Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem; March 16, 2007
Haoman 17 gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put
I remember when I first landed in Jerusalem about seven years ago from Los Angeles to make my life in Israel, I felt like something was missing. Maybe it's because I'm from LA, but I knew it was something glamorous, exciting, beautiful, wild and crazy. The Western Wall could only satisfy me so much.
Then I discovered Haoman 17. My friends told me the nightclub had an international reputation, which was hard for me to believe. How could a Jerusalem nightclub be so famous?
Then, when I first stepped into the club, I understood why. The massive dance floor, the sound system and the music were a step above what I had seen or heard before - and ah, and the people! So beautiful. Clubbing at Haoman was a ritual, an art and a holy endeavor.
Haoman was the only place in Jerusalem where I felt I could let loose on the dance floor, meet guys without too many strings attached, dress to kill and release all the pressures involved in making aliya. It was the secular haven for sassy Jerusalemites. It was a pocket of Tel Aviv in a city considered to be the metropolis's conservative opposite.
Some called it an escape, some a source of inspiration. For me, it was place of discovery - about Israeli society, Israeli people, music, dance and ultimately, myself.
My girlfriends and I would go almost every other week. This was our outlet, were we could feel beautiful, alive, sexy and even a little crazy. At Haoman I felt that anything was possible. Spirituality was found through physicality. In my freedom to dance, I could dream big about life in Israel.
So when I heard the news that Haoman 17 was closing as a nightclub and turning into a megabar, my reactions were of understanding, sadness, nostalgia and also relief.
Haoman 17 Jerusalem began to lose its edge at the start of the second intifada, when weekly terrorist attacks repelled trendy Tel Avivians from their favorite nightclub. Haoman gradually turned into a neighborhood club, and selection became less strict.
Foreign DJs weren't always keen on traveling to war-torn Israel - if the diminishing crowd could even justify their arrival. While the sound, the DJs, the innovative house music, the ever-changing design and the themed parties still made Haoman the most popular and pioneering club in Israel, the 'X factor' was disappearing.
Then, to add to the hard times created by the intifada, the Tax Authority raided the club on New Year's 2002. In a widely publicized scandal, the five original owners were accused of tax evasion, and a lengthy trial, which reached the Supreme Court, undoubtedly zapped some of their energy and concentration. They were convicted in 2005, received heavy fines and were sentenced to various prison terms of 10 to 18 months.
Up until their sentencing, however, the industriousness of the remaining owners did not seem to wane - but maybe misguidedly so. They decided to import the Haoman brand to Haifa and invested about $1 million to create a stunning nightclub in the Hadar region themed after a ship. The club set sail in early 2004 and, despite its beauty and impressiveness, it lasted only about a year and then mysteriously died - in part because of a shooting incident at the entrance.
According to Haifa locals versant in the Haifa nightlife scene, the ambitious club also didn't really attune itself to the mentality and going-out habits of the down-to-earth locals, who demanded less selection snobbery at the door and more affordable drinks and entrance fees.
Snobbery and price, however, didn't seem to bother the Tel Aviv night owls. Haoman 17 Tel Aviv opened in 2004 and quickly wiped out the competition, among them the TLV megaclub. While the Tel Aviv club continues to pack it in weekly and remains the only standing Haoman 17, it has yet to retain the glamour, uniqueness and magical vibe of Haoman 17 Jerusalem's early years.
But now that Haoman Jerusalem is turning into a megabar, and the visionary owner-in-chief, Ruben Lublin, will dedicate himself mostly to the Tel Aviv club, Haoman 17 Tel Aviv is poised to perpetuate Haoman 17's legendary name.
That is, unless the decline in the megaclub trend in Israel - the one that prompted the closing of Haoman Jerusalem - also affects the Tel Aviv branch.
But why mention only the negative? Haoman has its fair share of mighty accomplishments. It put Israel's name in European DJ and nightlife magazines. The club actually gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put. Haoman raised the standards of nightlife in all of Israel, and also that of accompanying industries - music, sound, lighting and fashion.
Haoman 17's farewell party last week was a throwback to the 'good old times.' Tension-building house music, the African-themed design, sex in the air (and possibly in the famous bathrooms), partyers from Tel Aviv and old-time owners and managers all made the farewell party one to remember. Grass (not the drug - the plant) was laid out in the entrance courtyard, which a bunch of partiers spilled onto at around 5 a.m., and the party continued until the afternoon.
It'll be strange for me to pass by Haoman now, and know that it no longer functions as a nightclub. I feel like a part (and party) of my early years in Israel has died. A piece of my influential, young and carefree Israeli experience has been buried.
