit undergirds many of the movement’s extreme ideologies, as it helps delineate a clear border between the community and the surrounding society. Ultra-Orthodox marriages are usually arranged and endogamic (Heilman and Friedman 1991a). In 2000, the average Israeli Haredi male got married at 21, compared with 27 for the population at large; and the birthrate of nearly eight children per family was over three times the national average (Gurovich and Cohen-Kastro 2004, 37). The community endeavors to segregate itself from the secular majority by congregating in homogeneous areas, like Jerusalem’s Mea She'arim and the ultra-Orthodox city of Bnei Brak in central Israel. This barrier is reinforced by the separate Haredi educational system and its members’ egregiously different clothing and lifestyles. Furthermore, the community’s leadership prohibits its

The New Haredi Family

followers from taking part in the affairs of state. Deviations from all these norms are generally considered a serious transgression. All ultra-Orthodox men are obliged to attend one of two closely-related institutions: the yeshiva g’dolah (high yeshiva) for single men; and kollels— Talmudic academies for married men. These realms are designed exclusively for male habitation, comfort, and camaraderie. In fact, within the Haredi community, yeshiva seclusiveness symbolizes no less than paradise (cf. Boyarin 1995, 1997, 156; Brown 1988, 118, 145; Mahmood 2005, 102). Yeshiva life marches to the studious sing-song beat of its lessons, prayers, and myriad rituals. The shiur (yeshiva lesson) has traditionally been the primary means for passing on knowledge to Haredi males, from childhood onwards. The following excerpt from Yaakov Friedman’s The Soul of the Yeshiva epitomizes the widely-shared outlook regarding the principal objective of the Talmudic academy: A thick wall separates the world of the yeshiva from the world outside. A wall that brings pleasure as well as emotional pain, longing—a wall of inner feelings; a stranger cannot understand it! This is the wall that separates the bent back and sparkling eyes of the one who was blessed by the Torah (1997, 17).

This idea of the seminary as a citadel of Torah was indeed a recurring theme in many of the interviews that I conducted with yeshiva students as well as modern Haredi texts on the topic at hand. Most of these sources put an emphasis on male scholasticism, asceticism, segregation from women, and exclusion from state duties. According to this worldview, Haredi manhood is characterized by total devotion to the yeshiva, especially its male fraternity and scriptural wisdom. Success in this realm demands libidinal repression, as students must avoid or limit their contact with all women, their wives included. Yeshiva life revolves around Talmudic lessons and male fellowship. Both of these components are embedded into the h. evruta, the age-old custom of studying in pairs. This method is designed to improve the student’s memory, grasp, and debating skills (Friedman 1996, 458; Heilman 1983, 203)—competencies that are essential to the daily life of the ultra-Orthodox man. What is more, these skills are considered vital “weapons” in the community’s struggle against modern decadence (Stadler 2007). In sum, the yeshiva is not only cut off from the secular world, but is unadulterated by the presence of women.

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An exemplary yeshiva scholar is deemed to be a virtuoso of canonical texts. By virtue of this standing, he is charged with discerning present-day norms, obligations, and restrictions from scriptural codes. The fruit of this male-dominated exegetical labor1—halachic rulings and guidelines— regulate all fields of life,2 including commerce, hygiene and ritual purity, education, dietary laws, and the use of technology (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003, 55; Antoun 2001; Aran 2003, 99-133; Heilman 1983; Nagata 2001, 481-498; Soloveitchik 1994b). Since religious study is the primary goal of the ben torah (literally “son of the Torah,” this term refers to a yeshiva scholar),3 the Haredi man is encouraged to withdraw from the material world, lest he succumb to its temptations.4 As already noted, this ethos stands in sharp contradistinction to ultra-Orthodoxy’s other prevailing norm—the large family. Despite the hardships that the yeshiva ideology places on the family, the Haredi community is still informed by extreme gender separation. 1  Throughout most of Jewish history (especially in Eastern Europe), only a handful of prodigies dedicated themselves entirely to the pursuit of Torah study, as most men were expected to learn a vocation and earn a livelihood (see Ben-Sasson 1984). However, in present-day Israel, all Haredi men are obligated to devote most of their lives to the yeshiva (Soloveitchik 1994b, 64-130). This transformation has reinforced and popularized studious activities to the point where the written text is the pillar of ultra-Orthodox life. Over the ages, the vast majority of Jews were indeed taught religious practices and socialized by their parents and grandparents. However, in Israel’s modern-day Haredi community, the major customs are forged and transmitted through popular interpretations of sacred texts (Soloveitchik 1994b; Boyarin 1989, 339-421; and Goldberg 1987, 315-329). 2  Cf. Harding’s study on Jerry Falwell’s stream of Baptism (2000, 12). Insofar as Southern Baptists are concerned, the Bible is the sole source of authority on Earth. Harding argues that the church’s “preachers ‘stand in the gap’ between the language of the Christian Bible and the language of everyday life.” In other words, they “convert the ancient recorded speech of the Bible once again into spoken language.” Likewise, yeshiva students translate the sacred codes of the Talmud into everyday practice. For this reason, they are constantly interspersing citations and textual references (mostly Biblical and Talmudic sayings) into their sentences and arguments (ibid, p. 34; Lambek 1993, 134, 137; Peshkin 1986, 42). 3  Haredis generally use the term ben torah or talmid hak h. am (literally: wise student). 4  Although this model of religiosity is being contested, many Haredis still consider it to be in force (Stadler 2002, 2004, 2006, 2007).

The New Haredi Family

A case in point is the current disputes over transportation in Jerusalem. From the Haredi perspective, travelling on public buses exposes the faithful to numerous prohibitions, such as touching a member of the opposite sex (negiah).5 Consequently, ultra-Orthodox rabbis pressured Egged, an Israeli bus company, to open special lines with separate seating for men and women. On these lines, which pass through Haredi neighborhoods, the front of the bus is designated for men, whereas women take up the rear. Segregated buses are a growing phenomenon throughout the country. For example, two segregated bus lines, known as kavei mehadrin (scrupulous lines), were introduced between Ofakim (a peripheral town) and Bnei Brak and the former and Jerusalem in 2010. Moreover, Haredi activists are beginning to petition the Ministry of Transportation to allow Egged to open another departure point for inter-city buses to ultra-Orthodox destinations, so that community members will not have to enter Jerusalem’s Central Bus Station. In October 2009, I noticed a sign in Mea She'arim instructing men and women to walk on opposite sides of the road. Residents told me that this unprecedented initiative was launched by Neturei Karta (an extreme ultraOrthodox sect), but is spreading to other factions. While many Haredis objected to this call, it testifies to a heightening spirit of gender separation and to the importance of modesty codes within the community. Whereas in the past the synagogue was the most prominent segregated expanse in Orthodox Jewry, temporal gendered realms are a fast-growing trend in the Haredi world. In fact, attempts are being made to inject the ideology of modesty into Haredi homes and relationships. According to the ultraOrthodox literature for both men and women, the official reason for the rigid division between the sexes in all that concerns communal and familial roles is twofold: exposure to the body and corporeal impurity are detrimental to the Haredi male’s studies and his aspirations of reaching a higher level of piety; and the father and mother inherently maintain a different kind of emotional relationship with their children, who have

5  According to the letter of the law, negiah merely refers to affectionate tou- ching; however, given the possible iniquitous ramifications of casual or unintentional contact, efforts are made to abstain from any unnecessary touching whatsoever.

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distinct needs of each parent (see Bartkowski 2000, 40, 2004; El-Or 1993a; Jenkins 2005; Messner 1997). Haredis consider the institution of marriage one of the foundation stones of a devout, moral, and religious lifestyle. Ultra-Orthodox matchmaking is endogamic, which naturally begets various constraints. Strict taboos limit men’s contact—visual, aural, and tactile—not only with women in general, but with relatives and even their spouses. In order to contend with the “mounting dangers” of secularization and the ills of the modern Zionist state, Haredi rabbis in Israel have augmented traditional restrictions with a comprehensive system of taboos. It is evident from the community-sanctioned books and pamphlets for men on familial issues that the tasks allocated to the wife are deemed to be temporal ones, which contrast sharply with the husband’s sacred duties. Accordingly, the yeshiva student is described as a spiritual being whose studious endeavors constitute the only route to salvation, whereas the putatively inferior woman is relegated to serving as her spouse’s assistant. In fact, helping the husband transcend to new heights of piety is the sole means at the Haredi woman’s disposal for contributing to the holiness of her family and community. Gender separation is thus a warranted means for denying women access to the yeshiva world and advanced scriptural texts. For the most part, Israeli ultra-Orthodox girls are educated at Beis Ya’akov (House of Jacob), a network of all-girls schools that was founded in Poland during the early twentieth century. The raison d’être of the Beis Ya’akov system is to train girls to raise children and find a job, for the purpose of enabling their future husbands to devote themselves entirely to Torah studies (Caplan 2003a, 78; El-Or 1993b, 586; Friedman 1988, 22). Not only is the wife expected to have many children, but the burden of socializing them and providing for the family’s livelihood usually falls on her shoulders. That said, the community does provide a vast network of child care and preschool frameworks to help families cope with the difficulties of running a large household. Unlike their spouses, ultra-Orthodox men are charged with neither breadwinning nor protecting the family, as their chief obligation is to their spiritual pursuits. In a recent study on Lithuanian-Haredi education for women, Lea Taragin-Zeller (2010) contends that the main task of Haredi girls’ schools is

The New Haredi Family

to instill their pupils with a deep respect for the rules of modesty. Similarly, the literature that is targeted for women underscores the need to maintain high standards of propriety. It bears noting that the stress on modesty runs counter to the utilitarian role of women that headlines the community’s male discourse on women. Taragin-Zeller also shows that Haredi female educators concoct new ideas as to how women should dress, talk, eat, tend to their hair, and conduct themselves in public and private. Lastly, she compares the female ideal of chastity with the paradigm of the studious, virtuous, and ascetic man. Much of the data for this chapter has been culled from books and audio cassettes that were produced by members of the community’s younger generation since the 1980s. Under the “old” model of yeshiva fundamentalism, rabbis instructed men to cede control over the domestic sphere to their wives. In contrast, today’s popular texts exhort young kollel members to integrate familial obligations with their studies. More specifically, they are called upon to help out with the physical chores in the household and provide emotional support for their wives and children. The new books and CDs cite from a broad spectrum of popular psychological texts about general human nature, with an emphasis on the anatomy, biology, and psyche of women. Many of the self-help books devote chapters to psychological profiles of women, including their ambitions and desires. Most of these texts cast wives in the dual role of “polluted providers”: On the one hand, Haredi women facilitate their husband’s responsibilities as yeshiva scholars by providing for the family’s worldly needs; on the other hand, they constitute a potential source of licentious temptation and contamination. Women are indeed associated with prohibitions, cultural pollution, and seduction on account of their supposed proclivity for immodest dress and their unrestrainable sexual urges (see Biale 1988, 217; Wagner 1998, 78). Contending with these shortcomings is viewed as part of the ultra-Orthodox man’s struggle against the yetzer ha’rah (evil inclination). Unlike their male counterparts, Haredi wives fulfill most of their religious aspirations and attain their spiritual rewards and “place in the world to come” through routine domestic chores, such as cooking, cleaning, and raising children (cf. Boyarin 1997, 153). As such, their responsibilities complement the intellectual lives of their husbands. This gendered division of labor stems from a traditional religious ideology that was also prevalent

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in earlier epochs, but has reached extreme proportions in the current Haredi rhetoric (Wagner 1998). This putative sanctification of “women’s work” also informs other fundamentalist groups, such as evangelical Christians in the United States (Gallagher 2003, 105). Delimiting the purview of the ultra-Orthodox woman’s activity and warning against the evil that she embodies serve to reinforce full gender separation and valorize the sacredness of men. Haredi publications also harp on the importance of this division to everyday life. For example, according to The Happiness of the Wife of a Yeshiva Scholar, Shaul Wagschal’s popular booklet, The Haredi woman should be modest; she should cover herself from other people; and her eyes should always be looking down and her voice gentle. . . . Women’s ambitions should be concentrated entirely on domestic affairs: to raise children and provide for their studious husbands (1998, 78-80).

The wife is urged to stay home and perform the duties of the mother and homemaker, which are assumed to be the source of her happiness. To underscore this point, these sort of works often provide detailed descriptions of these tasks, which are interspersed with words like happiness, joy, fulfillment, cheerfulness, delight, enjoyment, and satisfaction. In a similar vein, these guidebooks tend to advise men and women to remain in their respective circles and limit their social interactions with members of the opposite sex to a bare minimum. Segregation is maintained through a rigidly enforced ideology of modesty, which is predicated on taboos against heterosocial encounters and stringent regulations concerning the devotee’s approach to his or her own body. Likewise, women’s pollution is said to be compounded by the forces of modernity and secularization, which have spawned new spheres of impurity that increase the opportunities for sin. In fact, many aspects of contemporary life are perceived as demonic, but nowhere is this more pronounced than in interactions between men and women. For this very reason, the pitfalls of the modern era demand greater vigilance on the part of the entire Haredi community, especially in all that concerns safeguarding the accepted borders between the two sexes. More specifically, men are instructed to remain in the insular environment of the yeshiva, where they are shielded from the moral hazards of women and the secular world.

The New Haredi Family

Against this backdrop, one of the most sensitive issues to be broached in the Haredi “popular literature” is the matter of women going to work. Since women are widely-perceived as vulnerable to seduction, they are urged to abide by the strictest rules of modesty, whether at home or on the job, and to sequester themselves from men. The common justification for these imperatives is that the ultra-Orthodox woman’s life mission is just as religiously fulfilling and remunerative as that of her spouse. Accordingly, the sanctification of her daily grind as provider and home keeper is a common theme in these publications. For instance, all difficulties in the house are smoothed over by the aphorism that “a woman’s toil is for the sake of God” (i.e., there is no immediate compensation for her efforts). Therefore, quotidian tasks should be performed in the appropriate spirit—with joy and grace—and with the right intention, so as to glean the transcendental from the mundane. As per many of these works, reward is a catalyst that boosts a woman’s motivation and enables her to reap satisfaction from the daily grind. Wagschal indeed explains how wives feel about their prescribed tasks: At the bottom of their hearts, women know that their work has a purpose . . . . They know that their work is never in vain. . . . Even when she has a difficult child and might think about escaping from the chores in the house, when she learns that all her doings are for the sake of God, she will be happy to accept them because they have grace; her work is rewarding, and it is the work of God (1998, 1-2; also see 2000).

While the quintessential ultra-Orthodox man is erudite and rational, Wagschal and his ilk define the ideal woman as diligent and dedicated, yet swayed by emotion. In A Faithful Home, a book that was popular in the Haredi community during the 1980s, Elhanan Yossef Hertzman enumerates the goals of the pious kollel member and the rewards of meeting this standard: Man desires to transcend. His flesh, made of earth, aspires to elevate to the level of sacred flesh; and when his body is sanctified and ascends, it becomes the spirit of life—a soul that aspires to ultimately unite with its creator. . . . At this moment heavenly joy is infinite. . . . Since this is the purpose of the creation of men—to transform, the transformed substance takes the true shape. . . . This is realized solely through Torah labor (1982, 13).

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Insofar as Hertzman is concerned, the objective of male piety is corporeal transcendence and spiritual union with god. This can only be achieved through dedication to Torah studies within the safe confines of the yeshiva hall, which Hertzman also describes as a thick defensive wall partitioning man’s body from the material and female world. The yeshiva student must indeed limit his contact with women as much as humanly possible. The scholar is indeed equipped with numerous techniques and method aimed at suppressing his physical desires. For instance, the learning techniques that yeshiva students employ, such as the memorization of sacred texts, are intended, at least in part, to prevent men from thinking about their physical desires. Even conjugal relations are subject to strict rules, which are meant to preclude defilement. Notwithstanding the masculine ideal of asceticism, the rabbis have sought to buttress the patriarchal nature of the ultra-Orthodox family. However, as opposed to other fundamentalist groups in which male power stems from both religious authority and the husband’s status as the family’s sole provider,6 Haredi men are deliberately excluded from the labor market and other worldly paths to power and prestige. The fact that the wife is ordinarily the breadwinner has indeed called into question the masculinity of the yeshiva elite. According to the Promise Keepers, an evangelical organization for men, courage and decisiveness in the workaday world are the hallmarks of true manhood (Bartkowski 2000, 35-36; also see Messner 1997, 26), and the same holds true for other fundamentalist groups. Conversely, ultraOrthodox masculinity and piety are achieved solely through excellence in the study hall and commitment to attendant ideals like asceticism. With this in mind, Haredi rabbis have turned passive qualities, like non-productivity and submission, into virtues of masculinity. Ascetic withdrawal and man’s dominant status in the home were once seen as natural extensions of each other. However, as many of my interviewees have lamented, the ultraOrthodox woman’s role as main provider has undermined the husband’s position as head of the household.

6  In the Jewish communities of Eastern Europe before the Holocaust, it was the husband who was expected to provide for the family.

The New Haredi Family

Traces of Change Having completed my survey of post-war yeshiva piety, I would now like to reflect on the changes to this model through the prism of the “new Haredi family.” A thorough analysis of the current Haredi literature and the interviews that I conducted with kollel members reveals a surprising shift away from the ideal of erudite masculinity. Despite the community’s long-standing emphasis on uncompromising dedication to the yeshiva and its ascetic ethos, young Haredi men are currently reevaluating and reinterpreting the community’s outlook towards family and gender. Furthermore, some yeshiva scholars and writers have launched a quasimovement that exhorts kollel members to build closer ties with their family, in lieu of the hitherto accepted practice of keeping a distance from the home. As part of this development, the Haredi man is encouraged to serve as his wife and children’s teacher/therapist. In manuals for yeshiva students, the husband is advised to enhance his spouse’s well-being by listening to and addressing her grievances. This supportive approach headlines the new paragon of ultra-Orthodox manhood and piety. Needless to say, this proposed reform challenges the community’s long-standing position on the yeshiva’s status, masculinity, and religious piety. In the pages ahead, we will discuss how young kollel members feel about the “new Haredi family” and their possible roles within this framework. *** Rather than emphasizing the insular world of the yeshiva and the homosocial bonds that separate men from their wives, the new Haredi discourse promotes a model of male domestication in which the family unit is informed by collaboration and companionship between the parents. According to this model, the husband is required to engage himself both practically and emotionally with his wife, children, and community. Walking through the streets of Mea She'arim (a stronghold of Israeli ultraOrthodoxy), it is impossible to ignore the bevy of Haredi men pushing multiseat baby strollers or taking children to school; the fathers and daughters rushing up the steps of medical clinics; the waiting rooms, groceries, and playgrounds that are filled with fathers and their children. These once rare sights attest to the gradual transformation of the community’s paradigm of

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fatherhood. Moreover, this sea change proved to be a central theme in my interviews with yeshiva students and in many Haredi guidebooks that have come out over the last ten years. In these works, men are advised to jettison their monastic ways and get more involved on the home front by, inter alia, sharing their Talmudic wisdom with their kin. By teaching their wife and children the norms and ethics of the Torah, yeshiva students also bolster their standing at home. In A Note of Guidance to Bridegrooms, a popular primer for kollel members, Shlomo Wolbe encourages his readers to spend more time at home and study Torah with their children and wives, even if it comes at the expense of their commitment to erudition and the yeshiva fraternity. Wolbe and other Haredi authors describe the role of “home teacher” as both a moral and religious imperative aimed at bringing Talmudic knowledge to the family. At the same time, these writers usually avail themselves of trendy psychological terms for the purpose of stressing the importance of spending quality time with one’s children. Haim Meir Halevi Vazner conveys this message in the opening chapter of To See Life (another Haredi self-help book): Every man in Israel must know that most problems and turmoil in the house are caused directly or indirectly by men; or we know that at least men could have prevented them. . . Because the husband has persevered and is immersed in his studies, and because he dwells in the world of the Torah. . . [and is well-versed in] religious matters, he is prepared and trained to pour this goodness into the house. . . Since Torah brings joy and grace. . . , all the treasures that the student learns in the study hall must be brought home. . . . [The husband] must be happy and kind, and project his psychological fulfillment onto his wife and children. . . , for the [elements of the] triple bond—men, women, and Torah—are connected and empower each other; and when there is happiness in this bond, and there is the wish to build a house that is based on Torah, all this kindness grows and blossoms and is predicated on the sense of awe (1986, 9).

In this passage, Vazner evokes the familiar Haredi link between piety and Torah studies. However, he argues that learning should not only be pursued in the yeshiva, but in the domestic arena as well, for the sake of enhancing the holiness of the Jewish family. According to many of these works, men should take responsibility for the emotional well-being of their spouses and children. In contrast to the

The New Haredi Family

widespread fundamentalist principles of complete gender segregation, men are encouraged to nurture a closer bond with their wives by paying careful attention to their moods and helping them with the onerous domestic chores that raising a large family entails. In offering this sort of advice, the authors combine popular psychological rhetoric about emotional support in the family with biblical references to the sacredness of marriage and the home. A quintessential example of this kind of secular-Talmudic fusion turns up in Haim Friedlander’s Thou shalt Know that All is Well in Thy Tent:7 To build a pleasant home, the bridegroom must prepare himself thoroughly in advance. He must learn about his future position as a husband and a father. He must recognize his obligations to his wife, learn about her emotional needs, about female nature. . . . , [to include] her expectations from him as a man and a father. . . If possible, he must also be cognizant of her fears, hardships, and obstacles in order to avoid any tension ahead of time. . . [A]nd if stumbling blocks materialize, he must be ready to make an effort at overcoming them (1986, 1-2).