But maybe that's why I'm relieved too. Haoman will always hold a special place in my heart and in the heart of so many Jerusalemites - for many it's the place where they tested their inhibitions. But now that I'm older and wiser, having settled more into Israel and also more into myself, Haoman is not my future, but my past - and I will look back at Haoman as a playground for my search to dance wildly, only so that I could eventually stand steadily.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
A taste of the beer capital (bar review)
Jerusalem Post, Billbard; March 9, 2007
Jerusalem hosts the third pub in the ambitious Dublin chain
In a country where pubs have a shelf-life of about two years, entrepreneurs need a lot of guts to sign a 14-year lease. But when Gily Zabary and his partner Zion Lahav opened their third Dublin outlet - in the center of Jerusalem - they didn't intend to build a mere Irish pub, but an institution.
'There are pubs in Ireland that date back 800 years,' Zabary explains. He fell in love with Irish pubs during his travels to Dublin, the home of Guinness. 'I was amazed to see that people aged 40 and 50 hung out with 20- and 30-year-olds. What unites them is the beer.'
Surprisingly, Zabary doesn't have any Irish roots, and looks more Sephardic than European. Born to a Yemenite father and a German mother, he brought the warmth of the East and the exactness of the German Ashkenazim to his establishments.
Before building the first Dublin pub in his native Rehovot five years ago, Zabary worked for several months as a bartender in Ireland - a self-imposed internship. A second Dublin pub made its home in Herzliya two years ago, and Jerusalem became the next logical location. The capital, Zabary says, is the third-largest market for draft beer in Israel, behind Rehovot and Haifa.
It should be clear to anyone who walks into Dublin that the pub wasn't built as a passing fancy; a million-dollar investment made sure of that. Dublin's over-done design - high Gothic ceilings, thick wooden furniture, authentic Irish chandeliers and ornate stained glass - is more reminiscent of a flamboyant Disneyland ride than a cozy Irish pub. Sitting areas are divided into two categories: the knights' table for groups and 'snugs' for intimate encounters. No two dining areas are the same, so visitors can experience the pub differently every time.
Dublin is the kind of place where middle-aged couples can munch on finger food and throw back whiskey shots alongside 22-year-old guys mustering the courage required to approach a girl. To appeal to older crowds and reduce the smoky, 'pick-up' bar feel, the owners have invested NIS 400,000 in a smoke ventilation system, so bargoers don't leave for home with the scent of cigarette ashes on their clothes.
That Dublin has chosen to plaster ads on Egged buses demonstrates its broad market: everyone is invited - rich, poor, young and old. The only thing in which Dublin customers cannot be pedestrian is their taste in beer. Carlsberg and Heineken aren't considered respectable options at Dublin.
Beer consumption is a culture in Ireland, Zabary explains, with the many Irishmen drinking 15 pints a day. To boost the beer culture in Israel, Zabary focused on beer variety and professional preparation and presentation.
Beer kegs aren't located under the bar, as in most Israeli drinking establishments, but in a special refrigerated 'beer cellar' built to European standards. The beer reaches the taps through an elaborate system of underground pipes. The custom-made beer glasses are washed in a separate dishwasher to make sure they don't get contaminated with oil, milk or eggs, which can ruin the flavor and texture.
Dublin serves 18 kinds of beer on tap, some of them fruit-flavored. During off-hours, bartenders may offer samples in miniature two-inch mugs.
'The phrase 'beer is too bitter for me' no longer applies in Israel,' says Zabary. 'Israelis used to say that because they didn't know anything else.'
Dublin, Shamai 4, (02) 622-3612, Hours: daily from 5 p.m. - 3 a.m., Friday until 5 a.m. Musical line-up: Sunday: Eighties' Israeli music; Monday: Israeli and cover bands; Tuesday: Irish bands; Weekends: DJ Freestyle
Jerusalem hosts the third pub in the ambitious Dublin chain
In a country where pubs have a shelf-life of about two years, entrepreneurs need a lot of guts to sign a 14-year lease. But when Gily Zabary and his partner Zion Lahav opened their third Dublin outlet - in the center of Jerusalem - they didn't intend to build a mere Irish pub, but an institution.
'There are pubs in Ireland that date back 800 years,' Zabary explains. He fell in love with Irish pubs during his travels to Dublin, the home of Guinness. 'I was amazed to see that people aged 40 and 50 hung out with 20- and 30-year-olds. What unites them is the beer.'
Surprisingly, Zabary doesn't have any Irish roots, and looks more Sephardic than European. Born to a Yemenite father and a German mother, he brought the warmth of the East and the exactness of the German Ashkenazim to his establishments.