The proponents of the “new Haredi family” indeed assume that the difficult task of rearing many children takes its toll on the wife. Drawing on popular psychological literature, they take stock of what is deemed to be the emotional instability of ultra-Orthodox woman and the “stumbling blocks” that female frustration is liable to mount on the road to maintaining a functional family. As opposed to the traditional fundamentalist norm of completely segregating men from women, Haredi authors counsel yeshiva students to spend more time with their wives and help them deal with their frustrations. The most prevalent advice in these works is to cultivate female happiness and satisfaction. In the manual Observations for Avrekhim (married yeshiva students), Shmuel Dov Eisenblattt enumerates some of the challenges that a young ultra-Orthodox husband is liable to face: When men realize that women are teeming with arguments against them. . . . , feelings [between the couple] turn ‘frigid’ . . .[and] the rifts between them grow. . . In order to remedy this emotional escalation, men must bring the wheels of emotion back to their healthy nature. . . The husband must create 7  The title of this book was taken from Job 5:24: “You will know that all is well in your tent; When you visit your wife [literally: home], you will never fail.”

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an atmosphere of joy, smile to his wife, help her, encourage her, and make jokes in order to cheer her mind (n.d., 26).

The notion that the husband is responsible for his wife’s felicity is shared by many of the students that I interviewed. Taking a page out of the popular psychological literature, these adherents of the “new Haredi family” instruct the husband to explain to his spouse that her happiness is an indispensable condition for her self-fulfillment and, for that matter, the stability of the household. At any rate, this should not be mistaken for a feminist outlook, as the primary motive behind expanding the kollel member’s role at home is to enable him to guide his wife’s behavior. As we have seen, ultra-Orthodox men are increasingly being encouraged to listen to their wives and stay attuned to their feelings. They should be prepared to communicate with their spouses on both the practical and emotional level. Furthermore, it is incumbent upon husbands to furnish their wives with apposite theological and psychological wisdom from the Jewish scriptures. In this respect, the kollel member’s performance as “lay therapist” is viewed as a key to his spouse’s happiness and the success of the marriage. In carrying out this duty, Eisenblatt advises his readers to take time off from the yeshiva: When you feel that you must help [your wife], do not proceed with [your] studies like a blind man. . . He [sic] must take the time he needs to help her; he must take her for walks, and spend time with her, as a little ‘bitul torah’ [i.e., nullification of Torah study] will save much more time in the future and [prevent] the deterioration of good will that results from a bad atmosphere. . . So he must take upon himself the task of clearing the air as well as guiding his wife, encouraging her, and gently asking her to behave in a positive manner and smile more, and also of finding the right moment to discuss with her ways in which he can improve her spirit and their situation (1983, 26).

Unlike the community’s established emphasis on gendered division of labor and physical separation, Eisenblatt encourages kollel members to put off their spiritual obligations for the sake of assisting their wives. He views the ultra-Orthodox man’s integration in the household to be a new mission to save the family. In fact, yeshiva scholars expressed, both in writing and interviews, their fear of an impending collapse of the Haredi family, from both an economic and emotional standpoint. For example, in

The New Haredi Family

Spend Your Life with the Woman You Love, Vazner alludes to a troublesome status quo: The understanding of changes in both [of the newly-weds’] lives—their habits, the need to learn how to help with the many domestic tasks [—is of utmost significance]. . . The most important thing is the understanding of his wife’s soul and emotional needs. . . If a man studies with the help of the Talmud how to prepare his soul according to the Torah he will succeed and will reduce the potential tensions and conflicts that are, unfortunately, the reality in some homes today (1986, 46).

Some of the authors acknowledge the immense pressure that is being thrust upon women to both raise and support large families. In addition, many believe that the time has come to reform the traditional Haredi model of piety and the division of labor within the family. Whereas the community and family used to revolve around the husband’s endeavors at the seminary and the wife was expected to take care of all the household’s material needs, today the man is encouraged to spend more time at home. On the face of things, this new model appears to be an inversion of the biblical narrative whereby Eve was created to serve as Adam’s “helpmate” (Genesis 2:18), for the ultra-Orthodox husband has ostensibly become his wife’s assistant. That said, in coming to “protect” and “support” his fragile family, the husband does not forgo the privileges of erudite piety. Instead, he is given an opportunity to put his Torah knowledge into practice. As Eisenblatt opines at the very outset of his above-cited work, the responsibility for sustaining the family is no longer the sole preserve of the mother: Many people experience marriage as a routine. Some are satisfied with less and are unaware of the happiness that they can gain if only they exert themselves and assume the right attitude. Some are entangled in difficulties and some are disappointed by their wives’ inability to understand them. This is the reason that I have written this book. You must understand that you can solve all your problems if you have the right attitude and patience. By understanding the female point of view, men can bring goodness into the home and can help her overcome the problems and enjoy a happy marriage (1983, 1).

In short, Eisenblatt hints at the anxiety over the breakup of the traditional Haredi family. The idea of the marriage routine as well as

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the attendant disappointments and tensions are taken from the modern therapeutical discourse on families in crisis. Conversely, Eisenblatt refrains from using the word “love,” for this is not necessarily a precondition for marriage in the Haredi community, where couples are still usually arranged by matchmakers. Ultra-Orthodox writers do refer to concepts like felicity, satisfaction, and positive attitudes, which they consider the rewards of marriage. Men are called upon to use their emotional resources and Talmudic wisdom to strengthen the family unit. Put differently, the rational model of the detached scholar (Boyarin 1997, 152) is losing ground to a paradigm of emotional involvement. For example, after describing how a woman’s frustration is aggravated by domestic work, Vazner dispenses some advice as to how kollel members should behave in their homes: Men should pay attention to their asceticism and how it affects their family. . . Of course men aspire to rise up and unite with God, but he [sic] must also pay attention to his [sic] family and their needs. . . It is obvious that men find satisfaction in their studies, and all his [sic] physical and spiritual needs are fulfilled by the Torah; he [sic] is more relaxed and pleased with God’s work. . . Study satisfies most of his desires and lust, but what is happening with his spouse!? His wife. . .cannot enjoy this unique spiritual satisfaction; she cannot taste the sweetness of the Torah; she merely remains at the level of flesh and blood. . . She can only enjoy earthly goods (1986, 45).

According to Vazner’s logic, since the Torah satisfies all desires and women are excluded from the life of the Torah, they are unpleased with most facets of their lives. Husbands must pay attention to and find ways of alleviating this sort of disgruntlement. In utter contrast to earlier works, Vazner’s book strongly implies that the long-standing ethos whereby only men dedicate their body and soul to the Torah has had a negative impact on the Haredi woman and the proper functioning of the family. In his estimation, she is spiritually vitiated by her husband’s asceticism, and this engenders discontent and frustration. Kollel members, Vazner continues, must provide emotional and spiritual sustenance for their wives, so as to help them overcome their shortcomings and sense of emptiness. Failure to do so can ruin a marriage: Men who transcend through their study and dedication can easily find themselves completely renouncing all aspects of mundane life and earthly

The New Haredi Family

obligations. . . , [thereby] leaving his wife behind, far away. . . If he ignores this condition, a wide gap [is liable to] open between them; all this can happen to a man if he ignores his family, so that he must talk with his wife very often, he must listen to her needs; for if he doesn’t their separate worlds can lead her to depression, a lack of joy, and eventually a loss of happiness and satisfaction (1986, 45).

Quite a few of these writers warn their audience that the renunciation of the material world, which has traditionally underpinned Haredi fundamentalist piety, is now endangering the very institution of the family. To avoid this predicament, students are urged to be more sensitive to their wives’ needs, even at the cost of taking time out from their studies or compromising their yeshiva ethics. More specifically, they should communicate with their spouses on a regular basis, educate them, help them improve their spiritual lives, and no less importantly compliment them as much as possible. Otherwise, their spouses are liable to become dissatisfied and extremely depressed. Although this paradigm of male behavior differs from earlier models, the quintessential Haredi wife remains the same. Women are still defined in the traditional fashion, pursuant to the canonical Jewish texts. In other words, the female attributes of worldliness, productivity, and inferiority to men are still in the ascendancy. Notwithstanding the changes to the prototypical ultra-Orthodox man, the obligation to study remains an integral part of male piety and a source of the husband’s power. Implicit in these changes to the paradigm of fatherhood is the fear of losing control over the temporal realm and, more importantly, over women. On account of their commitment to the yeshiva and their limited employment options, the “new” Haredi man’s sway over the family is achieved through emotional involvement and care, rather than material sustenance. Needless to say, the provision of income constitutes a universal determinant of control. In consequence, women’s domination in the realm of work is a source of tension in the ultra-Orthodox family. This sore point was frequently raised by the authors and interviewees. In essence, the Haredi man is caught in a dilemma: while communal norms oblige the husband to study, the dictates of Jewish law command him to provide for his family. Eliyahu, a student attending a well-known Lithuanian yeshiva, elaborated on the incompatibility between his full-time yeshiva studies and his familial duties:

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Well our rabbis do not understand this conundrum; they justify everything in order to keep us in the yeshiva. . . , even if it is totally irrational. . . They use interpretations of the Talmud that contradict Jewish tradition. . . For example, they recommend that women should be sent to work in order to support their husbands economically. . . Or [they espouse] the elevation of yeshiva isolation as an ideal model of piety. . . This is wrong; we cannot feel comfortable with this. . . This is not what is stated in the Torah.

Like many other Haredis, Eliyahu also took issue with the senior leadership’s claim that the prescribed severance from family matters poses no threat to masculine identities, spousal relations, and personal sacredness. According to the reformist camp, kollel members cannot fully concentrate on their studies without the firm backing of their household. However, returning to their families in the role of teacher and emotional therapist redefines their domestic activities and responsibilities in a manner that promises to enhance their standing both at home and in the seminary. These views are strongly influenced by opinions that are currently being voiced by women in various Haredi platforms. For instance, despite opposition from traditional male authorities, in recent years femaleauthored novels have flourished within the community. Shenkar (2009) argues that these works are part of a new ultra-Orthodox literary field that poses an alternative to religious publications by men. In these novels, women deliberate over family and gender issues from their unique vantage point. Moreover, they constitute an attempt to upgrade the status of women within the community. A comparison between these novels and the “new Haredi” literature by men indicates that both sides of the gender barrier are reinterpreting the roles, identity, and piousness of the ultra-Orthodox both the husband and wife in appreciably different ways. *** In the book Awesome Families (2005), Kathleen Jenkins describes the lifestyle that is practiced by members of the International Churches of Christ (ICOC). Through a novel combination of Christian beliefs and a therapeutic ethos, this American sectarian movement purports to heal its followers and ensure a strong family unit. To join the church, so-called disciples have to make a substantial donation to the church and must regularly engage

The New Haredi Family

in proselytizing. Additionally, they consent to attend regular sessions with an elder mentor and participate in a couple of “discipleship groups” which are comprised of individuals from similar walks of life. Married couples are also assigned formal “marriage disciplers,” namely husband and wife teams who counsel them on a regular basis and get involved in their marriage. Suffice to say, this therapeutic ethos, which the church touts as a path to salvation, demands a high level of commitment and submission to inquisitive authority. Drawing on Jenkins’ ethnography and theoretical findings, I would like to broach the following questions concerning the aforementioned developments in the Israeli ultra-Orthodox community: Given the ideology of the sacred yeshiva hall and the importance of gender segregation, what are the terms in which kollel members are being asked to “return” to the home? And why has the yeshiva world developed a religio-therapeutic narrative that places an emphasis on the mental state of the family? As part of the fundamentalist ultra-Orthodox ideology that has taken shape in Israel, particularly after the Holocaust, the most important venue of Jewish sacredness and rebirth has been the yeshiva hall. At one and the same time, though, the community also stressed procreation and large tight-knit families. Despite the inroads made by reformers, the community’s prime emphasis is still on the Haredi man’s devotion to his intellectual pursuits in the Talmudic academy. Therefore, in contrast to monks and other ascetics, yeshiva students are also obliged to marry at a young age and have many children (Boyarin 1995, 90, 1993). While the priority is clearly on learning and spirituality, these two sets of duties are bound to clash. Moreover, they have placed an unbearable burden on the wife, who is obliged to earn a living, tend to the domestic chores, and raise the family all on her own. As reflected in some of the Haredi writing on women, these tensions are weighing heavily on the community’s men. In turn, young scholars are increasingly challenging the fundamentalist ethos that valorizes gender separation, male fraternity, and an aesthetic, erudite brand of male piety. While reconciling these cross purposes in a fundamentalist environment is far from easy, rabbis are well aware of the problem and its detrimental effects. Against this backdrop, and for the sake of preserving the ideal of the large family, the Haredi model of fatherhood and piety are in the process of a major overhaul. This shift indeed testifies to the fact that a communitywide decision has been made to underscore the “holy family,” even at the

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expense of altering the established fundamentalist perception of the maleonly yeshiva as the exclusive realm of sacredness (also see Stadler 2008). Whereas the “sacredization” of male learning was the main objective of Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community in the aftermath of the Second World War, today the focus is on shoring up the large family. Following a lengthy internal discourse, the husband has been called upon to alleviate the heavy psychological burden on his spouse by chipping in at home and giving her the emotional support she needs to concentrate on her breadwinning role. Whereas the conventional Haredi outlook on the wife revolves around her submission to the husband and the mother’s ostensibly sharper parental instincts, members of the ultra-Orthodox elite are now seeking to explain the weakness of women in terms of what are considered to be emotional problems. In other words, the stress that Haredi wives feel is a product of the inordinate load that is being thrust on their backs. Furthermore, the leadership realizes that the utilitarian life of the community’s average woman is insufficiently rewarding. As a result, men are being called upon to apply their yeshiva expertise at home as well, for the purpose of bringing succor to their emotionally-spent wives. For example, studying together allows the husband’s erudition to come to expression, while providing the wife with an outlet for her spiritual needs. In so doing, the reformers have fused the two principal tasks that were separated under the old ideology of gender separation: studying and sustenance. Last but not least, this approach allows the Haredi male to imbue the rarefied yeshiva spirit upon his kin. By embracing this mission, young fathers pose new challenges for Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community and its traditional ethos. Under the influence of contemporary psychological theory and feminist thought, these reformminded Haredis are assuming an ever larger role at home, but whether this eventually leads to true gender equality remains to be seen.

Chapter 5

M i l i ta r i sm

In contrast to current research trends focusing on fundamentalist resistance to the liberal state and its institutions (Eisenstadt 2000; Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003), this chapter explores the Haredi community’s fledgling “détente” with the IDF (Israel Defense Forces) and the country’s military ethos. The ultra-Orthodox leadership has persistently rejected any involvement with the army, other national security organizations, and, for that matter, all institutions of state. In fact, the exemption of Haredis from compulsory military service is one of the most controversial topics in Israeli society today, for the vast majority of Jewish citizens over the age of 18 are indeed obligated to enlist. According to the “official” Haredi discourse, the IDF is deemed to be a contaminated sphere that is a serious threat to the holy community, and the army experience is the polar opposite of yeshiva life. Nevertheless, over the course of my field work in Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community, many of the young men I interviewed take issue with the general rhetoric of exclusion from the nation-state and quite a few have even embraced the hegemonic militaristic view. Moreover, the objections that they did raise to serving in the IDF were not on conceptual, religious, or moral grounds. Despite their community’s professed revulsion to the military, an appreciable percentage of my interviewees—both young and old—displayed a great deal of interest in or were quite knowledgeable about the Israeli army’s current makeup and history. What is more, a substantial portion of the younger subjects held militaristic views even expressed a desire to serve in the army. In the pages ahead, I will take stock of these shifts in Haredi perspectives.

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The Army and the Holy Community The ideal of service in the IDF is rife with contradictions. During their years in the army, most Israeli men build their sense of identity through military training, combat proficiency, and battle experience. While enlistment is compulsory for the majority of Jewish Israelis over the age of eighteen, members of the Haredi community are, for all intents and purposes, exempt from the army. The ultra-Orthodox sector’s eschewal of the military was formulated by senior rabbis in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War—a formative period for both the community and the entire Jewish population of pre-state Israel (Stadler and Ben-Ari 2003; Stadler 2008). Like most fundamentalist groups, this stance is one of the principal means by which the community maintains its ideology of distancing members from the affairs of state and mainstream society (Ammerman 1987, 3). Furthermore, the Haredi attitude toward conscription must be understood within the context of its general refusal to accept the legitimacy of the secular state or the very idea of secularism (Eisenstadt 2000). One of the fundamental precepts of the Haredi enclave ideology is the idea of torato omanuto, “his Torah study is his vocation”—a phrase deriving from the Talmud: “For it was taught: if companions are engaged in the study of Torah, they must take a break for the reading of the shma,1 but not for prayer [i.e., an entire prayer service]. R. Johanan said: This was taught for the likes of R. Simeon Bar Yohai and his companions whose Torah study is their occupation” (Babylonian Talmud, tractate Shabbat, 11a). In Israel, torato omanuto has come to embody the ultra-Orthodox ideology. From a legal standpoint, it is the rationale behind a special arrangement with the government that technically enables yeshiva students to complete their studies before fulfilling their obligations to the IDF. At one and the same time, young Haredis that take advantage of this ostensible deferment are prohibited from working. Since ultra-Orthodox yeshiva studies usually continue well into middle life, this arrangement is essentially an outright exemption. The Haredi exemption from military service dates back to the first year of Israel’s existence (1948-1949). Avraham Yeshayahu Karelitz (the Chazon 1  Comprised of several short Biblical passages, the shma (listen or behold) is an extremely important part of the daily Jewish liturgy.

Militarism

Ish), the most distinguished ultra-Orthodox rabbi in Mandatory Palestine, requested that Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion grant a deferment to 400 yeshiva students, and the latter agreed. In all likelihood, Ben-Gurion was motivated by the belief that the Jewish state had a duty to reconstruct the yeshiva world that was virtually wiped out during the Holocaust. At the time, no one imagined that the number of full-time yeshiva students would reach such heights. According to data from the Finance Ministry, the population of yeshiva students rose by 237%, while the population growth of young men at the same period was 354%. There are doubts as to the veracity of these statistics, and any claim of this sort is obviously politically charged. In any event, these figures bolstered the widespread argument put forth by other sectors of Israeli society that post-secondary Haredi yeshiva students have long become an economic and security burden on the rest of the populace. Regardless of whether these numbers are accurate, it is obvious that the non-participation of Haredis in the army is one of the most complex and divisive issues in contemporary Israel. According to Stuart Cohen (1999), the primary importance of this exemption is symbolic: when large numbers of Haredis choose to refrain from what is still considered as the most significant of all national obligations, they reinforce their marginal status and stir resentment among those sectors that do serve in the IDF. In a country with a strong military ethos where the army has substantial clout over the economy, politics, and culture, many Israelis view the Haredis’ refusal to serve as exclusionary, anti-Zionist, and a slap in the face of the state. In addition, the majority of the public vociferously opposes this policy, rejects its theological justifications, and protests the expansion and institutionalization of the exemption. Nevertheless, the community’s political and theological repre- sentatives have resisted all political and civil initiatives to alter the status quo, thereby displaying their firm allegiance to the Haredi separatist ideology. Following the 1977 elections, which brought a right-wing/traditionalist coalition into power for the first time in Israel’s history, Haredis ratcheted up their involvement in government. As a result, the contradiction between state duties and community interests came to the fore (Friedman 1993): on the one hand, ultra-Orthodox leaders insisted on exemptions from military service and other civic duties; on the other hand, they sought to influence all facets of the state that pertain to their constituency’s rights.