Before building the first Dublin pub in his native Rehovot five years ago, Zabary worked for several months as a bartender in Ireland - a self-imposed internship. A second Dublin pub made its home in Herzliya two years ago, and Jerusalem became the next logical location. The capital, Zabary says, is the third-largest market for draft beer in Israel, behind Rehovot and Haifa.
It should be clear to anyone who walks into Dublin that the pub wasn't built as a passing fancy; a million-dollar investment made sure of that. Dublin's over-done design - high Gothic ceilings, thick wooden furniture, authentic Irish chandeliers and ornate stained glass - is more reminiscent of a flamboyant Disneyland ride than a cozy Irish pub. Sitting areas are divided into two categories: the knights' table for groups and 'snugs' for intimate encounters. No two dining areas are the same, so visitors can experience the pub differently every time.
Dublin is the kind of place where middle-aged couples can munch on finger food and throw back whiskey shots alongside 22-year-old guys mustering the courage required to approach a girl. To appeal to older crowds and reduce the smoky, 'pick-up' bar feel, the owners have invested NIS 400,000 in a smoke ventilation system, so bargoers don't leave for home with the scent of cigarette ashes on their clothes.
That Dublin has chosen to plaster ads on Egged buses demonstrates its broad market: everyone is invited - rich, poor, young and old. The only thing in which Dublin customers cannot be pedestrian is their taste in beer. Carlsberg and Heineken aren't considered respectable options at Dublin.
Beer consumption is a culture in Ireland, Zabary explains, with the many Irishmen drinking 15 pints a day. To boost the beer culture in Israel, Zabary focused on beer variety and professional preparation and presentation.
Beer kegs aren't located under the bar, as in most Israeli drinking establishments, but in a special refrigerated 'beer cellar' built to European standards. The beer reaches the taps through an elaborate system of underground pipes. The custom-made beer glasses are washed in a separate dishwasher to make sure they don't get contaminated with oil, milk or eggs, which can ruin the flavor and texture.
Dublin serves 18 kinds of beer on tap, some of them fruit-flavored. During off-hours, bartenders may offer samples in miniature two-inch mugs.
'The phrase 'beer is too bitter for me' no longer applies in Israel,' says Zabary. 'Israelis used to say that because they didn't know anything else.'
Dublin, Shamai 4, (02) 622-3612, Hours: daily from 5 p.m. - 3 a.m., Friday until 5 a.m. Musical line-up: Sunday: Eighties' Israeli music; Monday: Israeli and cover bands; Tuesday: Irish bands; Weekends: DJ Freestyle
Beyond belief
Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem; March 9, 2007
Click here for original
For many disillusioned haredim leaving their close-knit community is like moving to a foreign country.
'Who wants to make kiddush?' a long-haired man asks at the Friday night table, holding a kiddush cup.
There seem to be no takers, so he begins himself to say the blessing but stops somewhere in the middle when he realizes no one is really paying attention. 'Yalla!' he says, dismissively, cutting the kiddush short while everyone proceeds to eat the three-course, buffet-style Shabbat meal.
Once skipping kiddush would have been a sacrilege for almost everyone around the table. These days, making the choice is its own blessing. The men and women sitting at the table are all former haredim who broke out of their dogmatic, strict confines, on pain of excommunication, poverty and loneliness, to live in a world in which they can choose how to live.
For some, this kind of gathering is the closest they get to feeling like part of a family, says Rina Ofir, director of Hillel, a non-profit organization that helps former haredim adjust to mainstream, pluralistic Israeli life. 'They don't really have the chance to go to home on Friday nights.'
Most haredi defectors are immediately ejected from their homes once they appear at the family doorstep without peyot (sidelocks) or, in the case of women, without a modest skirt.
Two years ago, Hillel made communal Friday night dinners a tradition, alternating weekly between its Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches. 'It's important for them to be together, for the food as well - for some of them it's their only real meal because they eat here and there and don't really have money,' explains Ofir.
Leaving haredi communities to join mainstream Israeli society is for many like moving to a foreign country. It entails learning a new language (particularly English, but in some cases also spoken Hebrew), internalizing modern codes of dress and behavior, creating a social framework and securing housing and employment.
Some haredi communities can be likened to Yiddish-speaking Eastern European shtetls - minus the cold weather and with modern appliances. 'Yotzim define themselves as new immigrants,' says Ofir, referring to haredi defectors who are commonly called yotzim b'she'ela ('going out to question,' a pun on hozrim b'teshuva, the Hebrew term for those returning to religion).