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During the 1990s, the angst over the Haredis’ unwillingness to join the army swelled. Consequently, Prime Minister Ehud Barak appointed a committee, which was headed by the retired Supreme Court judge Tzvi Tal, to reconsider the torato omanuto arrangement. The Tal Committee found that Yeshiva students were not technically exempt from military service, but their enlistment was postponed on an annual basis until they were released on account of advanced age or their status as parents. Moreover, unlike the exemptions for, say, religious girls, Bedouins, and Israeli Arabs, torato omanuto was based on a ministerial order, rather than a specific legislative act. After seven months of work, the committee submitted its final report in April 2000, and the Tal Law was passed in the Knesset (the Israeli parliament) on July 23, 2002. Although the law did not repeal the exemption, at the age of 22 every yeshiva student would have to decide whether to continue his studies or enter the workforce. Those preferring the second option would then choose between one of two routes: a truncated army service of four months and subsequent reserve duty as per the army’s needs; or civilian service of one year without compensation. In parallel, the IDF was instructed to expand its Orthodox units and weigh the possibility of conducting an audit of all the exemptees under this agreement. Furthermore, the heads of the yeshivas were ordered to help implement the law. In July 2005, three years after the legislation took effect, the state admitted (in response to a petition that was submitted before the Supreme Court) that the law had failed to change the status quo, as only a few dozen Haredis had enlisted. On May 11, 2006, the Supreme Court determined that the Tal Law infringes upon the human dignity of those who do serve in the army. Moreover, it ruled that the legislation was executed in an incompetent manner and thus failed to constitute a “worthy object” that would justify the damage to the rights of those who are conscripted. Be that as it may, the justices concluded that the law should be left untouched for an additional year in the hopes that the relevant parties would get their act together. It also bears noting that there were two dissenting opinions. Judge Mishael Cheshin determined that the law is fundamentally flawed and completely contradicts the democratic values of the Jewish state. Alternatively, Judge Asher Gronis opined that the Supreme Court should only interfere with Knesset decisions if they violate the rights of minorities, for the majority

Militarism

could fend for itself. On July 18, 2007, the Knesset decided to keep the Tal Law on the books for another five years. Several political parties, led by Shinui (change), took up the cause against what they deemed to be the state’s overly lenient attitude towards the ultra-Orthodox and their yeshivas. In 2003, the reconstituted Shinui Party, which ran on an expressly anti-Haredi campaign, emerged from the elections as the third largest party. One of the principal components of Shinui’s platform was that the state should reduce its support for the ultraOrthodox community, particularly the funding for its educational system and the stipends for yeshiva students on the grounds that its members are not Zionists, their children do not serve the full three years in the army, and thus do not risk their lives on behalf of their fellow citizens. Furthermore, the party called for the abolishment of the military exemption. At any rate, Shinui’s electoral success was short-lived. Due to its refusal to compromise on these core issues, the party left the coalition and eventually vanished off the political map. Otherworldly Soldiers To this point, I have recounted the state’s official narrative of the saga over the Haredi exemption from the IDF. In the pages ahead, the focus will shift the positions of the ultra-Orthodox community. According to many of the Haredis I spoke with, the very learning or recitation of Torah, especially when practiced by great scholars or their disciples, is the raison d’être of the State of Israel and the Jewish people. As such, yeshiva students essentially comprise a worshipping division of the Israeli army. In other words, the yeshiva students can be referred to as “otherworldly soldiers,” a term that speaks to their complex attitude towards their own status as non-soldiers in a militaristic society. However, before delving into this particular issue, it is incumbent upon us to examine how they view their role as full-time students.2 On the basis of an analysis that I conducted of books earmarked for yeshiva students and on the basis of my interviews with members of this same cohort and their rabbis, I found that the ultra-Orthodox community believes that, more than any other activity or enterprise, Torah study is what 2  This topic is also discussed in chapter 4.

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protects the Jewish people in their new state. In his book Yeshiva Students of the Torah, Yoel Schwartz, a Litvak Haredi,3 defines the main objective of the seminarians’ enterprise: The primary role of the ben torah4 [young yeshiva scholar] is expressed in the concern for the spiritual future of the nation, and he must strive with all his might to be a great moral and learned man and to base himself on the study of Torah so that he will be suited to serving the collective. . . The real role of the ben torah lies not only in protecting the Land of Israel but also in protecting the image of the people, its history—for the future. That is why the argument that the country’s security must be maintained does not hold [water], for the bnei torah [plural of young yeshiva scholar] protect the spirit of the people and one cannot temporarily reduce this framework; instead, one must take into account the historical perspective of the entire people and its future (1978, 133-134).

In sum, bnei torah are “otherworldly soldiers” who are responsible for safeguarding and enhancing the spirituality of the Jewish people. Schwartz is clearly arguing that the spiritual future of the entire Jewish nation can only be assured via the unimpeded learning of Torah. Put differently, a grave responsibility has indeed been thrust upon the yeshiva scholar. This belief is affirmed by the popular Haredi refrain, “The whole world is riding on his [God’s] Torah. M. Z. Maor, another ultra-Orthodox writer, elaborates on this outlook by applying it to times of war: The situation in war is not dependent on differences in [the level of] exertion or the size of the army. The outcome is dependent on the rights of each nation in Heaven. . . The real effort that makes a difference in Israel’s wars with the gentiles is the study of Torah. . . The many efforts on the part of soldiers in the army, and especially those that are carried out at the expense of learning Torah, will not help because they do not address the reason why God sent the enemies (1984, chap 8).

In other words, only devotion to the Torah can ensure a favorable outcome on the battlefield. It bears noting that Maor’s outlook is not an age-old, 3  For an explanation of this sub-group, see chapter 1, note 1. 4  Literally a ‘son of the Torah,’ ben torah is a new concept that is used by Israeli ultraOrthodox rabbis to characterize young yeshiva students who dedicate their lives to studying the Talmud.

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static, or purely a-historical model, but one that is deeply tied to actual historic events. The primary link of most of these conceptions regarding the “otherworldly soldier” is to the Holocaust and the subsequent attempts to rebuild the yeshiva world. Likewise, Schwartz (1978) explains that in trying times “the bnei torah are. . . on double duty to overcome and make every effort to persevere in the study of the Torah, with greater vigor and greater courage.” A case in point, in Schwartz’s opinion, is the tumultuous establishment of the State of Israel: In the War of Independence gedolei hador [the generation’s leading Halachic scholars] decreed that yeshiva students should not be recruited and should not even volunteer [for the army]. . . They are prohibited from turning up for mobilization and must refrain from being counted, enumerated, or drafted for anything, even for a short while (1978).

One of the accepted variations on the official Haredi position concerning military service includes a subtle yet important shift from viewing Talmudic scholars as contributing to the general welfare of the Jewish people to having them fill a complementary role to that of IDF soldiers. In the face of external demands that Haredis bear their fair share of the country’s security burden, ultra-Orthodox rabbis have shifted their rhetoric from carrying the sector’s own weight to that of a division of (soldierly) labor. For instance, in The World of Friendship, Shlomo Wolbe appears to respond to criticism from the national-religious camp: And how painful it was to hear from someone who is religiously observant the demand to recruit [Haredi] yeshiva students. . . [T]hey should have known better than anyone else what the yeshivas are for the people of Israel! Those military people who are attentive to the miracles of the divine providence understand that they are joined by a battalion of the Corps of God marching alongside them with the shina [God’s presence]. . ., . which defeats those seeking to destroy it. . . The minimum demand that results from this view is: that the entire yishuv [Jewish community in the Land of Israel] should consider the yeshiva an organic part [of the nation], a limb that the soul is dependent on (1989, 84).

The image here is of an organic whole, in which each part of the Jewish nation fills its own crucial role in the collective effort to guarantee the nation’s survival. To elucidate this idea, Schwartz and other Haredi thinkers draw an analogy to the division of labor between the ancient tribes of Israel:

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As Maimonides said, the tribe of Levy does not wage war like the rest of the people. . . Insofar as the tribe of Levy is concerned, there is but a single war—the “war over the existence of the Torah”—and when the people of Israel sinned with the gold calf, [the Levites] went through the camp and killed all of the calf ’s worshippers; and the same [can be said] for the war of the Hasmoneans. When the people were Hellenized, the sons of the Hasmoneans waged the holy war because it was the role of the tribe of Levy to manage the spiritual life (Schwartz 1978).

Rabbi Mordechai Neugerschall raises a similar theme in a cassette devoted to the topic of conscription of yeshiva students: Ten percent sit and study the Torah, and this is the secret weapon of the people of Israel. Whoever can study the Torah should go to the yeshivas and contribute [in] this [fashion] because he thereby protects all the people of Israel. Rabbi Schach said that for thousands of years the bnei torah guarded the Jewish people through the manner by which they transmitted the Torah from one generation to the next, and now they [i.e., non-Haredi Israelis] threaten the yeshivas. And if this happens, I will turn up the palms of my hands and go abroad and protect this nation from there. . . There is something disproportional here because the yeshiva students are able to recognize the contribution of soldiers from all of the corps and from all of the places—the combat soldiers and non-combat soldiers—except for those who shirk their duty and do nothing. . . . Here you may ask, ‘Why not integrate [Torah studies and military service] as in the hesder yeshivot. . . What are such yehsivot? A young man goes to be a tankist for three years, while a young man from the hesder yeshivot goes for a year and a half and the rest of the time he learns Torah. So can one understand from this that the Torah does fifty percent of [the work of] a tank?. . . But then saying this is to misconstrue the whole meaning of the Torah. I am for integration, but don’t we need the sea commandos, the artillery, the armored corps?. . . [C]an you be a pilot for one week and then do something else for the next week? A week as a sea commando? Everyone understands that if this is how it worked, you would not have anything. The structure of the army is such that each unit has its own flag and soldiers. . . And the Torah is our weapon.

Several conclusions may be drawn from these statements. Firstly, the emphasis is on equivalence between the otherworldly soldier (the yeshiva scholar) and his IDF counterpart, rather than equality. Secondly, the war of the yeshiva student—upholding the spiritual virtue of the Jewish people— is eternal, for this struggle does not end when the last gunshot has been

Militarism

fired. Last but not least, the equivalence is ultimately abrogated by the Haredi claim that their contribution outweighs that of the conventional soldier. For example, Schwartz (1978, 136) asserts that conscripting yeshiva students into the IDF is akin to destroying “the source of [the army’s] morale because this—the yeshivas—is the eternal source of the nation’s soul.” Put differently, a close reading of the official ultra-Orthodox perspective reveals that there is actually a clear pecking order between the two kinds of soldiers, which corresponds to the community’s hierarchy between the material and spiritual realms. It also bears noting that, according to this view, study in the yeshiva is not a passive act on the part of an insular group, as these otherworldly soldiers endeavor to guarantee the survival of the entire nation of Israel. Another dimension of the official Haredi view underscores the relations between the bodies and burdens of each type of soldier. In contrast to the powerful physique of the combat soldier, the Talmud scholar is described as possessing a strong “spiritual body” that is capable of bearing the crucial, existential burden of learning Torah. Since the corporeal body of the yeshiva student is often imparted with sacred meanings and characterized as delicate, it is deemed to be ill-equipped for the profane task of waging war. It is no coincidence that this sort of passage about the bodies of yeshiva students alludes to the dominant Zionist discourse over the rejection of the Jewish Diaspora, especially the attendant image of the frail, contemplative, and passive “Jew of old” (Boyarin 1997). By accentuating the Talmudist’s “valiant” role in the nation’s security, the Haredi leadership may be attempting to refute mainstream society’s claims that the community is a remnant of the meek diasporic culture of yesteryear. To this point, the justifications for the military exemption have centered around the yeshiva students and their functions or characteristics. Conversely, the next set of arguments emphasizes the specific context in which their learning takes place, the continuity of scholarship that the yeshiva is responsible for, and the threats to the ultra-Orthodox way of life posed by greater society, which prompted the sector’s enclave culture in the first place. According to this view, the army—its institutions, frameworks, and atmosphere included—is inherently averse to the fundamental needs of yeshiva life. As noted, the ultra-Orthodox community deems Torah study to be a supreme value. What is more, the uninterrupted practice of this commandment guarantees the very existence of the Jewish nation. The

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perpetuation of Talmudic scholarship obviously requires the qualification of new generations of experts. Therefore, it is essential, so the argument goes, that the requisite knowledge and skills are passed on to the next generation during childhood, adolescence, and beyond. Any stoppage in this long educational process, such as military service, is liable to break the chain of scholarship. As Haim Friedlander put it in The Conversation of Life, Those who do not understand what the burden of the Torah is, may ask why the bnei torah do not go to the army, for one can organize them in a daily framework of study and combat training. These people understand neither war nor learning. The burden of the Torah should engage every man; and if he has another preoccupation, it does not become a quantitative question of having less time for learning—the essence is missing. . . The study of the Torah implies unlimited devoutness [dvaikoot] and if there is a boundary there is no devoutness.

Succinctly put, the continuity of Torah study is perceived as the crux of yeshiva life, both as a daily practice and the belief that this enterprise is of paramount existential significance. Schwartz elaborates on the above-mentioned need to pass on the rudiments of the Torah at an early stage in a person’s mental deve- lopment: “And your slavery is the awe of God from your youth” means that there is a special meaning to studying Torah from a young age; as stated in the Gemarah: what is learnt at a young age is better retained in memory; thus there is no alternative to learning during [one’s] youth because it is the best time to study the Torah. The rabbis said (Shabbat 119) one should not stop the babes from studying Torah even for the building of the Temple; and along the same lines one does not push off one’s studies at a yeshiva at a later age . . .; and if you stop even for the shortest while—the blink of an eye—it is like “it is not present,” it does not remain. And that is why a yeshiva in which there is a break for [military] training or recruitment does not allow for the full success with [one’s] Torah [studies] (1978, 10).

In sum, Schwartz argues that interrupting Torah study for any profane matter, military service included, is liable to have a deleterious effect on this vital enterprise. The final justification for the military exemption, which came up frequently in my interviews, is that the IDF is a corruptive institution

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capable of undermining the yeshiva. If bnei torah were to be exposed to the army’s impure atmosphere, they would suffer irreparable spiritual harm. It is worth noting that this argument entails no fundamental objection to the army as a tool for defending the State of Israel. The Haredi position does not imply a rejection of the army, violence, or war, nor does it call for the abolition of the country’s military institutions. As such, the refusal for the mass enlistment of ultra-Orthodox youth is not rooted in an essential religio-moral problem with the army itself. Instead, it stems from an ideology of taboos and modesty rules, as the IDF, in its current form, is deemed to be an impure environment for the yeshiva student. As Schwartz explains, the main concern is the IDF’s secular character: There are many spiritual characteristics that a ben torah must have in order to be worthy of the Torah, and wars and military life are missing this spiritual sensitivity. As Nahmanides said (Deuteronomy 23:10): [‘]in going to war you will find the consumption of all abominations and you will find theft and robbery and they will not even be ashamed of committing adultery and all kinds of malice; even the righteous will become cruel. . .[’] The Torah has allowed the presence of beautiful women as a situation that tests a man and the same goes for the Jewish military. . . (2000, 4).

One of my interviewees, a Haredi involved in the publishing of traditional and modern religious texts, demonstrated just how seriously this perception of the IDF is taken within the community: I say that these labels that they give to the yeshivas according to which they protect the public from the street [i.e., the non-Haredi world] is very accurate. A person cannot live outside the framework of the yeshivas and observe the Torah and the commandments in the appropriate manner because the street is very seductive and powerful; this is one of the reasons that we stay away from the army. . . If the army really allows us, and is not just paying lip service. . . in order to pull us in; if it really wants to give us our frameworks that will protect us, there would be many who would undoubtedly go and everything would change completely. If my son were to come to me and say ‘Father, I don’t want to study and I am not suited for learning, I can’t study, I am the one that has to go the army,’ I wouldn’t let him do it. I would tell him, ‘Sit in the yeshiva and don’t study, but just don’t go to the army.’

Another of my subjects, a yeshiva student from Jerusalem, goes even further:

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The yeshivas are quite cognizant of the fact that the army is one of the factors that facilitated their development, just as the gentiles protected the Jewish community at the same time they confined it. And the minute they allowed [Jewry] to open up, they destroyed it. Of course, a lot of people are protected inside this framework. And the reason is very simple. Why do they [i.e., the rabbis] leave the young men who don’t study in the yeshivas? They won’t develop into great scholars. The reason is that they can survive in a religious framework. [We have] this anxiety about the corrupting influences of the outside [world] and especially the army.

Mordechai Neugerschall also expands upon the Haredi leadership’s attitude towards conscription: In the army, you may be damaged spiritually because you do not develop in terms of the Torah and the awe of heaven as you would in the yeshiva. . . And you may lose your way [faith]. In terms of facts this is the situation: many people may lose their way in the army.

It bears noting that none of these excerpts contains so much as a hint of pacifist resistance—be it philosophical or theological—to military service. Put differently, both the publications and interviews betray a positive conception of the IDF. Moreover, they demonstrate that Haredis keep close tabs on various aspects of the army. In fact, one interviewee readily admitted that the more moderate elements in the ultra-Orthodox community— Litvaks and some Hasidic groups—“identify with the state and naturally take some part in what is going on here.” In conclusion, Haredis view the state to be a given fact and the IDF to be a basic necessity for safeguarding the country. As a result, many of the yeshiva students I spoke with have no fundamental objections to the Israeli army or serving therein. At one and the same time, though, there was a wide range of competing views, in both the official discourse and my off-the-record discussions, with respect to the precise terms under which Haredis would be willing to join the IDF’s ranks, for as it now stands the military is perceived as a threat to the community’s moral fabric and ideology. Militarism and Soldierhood On the face of things, these official narratives and justifications show that Haredi parents are unwilling to allow their children to serve in the IDF, for

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they believe that exposure to the army’s secular culture is liable to sully their holy community. However, a closer look reveals a much more intricate view. In fact, the opinions I fielded during my interviews with yeshiva students on military issues leads me to the conclusion that a major transformation is underway (see Stadler 2008). When articulating remarks for public consumption, such as official comments to the mainstream press, most Haredis toe the official line, but the opinions expressed in private conversation and internal publications harbor no religious or moral objections to the army. What is more, many of my subjects—both young and older Haredis alike—are evidently fascinated by the IDF’s achievements, activities, organizational structure, and courses. For example, my interviewees often mixed historic details of Israel’s wars into the conversation, and a large portion of the ultra-Orthodox population is quite familiar with the IDF’s units, bases, and commanders. Whereas mainstream Israeli society is preoccupied with critical debates over the army’s procedures, past accomplishments, morality, and incidents of dissension (Kimmerling 1979, 22-41, 2004; Ben-Ari and LomskyFeder 1999, 1-36; Sasson-Levy 2000), especially its performance in recent operations, intifadas, and wars, the Haredi discourse is headlined by criticism against their own exemption. In the pages ahead, I will illustrate a few examples from the ultraOrthodox discourse that attest to the fact that some Haredis hold militaristic views and aspire to enlist in the army. Despite the shortcomings of the Tal Law, the Haredi Na al h. (hanah. al ha’h. aredi)—a battalion designed for ultra-Orthodox men who want to join the army without sacrificing their unique lifestyle (Drori 2005; Hakak 2003)5—constitutes an important case study in all that concerns Haredi militarism. This unit, also known as gdud netzakh yehuda (the Judah Forever Battalion) was established due to the rash of complaints that the ultra-Orthodox sector is not carrying its weight in Israeli society. This segregated battalion, which was formed with the blessing of some rabbis and with dire warnings from others, inducts 5  Nahal lokhem (Fighting Pioneer Youth). . is an acronym for noar halutzi . Historically speaking, this was a program that combined military service with the establishment of agricultural settlements. While the nahal’s . combat units are still an integral part of the IDF, the vast majority of its soldiers do not engage in any farming. In the Haredi context, it would appear that the word nahal . refers to the synthesis between a stringent religious lifestyle and combat missions.

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about sixty Haredi men a year—mostly yeshiva dropouts—whose dietary and religious needs are supplied by their rabbis. Accordingly, its soldiers endeavor to fulfill the Biblical imperative “ve’haya mah. anekha kadosh” (may your camp be holy). The Haredi Nah. al website describes the basic premise behind the unit’s establishment: Nahal Haredi was founded on the premise that physical strength alone is not enough—the spirit of Torah and Mitzvot must underlie all that is achieved. The Nahal provides religious men who seek to contribute to Israel’s military defence with a framework for personal and professional achievement that in every way promotes a Torah-true lifestyle. Nahal Haredi was created in 1999 by a group of rabbis in cooperation with the Israel Defense Forces and the Ministry of Defense, as a venue for young men who wish to serve the national interests of Eretz Yisrael while adhering to the highest religious standards.

The site also includes a three-pronged mission statement: —To provide for the unique spiritual needs of Haredi youth, while also enabling them to participate in the defense of Israel. —To provide these young men with the educational and professional qualifications needed to achieve economic independence. —To provide the Haredi community with a unique opportunity to share the nation’s military burden as well as bridging the social gap between secular and religious populations in Israel.

As alluded to in the mission statement, Haredi conscription is also meant to help the sector integrate into Israel’s labor market—a problem that has long-hampered the ultra-Orthodox community (Stadler 2003). When I first embarked on this research project, I did not directly broach military issues during the interview sessions. However, most of my subjects raised this topic on their own. Many spoke at length about the army, their reasons for not enlisting, the justifications offered by the rabbis, and their personal opinions on related matters, including the Haredi battalion. Their comments betrayed a modicum of uncertainty about the decisions that the senior rabbis have made on their behalf. More specifically, the young men took issue with several aspects of ultra-Orthodox life: the poor financial situation of many families; their exclusion from the army and consequently job opportunities; the structure of the yeshiva; their obligation to study around the clock; and the sector’s present leadership. Their main bone of

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contention was the demand put forth by community elders in the midtwentieth century for all male members to dedicate themselves exclusively to Torah studies, accept a humble existence, and remain celibate until marriage. My young interviewees questioned the viability of this model for everyday life in present-day Israel and raised multi-faceted arguments against the status quo. Many of my subjects feel that the community’s asceticism and piety may very well have been appropriate for the 1950s and 1960s. While accepting the basic tenets of yeshiva-based religiosity, they resent being forced to follow a single, pre-fabricated, and extremely regimented track that is devoid of any alternatives or personal choices. According to Shlomo, a yeshiva student from Jerusalem, They [the Haredi authorities] have built a society with very unrealistic values. It may be all right for a select few—a handful of ascetics who enter a monastery and also decide not to marry. . . . But to say that everybody in a society, without exception, should study. . . and that abstinence is part of this ideal, is simply unrealistic. This is not what is written in the scriptures, and it is unsuitable for human beings.

While exhibiting a lucid Hebrew and penchant for scriptural allusions, Shlomo appears to have intentionally chosen a roundabout path for making his primary point. He implicitly refers to the fact that Judaism strongly emphasizes the virtues of conjugal life. However, by compelling young men to abstain from premarital sex, the rabbis might be leading their flock dangerously close to the Christian paradigm of piety or that of the Jewish ascetics, whose extreme abstention is condemned in the Bible. Placing farfetched expectations on bnei torah, in Shlomo’s opinion, could ultimately endanger the community of faith. Even if the issue of celibacy were to be solved, the young Jerusalemite still believes that the current arrangement is not for everyone: When you stop to think about it, it is horrible that parents may recognize that their son might not be an outstanding Talmud student or might not become an exemplary rabbi. Yet they nevertheless feel obligated to send him to the yeshiva because, perhaps out of the thousands who study, he might become one of the chosen few. I am not willing to pay this price. . . . Maybe as a leader these things look right, but as an individual, if I am true to myself, I should get up and leave.

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From Shlomo’s standpoint, then, the yeshiva model is both a personal burden and disservice to the entire community. Additionally, he claims that the ultra-Orthodox leadership past and present has disregarded the needs of the country. Shlomo indeed portrays himself as being trapped in an overly pious framework. Although he is happy living according to this ideal, he claims to be paying a steep price and feels tempted to jump ship. This conundrum testifies to the lack of alternatives for masculine virtuosity in the community. Although Shlomo and his ilk do not really want to leave the enclave, they have very few professional options therein. On the matter of conscription, Shlomo stressed that the army is a wider Israeli embodiment of masculine strength, especially the prospects of “heroism under fire.” Chanoch, an eighteen year-old student, believes that the ultra-Orthodox sector is much more amenable to conscription than its representatives let on: Some of us actually have a more positive attitude [toward the army], but you will not hear much about it in the media. You will hear it more in faceto-face interviews with public Haredi figures. However, these leaders will not express this view in public because they do not want their words to turn into ammunition in the hands of those in secular society who want to fight against us [i.e., the ultra-Orthodox]. We also have a problem with the public concerning [our] young people who are not fit for studying. This same dilemma is debated in the Babylonian Talmud over young men who learn Torah, but see no blessing in their studies. The Talmudic rabbis resolved this issue by deciding that five years of study was the limit and that those who were unfit should get up and leave it all.

Quite a few of my subjects reiterated the concern that most Haredi youth are ill-suited for yeshiva life. They argued that these people should follow their gut instinct and enlist in the army. For example, Aaron, a young yeshiva student from Jerusalem hinted at an alternative: Today, if we send all the young boys of the next generation to the army and to work, and only require that they keep kosher, I am not sure how big a percentage would remain [in the yeshivas]. Why? Because despite what most people think, Judaism is not just about abstract study, but is actually a very practical religion. . . . I mean, [the Jewish sages] understood the attraction to the carnal. . ., that man is a material creature, and that a religious person is attracted in exactly the same way as a secular person to exactly the same things—right? And today the temptation is so great that the walls have to be fortified.

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In sum, these young men are ensnared in a trap of their own making: on the one hand, they still believe that the ascetic Jewish model is a worthy ideal to pursue; while on the other hand, they realize that it is an impossible goal and that their attempts to observe its stringent precepts only compounds the stress they face on a daily basis. Aaron suggested another approach— what the ultra-Orthodox refer to as “practical Judaism”—that would allow young Haredis to engage the secular world and find a proper balance between their rabbis’ definitions of the sacred and profane. My interviewees’ criticism of the yeshiva authorities and, conversely, their favorable image of the IDF is part of a wider effort to reform the community’s religiosity and transform the physical, material, and corporeal aspects of their lives. They imagine that the army would allow them to experience forbidden realms and test alternative modes of behavior. Moreover, their critical language divulges the underlying tension between the fundamentalist ideal of asceticism and piety and the coveted model of soldierhood and this-world religiosity. This sort of rhetoric blends the charismatic features of yeshiva fundamentalism with a variety of militaristic symbols and norms. Although most of my interviewees perceived the army as an iniquitous realm that runs counter to the sublime atmosphere of the yeshiva, they also regarded it as a possible framework for constructing a new model of ultra-Orthodox heroism and piety. *** The State of Israel is imbued with a strong militaristic ethos that affects all its citizens. Despite the sector-wide exemption from conscription, many Haredis harbor strong militaristic views and aspire to contribute to society by serving in the IDF. How, then, are we to interpret these expressions of militarism in a segregated society? One conclusion is that young Haredis no longer accept their community’s anti-secular ideology or its insular model. Unlike earlier generations, the young men that I interviewed grew up in the state, accept its existence, and are drawn to its ethos. Moreover, the community is being pushed towards change by external pressures, like the political and economic demands of mainstream society and the country-wide scourge of terrorism, as well as internal pressures, such as the sector’s exponential population growth and its “one-size-fitsall” educational approach. For some members of the present yeshiva generation, otherworldly metaphysical activities are not always rewarding.

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These developments seem to be fertile ground for the rising opposition among younger bnei torah to the community’s existing models of scriptural fundamentalism and rarified masculinity (Stadler 2008), as their opinions concerning the military and soldierhood are challenging the existing structures and ideologies of Haredi institutions. Their fascination with military service appears to stem from an ideal that was instilled in them as part of their upbringing—the desire to sacrifice themselves for the nation. However, instead of the accepted route of dedicating their lives to learning Torah, they wish to fulfill this goal through state-sanctioned frameworks, not least the IDF. One of the major findings of my research is that quite a few bnei torah long to participate in greater society and contribute to the state, while remaining true to what they perceive to be the essence of ultra-Orthodoxy. In other words, they are searching for new Haredi models with which to express their masculine identity. Their stated desire to serve in the IDF betrays a yearning for a more inclusive citizenship and a less lofty and more active religiosity, one that exchanges the otherworldly soldier’s heroic selfsacrifice—full-time Torah study—on behalf of the entire Jewish nation for the heroic self-sacrifice of the profane soldier who is willing to give his life for that same collective. The prospects for these yearnings are also evident in the sector’s massive support for the army’s controversial actions in the occupied territories and, more recently, in the scores of Haredi men volunteering in security and paramedic organizations, like the Civil National Guard, the Israeli Red Cross, and ZAKA (see chapter 3). While the changes that have already swept through Israeli ultra-Orthodoxy (e.g., the embracement of technology and consumerism, and participation in politics) are significant, the flock’s reliance on the leading rabbis’ interpretations concerning piety and sacred texts is still unstinting, so that widespread Haredi conscription appears to be a long-term goal at best.

Chapter 6

Ha r ed i Vo lu n ta r i sm

Voluntarism is one of the strongest indications of the metamorphosis that Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community is presently undergoing. While Haredi volunteer service was once geared almost entirely to the community’s internal needs (through a centralized system known as the GMaKh— a Hebrew acronym for gmilut h. asadim or mutual aid society, today new and autonomous Haredi not-for-profit organizations, such as Ezer Mitzion, Hatzolah, and Yad Sarah, are catering to the general public in many fields of charitable enterprise. A quintessential example of this trend is ZAKA (the Hebrew acronym for Identification of Victims of Disaster), an ultraOrthodox rescue and recovery organization that was established in response to the spike in terrorist attacks during the 1990s (also see Stadler 2008). The emergence of ZAKA marks one of the first times that Haredis have willingly involved themselves in Israel’s public affairs. The organization’s volunteers are devoted to treating victims of terrorist violence—both the wounded and deceased—in the immediate aftermath of attacks. In contrast to the state’s more established rescue and recovery forces, like the police, army, and ambulance services, ZAKA members specialize in responding to mass-casualty incidents in accordance with the precepts of Jewish theology and law. What is more, they have developed creative organizational practices and collaborations with the state, its institutions, and mainstream society. It bears noting that at first the ultra-Orthodox leadership viewed ZAKA’s founders and operatives to be no less than sinners and heretics. Rabbis argued that crossing community boundaries, interacting with nonHaredi institutions, and working in the public spotlight were endangering fundamental ultra-Orthodox values as well as the sector’s enclave lifestyle.

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However, as the Second Intifada intensified, the ranks of ZAKA swelled with deeply-committed volunteers. What seemed at the time to be a temporary and marginal outfit developed into a full-fledged organization (Stadler et al. 2005). By assuming the grisly yet time-honored religious duty of identifying dead bodies and retrieving their dismembered parts, ZAKA members forged new narratives of ultra-Orthodox citizenship, cooperation with the state, and civic service. The Israeli public, which was originally ambivalent and even hostile to the organization, began to accept its volunteers’ presence on the scene of suicide bombings. Some observers even view them as the harbingers of a positive shift in the Haredi outlook towards an ideology of contribution to the common good and assimilation, to some extent, into mainstream society. The current chapter will examine how ZAKA members justify their voluntary participation in the affairs of state. Furthermore, I will demonstrate how service in ZAKA allows Haredis to give back to Israeli society on their own terms, under the banner of their own symbols, and from within their own organizations, thereby remaining true to the community’s ideals. Drawing on this blueprint, multiple Haredi groups have introduced new concepts to the ultra-Orthodox discourse, like sacrifice, the “new piety,” and contribution, for the purpose of solidifying their membership in the Israeli collective and the state. In other words, these new forms of voluntarism express a Haredi desire for acceptance in Israeli society. On the other hand, by emphasizing unmistakably Jewish ideas, they are embedding traditional elements of Judaism into the public sphere. The Fieldwork I began my fieldwork on ZAKA in the summer of 2002—a period rife with the suicide attacks of the Second Intifada. Along with a group of students, Einat Mesterman, Sagi Genosar, and Jonathan Ventura, we conducted a series of interviews with active ZAKA volunteers in Jerusalem—the organization’s center of operations—and other cities, including Rehovot, Tel Aviv, and Holon (see Stadler 2008).1 The sessions usually lasted 1  In all that concerns the fieldwork for this chapter, I would like to thank the project’s three research assistants, Einat Mesterman, Sagi Genosar, and Jonathan Ventura. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Eyal Ben Ari for cooperating with me on this study.

Haredi Voluntarism

between one and three hours and were held in a variety of locations, such as hotel lobbies, shopping malls, the interviewees’ homes, and Haredi restaurants. In most cases, the initial contact was made over the phone. The aim of these telephone conversations was to briefly describe the research project, coordinate the technical aspects of the interview, and glean some information about the subject’s background. For the purpose of supplementing the interview data and understanding the context in which ZAKA was established, the research team also analyzed relevant newspaper articles, films and television reports, and the organization’s website. Like other ultra-Orthodox bodies, ZAKA maintains a strict gender separation, as its entire staff is comprised of males. During the interviews, the research team regularly broached this topic. Most of the volunteers tersely replied that there was a possibility the organization would incorporate women in the future (mainly in secretarial positions). Needless to say, the interviewees were reluctant to even discuss the inclusion of women on rescue and recovery missions. Some explained the religious difficulties that these tasks posed and the physical dangers involved. Over the years, I have continued to track the barriers to entry that the organization places before potential volunteers. Although ZAKA has recently opened its door to more groups within the religious populace, it continues to bar all women. Just like the uncompromising exclusion of women from yeshiva life, we can assume that the Haredi community views proximity to death and corpses to be the exclusive domain of men. Many of the interviewees asserted that ZAKA is the only group that is authorized to gather and conduct the preliminary identification of corpses and organs at the scene of mass-casualty incidents, all of which is carried out in a “Jewish way.” Volunteers consider this job to be a sacred duty and the highest act of piety, as they indeed toil for hours in an effort to recover every last riven piece of flesh and match them with the individual victims. In explaining the significance, solemnity, and complexity of their calling, the interviewees enlisted a panoply of religious symbols, texts, and justifications. Voluntarism and Death in Israel Reuven Kahane (1986) opined that voluntarism is a relatively constraintfree choice of goals or affiliations in which the cost of changing one’s mind

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is minimal. According to Kahane, the greater the degree of voluntarism in a given situation, the stronger the participants’ bargaining power, for “management” has no financial leverage over the “service providers.” Moreover, he claimed that the non-obligatory nature of volunteer work enhances the level of commitment (1986, 27). Against this backdrop, how are we to interpret the new forms of Haredi voluntarism? Community service is a central pillar of Haredi culture. A paragon of this ideal is the above-mentioned GMaKh or mutual aid society, a voluntary association that is set up to fill some sort of welfare void. In contemporary Israel, these societies are usually established in one of the following ways: a formal manner that includes a charter, guidelines, and long-term goals; or on an ad hoc basis to meet the unique needs of a particular time and place. Among the GMaKh’s traditional causes are to provide money for and/or assistance to the ill, the elderly, the poor, families with babies, and educational institutions. Many of these organizations provide a social or educational framework for members so that they may support each other and contribute to the community at large. The mutual aid societies in Israel have extended their purview to short-term loans of, inter alia, wedding dresses, cooking equipment for celebrations, and medical devices as well as the operation of infant healthcare centers. These associations are indeed quite prevalent in the Haredi enclaves throughout the country. The advent of ZAKA must also be understood within the historical context of Jewish philanthropy. In Israel, it is connected to the traditional work of the h. evra kaddisha (literally “sacred society”)—the Communal Fraternal Burial Society. This organization is charged with interring the bodies of deceased Jews—religious or secular—in accordance with the precepts of Jewish law (Abramovitch 1986, 127; Heilman 2001; Hillers 1971, 442-444). The h. evra kaddisha’s chief emphasis is on the ritual of tahara, that is Jewish purification rites. To begin with, the Burial Society cleans the corpse, which is then ritually purified by either immersion or continuously pouring water over it. Thereafter, the body is dressed in white, pure cotton shrouds (tah. rikhim) consisting of ten pieces for a male and twelve for a female. Every Jew is buried in an identical outfit, which symbolically resembles the attire worn by the high priest in the Temple. According to Jewish custom, the dead are to be buried as soon as possible for the following reasons: to prevent the corpse from polluting

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the environment; and not less importantly, out of respect for its corporeal integrity. There is indeed a voluminous Jewish literature on the impurity of human remains, and the laws governing this topic are very strict. For instance, people, places, and utensils that have come into contact with a dead body are liable to be defiled (Goldberg 1995, 82). In light of the above, Jewish communities have historically maintained a special cadre of volunteers that is charged with tending to the deceased. Members of the Burial Society transfer the corpses from the home or hospital, perform all the pre-burial rituals, and make all the necessary funeral arrangements. In their capcity as mortuary experts, they also guide the bereaved through the funerary rites (see Abramovitch 1991, 80). It also bears noting that every Burial Society has separate staff for handling men and women, for according to ultra-Orthodox custom dead bodies cannot be treated by members of the opposite sex. In the past, the Burial Society was always a voluntary organization, whose members were held in high esteem by the Jewish community. However, in Israel, funerary and mortuary services fall almost exclusively under the jurisdiction of the Haredi-run h. evra kaddisha, which is under the auspices of the Ministry of Religion.2 Although this virtual monopoly has imparted the h. evra kaddisha with the authority and proficiency to carry out its mission, it has also stirred tensions with the general public, to the point where some citizens resent the interference of Haredi elements in such an intimate stage of the life cycle. For example, representatives of the h. evra kaddisha are often mockingly called crows and vultures. The typical Israeli funeral is often criticized for, among other things, the lack of a coffin, the swiftness of the burial, and the solicitation of charity during the ceremony. Moreover, many Israelis deem the professionalization of what had long been a voluntary enterprise to be anathema to their Jewish historical sensitivities (Abramovitch 1986, 130-131). Therefore, quite a few citizens prefer an “alternative” or “secular” funeral and burial. In this respect, then, the h. evra kaddisha has failed to instill Jewish mortuary customs on all of Israeli society.

2  The only exceptions to the rule are the burial services offered by several kibbutzim, the eighteen branches of menukha nehonah (Correct Repose), and a small handful . of other organizations.

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Compared to the h. evra kaddisha, the work of ZAKA constitutes something of a departure. The escalation of terror in Israel created new needs with respect to the handling of demise, which the existing institutions of state—to include the Burial Society—were hard-pressed to fill. In response to the profusion of mass-casualty incidents, members of the Haredi community founded a number of volunteer organizations with the objective of providing both practical and religious solutions to these challenges. ZAKA is the largest and best known of these organizations. In some respects, it can be considered an extension of the h. evra kaddisha. Like their more-established counterparts, ZAKA members also see themselves as possessing valuable religious knowledge about death as well as the wherewithal and religious motivation to provide mortuary services to all Jewish Israelis. However, in contrast to the traditional Burial Society, which is mainly responsible for death rites and burial, ZAKA is one of the only groups that contends with the immediate aftermath of destructive attacks and all the mortuary phases before interment: locating and reassembling scattered body parts; washing the blood of victims off of the crime scene; treating the deceased in accordance with Jewish tradition; and transferring the corpses to the Israeli Institute of Forensic Science. ZAKA’s mission thus sets it apart from that of the Burial Society and other secular institutions occupied with demise. However, just like the h. evra kaddisha of yesteryear, ZAKA has not only perpetuated the Jewish ideal of voluntarism, but has rendered it into an important contemporary ultra-Orthodox value. By merging death symbols and practices with the ideal of voluntarism in the public sphere, ZAKA has come to epitomize the ideals and piety of Judaism in the eyes of many Israelis, both Haredi and non-Haredi alike. A Closer Look at ZAKA As noted, ZAKA was founded in the wake of an upsurge in terrorist incidents during the mid-1990s. These sort of attacks skyrocketed at the outbreak of the Second Intifada in September 2000. Also known as al-Aqsa Intifada, this was yet another round in a long series of conflicts between Israel and its Arab neighbors. However, what set the Intifada apart from earlier confrontations was the combination of mass civil unrest in the Palestinian territories and the unbridled violence that both sides inflicted on one another. The Palestinians increasingly resorted to individual and

Haredi Voluntarism

group suicide bombings that were targeted against civilians, and the Israeli public indeed incurred heavy casualties. Dozens of attacks were perpetrated in neighborhood restaurants, commuter buses, and other crowded venues. In turn, these incidents prompted new demands for security. Even before this wave of violence, certain Israeli state-run organizations had acquired substantial experience in dealing with suicide attacks, including the police, the army’s Rear Command, fire fighters, and Magen David Adom (the Israeli chapter of the International Red Cross). However, with the onset of terrorist incidents in the early 1990s, a new factor made its debut on the country’s rescue and recovery scene—ZAKA. Within a short time span, the organization’s trademark yellowish-green or orange fluorescent vests became a conspicuous and accepted presence on this gruesome yet highly-public stage. Since ZAKA’s inception, a substantial portion of its mission has revolved around the response to mass-casualty incidents. After an attack, the organization’s volunteers scour the entire vicinity for body parts, which they then sort out and match to individual victims. Operatives search the top of buildings, roads, trees, walls, or anywhere else that the smallest piece of flesh may have landed, whereupon the severed body parts of survivors are rushed to the hospital for reattachment. Even after the police and paramedics have departed, the ZAKA team remains on the scene for the purpose of meticulously scraping up all the remaining bits of flesh and soaking up the blood from the street, store fronts, and destroyed buses. The primary motivation behind these actions is to ensure that the dead are buried in full adherence to Jewish tradition. Officially established in 1995, ZAKA currently boasts over 1,000 allmale volunteers who are recruited almost exclusively from Haredi segments of the Israeli public. Given the fact that Israel’s ultra-Orthodox populace is often characterized as an enclave society that is opposed to modernity and shirks national duties (Friedman 1987, 1993; Sivan 1991), the establishment of a deeply-committed Haredi volunteer organization which serves the entire public was no less than a resounding surprise. During its early years, ZAKA specialized in the identification and retrieval of body parts in the immediate aftermath of terrorist incidents, so that the victims could be brought to a proper Jewish burial, namely with as much of the corpse as possible—bones, limbs, organs, and blood—intact. Throughout this period, the organization’s volunteers linked their willingness to perform these tasks

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exclusively to the religious duty of caring for the dead—an imperative that occupies a lofty position in the traditional Jewish outlook towards demise, burial, and salvation. The fact that ZAKA’s entire staff consisted of volunteers helped forge a new image of Haredis. The organization’s dedicated “men of action” stood in stark contradistinction to the usual stereotypes of the ultraOrthodox as a bunch of passive “parasites” that are dependent on state support yet unwilling to give back to greater society. As opposed to the Haredi leadership, the general public saw the organization in an extremely positive light. The mainstream media portrayed ZAKA’s volunteers as the “good Haredis.” At long last, the pundits argued, the ultra-Orthodox community was pitching in and making some amends for not sending its sons and daughters to the army. Following terrorist incidents, ZAKA was frequently lauded for its sacred work and dedication to the religious ideal of kvod ha’met (respect for or dignity of the dead). After decades of acrimony between the Haredi sector and mainstream Israelis, the organization was described as a force that is bridging the gap between ultraOrthodoxy and the rest of the nation, infusing a sense of shared destiny and mutual respect among the entire Jewish people. Several observers even described its work as the first step towards a social pact of cooperation and unity between Israel’s various sectors (Shapiro 2002; also see Halevi 1997, 18). Furthermore, ZAKA merited various accolades. Most notably, the organization’s founder, Yehuda Meshi Zahav, was selected to light one of the ceremonial torches on Israel’s 55th anniversary celebrations—one of the state’s most prestigious honors. A few years earlier, it would have been unthinkable for the government to bestow such an award on a member of the ultra-Orthodox community or, all the more so, for a Haredi to agree to take part in such a “Zionist function.” Criteria for Joining ZAKA As aforementioned, ZAKA’s corps is limited to members of different Haredi streams. In addition, all volunteers must be married, for this is considered a sign of seriousness and devotion to the community. However, it is worth noting that the majority of my interviewees were not actually affiliated with any particular ultra-Orthodox group, and many claimed to

Haredi Voluntarism

be unique: to dress differently from other Haredis, to be more “modern,” or more politically active. Some even claimed to have put in short stints in the IDF. Thanks to ZAKA’s popularity, many Haredi men are interested in joining its ranks, but this involves a long and selective process. A candidate who makes the preliminary cut is obliged to attend classes on law enforcement theory and Israel’s police units. Moreover, rabbi speaks to applicants about the special religious issues that pertain to service in the organization, and a few compulsory meetings are held with a psychologist. Last but not least, all ZAKA’s operatives must endure an initiation rite—a pre-burial purification ceremony in which they are ordered to personally wash a human corpse. Many of my subjects claimed that quite a few people drop out at this stage. Similar to the early phases of combat training, this rite is meant to test the candidates’ mettle, and those who fail to stomach their first encounter with a dead body are considered unfit for the job. Those who surmount this obstacle are required to go through extensive training in several fields that the average yeshiva student is unlikely to be familiar with, such as first aid, basic fire extinguishing, rappelling, and psychological therapy. Technology plays a key role in the ZAKA volunteer’s job. All operatives are equipped with cellular phones and beepers with which they are paged to missions, as per their location and qualifications. Moreover, they carry communication devices that are linked to police stations, patrols, and hospital casualty centers. With the help of these technologies, ZAKA teams are on call 24/7. In the event of an attack, an appropriate team of specialists is alerted to the scene. Furthermore, every volunteer carries a ZAKA identification badge and a police certificate listing their skills. As a Haredi organization, ZAKA receives spiritual guidance from an assortment of rabbis. These halachic authorities provide advice and training to the organization’s leadership and field operatives. Moreover, these scholars pass judgment on extremely complicated matters and unprecedented religio-juridical questions that come up during incidents. For instance, rulings are occasionally needed on the holiness of the Sabbath and the laws of purity. Above all, these rabbis provide halachic justifications for controversial actions that ZAKA volunteers are forced to take in the line of duty.