Despite these difficulties, the number of newly secular is apparently increasing, judging from last year's hike in inquiries to Hillel's open line. The proliferation of the Internet has made access to secular worldviews more readily available to haredim via their computers or cellphones. Many yotzim and prospective yotzim congregate digitally on the popular chat forum 'yotzim b'she'ela' on the Tapuz Web site portal. This is one reason, says Ofir, why some haredi community leaders are beginning to outlaw Internet use.
'It's important for us to state that we are not missionaries,' she clarifies. 'We work with those who choose to leave the haredi community. We have no interest in drawing them out.' Nor does Hillel seek to engage former haredim in religious debate. Instead, the organization refers them to libraries and the Internet to find answers to theological questions.
Da'at Emet was founded in 1998 by Yaron Yadan to provide such answers. The organization, dedicated to disseminating a scientific, humanistic interpretation of Judaism, initially went to haredi yeshivot and handed out pamphlets divulging ideas that countered haredi faith-based beliefs, such as those dealing with the divinity of the Torah and the veracity of the Talmud.
'We try to teach the haredi public that they live by an unethical, mistaken and inequitable system,' says Yadan, who fears that haredi influence and growth is undermining the state's democratic character. 'We try to explain to them that the secular world is more beautiful - it is filled with creativity, ethics and spirituality.'
These days, Da'at Emet reaches haredi communities here and abroad through lectures, workshops and its Web site, which features a range of articles written from an academic, humanistic perspective that expose inconsistencies, scientific errors and ethically problematic passages in the Bible and Talmud.
Da'at Emet is the fruit of Yadan's intellectual journey - he went from being secular to haredi, before becoming secular again. Having grown up in a non-religious household, he began to study at a Jerusalem yeshiva at age 17 to satisfy his search for meaning and purpose. 'I was (and still am) very knowledgeable in Jewish texts - the entire bookshelf,' he says.
While serving as head of a yeshiva for three years, Yadan began to critically examine biblical and talmudic texts. 'I found errors in zoology, medicine, astronomy, cosmology, anatomy and other fields, and I noticed that in Jewish religious texts morality is based not on ethics, but on mitzvot [commandments] founded upon halachic [religious law] errors. As a believer whose whole life was bound to the idea that God wrote the Torah, it eventually became clear to me there was no divine connection to the Torah.'
Finally, when he was convinced that his life was based on lies, Yadan broke the news to his wife. Unable to stand the idea that their seven children would continue to live and study an irrational belief system, he worked for three years to guide his wife toward his new truth. 'I succeeded. I don't know how. One night she turned on the lights on Shabbat, and that was that.'
Yadan has since divorced and remarried, and is currently completing his BA in Jewish thought. Judging from inquiries from haredim, he confirms that the phenomenon is growing.
'Today, unlike the time when Da'at Emet was founded, there is no haredi household that doesn't know someone who left the fold. It used to be that if a haredi family had a son or daughter who [became secular], other children in the family would not be considered for arranged marriages.'
These days, says Yadan, defection is more commonplace and no longer scars the reputation of other siblings.
His transition into the secular world may have been easier than that of other yotzim because of his secular roots, but with seven children to support and no profession, Yadan faced enormous financial hardship. Sometimes he advises haredim with many children not to leave.
'If you have no profession and even if your wife agrees with you, live a double life,' he tells them. 'Try at least to send your kids to schools that offer general education.'
While previous generations of yotzim laid the groundwork for others to follow, Yadan thinks the process remains a difficult one, as one former Jerusalem hassid attests.
'AT FIRST your life is hell. On one hand you're not familiar with secular culture, while on the other, you want to be a part of it,' says S., 23, who shaved off his beard and peyot only a few months ago. 'I never thought I'd do it. It takes courage to leave everything and go into a world you don't know.'
S. doesn't describe the process of leaving as the result of an intellectual journey or sudden revelation. He simply never felt like he fitted in. 'I lived a regular haredi life - I wasn't such a rebel - but I reached a situation where I couldn't stand living that way anymore. I never got along with my immediate family. We had no emotional connection. We had different mentalities. I was more drawn to a life of freedom, nature.'
A year ago, he divorced his wife from an arranged marriage that was a mismatch from the start. 'They married me to someone, it didn't work and I got divorced,' he says, simply.
Several months later he took off with his savings, and lived out of a suitcase in the center of the country until he eventually settled in a Tel Aviv apartment subsidized by Hillel. He found a job at a food stand but speaks with bitterness of his early work experience. 'They take advantage of you. At first you're very timid.' S. doesn't expect to secure a better-paying job without an academic qualification, as is common among yotzim.
'Those who study in yeshiva don't really know anything,' Ofir explains. 'They know Talmud very well, but don't know English or math.' To achieve a BA, the average male yotzeh must learn English from scratch, complete matriculation exams (a process that can take up to two years) and attend college for approximately four years. Some opt for army service, which further stretches the time until they graduate from college.