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Motivations for Volunteering When asked for the main reason they joined ZAKA, all the interviewees explained that “it is a big mitzvah” (commandment or good deed) to show respect for the victims of terror attacks by ensuring, as much as is possible, that they are buried whole. Since only the organization’s volunteers are authorized to perform this task, service therein constitutes a unique opportunity to give back to the general public. Most of my interviewees began their explanations as to their reason for entering ZAKA’s ranks with the term kvod ha’met. 1. Honoring the dead Widely-considered one of the fundamental principles of the Jewish faith, kvod ha’met is the obligation to respect or preserve the dignity of the dead. Many Jewish law books and custumals on bereavement note that the source for this imperative is Chronicles II 32:33: “And Hezekiah slept with his fathers . . . and the inhabitants of Jerusalem . . . did him honor [kavod] at his death.” An important facet of this commandment is the halacha according to which a corpse should not be left unattended until it is interred. For this reason, members of the h. evra kaddisha stand watch over the dead while reading psalms (the only religious activity that is permitted during the vigil). In addition, Jewish law requires immediate burial, so as to avoid decomposition and to honor the deceased. Autopsies are strictly forbidden because they damage the body, which are supposed to be kept intact for the resurrection at the End of the Days (Rabinowicz 1989, 10-18). Barring a few exceptions, these well-established customs and rules were once under the exclusive preserve of the h. evra kaddisha (also see Toktzinsky 1960). However, ZAKA has reinterpreted some of the procedures to meet the demands of mass-casualty incidents. For example, the organization’s rabbinical advisors have unprecedentedly ruled that the commandment of kvod ha’met outweighs the injunction against working on the Sabbath. As already noted, the commandment of honoring the dead undergirds ZAKA’s mission, as numerous interviewees pointed to this imperative as one of the main justifications for performing the gruesome tasks that membership entails. Volunteers have turned this religious duty into a sacred public practice. In their estimation, the riven body parts are akin to a burning

Haredi Voluntarism

scroll that is inscribed with the name of the Lord. Consequently, the parts must also be gathered and systematically recomposed as quickly as the circumstances permit (Stadler 2006, 2008). According to their own detailed accounts, ZAKA volunteers meticulously collect, sort, and identify all the scattered organs and limbs, whereupon they soak up every last drop of spilt blood with cloths. Insofar as the operatives are concerned, their calling is a new, public, and technologicallyadvanced way of fulfilling the traditional commandment of kvod ha’met. My interviewees took pride in being the exclusive agents of what, in their estimation, is the most honorable and proper service for victims whose manner of death is a travesty of the divine creation. In fact, many of them consider these practices to be of utmost importance and the pinnacle of religiously rewarding endeavor. One volunteer, Shlomo, extrapolated on his own treatment of bodies after terror attacks from the halacha governing scattered bones. The idea of the soul came up in many of the interviews, including my discussion with Daniel: Because we believe in the immortality of the soul, death is not the end of the road; it is merely a transition from one world to the next. This is why we respect the body. . . [T]he spirit is still in there, and we cannot disrespect it. This is why we treat the dead as though he was alive. . . [A]fter tending to the pieces and the identification, [different] body parts [of the same person] can [technically] be buried apart. But according to our belief and law, this is a lack of respect for the dead, so we recompose the body and try to bury the dead whole. . . This is how we preserve the sacredness and how we carry out this holy work.

From the ZAKA operative’s standpoint, he is responsible for maintaining the religious order under the most chaotic circumstances. For instance, one interviewee recounted an instance in which a halacha had to be reinterpreted to suit the unique conditions in the field: When the terrorist attack transpired in Mah. aneh Yehuda [a popular openair market in Jerusalem] on the eve of the Sabbath, there were people blown up next to the bus where the terrorist had detonated himself. . . [T]he police didn’t let the ZAKA volunteers enter, and the Sabbath had already started. . . The situation was so bad that you couldn’t leave the mutilated bodies under the bus, under the wheels of the bus—it was terrible. It had to be dealt with. . . According to Halacha, you are not allowed to handle [dead bodies on the

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Sabbath]; you are only allowed to begin life. You are obliged to violate the Sabbath in order to save a life, but. . .you are not allowed to touch [corpses on the Sabbath]. . . [I]n the end, the rabbis allowed us to remain there and carry out our job on the Sabbath. This is the first time that this has happened in history. It seems that what was important [to the adjudicators] was kvod ha’met.

Until this attack on Mah. aneh Yehuda, rabbis only permitted medical personnel to tend to the wounded on the Sabbath; however, authorization was subsequently extended to include the removal and treatment of dead bodies as well. 2. True Kindness In addition to the commandment of kvod ha’met, many of my subjects attributed their unstinting devotion to handling mutilated bodies amid the peal of sirens and screaming victims to the paramount Jewish virtue of h. esed shel emet (true kindness). According to my interviewees, true kindness refers to public deeds that are performed under the shadow of death (also see Heilman 2001). Although these actions merit rewards from on high, some volunteers asserted that h. esed shel emet is a paragon of generosity because it is a voluntary and disinterested act undertaken without any expectation for reward in this world. In the case of a ZAKA volunteer, a victim of a terrorist attack that is given a “proper” burial is obviously unable to personally repay the attending team. Lastly, my subjects emphasized the fact that this work often entails putting aside their main religious obligations to the yeshiva and the ultra-Orthodox community. 3. Participation and Sacrifice Aside for the personal religious motivation of performing the commandment of honoring the dead, ZAKA’s volunteers are also driven by a desire to give back to society at large. As explained in other parts of this book, Haredis are constantly feuding with surrounding society over issues like religious observance, service to the state, and economic independence. These tensions have mounted due to the fact that most young Haredis neither participate in the Israeli labor force nor enlist in the army, while nevertheless relying on the state’s largess for their sustenance. In fact, the

Haredi Voluntarism

ultra-Orthodox sector has consistently secured generous state funding, which has enabled them to expand their educational system, increase the number of social institutions catering to their internal needs, and extend their cultural and political influence (Sivan and Caplan 2003).3 In light of the community’s enclave culture, most Haredis’ interactions with other parts of Israeli society usually takes place in one of two arenas: ultra-Orthodox demonstrations against perceived violations of religious prohibitions and rituals (such as the recent struggle against the opening of a parking lot on Sabbath near the walls of Jerusalem’s Old City); and the cemetery. Given Judaism’s complicated burial customs and the attendant unpleasantries of handling corpses, most people are incapable of or unwilling to perform this rite on their own and, as already discussed, inevitably turn to the h. evra kaddisha. The rise of ZAKA has prompted a dramatic change in the ultraOrthodox community’s relations with the state and mainstream Israelis. For the first time, Haredis can participate in and contribute to society at large. The principal outlet for civic service in Israel is the army, in which young men and women are asked to sacrifice some of their best years and, on occasion, even their lives, to the defense of the state. Given the risks its volunteers face at the scene of terror attacks, ZAKA constitutes the first Haredi framework in the history of the Jewish state for engaging in voluntary acts that fall under the rubric of sacrifice. ZAKA’s Present Role in Israel and Beyond Based in Jerusalem, ZAKA is a not-for-profit organization that maintains units throughout Israel. It is formally under the jurisdiction of two police units: the Civilian Guard and the Division of Identification and Forensic Science. In recent years, the organization has broadened its scope to areas such as para-medical aid, ongoing support for terrorist victims and their families, handling routine forms of demise, and the rescue and recovery of missing persons. With the drop in suicide attacks since 2004, the organization places an equal emphasis on conventional para-medical services. For example, ZAKA recently purchased a fleet of motorcycles in order to provide first aid in different parts of the country. This fleet has 3  For an in-depth look at this topic, see the discussion in chapter 7.

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enabled its volunteers to reach victims faster than Magen David Adom’s ambulances. As per the media and police, ZAKA personnel have been the first to reach almost every terrorist attack. In addition, they have carried out numerous standard resuscitations of, say, heart attack and traffic accident victims. Over the past few years, ZAKA has extended the geographical scope of its operations beyond the shores of Israel, so that today it can be considered an international volunteer organization. On January 10, 2010, a private helicopter crashed in Mexico killing Moisés Saba—a Jewish businessman and philanthropist who was one of ZAKA’s biggest donors—and three family members. The organization dispatched a team of specialists to North America for the purpose of identifying the victims and finding all the body parts. As reported in the organization’s website, “On arrival in Mexico Tuesday morning local time, the ZAKA volunteers went immediately to the crash site, where they met with the other 16 ZAKA volunteers from Mexico and the US, including a specialist in bone identification.” This mission is indicative, at least in part, of ZAKA’s desire to expand its operations and disseminate the organization’s Jewish ideas and symbols well beyond the borders of Israel. That same month, a ZAKA crew from Israel participated in the international rescue operations in Haiti following a powerful earthquake. Although the Haredi group’s contribution was rather modest, it immediately attracted the attention of the media, both in Israel and abroad. For example, the Christian Broadcasting Network (CBN), which is headquartered in Virginia, ran an account of the mission that was provided by Matti Goldstein, head of ZAKA’s International Rescue Unit: ‘Everywhere, the acrid smell of bodies hangs in the air,’ Goldstein wrote. ‘It’s just like the stories we are told of the Holocaust—thousands of bodies everywhere,’ he continued. ‘You have to understand that the situation [here] is true madness and the more time passes, there are more and more bodies—in numbers that cannot be grasped. It is beyond comprehension,’ Goldstein wrote. Team members, all Orthodox Jews, took time out to recite Shabbat (Sabbath) prayers, described as ‘a surreal sight of ultra-Orthodox men wrapped in prayer shawls standing on the collapsed buildings.’4

4  http://www.cbn.com/cbnnews/insideisrael/2010/January/ZAKA-Rescues-EightStudents-in-Haiti/

Haredi Voluntarism

ZAKA also classified its work in Haiti as a Jewish voluntary mission. While giving succor to the people of a completely different culture and faith, the organization’s representative drew on the same set of Jewish symbols to justify their global operations. The Secret Behind ZAKA’s Success Over the next few pages, we will touch on some of the keys behind ZAKA’s success. To begin with, the organization’s practices and motivations are grounded on Jewish tradition, so that the voluntary services it provides at mass-casualty incidents are consonant with the cultural roots of the State of Israel. Put differently, ZAKA volunteers have merited the full backing of both the Haredi community and the general public because they carry out elementary religio-cultural duties in the field of demise. In addition, the organization acquired and mastered a wide range of professional skills that were taught to its operatives by various bodies, such as the police, the IDF, and medical organizations. Likewise, ZAKA cooperates with various government institutions specializing in disaster response. The organization’s synthesis of medical, military, and religio-traditional disciplines not only reinforces the legitimacy of its members’ actions, but has turned them into social experts on treating the victims of terrorist attacks. By sanctioning ZAKA’s efforts to treat, touch, and recompose both the wounded and the dead, society has essentially allowed its volunteers to deal with issues that cut to the very heart of the social order: questions of life and death in the public sphere. The legitimacy to cope with terroristinduced death and destruction that ZAKA earned from mainstream society has enabled the organization to become a powerful cultural agent that promulgates new meanings and carries out new practices in the public sphere. More than most other causes of death, terrorist attacks are capable of triggering pandemonium. That said, the scene of these crimes also involves saving lives and making life-or-death decisions under unpredictable, nerve-racking conditions. In my estimation, ZAKA’s unique standing stems from the fact that its members deal with both life and death at one at the same time. As part of their job, the organization’s volunteers divide every attack along these two lines. It is only after tending to the wounded— performing triage and administering the necessary treatments—that the

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operatives turn their attention to the corpses. In fact, they often describe the transition from injuries to fatalities as a dramatic and highly-significant moment. During this later phase, the volunteers usually toil alone on the onerous task of collecting body parts and soaking up blood. The retrieval process also entails classifying bodies and the condition of each corpse (for example, dismemberment, rupture, dispersion, and mass perforation) and sorting the strewn limbs and organs that are found. As members—albeit nominal ones—of a technologically-driven society, ZAKA volunteers take advantage of the sophisticated knowledge, practices, and tools that are placed at their disposal. Medical, military, and forensic technology is thus of no less importance to their work than the religiotheological dimension. Accordingly, the organization’s role may be broken down into the scientific-cum-rational dimension, on the one hand, and the less tangible side of filling society’s emotional and religious demands, on the other. By meeting both of these requirements, ZAKA has assumed a new cultural position which confers its operatives with the responsibility of deciding on cardinal issues that often determine who will ultimately survive an attack. Notwithstanding its technical skills, a considerable share of ZAKA’s credibility indeed stems from the ultra-Orthodox community’s established monopoly over demise, funerals, and burial. In other words, it draws on the reputation of Haredis as experts on the dead body. As a result of this wide range of skills, ZAKA is more than just another Haredi not-forprofit organization, but a fraternity specializing in delicate rites of demise as well as the differentiation between life and death. Haredis generally do not warrant national recognition for their achievements, for there is widespread consensus in Israel that they eschew or lack the wherewithal to fill the most coveted or highly-respected positions, such as combat soldiers, high-tech entrepreneurs, lawyers, and doctors. However, as we have seen, members of the ultra-Orthodox community are fully sanctioned to handle riven corpses, to retrieve body parts, and preside over burial customs. By helping to distinguish between the dead and living, and, more crucially, by recomposing mutilated bodies, ZAKA has indeed built on the Haredi sector’s long-standing specialization in demise for the purpose of attaining a certain “magical” power over Israeli society. Metaphorically speaking, the recomposition of fragmented body parts into a coherent whole is tantamount to restoring the social order that was breached by a terrorist’s bomb. In this respect, ZAKA has a unique

Haredi Voluntarism

contribution to make that appreciably differs from that of other rescue and recovery organizations. *** Death by terror wreaks havoc due to its suddenness and potency. The threat of terrorism is heightened by the shortage in organizations (aside for hospitals) that are capable of institutionalizing death under such extreme conditions. That said, over the past two decades, new kinds of organizations that are charged with managing and contending with different aspects of mass-casualty disasters, such as mitigating the chaos they sow. In Israel, ZAKA has managed to fill this gap by virtue of a diverse array of seemingly contradictory attributes, practices, and tools: versatility, voluntarism, cooperation with state institutions, symbolic militaristic features, technology, conservatism, and strong religious orientations. The organization’s ability to provide creative and immediate responses to the charged and often unforeseeable conditions of terrorist attacks has bolstered its legitimacy and sway not only in the eyes of the Haredi community, but among the greater public as well. Notwithstanding its unique elements, the case of ZAKA underscores anthropology’s special contribution to understanding the general ways in which society copes with terrorist-induced demise. Overall, sociologists have placed an emphasis on three sets of analytical issues: the individual and organizational expertise needed to contend with attacks against civilians; the legitimation provided by the state to the people and groups spearheading society’s response to this scourge; and the special intangible aspects of life and death in all that concerns unconventional demise. As we have seen, physical and symbolic proximity to death necessitates expertise in various fields of knowledge, including medicine, psychology, religion, and security. Furthermore, rescue and recovery personnel are expected to treat casualties—be they injured or killed—in accordance with cultural standards and values. Given its unpredictability, abruptness, and destructive nature, terrorism has given rise to new needs, treatments, functions, and institutions. Since its founding in 1995, ZAKA has ably stepped into this vacuum, thereby earning a leading role in Israel’s collective struggle against lethal attacks on civilian targets. From an anthropological standpoint, the organization’s success and broad public acclaim stems from the deep links between terrorism, death,

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and new organizational structures. To be sure, Israel’s disaster response burden is shared by many different groups—each of which brings its own specific skills and know-how to bear. Drawing on cultural traditions appears to be an effective means for dealing with unprecedented phenomena. Although handling the ramifications of mass-casualty incidents is a daunting and exceedingly-sensitive task, wide portions of the Israeli public evidently admire ZAKA’s performance, to the point where its volunteers are considered experts on death as well as sanctioned primary caregivers to the wounded. In summation, the proliferation of terrorist threats has compelled many societies to develop new organizations to meet this challenge. The uniqueness of the Israeli effort rests on the fact that the initial response to attacks on civilian targets is provided by a team of ultra-Orthodox male volunteers, namely the members of a community that normally avoids contact with and frowns upon secular society. As we have seen, ZAKA’s meteoric rise is predicated on its capacity to tap into deep historical roots of Haredi specialization in demise. By combining the traditional role of the ultra-Orthodox community with modern competencies that its volunteers have acquired from more established rescue and recovery organizations, most of which are affiliated with the state, ZAKA has managed to fill a new yet essential social need. In the process, it has earned the gratitude and legitimation of the greater public.

Chapter 7

P o s t- Fu n da m e n ta l i s m

and the

Idea

of

Freedom

The sociological literature on religious radicalism and fundamentalist movements generally places the yeshiva world within the analytical rubric of guarded textual fundamentalism (Friedman 1991; Heilman 1983). Many researchers postulate that fundamentalists adhere to their scriptural principles, while fiercely defending their lifestyles against the inroads of modern values (Almond, Appleby, and Sivan 2003). After the Second World War, the Israeli ultra-Orthodox leadership established yeshivas that they sequestered within inner-city ghettos, where the faithful devised unique codes and ways of life. While these enclaves enabled the community to preserve its lifestyle, this process intensified conflicts between Haredis and their neighbors in the urban thicket. Only when the ultraOrthodox lifestyle was perceived as coming under attack did “yeshiva boys” (i.e., young Haredi men) step out of the ghetto for the purpose of volubly demonstrating against these perceived violations of their rights (Friedman 1991). Correspondingly, the rabbis stiffened the community’s principles and values. For example, the ideal of learning Torah was buttressed; the yeshivas became the primary framework of life for men; the average Haredi couple got married at an earlier age; the birth rate increased; the institution of the family was propped up; and the ultra-Orthodox school system focused on preparing women to run large households, whereas all men were trained for a life of study in the Talmud seminary (Friedman 1988; 1995ab). Likewise, the rules on modesty were tightened and further limitations were imposed on dressing, eating, and public conduct. In addition, the community’s elitist hierarchal structure was made even more top-

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heavy than before, as more political power was allocated to the rabbinical authorities. Building and institutionalization processes commenced in the 1940s and 1950s. During these years, the continued existence of the Haredi society in the Land and, thereafter, the State of Israel was cast in doubt on account of the secular Zionist enterprise’s dominance. Furthermore, the community’s perseverance was undermined and its existing order was threatened by internal disputes that caused it to splinter into two main factions: the members of Agudat Yisrael, the majority of whom arrived in Palestine from Germany and Poland between 1924 and 1939; and the extremists of the Old Yishuv, the pre-Zionist ultra-Orthodox community in the Land of Israel (Caplan and Stadler 2009). The sector’s external challenges were no less daunting: contending with the ramifications of the Holocaust from a theological and practical standpoint; the pessimism regarding the Jewish character of the future state; the need to enter negotiations with the Zionist leadership over the place of Haredis in the “state in the making”—talks that ended with the famous “status-quo agreement” on matters pertaining to the Sabbath, kashrut, marriage, and education; and the mass exodus of young adults from the Haredi community (Friedman 1991). In addition, mid-twentieth century Jewish thinkers and researchers from Israel and the dispersion tended to write off Haredi society. There were those who claimed that the seeds of the ultra-Orthodox community’s demise laid in the very existence of an insular community in the sovereign and modern Jewish state. Alternatively, some pundits believed that the sector lacked a young generation capable of succeeding the elders. Not only did these predictions fail to materialize, but it became abundantly clear that the community had revived itself during the two decades after the war and that it was even blossoming in many respects. What is more, following the sector’s return to coalition politics in 1977, the public and media’s interest in Haredi society swelled (Caplan and Stadler 2009). The community’s impressive growth necessitated an overhaul of its educational, social, and cultural institutions. The yeshivas, which in the wake of the Holocaust assumed the mission of preserving traditional Jewish values and customs, opened its doors to a wide range of newcomers. To cope with these developments, the system was institutionalized. In parallel, the insularity and seclusion that informed Haredi society during the postwar period gave way to the establishment of new institutions, settlements,

Post-Fundamentalism and the Idea of Freedom

cultural norms and events, political frameworks, and economic structures (Stadler 2008). In light of the above, the question that begs asking is whether the yeshiva world’s fundamentalist elements are the same as they were in the 1950s? Analyzing these changes through the lens of Reuven Kahane’s informal model promises to shed new light on these changes. A close look at the yeshiva world in the aftermath of these expansion and institutionalization processes reveals the emergence of an alternative order, in which the Haredi approach to scripture, authority, devotion, and the yeshiva way of life is steadily being modified. The new order is the fruit of post-institutionalization processes that stem from the confidence the community has acquired due to its successful revival. This has spawned new paradigms of thought which have allowed for greater freedom and innovation within the community, to include an alternative model of fervid religiosity. More specifically, the institutionalization processes have weakened elements like asceticism, insularity, withdrawal, and defensiveness. While these principles have been formalized, the community has concomitantly strengthened the informal expressions that were latent in ultra-Orthodoxy. Alongside Haredi society’s existing institutions, in recent years myriad other ventures and phenomena have either been launched or have blossomed: the matchmaking industry has been substantially upgraded (Lehmann and Siebzehner 2009); music lessons have become an acceptable practice; numerous kosher exercise rooms have opened up; computers and the internet have entered the home, wherefore, many Haredis have embraced online forums (see Campbell and Golan 2011; Golan 2011). In addition, the community is reading a variety of newspapers; psychological tools are being used by Haredi educators and therapists; families are going on recreational trips; a wideranging Haredi film industry has taken root; and much more. All these developments attest to the fact that the informal code, which was already embedded in the heart of ultra-Orthodox fundamentalism, is steadily expanding. This development has spurred on changes in the community’s institutions and has altered the very nature of the yeshiva’s activities. The defensive-minded codes have been replaced with more outreach and cooperation with the institutions of society and state. In this sense, these institutionalization processes have given yeshiva students more leeway for creativity and self-expression, thereby altering Haredi forms of devotion and religiosity.

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Fundamentalism as a Counter-Phenomenon Before attempting to analyze the post-fundamentalist condition of the Israeli ultra-Orthodox yeshivas, I would like to summarize some of the principal elements of fundamentalism that have been documented in the sociological literature, with an emphasis on those that are most relevant to the yeshiva world. For the most part, fundamentalism is the preserve of modern movements that sprout up within urban expanses of the state (Emerson and Hartman 2006). Accordingly, Haredi communities can be found, inter alia, in London, Paris, Mexico City, and New York—all modern cities that constitute a permanent base for a wide range of fundamentalist groups. These metropolises, which have evolved in accordance to the dictates of liberalism, technological progress, and individualism, have quickly become home to important Muslim, Christian, and Jewish fundamentalist communities. The urban landscape poses serious challenges before the members of these groups. Having adopted devout lifestyles, followers must contend with the abundance of freedom, differentiation, otherness, the money economy, and secularism that characterize the modern city (Caplan and Stadler 2009, 21). For religious groups dwelling among a society that sanctifies freedom and equality and encourages the dismantlement of hierarchal systems, the challenge of heeding to fundamentalist norms has grown sevenfold. With this objective in mind, fundamentalist leaders have ratcheted up their communal, social, and economic supervision over their followers, to the point of extending their purview to the body and the individual member’s desires. They provide the flock with ideological, theological, and organizational support. In particular, the fundamentalist brass toils to understand, regulate the exposure, and develop an approach to the media outlets, modern technology, and the sources of power in the states in which they reside. (Sahliyeh 1995, 140-143). One of the hallmarks of fundamentalist movements is the return to scripture due to a desire to live an authentic religious life—for all its values, symbols, and customs—that ostensibly informed some bygone era (Aran 1993; Sivan 1995; Riesebrodt 1993). These groups adopt an extremist and demanding moral-cum-ascetic lifestyle within the framework of an enclave culture (Ammerman 1987; Sivan 1991). Scripturalism—the strict adherence to holy texts—also characterizes ultra-Orthodoxy (Soloveitchik

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1994a, 1994b). More specifically, the holy texts constitute a direct means for building an emotional bond with the divine and justifying an ideology or practice, like asceticism. This sort of fanaticism, be it escapist or fatalistic, is embodied in manifold ways including the following: zealots committing suicide; self-immolating anchorites; self-flagellating saints; and the memorization of holy verses. Various models of religio-fundamentalist devotion have been promulgated by means of structured educational frameworks: intensive classes, courses, and lectures; preaching in churches and mosques; study evenings for the general public; and renewal retreats that are organized by back-to-faith enterprises. These events, which constitute the basic tools for assimilating the fundamentalist logic in the modern world, have become more important than ever before. Insofar as fundamentalists are concerned, they have intensified their religiosity in comparison to members of earlier generations, whose faith has weakened. Frameworks of socialization that are grounded on expertise in the writings of the Koran, the New Testament, the Hebrew Bible, the Talmud, or apocryphal traditions serve as primary venues for disseminating and interpreting symbols encoded in these venerable texts on behalf of contemporary society, which is always deemed to be polluted, exemplified by the image of Satan, and destined to come to a bitter apocalyptic end. This mindset also undergirds the fundamentalist slogans calling for the restoration of “the glory of yesteryear” (e.g., days of the jihad), and the discourses on, say, the final tikkun (the Hebrew word for reification), contrition, regeneration, approaching the truth, or sanctifying god’s name on the altar of martyrdom—processes that have already merited the attention of religion scholars.1 Aside from leaning on holy texts for the sake of improving the flock’s devotion and religious comportment, another mainstay of Haredi fundamentalism is a defensive strategy aimed at preserving the ultra1  For instance, Mircea Eliade argued that religious thinkers tend to occupy themselves with the return to primordial times, what he dubbed “the myth of eternal return.” This process entails the abolishment of the existing world, which ushers in a phase of chaos. However, these developments afford mankind with an opportunity to reorganize the cosmos, humanity, and nature. For Eliade, human renewal is a return to earlier days (i.e., paradise). This is accomplished by simulating the paradigmatic deeds of yesteryear with the help of rites and canonical texts (1974).

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Orthodox way of life (Cromer 1993; Heilman 1994; Heilman and Friedman 1991a and b). The yeshivas that sprouted up in Israel after the Second World War were intended to serve as modern fundamentalist institutions charged with saving and galvanizing traditional Judaism and Jewry in the aftermath of the Holocaust (Selengut 1994). To fulfill this mission, the “pioneers” of the yeshiva world forged an erudite, insular, and defensive ideology (Friedman 1991, 70-88). As part of this effort, the ideal ultraOrthodox young man was defined as a devout, learned, diligent person who is fully-committed to the seminary—its students and rabbis included—is well-versed in the yeshiva’s precepts, and is loyal to its “monastic” code. As noted, it was only on occasions when the rabbinical authorities sensed an immediate threat to one of the pillars of the community’s beliefs, such as an undermining of Sabbath observance, a desecration of ancient Jewish graves, or the enlistment of Haredi boys to the Israeli army, that yeshiva students ventured outside the enclave for the sake of protesting (Friedman 1991). The argument can be made that a fundamentalist movement’s success depends on its continued ability to monitor and regulate the invariable tensions between a rigorous and devout religious life, on the one hand, and personal liberty and the expanding culture of mass consumption and modern technology, on the other. It is thus incumbent upon fundamentalist leaders to find the right balance between these competing desires. This constitutes a serious challenge that demands, among other things, keeping a finger on the pulse of the flock—not least its shifting mores—and closely monitoring external threats. A case in point is the impact of the numerous vicissitudes that Israel has endured in recent decades—economic changes (Lupo 2003), political instability, security threats, and heated struggles over the nature of the state and Israeli democracy—on the local Haredi community (Caplan and Stadler 2009). Despite the considerable distance Israel’s Haredis kept from surrounding society during its nascent stages, the community is going through major transformations in all that concerns its character, religiosity, and lifestyle. As the leaders of a population that is gradually ratcheting up its involvement in the affairs of Israeli mainstream society, Haredi rabbis are constantly juggling scores of conflicting demands and pressures from both neophytes and veteran members alike. The yeshiva brass, which took shape in the years following the Holocaust and the establishment

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of the Jewish state, is currently struggling to address all the questions and problems that are rearing up among its constituency. For example, difficulties are arising from the sector’s vibrant regeneration enterprises (Leon 2009, 17; El-Or 2006, 139) and its large-scale fundraising and voluntary apparatuses. As we have seen, these internal factors are fomenting considerable change in the yeshiva world. In the pages ahead, I will explore a theoretical model that promises to enhance our understanding of these developments. The Essentials of the Informal Model Observing the changes to yeshiva life through the prism of Reuven Kahane’s theory connects us to a deep wellspring of sociological endeavor. Kahane’s informal model and expository theory were inspired by manifold theories (1988, 2001). From a scientific and methodological standpoint, he drew heavily on the works of Max Weber (see Weber 1976). Kahane’s comparative-structuralist approach and terminology took sustenance from his analysis of the youth cultures of the Wandervogel (a German youth movement), the British Scouts, and the policies of the Soviet Komsomol (the Communist Party’s youth division). He also studied the latent codes of Israeli youth movements and closed communities, such as kibbutz society in the 1960s. By dint of this research, Kahane developed a model that elucidates the informal codes that characterize youth movements and insular groups.2 Following in the footsteps of Weber’s study on the structure of the Mandarin elite in China, the British education system, and the Calvinists’ organization and sanctification of work, Kahane viewed youth movements in Israel and communities like the kibbutz to be an assemblage of spheres, activities, and codes (formal and informal), which can be compared to those of other institutions and organizations. Building on the work of Levi-Strauss (1976), Kahane located these codes of different organizations on a continuum between freedom and constraint, structure and content, moratorium and constriction, taboos and allowance, and abstraction and concretization. In his works on informal codes, Kahane (1988, 2001) 2  I would like to thank Aaron Benavot for helping me formulate the influences on Kahane’s model.

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claimed that researchers can discern a particular movement or group’s worldviews and the organization of its lifestyle by taking stock of the widening or paring down of its informal codes. With respect to his interpretive analysis of religious code, Kahane once again leaned on parts of Weber’s research. In The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (1904-1905), Weber demonstrated that religion is fertile ground for transformative and even revolutionary ideas; however, these ideas are engendered by charismatic figures. Put differently, significant changes are not introduced by established religious institutions, but usually burst forth in marginal groups or on the rugged frontiers of culture. In the case of the modern religious world, these developments usually transpire in realms that are outside the purview of the church, yeshiva, or madrasa. Likewise, the argument can be made that transformative potential tends to be ironed out by strict religious and institutional factors. According to this hypothesis, transcendental codes that are perceived to be the truth—as well as metaphysical codes, utopian thoughts, and different scriptural or revered texts—confer religious validity upon daily activities and render the believer a part of some ancient cosmic order. As per the basic premises put forth by Kahane in Youth and the Code of Informality (2001), we can assume that the informal elements of fundamentalist movements will always be weak, limited, or undeveloped. Therefore, even if religion is a potent generator—if not the basis or the living source—of new ideas, the gravitational pull of an established religion’s precepts—be they theological or magical—will ultimately trump the currents of freedom, individualism, and creativity that are latent in the religious life. These conclusions, which are anchored on solid philosophical and empirical ground, also underpin Kahane’s informal model. For example, in his diagnosis of Bnei Akiva (a religious Zionist youth movement), Kahane (2001, 85-86) claimed that “in the end, the attempt to reconcile between the tension and dilemmas that stemmed from the mixture of ‘free’ secular and religious-authoritative elements reduced the movement’s level of informality.” Accordingly, the earlier phases, or what Weber referred to as the “charismatic” stage, of Israel’s post-war Haredi community can be seen as a period when the economic and cultural reality in the country demanded the limitation of informal codes, the closing of the enclave’s borders to outsiders, and the tightening of the community’s bureaucratic

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and hierarchic elements. In other words, the circumstances forced the ultra-Orthodox leadership onto the defensive, so that it felt compelled to heighten its supervision over the flock and reinforce the walls around the ghetto. That said, a strong preference for formal codes, religious activity predicated on erudition lishma (for its own sake), and the stiffening of religio-authoritative principles cannot persist for long, for this sort of policy takes a huge economic, social, and/or personal toll on the believers. What is more, this strategy exacerbates many existing tensions, such as those between the ideal of Torah study, on the one hand, and the family, earning a livelihood, and the desires and needs of the individual, on the other. As a result, institutionalization processes are usually followed by an expansion of the informal codes, which alters the fundamentalist lifestyle and the nature of the group. For the purpose of comprehending this process, I will evaluate several phenomena that are indicative of the paradox between the insularity and growth of the Haredi sector in Israel. Structuralized Seclusion and Religious Exclusivity versus Expansion and Ideological Outreach For the most part, the literature on Haredi society analyzes the rigid formal codes that are used to forge, influence, monitor, and preserve the enclave culture. These codes are the product of the repetitious study of texts that are considered to be the supreme authority in the community (Friedman 1991). As the ultra-Orthodox sector steadily grew and institutionalized within the framework of the Israeli state, it was compelled to develop apparatuses, institutions, and new ideas on behalf of its members. When it was no longer feasible to rest exclusively on the organized and aloof leadership that arose during the institutionalization stage, new and even alternative power bases emerged (Caplan and Stadler 2009). As it became increasingly evident that Haredi society could no longer suffice with halachic rulings, the indoctrination of the importance of learning Torah, and the strict enforcement of religious behavioral norms, and that the time had come to explain these ideas to wider audiences, various elements within the community identified these new needs and founded suitable apparatuses for education, regulation, and socialization. By way of these actions, the innovators earned a place in the leadership ranks (Caplan and Stadler

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2009). In addition to the senior ultra-Orthodox rabbis and politicians, today there are rising medical, technological, educational, grass root, and ideological power bases, some of which draw their authority from extraHaredi, modern-Western frameworks (e.g., professional knowledge that was acquired from academic institutions) or a large selection of religious and spiritual sources. These changes are noticeable in many fields of ultra-Orthodox life. One of the major changes is indeed the penetration of technologies into the community, such as the highly-popular cellular phone, audio tapes, the personal computer, the internet, movies on DVD, and computer games (Caplan 2007). On the one hand, these communication systems facilitate the transfer of intra-communal information, values, and religious knowledge, so that they are conducive to the preservation of the sector’s uniqueness and borders. Moreover, technological means enable Haredi activists to distribute enticing messages to potential neophytes. On the other hand, the presence of computers in ultra-Orthodox homes has hindered the leadership’s ability to monitor and enforce prohibitions in various fields of life. What is more, the PC has exposed members of the flock to conflicting values or to content that does not befit the Haredi way of life. Despite this threat and despite the objections raised within the community against the ownership of computers, different rabbinical authorities have allowed devotees to have these devices if they are needed to make a living (Campbell and Golan 2011). In any event, the proliferation of PCs has wrought a great deal of change in ultra-Orthodox communication and recreational patterns (Ba-Gad Elimelech 2009, 113). To begin with, new technology allows for experimentation with content and practices that were hitherto out of most Haredis’ reach. Due to the computer’s presence, DVDs have become accessible and quite popular. Furthermore, this phenomenon has led to the blossoming of the Haredi film industry. Many of the industry’s movies are about the life of yeshiva boys, especially their values and the problems that they contend with in the seminary. Quite a few of the narratives explore the dilemma over choosing between complete dedication to Torah studies and the longing for profane worlds and experiences. In general, the protagonists come to appreciate the importance of learning Torah and the loftiness of this endeavor. Moreover, the characters often exemplify the Israeli-Haredi

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tension between yeshiva erudition and the daily reality in the state. For instance, a prevalent motif is the many hardships that yeshiva life entails and the concessions that students must make vis-à-vis the possibilities that are afforded by the institutions, frameworks, and values of secular society or the state. A case in point is the final movie of the trilogy “The Wager,” which portrays a yeshiva boy—a regenerate Jew—who is forced to enlist into the army while immersed in Torah studies. In so doing, the filmmakers contrast yeshiva life with military service (see Stadler 2003). For example, the taxing physical obstacles in the army constitute a foil for the seminary’s demanding intellectual challenges. “The Wager” describes the adversity that combat soldiers must deal with in the army as being inferior to that experienced in the yeshiva. The movie’s hero is equal to the challenges of the military life and even develops into a brave and outstanding combat soldier. In one of the plot developments, he bests a terrorist, receives honors, and earns the praise of his commanders and comrades-in-arms. Nevertheless, with the encouragement and support of the rosh yeshiva (head of the seminary), the protagonist ultimately chooses the “burden of the Torah” and stays in the yeshiva after completing his compulsory military service (Ba-Gad Elimelech 2009, 132). In addition, “The Wager” examines the growing multi-dimensionality of the Haredi community, namely the opportunities that members have to experience activities outside the yeshiva’s purview. The seminary is perceived as being more modular, for its students can integrate alternative values, such as military service, voluntarism, and Israeli citizenship—ideas that were anathema to the “old” yeshiva world. Thanks to the mass distribution of new technologies, ultra-Orthodox artists now have a platform on which to disseminate messages that, inter alia, pertain to the unique circumstances of their community. In the case of “The Wager,” the filmmakers explore some of the principles of the yeshiva world. In Kahane’s terms, this movie depicts the ever-widening margin for “trial and error” that, in stark contradistinction to earlier generations, is presently available to Haredi men.

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Religious Elitism versus Popular Writing Since the 1980s, the writing and publication of popular books has become a central interest in Haredi society. Aside from authors tightening the community’s rigid scriptural code, recent years have borne witness to the emergence of genres that do not fall under the heading of halachic writing. On account of these developments, frameworks of knowledge that draw on or have been inspired by variegated—not necessarily religious—sources of authority have become commonplace in the ultra-Orthodox world. The command over these frameworks and the power to interpret and utilize this knowledge have been assumed by new leadership groups, such as women, charismatic figures, ethnic minority activists, and regenerates. In the process, these factors have constructed a wide array of new power bases. This phenomenon has fomented a revolution in ultra-Orthodox publishing, as the industry is currently embracing feminine writing (Shenkar 2009), popular genres, belles-lettres, and children’s literature. Even within the yeshiva world, numerous writers have occupied themselves with an assortment of topics that, while close to the heart of yeshiva boys, are not necessarily theological in substance. The primary genre of yeshiva authors is self-help books for students, future husbands, and kollel members. This corpus covers a variety of subjects: women, weddings, livelihood, learning strategies, nutrition, fitness, music, and the like. Furthermore, these manuals contend with topics that are tied to life in Israel, such as military enlistment, livelihood issues due to the spike in large Haredi families, and the community’s mounting exposure to the media. The attempt to solve different problems that yeshiva students are likely to encounter obligates the writers to address their audiences in a candid, down-to-earth manner and to broach manifold topics that are not always directly tied to life in the yeshiva. It is also worth noting that dozens of these guide books come out each year and are sold in various Haredi neighborhood shops. Thanks to the introduction of these genres, many areas of knowledge and messages that were hitherto unpublishable in the Haredi community are reaching ultra-Orthodox readers. For example, the authors of the self-help books frequently turn to scientific knowledge, research, and terminology for the purpose of providing in-depth discussions on, say, complex mental

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processes and even on psychological crises that Haredi men go through in the yeshiva. Similarly, readers are advised to cope with their mental problems by trying out different methods and treatments and by finding outlets for self-expression, like sports and music. One of the more prominent books in this field is The Soul of the Yeshiva: Revealing Heart to Heart Discussions on the Inner World of the Yeshiva Boy (1997) by Yaacov B. Friedman. In this book, the author refers to sundry obstacles that are faced by young Haredi men who endeavor to fully devote themselves to the study of Torah. Drawing on his experience as the head of a Talmudic academy, Friedman recounts the advice he offered to students who turned to him with their problems. In the following passages, Friedman avails himself of psychological terms for the purpose of helping his readership contend with the long daily schedule at the typical yeshiva (Friedman 241-242): Instead of calling the ‘heavy’ hours by their correct name: “slowdown.” [sic] “weakeness.” [sic] spiritual timeout, for during [these hours] one can also find ways to study and [attain] the required pace of work, [sic] as will become clear; [sic] bnai torah3 are inclined to reflect on their world in the mirror of a “crisis” during the ‘heavy’ hours. This is a word that our generation introduced into the yeshivish dictionary. Crisis. This repulsive word did not exist in periods when bnai torah had spiritual brawn. Today this moment has practically become a mast, a spiritual flag: Give glory! a crisis!! Why do bnai torah like this word “crisis” so much? a word that is thought to be one of the most severe and desperate in the Hebrew language? Because the meaning of a crisis—a spiritual escape. [sic] the collapse of the personality on top of the nearest mental stretcher, and waiting for the outside world that will rush to the rescue. [sic] To give a drink. [sic] To influence. Like Noah.4

Later on in the chapter, Friedman again turns to psychological terms and explanations in order to characterize what he refers to as the “mental hardships” that the yeshiva boy grapples with (263). He urges students to divide up their time and manage their study day wisely, so as to lighten the 3  Literally ‘sons of Torah,’ bnai torah is a common term for yeshiva students. 4  Emphasis in the original. The colloquial grammar and syntax also inform the original Hebrew version of this text.