'If someone becomes more religious, they get help, education, housing, food,' relates S. 'Hessed [charity] is an integral part of haredi life, and many charity organizations provide food and services for needy haredim. You don't have that for people who become secular. Secular people live their lives. As a yotzeh, you're on your own. It's like you're thrown to the winds.'
To fill that void, Hillel models itself after charity organizations. Unlike some religious outreach organizations that receive government funding, Hillel subsists on private donations, mostly from abroad. The funds are channeled primarily for its members' education. The staff consists entirely of volunteers, except for one part-time position. Each Hillel member is assigned an individual tutor on secular living, and at both the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches, a library and racks of secular clothing are at the members' disposal.
Last weekend, Hillel organized a Purim retreat with workshops on employees' rights, dating and love and sex. In a world of arranged marriages, yotzim do not acquire basic dating skills.
'A lot of women at Hillel complain that the yotzim are very rude in their advances, because they have no idea how to approach a woman,' says P., a former haredi woman. 'Women have their own difficulties approaching men in the outer world because the codes are so different. The rules of the game in the secular world are much more varied. In the religious world it's very black and white - it's clear what you're supposed to do at every stage in the courtship.'
Ironically, female yotzot from certain haredi communities leave their world better equipped to adjust. Haredi women are often expected to support the family while husbands learn in yeshiva, and study math, English and science in high school. However, far fewer women than men leave haredi communities, in part because their lives are situated around the home and they are usually married off at a younger age. They also have a lot more at stake, including losing the amenities that go with an arranged marriage and often being stigmatized as 'whores,' who should be distanced from their community at all costs.
But R., a member of Hillel, points out that even a girls' education is usually not enough. 'When you grow up you don't have television or radio, and don't hear English songs - you just see and read Hebrew.'
Upon breaking away from her community, R. traveled to India where she had to converse in English for the first time. 'I didn't know how to say 'restaurant,' 'hotel,' 'waiter' - nothing. I felt so stupid.'
Racheli Granot, who left her home in Bnei Brak as a teen, describes herself as having adopted provocative dress and vulgar speech in her early rebellious years. 'As a girl who grew up in the hassidic world, when I went out to the free world I was very 'anti.' I rebelled against values, parents, family, myself and friends. I lost control. I wanted to swallow the world in one go.'
At 18 she joined Hillel, which guided her toward a healthier framework of work and study. 'They hammered into my skull that there are no short cuts in life, that I must study to bridge the big gap in my education, to aim high and try to be something in life,' she says.
WHILE YOTZIM often consider their entry into mainstream society a type of rebirth, replete with a new slew of opportunities for intellectual growth and freedom, the process of fully integrating may take many years for some. There is a common debate among Hillel members as to when a yotzeh stops being a yotzeh.
'You can't say I feel better,' says S., whose natural early-20s uncertainty is exacerbated by his limited childhood experiences. 'When you don't know yourself, your way around, you can't feel better. But I try to deal with what I have, to make the most of it.'
Meir Tahover, 25, believes that his process of adjustment took only several months because he began to scientifically research the non-haredi world as a teen, when he already began to doubt his hassidic lifestyle, asking questions like: 'It didn't make sense that God would create a person so that he'll suffer - why create fruit only to forbid it?'
From 19, this self-professed former model yeshiva student began to investigate other streams of Judaism, including religious Zionism, until he came to the conclusion at 23 that 'religion is not for me.' When his parents understood that he had abandoned religion completely, they threw him out of the house. At that point, Tahover became a member of Hillel, which assisted him in putting a roof over his head and funding studies toward his matriculation exam. He currently works in a stationary store and defines his goal simply: 'To build a new life. To make a better future for my children.'
With the passage of time his parents have softened toward him. Tahover recently attended his sister's wedding, where his father shook his hand for the first time in two years. He participates regularly in the popular Tapuz chat forum, responding to concerns raised by potential yotzim.
'One type is very intellectual and asks the right questions,' he says of the yotzim he has encountered. This group, he says, is a minority because a healthy sense of reason and inquiry is stifled at an early age. 'The second type, of which there are more, consists of those who don't have it good in the haredi community and seek a change.'
Faranak Margolese, author of the book Off the Derech, which examines why Jews leave Orthodoxy, cites a common thread in the motivations of haredim who leave. 'It seems the pressure to be religious in one particular way is often too stifling. The road becomes too narrow to walk, and the inability to legitimately move to another brand of observance leaves too few options for those who don't fit the mold,' she notes.
Ofir notices that most Hillel members abandon any belief in God or religious observance - at least in the early stages of rebellion. This trend could be stemmed, says Margolese, if haredi communities would change their attitudes toward other Jewish streams. 'A fair number of those in the haredi world who go off might have stayed at least somewhat observant if other communities or observant options were considered legitimate to their own world,' she says.
Considering the independent spirit, intellectual curiosity and mental fortitude required to leave their communities, yotzim who succeed in providing for their basic needs - whether through organizations like Hillel or on their own - often become productive, even overachieving members of society, notes Ofir. Hillel members have graduated from top Israeli universities and several have become army officers.
Perhaps the most telltale incident of the yotzim's assimilation into secular society occurred after Friday dinner, when they gathered to watch the popular television parody show Eretz Nehederet. They sat on sofas, laughing at all the jokes poked at politicians and celebrities.
As one member put it: 'The television show has nothing to do with being yotzim. Two million people watch it.'
In their jeans and T-shirts, they looked like the average Israeli who grew up on television, but their laughter may have been a little louder.
(BOX) They're in the army now
In haredi communities, the IDF is a symbol of the secular Jewish state that they reject outright. In principle, yeshiva students are exempt from military service and the government considers yeshiva study as national service. Haredi men who do not study in yeshiva, however, are required by law to enlist but are often encouraged by rabbis and community leaders to deliberately fail recruitment exams.
'One reason haredim don't want yeshiva students to go to the army is very simple,' says T., 19, a Hillel member in his second year of army service. 'As soon as they're exposed to the secular world, they see a new way and there's more chance of them leaving the haredi way of life.'
Prior to his break from his Sephardi haredi community, T. lied to the army about the state of his psychological health in order to secure an exemption. After much hesitation, he eventually decided to fulfill his army service. He worked to nullify his self-imposed exemption, but given his fake psychological profile, was placed in a unit for ex-cons and at-risk youth.
Despite this setback he successfully passed an officers' training course and now works in his field of choice, computers, although army bureaucracy still prevents him from upgrading his profile.
'We sometimes get in the picture to help them gain better positions,' says Hillel director Rina Ofir. 'The army isn't attentive enough and doesn't listen to us enough, and so we always have problems with the army.'
A Hillel liaison takes up cases like T's, and also assists in shortening service for those who are not prepared to serve the standard three years.
'Generally, we are supportive of their serving in the army,' says Ofir. 'But not everyone can do it. They have been educated since childhood against the army, and it's not easy for them.'
Such was the case with M., a handsome teen with gelled hair who left his hassidic Mea She'arim community at 16. 'At first I didn't want to be recruited because I heard bad stories about the army,' he explains in Hebrew, which he says he didn't learn properly until age 13.
M. met with an army psychologist to veto his exemption, and now serves as a driver with the status of a lone soldier.
Serving in the army, he says, has improved his self-image. Upon first leaving home, he would hang out with a ruffian crowd in Jerusalem streets before finding shelter at a youth hostel through a local organization assisting victims of family violence.
'I see all types of people in the army,' he says. 'It's very interesting. At first I thought I couldn't be in a structured environment. I was a problematic kid. Now I see from the army that I can be in a structured environment.'
His military service, however, has tarnished the image of his family. 'My 18-year-old brother is having trouble finding a shiduch [arranged marriage] because his brother is a soldier. They don't understand that we are protecting them.'
One of the greatest obstacles for ex-haredi soldiers is the loneliness. 'When I joined up, everyone came with their parents and I came by myself,' recalls M. 'I almost wanted to cry.'
Understanding this, Hillel representatives attend army ceremonies with the members and send them care packages every month. Volunteer families work with Hillel to 'adopt' soldiers - to give them a place to spend the weekend for a good meal, laundry and other amenities regular soldiers usually enjoy at their parents' house.
Despite the obstacles, T. is grateful for this opportunity. 'Thanks to the army I got a chance to understand secular society. I can still see the differences between them and me. They'll talk about cartoons they watched as a kid, and I don't.'
He also notices another, unlikely difference. 'Today I love the army - probably more than the others. I think I'm moved more than any other soldier when I hear Hatikva played every Thursday.'
Click here for original
For many disillusioned haredim leaving their close-knit community is like moving to a foreign country.
'Who wants to make kiddush?' a long-haired man asks at the Friday night table, holding a kiddush cup.
There seem to be no takers, so he begins himself to say the blessing but stops somewhere in the middle when he realizes no one is really paying attention. 'Yalla!' he says, dismissively, cutting the kiddush short while everyone proceeds to eat the three-course, buffet-style Shabbat meal.