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heavy spiritual load that they are under. He also recommends that they exercise, change their lifestyle, and find new physical and spiritual outlets for relieving tension. This sort of personal writing attests to the various problems that come up in the modern-day yeshiva. Moreover, it is indicative of the new genres that are available to ultra-Orthodox audiences, as some rabbinical authors are willing to forgo traditional avenues for the purpose of reaching wider audiences. As a result, yeshiva boys are exposed to unfamiliar types of knowledge and new solutions for the problems that they encounter within the framework of the yeshiva and community. It also bears noting that, before being published, these books go through the accepted rabbinical channels and also receive the seal of approval of Haredi dignitaries. Consonant with Kahane’s arguments regarding the expansion of informal codes in rigid and insular environments (1988, 2001), the Haredi community’s sanctioning of popular forms of writing after decades of limiting itself to theological and religio-juridical genres has revolutionized the content that is entering the enclave and is providing members with the requisite tools for considering alternative practices. From Insularity to Voluntarism Among the factors behind the preservation of the Israeli yeshiva world’s seclusion was the concentration of the devotees’ energy towards intensive activity within the community’s boundaries. For instance, after the Second World War, ultra-Orthodox not-for-profit organizations focused almost exclusively on the sector’s internal needs (see the discussion in chapter 6). However, from the 1980s onwards, we have borne witness to a substantial change in this pattern. Haredi volunteers are reaching beyond the enclave’s borders to lend a hand to various other groups in Israeli society. The first ultra-Orthodox organization to raise this banner was Yad Sarah, and this trend hit its peak with the founding of ZAKA (discussed in chapter 6). Today, there are a handful of ultra-Orthodox not-for-profits that cater to non-Haredi segments of the population. Likewise, there are many Haredis serving in a variety of non-sectarian Israeli aid organizations, such as Magen David Adom, the police, and hospitals. This communal development points to an increase in freedom of choice, the allocation of more time to causes other than Torah study, and rising organizational or

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institutional membership in frameworks other than the yeshiva (see Kahane 2001, 28). There are indeed quite a few volunteer organizations in the contemporary ultra-Orthodox community. As already noted, ZAKA made headlines at the outbreak of the Intifada and during the gradual escalation of terrorist attacks in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Like Yad Sarah, ZAKA is also a direct continuation of the GMaKhs (mutual aid societies that always existed in Haredi society), but the new organizations differ in substance and purpose. Whereas the traditional GMaKhs only tend to the needy within the ultra-Orthodox community, the new enterprises operate beyond the enclave’s borders and avail themselves of a broad repertoire of modern, secular, and professional skills. For example, ZAKA’s uniqueness stems from the following attributes: its integration of knowledge from various disciplines (e.g., medicine, psychology, and advanced technology); the synthesis between voluntary and quasi-military structures and between religious ideas and commitment to the state; its ability to adapt and offer quick solutions; and the organization’s partnerships with multiple state and civil factors. All this is carried out under a religious aegis that has spawned a new exegetical outlook, which has produced and structured a raft of heroic ultra-Orthodox symbols, images, and practices. This new approach to voluntarism is indicative of the community’s shift from a code of seclusion and insularity to one of restrained openness. Following in Kahane’s footsteps, this phenomenon points to a widening of both the choices and the room for experimentation that are now available to Haredis. These developments were corroborated by one of my subjects, a yeshiva boy who volunteers in ZAKA’s motorcycle unit. In an interview, he described some of the courses that he took as part of the training for his position: I did many courses. There was a very interesting course with the rabbi of. . . and all sorts of officers from the Rear Command in which I learned a great deal. They talked about how to look at a disaster zone [and] what you should be wary of. There were police officers who explained what to do— how to move [bodies], when to move [them], and when not to. . . These are important things that one must know how to do because the moment we reach an incident, one must not compromise [the evidence]—the work of the police—which is part of the circle of Magen David Adom, the police, and ZAKA. Everybody has their own job. So we learnt how an incident is handled from the standpoint of the cops. [In addition,] we learned from

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the Rear Command, who have a great deal of experience in identification (they have an identification department), how to treat an injury with special substances. There were people from ZAKA who accompanied [us] and explained how this is carried out during a mission. There was a course that lasted several days in which we learnt tons; we learnt from morning to evening; in fact, this was the first course I took. And then I did a rescue course with ZAKA—an interesting course. At first, it was scary because its stuff that I’m not used to—climbing, jumping, rappelling. This was a long course that we did with the Fire Department in Mishor Adumim at the fire station with the chief of the station. . . We would go out to the field a lot and work on rescues—saving injured people from burning houses, from burning cars. All sorts of interesting things.

The establishment of Haredi aid and rescue organizations created a demand within the community for training and skills that expose yeshiva boys to multifaceted activities which they were not only previously unaccustomed to, but were off-limits to them. These experiences outside the “walls of the ghetto” heighten the yeshiva world’s modularity, add flexibility to the system, and enable young Haredis to adapt to a changing social environment (Kahane 2001, 29). For example, the military operations in the above-mentioned Haredi films became a reality for members of ZAKA. What is more, these changes enable yeshiva boys to expand their field of activity and create new frameworks and alternatives for their sector, while perpetuating extant models of religious devotion and the Israeli-Haredi way of life. *** Notwithstanding their reputation for conservatism, different fundamentalist movements institutionalize themselves and undergo far-reaching changes. For example, radical Evangelist groups in the United States and assorted Muslim movements have revised their charismatic codes. As a result, fundamentalist characteristics, like seclusion, insularity, scripturalism, or all-male spiritual elites, are weakening. Be that as it may, these developments have not curbed the believers’ motivation to preserve their groups’ unique model of religious devotion. The post-war yeshiva world is going through a transformation that stems from the difficulty of continuously balancing a fundamentalist ideology, which was forged during the movement’s charismatic phase, with the quotidian needs of the flock. More specifically, the Haredi fundamentalist

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ideology that was reinforced during the 1940s and 1950s has hindered many aspects of the yeshiva student’s daily life, thereby precipitating a great deal of tension in the ultra-Orthodox world. For instance, due to the precept of studying Torah day and night, much of the community is hard-pressed to provide a livelihood and emotional support for the large families that they are expected to have. Moreover, given the surge in the Haredi population, the community’s institutions and leaders are constantly subjected to a host of conflicting demands and pressures from the diverse group of newcomers, on the one hand, and established members, on the other. Under the circumstances, the sector’s institutions lack the wherewithal to solve all the problems that are currently arising among the flock. Reuven Kahane’s theory concerning the informal code sheds light on the transformative forces—new challenges, alternative codes, and the new yeshiva order—sweeping through Israel’s ultra-Orthodox community. In this chapter, I have pointed to three major changes in the Haredi sector and have described the institutionalization process that each of these developments have entailed. The first is the penetration of technology into the ultra-Orthodox home. As we have seen, the popularity of DVD films has swelled due to the growing presence of computers. Many of the Harediproduced movies portray the dilemmas facing devoted yeshiva boys who are also attracted to other fields of endeavor, not least the army. The second change is the community’s thirst for non-halachic writing and its attendant transition from elitist genres, which are based entirely on religio-juridical sources, to popular genres. As Haredi society expands, it is evident that halachic rulings, the inculcation of Torah’s paramountcy, and the meticulous observance of religious behavioral norms no longer suffice, for there is a steadily rising need for interpreting symbols and complex ideas on behalf of a broader public. These developments have indeed paved the way for the acceptance of more prosaic literary genres, a phenomenon with more than a few significant implications in its own right. To begin with, these publications are revealing the Israeli ultra-Orthodox community’s outlook on numerous issues to members of mainstream society, scholars and journalists included. Conversely, Haredis are being exposed to and manifold areas of knowledge that were previously out of their reach. The third substantial change is the expansion of ultra-Orthodox volunteer work to causes and venues outside the enclave’s boundaries. This trend attests to a shift from a code of seclusion

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and insularity to one of openness and freedom of choice. Drawing on Kahane’s analysis, this new code has broadened the range of possibility for general experimentation and has enabled Haredis to acquire non-halachic professional and secular skills. These three developments are indicative of the changes to the welldocumented fundamentalist nature of the Haredi yeshiva system. In the aftermath of the Second World War, the ultra-Orthodox leadership tightened the community’s borders and its formal principles of textual supremacy and rabbinical-male authority, thereby arousing deep tensions among yeshiva boys. By virtue of Reuven Kahane’s informal model, we have seen that during a charismatic period—in which formal codes are expanded, prohibitions are stiffened, and the fundamentalist organizations, enterprises, and activities are institutionalized—different informal codes concomitantly penetrate the enclave and challenge the accepted paradigm. This process leads to more freedom of choice, modular activities, and room for experimentation. In the case of Israel’s ultra-Orthodox populace, these developments are changing the face of the community’s yeshivas as well as the religious devotion of its members.

Conclusion

This book endeavored to take stock of the significant changes to Israel’s ultraOrthodox community at the turn of the millennium. Drawing on Weberian concepts, I described how the shift from a sanctified existence to a more profane orientation has been driven by a strong sense of empowerment among Haredis. The community’s piety and ideal of male seclusion and are mainstays of what Almond, Appleby, and Sivan (2003) call “strong religion,” namely a sense of exceptionalism that helps fundamentalist leaders mobilize resources to establish, bolster, and safeguard the enclave. However, as I show in this book this ascetic ideology is no longer as relevant to new generations of ultra-Orthodox men and women. After years of isolation, Haredi society is partially succumbing to the persistent criticism and demands of Israel’s majority to exhibit greater flexibility and take an active part in civic life and the burdens of sustaining the Israeli state. It is these very moments in which one worldview is challenged by another to the point where the adherents of the former modify and even replace some of their established practices and models that I sought to capture and document in this anthology. No less importantly, I sought to extrapolate from my findings onto religious transformation in general. In chapter one, I outlined the different waves of religious resurgence that are sweeping through the world and attempted to place elements of the ultra-Orthodox revival within this greater context. Scholars of religion “characterize the modern age as a new ‘axial period’ which has produced a general reshaping of the ‘symbolic field’ and stimulated a great religious commotion leading to novel religious configurations” (Lambert 1999, 303). The Haredi model that was adopted during the early twentieth century in Israel was exceedingly fundamentalist, but the community has lost some of its utopian flavor over the years, especially

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on account of its steady institutionalization (Stadler 2008). Basic trends within the sector attest to the fact that its religiosity, which until recently stressed otherworldly realms, is becoming increasingly mundane. Similarly, sociologists are demonstrating that religious life is not only based on religious institutions, like churches, mosques, synagogues, and yeshivas. As we have seen throughout the pages of this book, faith is also produced, contemplated, and adapted in venues as diverse as charitable organizations, hospitals, the home, and even the bus. In other words, religion is not just observed by the devout and preserved via rituals and taboos, but is actively modified by various elements within the community. At one and the same time, religious groups that once rejected the state are now collaborating with state bodies and civil society, thereby giving rise to new practices and institutions. For instance, Haredi philanthropy was once administered on an ad hoc basis by a more or less centralized committee known as GMaKh (the acronym for gmilut h. asidim), namely the mutual aid society that only served community needs. Moreover, unlike the past when ultra-Orthodox charities only supported the community’s needy, today there are Haredi organizations, like Yad Sarah, that cater to the general public as well. These examples take us back to Durkheim’s idea of differentiation (1912). As discussed in chapter one, when a society develops and variegates from a technological and economical standpoint, the nature of its religion changes dramatically. More specifically, differentiation leads to the fragmentation of communal conscience and activities, as the spheres that a group once considered to be sacred realities are increasingly subject to the individual’s own volition and thus separated from mundane activities (Durkheim 1912). These changes also impact the leadership structure and relations with the state; and as such as a continuum chain of religious powers. In the Haredi community, the traditional hierarchy is clearly being revamped. Some of the social power vested in top yeshiva scholars is slowly being devolved to other players. For example, women are meriting positions of authority in the fields of education and psychology on the strength of their secular-cumprofessional knowledge, which they suit to the ultra-Orthodox lifestyle. Religious figures from the periphery are beginning to make a name for themselves on the Haredi street, with the help of knowledge that is not necessarily yeshiva-based. A case in point is Rabbi Yaakov Yisrael Ifergan. Better known as “the X-ray machine” (ha’rentgen), Ifergan is said to possess

Conclusion

a gift for predicting the future and diagnosing situations. Drawing on his mastery of the kabbalah (Jewish mysticism), the rabbi doles out advice on matters of finance, health, romance, and more to people who come to see him in the remote town of Netivot. Rabbi Amnon Yitzhak, another charismatic ultra-Orthodox figure, has carved out a niche for himself as a facilitator of regeneration by dint of the fiery sermons that he delivers before Jews interested in becoming more observant. My research on the changes in Haredi society indicates that the reality in this community is much more complex than most observers believe. Differentiation and power systems are not the only reasons behind religious transformation. Claude Levi-Strauss’ structuralist theory of bricolage (1976) may be applied to developments within this community. According to Levi-Strauss, myths are transformed by bricolage, a process in which a “collection of oddments,” none of which are significant in their own right, are reassembled into a meaningful whole. The myth is an attempt to make sense of the world as a whole by blending together whatever materials happen to be available into a complete story. Likewise, religious activists innovatively incorporate a wide array of tasks and symbols ranging from the religious to the secular, the otherworldly to the worldly, and the sacred to the profane into rituals, narratives, and sacred texts. Scholars have indeed pointed to contemporary religions’ propensity for borrowing, picking and choosing, imitating, or projecting images of themselves or otherwise in what Comaroff calls “varied ways across frontiers of time and space” (1985, 12; also see Lehmann 2001). This process can engender unusual combinations of views and beliefs over a broad spectrum of new trajectories, such as those espoused by New Age and charismatic movements. In the process, they transform established religious traditions. As we have seen throughout this work, Israel’s Haredi community also avails itself of a wide array of symbols—from the Jewish and spiritual to the secular and profane—for the sake of reinterpreting their own religious knowledge and practices. For instance, ZAKA’s recovery teams balance medical knowledge with halachic rulings on demise. Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari expand upon Levi-Strauss’ theory of bricolage in their book Anti-Oedipus (1972, 7). More specifically, they show how different actors have taken advantage of a hodge-podge of available content to transform religion in a “do-it-yourself ” fashion. With respect to Israeli ultra-Orthodoxy, new ideas about freedom, voluntarism, and

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citizenship are all restructured in self-made religious frameworks that consist of notions of state power, religious imaginings, and Haredi myths. A prime example of a far-reaching change to an ultra-Orthodox institution is the remodeling of the family paradigm. Until recently, responsibility over the household’s prosaic needs was delegated to the mother, while the father devoted himself almost entirely to the spiritual realm of the yeshiva. However, proponents of the new model urge the husband and wife to share the domestic load in an effort to instill “Jewish spirit” into the home. Similarly, the community’s isolationist ideology, namely its desire for hermetic borders between the enclave and greater society, is currently in a state of flux, as more and more people are being welcomed into the fold and partnerships are increasingly being formed with mainstream elements. Given the heavy tangible pressures on the average Haredi family, the ideology of community-wide sanctification and escapism is now being interpreted in a more pragmatic fashion which does not necessarily reject the modern state and its ideals. Just how far Haredi society is willing to go in balancing between its fundamentalist lifestyle, on the one hand, and the contingencies of modernity and its devotees’ material and individualistic aspirations, on the other, remains to be seen.

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Index

Abramovitch, Henry  108, 109 Abstinence  66, 101 Abuhatzeira, Yisrael (the Baba Sali)  35 Agudat Yisrael (Union of Israel)  37, 124 Aid organization, also see not-forprofit organization, ZAKA and Yad Sarah  13, 136 Akiva, Rabbi  35 Al-Aqsa Intifada, also see Second Intifada  110 Almond, Gabriel  19, 20, 25, 52, 67, 70, 87, 123, 141 Alush, Zvi  63 Ammerman, Nancy T.  18, 19, 21, 52, 88, 126 Angola  63 Animism  15, 16 Antoun, Richard T.  19, 20, 22, 51, 67, 70 Appleby, Scott  19, 20, 21, 25, 52, 67, 70, 87, 123, 141 Arab-Israeli conflict  37, 110 Aran, Gideon  23, 70, 126 Asad, Talal  20 Asceticism  22, 39, 48, 51, 54, 66, 69, 76, 82, 101, 103, 125, 127

Ashdod  38 Ashkenazim  36, 53 Australian aboriginal society  14 Australian tribes  16 Azande  16 Ba’alei t’shuva (regenerate Jews)  31 Ba-Gad Elimelech, Vered  43, 132, 133 Bais Yaakov (education network)  46, 72 Barak, Ehud  90 Bartkowski, John P.  72, 76 Santiago de Compostela  33 Bat Shahar, Chana  41 Bedein, David  61, 62 Bedouins  90 Beeman, William O.  19 Beit Oren  58 Beit Shemesh  38 Beitar Ilit  38 Bellah, Robert  17 Bnei torah (singlular: ben torah)  70, 92, 93, 94, 96, 97, 101, 104 Ben-Ari, Eyal  34, 88, 99, 106 Ben-David, Amir  63 Ben-Eliezer, Uri  51

162

Index

Ben-Gurion, David  89 Benjamin, son of Rachel  33 Ben-Sasson, Haim Hillel  70 Ben-Yehuda, Nachman  39 Berger, Peter  18 Berman, Eli  38, 44, 54 Bethlehem  34 Biale, David  73 Bibliomancy  26 Bilu, Yoram  26, 27, 29, 34, 35, 39 Bitul torah  66, 80 Bnei Akiva  24, 130 Bnei Brak  38, 68, 71 Boyarin, Daniel  69, 70, 73, 82, 85, 95 Braslav  28 Brazil  27 Breslov Hasidim, also see Breslovers  28, 33 Breslovers  28 Bricolage  143 British Scouts, youth movement  129 Brown, Peter  66, 69 Bruce, Steve  19 Calvinists  129 Cameroon  63 Campbell, Heidi A.  125, 132 Caplan, Kimmy  21, 32, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 46, 53, 54, 72, 117, 124, 126, 128, 131, 132 Carmel Mountain range  56, 58 Casanova, Jose  18 Catholic liberation theology  18 Chabad Houses  30 Chabad, also see Lubavitch  26, 29, 30, 32, 41 Charismatic leaders  12, 29

Charismatic movements  19, 26, 27, 28, 29, 143 Cheshin, Mishael  90 China  63, 129 Christian Broadcasting Network  118 Church of the Nativity  34 Assemblies of God, network of churches  27 Universal Church of the Kingdom of God  27 Churches  22, 27, 28, 31, 51, 127, 130, 142 Civil National Guard  104 Civil society  12, 23, 40, 46, 49, 53, 64, 67, 142 Cohen, Bezalel  44 Cohen, Stuart  89 Cohen-Kastro, Eilat  68 Comaroff, Jean  143 Combat soldier  43, 94, 95, 120, 133 Communitas  32 Comunione e Liberazione  52 Consumerism  11, 104 Coopersmith, Nechemia  61, 62 Cromer, Gerald  128 Cult worship  32 Czarist Russia  29 Dahan, Momi  38, 44 Damon Prison  58 Davidman, Lynn  19 Deeb, Lara  19 Degel haTorah (Flag of Torah)  37 Deleuze, Gilles  143 Devil worship  27 Devoutness  96 Differentiation  15, 16, 17, 18, 120, 126, 142, 143