Once skipping kiddush would have been a sacrilege for almost everyone around the table. These days, making the choice is its own blessing. The men and women sitting at the table are all former haredim who broke out of their dogmatic, strict confines, on pain of excommunication, poverty and loneliness, to live in a world in which they can choose how to live.
For some, this kind of gathering is the closest they get to feeling like part of a family, says Rina Ofir, director of Hillel, a non-profit organization that helps former haredim adjust to mainstream, pluralistic Israeli life. 'They don't really have the chance to go to home on Friday nights.'
Most haredi defectors are immediately ejected from their homes once they appear at the family doorstep without peyot (sidelocks) or, in the case of women, without a modest skirt.
Two years ago, Hillel made communal Friday night dinners a tradition, alternating weekly between its Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches. 'It's important for them to be together, for the food as well - for some of them it's their only real meal because they eat here and there and don't really have money,' explains Ofir.
Leaving haredi communities to join mainstream Israeli society is for many like moving to a foreign country. It entails learning a new language (particularly English, but in some cases also spoken Hebrew), internalizing modern codes of dress and behavior, creating a social framework and securing housing and employment.
Some haredi communities can be likened to Yiddish-speaking Eastern European shtetls - minus the cold weather and with modern appliances. 'Yotzim define themselves as new immigrants,' says Ofir, referring to haredi defectors who are commonly called yotzim b'she'ela ('going out to question,' a pun on hozrim b'teshuva, the Hebrew term for those returning to religion).
Despite these difficulties, the number of newly secular is apparently increasing, judging from last year's hike in inquiries to Hillel's open line. The proliferation of the Internet has made access to secular worldviews more readily available to haredim via their computers or cellphones. Many yotzim and prospective yotzim congregate digitally on the popular chat forum 'yotzim b'she'ela' on the Tapuz Web site portal. This is one reason, says Ofir, why some haredi community leaders are beginning to outlaw Internet use.
'It's important for us to state that we are not missionaries,' she clarifies. 'We work with those who choose to leave the haredi community. We have no interest in drawing them out.' Nor does Hillel seek to engage former haredim in religious debate. Instead, the organization refers them to libraries and the Internet to find answers to theological questions.
Da'at Emet was founded in 1998 by Yaron Yadan to provide such answers. The organization, dedicated to disseminating a scientific, humanistic interpretation of Judaism, initially went to haredi yeshivot and handed out pamphlets divulging ideas that countered haredi faith-based beliefs, such as those dealing with the divinity of the Torah and the veracity of the Talmud.
'We try to teach the haredi public that they live by an unethical, mistaken and inequitable system,' says Yadan, who fears that haredi influence and growth is undermining the state's democratic character. 'We try to explain to them that the secular world is more beautiful - it is filled with creativity, ethics and spirituality.'
These days, Da'at Emet reaches haredi communities here and abroad through lectures, workshops and its Web site, which features a range of articles written from an academic, humanistic perspective that expose inconsistencies, scientific errors and ethically problematic passages in the Bible and Talmud.
Da'at Emet is the fruit of Yadan's intellectual journey - he went from being secular to haredi, before becoming secular again. Having grown up in a non-religious household, he began to study at a Jerusalem yeshiva at age 17 to satisfy his search for meaning and purpose. 'I was (and still am) very knowledgeable in Jewish texts - the entire bookshelf,' he says.
While serving as head of a yeshiva for three years, Yadan began to critically examine biblical and talmudic texts. 'I found errors in zoology, medicine, astronomy, cosmology, anatomy and other fields, and I noticed that in Jewish religious texts morality is based not on ethics, but on mitzvot [commandments] founded upon halachic [religious law] errors. As a believer whose whole life was bound to the idea that God wrote the Torah, it eventually became clear to me there was no divine connection to the Torah.'
Finally, when he was convinced that his life was based on lies, Yadan broke the news to his wife. Unable to stand the idea that their seven children would continue to live and study an irrational belief system, he worked for three years to guide his wife toward his new truth. 'I succeeded. I don't know how. One night she turned on the lights on Shabbat, and that was that.'
Yadan has since divorced and remarried, and is currently completing his BA in Jewish thought. Judging from inquiries from haredim, he confirms that the phenomenon is growing.
'Today, unlike the time when Da'at Emet was founded, there is no haredi household that doesn't know someone who left the fold. It used to be that if a haredi family had a son or daughter who [became secular], other children in the family would not be considered for arranged marriages.'
These days, says Yadan, defection is more commonplace and no longer scars the reputation of other siblings.
His transition into the secular world may have been easier than that of other yotzim because of his secular roots, but with seven children to support and no profession, Yadan faced enormous financial hardship. Sometimes he advises haredim with many children not to leave.