Index

Disaster response  119, 122 Douglas, Mary  17, 25 Drori, Ze’ev  99 Durkheim, Emile  14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 142 Egged  71 Egypt  34 Eisenblatt, Shmuel Dov  79, 80, 81 Eisenstadt, Shmuel Noah  18, 20, 21, 47, 67, 87, 88 Eitan, Rafi  62 Elad (city)  38 El-Al Airlines  63 Elboim, Dov  41 Eliade, Mircea  32, 127 El-Or, Tamar  39, 43, 45, 72, 129 Emerson, Michael O.   18, 67, 126 Enclave cultures  25, 39, 42, 52, 54, 95, 117, 126, 131 Enclave societies  11, 111 End of the Days  114 Erudite lifestyle  11 Erudite masculinity  77 Escapism  144 Evangelical Christians  74 Evangelical movements  28 Evangelical Revival  19 Evangelist groups  138 Evangelist movements  52 Evans-Prichard, E. E.  16 Exceptionalism  141 Exclusion of women  39, 107 Exorcism  27 Ezer Mitzion  105 Ezra, Danni  43 Falwell, Jerry  52, 70

Feige, Michael  23 Female-authored novels  84 Female literacy  45 Female piety  45 Feminism  11 Finance Ministry, Israeli  89 Fire Department, Israeli  138 First Gulf War  30 First Intifada  50, 99, 137 Fischer, Shlomo  23 Flag of Torah faction, see Degel haTorah  37 Fourth sector  51, 64, 65 Frazer, James George  16 Friedlander, Haim  79, 96 Friedman, Menachem  30, 36, 39, 53, 67, 68, 72, 89, 111, 123, 124, 128, 131 Friedman, Theodore  69 Friedman, Yaakov  69, 135 Friends of the Hebrew University  10 Inclusive fundamentalism  64, 65 Fundamentalist citizenship  49 Fundamentalist movements  19, 21, 22, 35, 65, 123, 126, 128, 130, 138 Fundamentalist piety  61, 67, 83 Galilee  35 Gallagher, Sally K.  74 Garb, Yoni  45 Gaza Strip  25 G’dolei hador  93 Gdud netzakh yehuda, see Haredi Nahal  . Gender separation  70, 71, 72, 74, 85, 86, 107 Germany  38, 124

163

164

Index

Glossolalia  26, 28 GMaKh  105, 108, 137, 142 Golan, Oren  41, 125, 132 Goldberg, Harvey  70 Goldberg, Sylvie-Anne  109 Goldstein, Matti  118 Goodman, Yehuda  39 Great Awakening, early nineteenth century  19 Great awakening, late twentieth century  13 Griffith, R. Marie  68 Gronis, Asher  90 Guattari, Felix  143 Gurovich, Norma  68 Gush Emunim  23, 24, 25 Haiti  58, 118, 119 Hakak, Yohai  99 Halacha (Jewish law)  22, 36, 53, 114, 115 H . alaka (first haircut)  35 Halbertal, Tova  45 Halevi, Yehuda  112 Hamas  50 Harding, Susan  52, 70 Haredi film industry  43, 48, 125, 132 Haredi fundamentalism, also see ultra-Orthodox fundamentalism  26, 127 Haredi Nahal  99, 100 . Ashkenazic Haredis  21 Harel, Noa  51 Hartman, David  18, 67, 126 Hasidim  28, 33, 35, 36 Hasmoneans  94 Hatzolah  105

Heilman, Samuel C.  22, 39, 51, 53, 67, 68, 69, 70, 108, 116, 123, 128 Hertzman, Elhanan Yossef  75, 76 Hervieu-Léger, Danièle  19 Hesder yeshivot  94 H . esed shel emet (true kindness)  55, 116 108, 109, 110, 114, 117 evra kaddisha  H . H . evruta  69 Hezbollah  50 Hezekiah, king of Judah  114 Hierophany  32 High priests  108 Hillers, Delbert Roy  108 Hillulah (anniversary)  35 Holocaust  11, 21, 44, 46, 60, 76, 85, 89, 93, 118, 124, 128 Holon  106 Horowitz, Neri  37, 44 Hungarians  36 Hurricane Katrina  63 Ichner, Itamar  63 Ideology of modesty  71, 74 IDF (Israeli Defense Forces)  56, 62, 63, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 103, 104, 113, 119 Ifergan, Yaakov Yisrael (ha’rentgen)  142 Igrot Kodesh  26, 27 Immortality of the soul  115 Independence Day ceremony  56 India  52 Informal code, also see informal model  48, 125, 129, 130, 131, 136, 139, 140

Index

Informal model, also see informal code  48, 125, 129, 130, 140 Institutionalization  12, 48, 89, 124, 125, 131, 139, 142 Insularity  48, 124, 125, 131, 136, 137, 138, 140 International Churches of Christ (ICOC)  84 International Rescue Unit, ZAKA  118 Iron Curtain  33 Isin, Engin  51 Islamic fundamentalism  18 Isolated-enclave culture model  39 Israeli Arabs  90 Israeli hegemonic outlook  59 Israeli Institute of Forensic Medicine (Abu Kabir)  57, 110 Israeli Red Cross, also see Magen David Adom  104 Israeliness  11, 68 Jenkins, Kathleen E.  72, 84, 85 Jerusalem  13, 38, 39, 55, 60, 61, 68, 71, 97, 101, 102, 106, 114, 115, 117 Jerusalemites (type of Hasidim)  36 Jesus  34 Jewish settlements  23, 24, 25 Johanan, Rabbi  88 Joppke, Christian  51 Jordan  63 Judea and Samaria  24 Kahane, Reuven  16, 48, 107, 108, 125, 129, 130, 133, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140,

Karelitz, Abraham Isaiah (the Chazon Ish)  21, 88 Kavei mehadrin  71 Kepel, Gilles  19 Keshet, Silvi  62 Kibbutzim (singluar: kibbutz)  109, 129 Kibbutz society  129 Kimmerling, Baruch  99 Kivrai tzadikim (tombs of the righteous)  35 Knesset (the Israeli parliament)  37, 90, 91 Kollel  69 Kollel member  73, 75, 77, 78, 80, 82, 84, 85, 134 Kook, Avraham Yitzhak Hacohen (the Elder)  24, 25 Kook, Zvi Yehuda (the Younger)  24 Kosher exercise rooms  125 Kotesberg, Chen  62 Krakow  46 Kvod ha’met  112, 114, 115, 116 Labor market, Israeli  18, 38, 39, 40, 43, 44, 54, 68, 76, 100 Labor Party  37, 48 Lag Ba’omer Festival  35 Lambek, Michael  70 Lambert, Yves  18, 141 Land of Israel  23, 24, 25, 53, 92, 124 Lawrence, Bruce B.  18, 67 Laws of purity  113 Lebanon  52 Lehmann, David  20, 26, 27, 31, 37, 46, 47, 125, 143, Leon, Nissim  43, 129

165

166

Index

Lévi-Strauss, Claude  16, 129, 143 Levy, Yigal  51, 58 Levy-Bruhl, Lucien  16 Lithuanians, see Mitnagdim, also see Litvaks  Litvaks  22, 92, 98 Lomsky-Feder, Edna  51, 99 London  11, 126 Lubavitch  29, 30 Lubavitchers  29 Lupo, Jacob  40, 44, 128 Lupolianski, Uri  60, 61, 62 Ma’ayan ha’Chinuch ha’Torani (Shas’ educational network)  31 Madrasas  22, 51, 130 Magen David Adom  111, 118, 136, 137 Mahaneh Yehuda  115, 116 . Mahmood, Saba  18, 19, 68, 69 Male piety  66, 76, 83, 85 Malinowski, Bronislaw  15 Mana  15 Mandarin elite  129 Maor, M. Z.  92 Marian shrines  33 Martin, David  26, 31 Marty, Martin E.  21, 52, 67 Martyrdom  127 Mary, the Virgin  33, 34 Masculinity  22, 51, 68, 76, 77, 104 Mass group worship  35 Mass worship  32 Mass-casualty disasters, also see masscasualty incidents  121 Mass-casualty incidents  105, 107, 110, 111, 114, 119, 122

Matchmaking industry  125 Mea She‘arim  38, 68, 71, 77 Mecca  33 Menukha neh. onah  109 Meshi Zahav, Yehuda  55, 56, 58, 112 Messiah  29, 30 Messner, Michael A.  72, 76 Mexico  10, 118 Mexico City  10, 11, 126 Midrash  34 Militarism  11, 13, 98, 99, 103 Military ethos  87, 89 Military exemption  37, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 95, 96, 99, 103 Military service  23, 37, 53, 62, 87, 88, 89, 90, 93, 94, 96, 98, 99, 104, 133 Milk Grotto  33, 34 Ministry of Religion  109 Ministry of Transportation  71 Mishor Adumim  138 Mitnagdim, also see Lithuanians  36 Modernization  11, 18, 24, 52 Modesty codes  48, 71 Modiin Ilit  38 Morgan, David  39 Moroccan-Jewish community  35 Mosques  127, 142 Mount Meron  28, 35 Muslim movements  28, 138 Mutualism  59, 65 Nachman of Breslov  28, 33 Nagata, Judith  70 Neitz, Mary Jo  68 Netanya  38 Netivot  35, 143

Index

Neturei Karta  71 Neugerschal, Mordechai  94, 98, New Age  18, 35, 41, 143 New Haredi family  77, 79, 80 New Haredism  48 New York City  11, 126 Noson (of Breslov)  28 Not-for-profit organizations, also see aid organizations  12, 46, 49, 105, 117, 136 Occupied territories  23, 25, 104, 110 Ofakim  71 Old City, of Jerusalem  117 Old Yishuv  124 Ophir, Adi  51 Oslo Accords  37 Otherworldly soldiers  91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 104 Padre Pio  33 Palestine  24, 89, 124 Palestinian territories, see occupied territories  Paris  126 Parsons, Talcot  17 Peled, Yoav  51 Penso, Anat  45 Pentecostal churches  27 Pentecostalism  31 Pentecostals  27 Peretz, I. L.  66 Peshkin, Alan  70 Pietrokovski, Jamie  63 Poland  46, 72, 124 Polish Hasidim  36 Polluted providers  73

Portugal  27 Possession cults  27 Poverty-by-choice ideology  44 Practical Judaism  103 Prime Minister’s Office  63 Professional training, also see vocational training  40, 44 Promise Keepers  76 Rabinowicz, Tzvi  114 Rachel, the Matriarch  33, 34 Rachel’s Tomb, also see Tomb of Rachel  33, 34 Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred  15, 16 Ragen, Naomi  41 Ram, Uri  51 Rear Command, IDF  111, 137, 138 Rehovot  106 Religious radicalism  123 Religious resurgence  10, 19, 49, 141 Religious revivalism  20, 47 Religious-Zionist camp  24 Religious-Zionists  40 Riesebrodt, Martin  19, 22, 51, 67, 126 Rio de Janeiro  27 Ritual baths  38 Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year)  33 Rules of modesty  73, 75, 97, 123 Russia  29 Saba, Moisés  118 Sahliyeh, Emile  52, 126 Santaria spirit possession  27 Sao Paulo  11 Sasson-Levy, Orna  99 Schach, Eliezer  21, 94

167

168

Index

Schiffer, Varda  43 Schneerson, Menachem Mendel  26, 29, 30 Schwartz, Yoel  92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97 Scripturalism  20, 22, 23, 27, 28, 126, 138 Second Intifada, also see al-Aqsa Intifada  50, 99, 105, 110 Second Lebanon War  50 Second World War  11, 86, 88, 123, 128, 136, 140 Secularization  11, 17, 18, 20, 29, 47, 72, 74 Secularization paradigm  17 Secularization thesis  10 Sefer haZohar  35 Segal, Israel  41 Segev, Tom  60 Selengut, Charles  39, 128 Sephardic communities  53 Sephardic congregrations  41 Sephardic groups  41 Sephardic Haredi women  43 Sephardic Haredis  31, 47 Sephardim  36, 53 Sered, Susan  33, 34 Shafir, Gershon  51 Shalev, Michael  50 Shapiro, Marshall   112 Shas  31, 32, 37, 46, 47 Shenkar, Yael  45, 84, 134 Shiite movements  52 Shilhav,Yosseph  38, 44 Shimon Bar Yohai  35 Shinui, political party  91 Shiur (yeshiva lesson)  69 Shlikhim(messengers)  30

Shma (Jewish prayer)  88 Shnirer, Sarah  46 Siebzehner, Batia  31, 37, 46, 47, 125 Sikhs  52 Simeon Bar Yohai, Rabbi  88 Simmel, Georg  14 Simmons, Shraga  61, 62 Sivan, Emmanuel  19, 20, 25, 40, 52, 67, 70, 87, 111, 117, 123, 126, 141 Six Day War  24, 37 Soldierhood  98, 103, 104 Soloveitchik, Haym  39, 70, 126 South Korea  63 Southern Baptists  70 Soviet Komsomol  129 Spain  33 Standards of modesty  45 Status-quo agreement  124 Stolow, Jeremy  20 Structuralist theory  143 Study of Torah, also see Torah study  23, 36, 53, 88, 92, 135 Suicide bombings  106, 111 Supreme Court  90 Synagogues  34, 38, 71, 142 Syncretism  18 Taboos  9, 15, 17, 19, 20, 25, 29, 72, 74, 97, 129, 142 Tahara (Jewish purification rites)  108 Tal Committee  90 Tal Law  90, 91, 99 Tal, Tzvi  90 Taragin-Zeller, Lea  72, 73 Tel Aviv  62, 106 Televangelism  27

Index

Temple  96, 108 Temple Mount  24 Territories, see occupied territories  Terrorism  40, 55, 59, 103, 121 Terrorist attacks  55, 65, 68, 105, 119, 121, 137 Textual fundamentalism  123 The Wager, movie  133 This-world religiosity  103 Tikkun haKlali  28 Toktzinsky, Yechiel Michal  114 Tomb of Rachel, also see Rachel’s Tomb  33, Torah study, also see Study of Torah  54, 70, 80, 88, 91, 95, 96, 104, 131, 136 Torato omanuto (Torah is his vocation)  43, 88, 90 Totemism  14, 16, 17, 19 Tribe of Levy  94 Tribes of Israel  93 Turner, Bryan S.  12, 51 Turner, Edith  32, Turner, Victor  32, 33 Ukraine  28 Ultra-Orthodox fundamentalism, also see Haredi fundamentalism  22, 125 Ultra-Orthodox publishing, industry  134 Ultra-Orthodoxy  10, 11, 29, 36, 41, 44, 46, 48, 52, 53, 70, 77, 104, 112, 125, 126, 143 Uman  33 Union of Israel faction, see Agudat Yisrael 

United Nations  63 United States  19, 28, 29, 43, 52, 68, 74, 138 United Torah Judaism, see Yahadut haTorah haMeuchedet Utopistic communities  12 Vazner, Haim Meir Halevi  78, 80, 82 Vilna gaon (Rabbi Elijah Ben Solomon)  23 Virginia  118 Vocational training, also see professional training  44 Voluntarism  13, 48, 53, 59, 61, 62, 64, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 121, 133, 136, 137, 143 Voodoo  27 Wagner, Richard J.  73, 74 Wagschal, Shaul  74, 75 Wandervogel  129 War of Independence  93 War reparations  38 Weber, Max  12, 14, 67, 129, 130, 141 Welfare policy  44 Welfare state  38, 50, 51 West Bank  24, 25 Wolbe, Shmuel  78, 93 World Jewish Congress  58 World to come  31, 73 Yad Sarah  49, 50, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 105, 136, 137, 142 Yafeh, Orit  42 Yahadut haTorah haMeuchedet (United Torah Judaism)  37 Yeshiva boys  123, 132, 134, 136, 138, 139, 140

169

170

Index

Yeshiva culture  53, 67 Yeshiva elite  76 Yeshiva erudition  66, 133 Yeshiva fundamentalism  26, 39, 73, 103 Yeshiva g’dolah (high yeshiva)  69 Yeshiva piety  68, 77 Yeshiva seclusiveness  69 Yeshiva students  26, 37, 43, 44, 53, 55, 67, 68, 69, 70, 72, 76, 77, 78, 79, 85, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 113, 125, 128, 134, 135, 139 Lithuanian (Litvak) yeshivas  22, 24, 83 Merkaz haRav  24 Yeshivas  11, 22, 23, 38, 43, 44, 54, 55, 68, 69, 70, 74, 77, 78, 80, 83, 84, 86, 91, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 116, 123, 124, 126, 128, 130, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 140, 142, 144

Yetzer ha’rah (evil inclination)  73 Yiddish  28, 29 Yishuv  93 Yitzhak, Amnon  143 Yom Kippur War  25 Yosef, Ovadia  31, 32 ZAKA  49, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 64, 65, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 136, 137, 138, 143 Zehut avot (birthright)  43 Zini, Avi  63 Zionism  24, 37, 39 Zionist movement  24

Also in the series

Jewish Identities

in

Post Modern Socie t y

THE WANDERING JEW IN AMERICA By Uzi Rebhun ISBN 978-1-936235-26-1, cloth, 160 pp., 2011 “In The Wandering Jew, Uzi Rebhun has presented the definitive work on American Jews’ geographic mobility for our time. Although comprehensive and rich with intriguing data analyses, his prose style makes the exploration of this important dimension of Jewish life readily available, accessible, and engaging. He contends not only with the prevailing theories and images of Jewish mobility, but also discerns fascinating changes over time in the patterns of mobility, in the characteristics of movers and stayers, and in the implications of mobility for Jewish identity and community.” — Steven M. Cohen, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion “Uzi Rebhun documents changes in the wanderlust of American Jews up through 2001.His research, grounded in current theoretical frameworks, enables us to consider how Jews are similar to and different from other migrants within the United States. Rebhun concludes that American Jews are characterized by increasing and unusually high spatial mobility, which has resulted in high levels of both individual and institutional dispersion. Rebhun spells out the implications of his findings in terms of theoretical insights and suggested directions for future research, as well as for Jewish communal policy. Rebhun has invested considerable skill in making his scientifically sound and sophisticated analyses, mostly based on the 1990 and 2000-1 National Jewish Population Surveys, very accessible to all readers. Sure to be considered the definitive text on American Jewish spatial mobility for this time period, this work is highly recommended as worthwhile for scholars (of religion, ethnicity, and Jewish studies) and practitioners alike, as well as anyone interested in the development of contemporary American Jewry.” — Harriet Hartman, Professor of Sociology, Rowan University President, Association for the Social Scientific Study of Jewry Uzi Rebhun (Ph.D., 1997) is an Associate Professor at the A. Harman Institute of Contemporary Jewry, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He is also head of the Advisory Committee of the Israel Social Sciences Data Archive. Rebhun has published extensively on immigration, internal migration, interfaith marriage, Jewish identification, and population projections. His recent works include American Israelis: Migration, Transnationalism, and Diasporic Identity (with Lilach Lev Ari, Brill Academic Publishers, 2010).

STRICTLY KOSHER READING Popular Literature and the Condition of Contemporary Orthodoxy By Yoel Finkelman 9781936235377, cloth; 9781618110022, paper; 258 pp., 2011 For centuries, fervently observant Jewish communities have produced thousands of works of Jewish law, thought, and spirituality. But in recent decades, the literature of America’s Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) community has taken on brand-new forms: self-help books, cookbooks, monthly magazines, parenting guides, biographies, picture books, even adventure stories and spy novels — all produced by Haredi men and women, for the Haredi reader. What’s changed? Why did these works appear, and what do they mean to the community that produces and consumes them? How has the Haredi world, as it seeks fidelity to unchanging tradition, so radically changed what it writes and what it reads? In answering these questions, Strictly Kosher Reading points to a central paradox in contemporary Haredi life. Haredi Jewry sets itself apart, claiming to reject modern secular culture as dangerous and as threatening to everything Torah stands for. But in practice, Haredi popular literature reveals a community thoroughly embedded in contemporary values. Popular literature plays a critical role in helping Haredi Jews to understand themselves as different, even as it shows them to be very much the same. “In Strictly Kosher Reading,Yoel Finkelman introduces, interrogates and theorizes contemporary Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) popular literature of a variety of genres, from fiction to biography to popular theology, revealing the tensions inherent in a tradition that simultaneously rejects American culture while adapting and sometimes adopting its values and attitudes. As such, the book provides fascinating insights into an aspect of Haredi culture little known outside of Orthodox Jewish circles in a scholarly, yet highly accessible, way.” — Mary Ann Beavis, Founding Editor, Journal of Religion and Popular Culture “Combining keen sociological insight with historical knowledge, Finkelman is a wonderful guide to the recent trends in Haredi society.” — Marc Shapiro, Weinberg Chair in Judaic Studies, University of Scranton “With acute observations and a very effective writing style, this book is for anyone interested in the areas of American Orthodox Judaism, Jewish education, religion and media, as well as the broader social scientific area of culture and cognition.” — Chaim I. Waxman, Professor Emeritus of Sociology and Jewish Studies, Rutgers University Yoel Finkelman (Ph.D., Hebrew University of Jerusalem) is a lecturer in the Interdisciplinary Graduate Program in Contemporary Jewry at Bar-Ilan University. He teaches Talmud and Jewish Thought in various venues in Jerusalem.