'If you have no profession and even if your wife agrees with you, live a double life,' he tells them. 'Try at least to send your kids to schools that offer general education.'
While previous generations of yotzim laid the groundwork for others to follow, Yadan thinks the process remains a difficult one, as one former Jerusalem hassid attests.
'AT FIRST your life is hell. On one hand you're not familiar with secular culture, while on the other, you want to be a part of it,' says S., 23, who shaved off his beard and peyot only a few months ago. 'I never thought I'd do it. It takes courage to leave everything and go into a world you don't know.'
S. doesn't describe the process of leaving as the result of an intellectual journey or sudden revelation. He simply never felt like he fitted in. 'I lived a regular haredi life - I wasn't such a rebel - but I reached a situation where I couldn't stand living that way anymore. I never got along with my immediate family. We had no emotional connection. We had different mentalities. I was more drawn to a life of freedom, nature.'
A year ago, he divorced his wife from an arranged marriage that was a mismatch from the start. 'They married me to someone, it didn't work and I got divorced,' he says, simply.
Several months later he took off with his savings, and lived out of a suitcase in the center of the country until he eventually settled in a Tel Aviv apartment subsidized by Hillel. He found a job at a food stand but speaks with bitterness of his early work experience. 'They take advantage of you. At first you're very timid.' S. doesn't expect to secure a better-paying job without an academic qualification, as is common among yotzim.
'Those who study in yeshiva don't really know anything,' Ofir explains. 'They know Talmud very well, but don't know English or math.' To achieve a BA, the average male yotzeh must learn English from scratch, complete matriculation exams (a process that can take up to two years) and attend college for approximately four years. Some opt for army service, which further stretches the time until they graduate from college.
'If someone becomes more religious, they get help, education, housing, food,' relates S. 'Hessed [charity] is an integral part of haredi life, and many charity organizations provide food and services for needy haredim. You don't have that for people who become secular. Secular people live their lives. As a yotzeh, you're on your own. It's like you're thrown to the winds.'
To fill that void, Hillel models itself after charity organizations. Unlike some religious outreach organizations that receive government funding, Hillel subsists on private donations, mostly from abroad. The funds are channeled primarily for its members' education. The staff consists entirely of volunteers, except for one part-time position. Each Hillel member is assigned an individual tutor on secular living, and at both the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches, a library and racks of secular clothing are at the members' disposal.
Last weekend, Hillel organized a Purim retreat with workshops on employees' rights, dating and love and sex. In a world of arranged marriages, yotzim do not acquire basic dating skills.
'A lot of women at Hillel complain that the yotzim are very rude in their advances, because they have no idea how to approach a woman,' says P., a former haredi woman. 'Women have their own difficulties approaching men in the outer world because the codes are so different. The rules of the game in the secular world are much more varied. In the religious world it's very black and white - it's clear what you're supposed to do at every stage in the courtship.'
Ironically, female yotzot from certain haredi communities leave their world better equipped to adjust. Haredi women are often expected to support the family while husbands learn in yeshiva, and study math, English and science in high school. However, far fewer women than men leave haredi communities, in part because their lives are situated around the home and they are usually married off at a younger age. They also have a lot more at stake, including losing the amenities that go with an arranged marriage and often being stigmatized as 'whores,' who should be distanced from their community at all costs.
But R., a member of Hillel, points out that even a girls' education is usually not enough. 'When you grow up you don't have television or radio, and don't hear English songs - you just see and read Hebrew.'
Upon breaking away from her community, R. traveled to India where she had to converse in English for the first time. 'I didn't know how to say 'restaurant,' 'hotel,' 'waiter' - nothing. I felt so stupid.'
Racheli Granot, who left her home in Bnei Brak as a teen, describes herself as having adopted provocative dress and vulgar speech in her early rebellious years. 'As a girl who grew up in the hassidic world, when I went out to the free world I was very 'anti.' I rebelled against values, parents, family, myself and friends. I lost control. I wanted to swallow the world in one go.'
At 18 she joined Hillel, which guided her toward a healthier framework of work and study. 'They hammered into my skull that there are no short cuts in life, that I must study to bridge the big gap in my education, to aim high and try to be something in life,' she says.
WHILE YOTZIM often consider their entry into mainstream society a type of rebirth, replete with a new slew of opportunities for intellectual growth and freedom, the process of fully integrating may take many years for some. There is a common debate among Hillel members as to when a yotzeh stops being a yotzeh.
'You can't say I feel better,' says S., whose natural early-20s uncertainty is exacerbated by his limited childhood experiences. 'When you don't know yourself, your way around, you can't feel better. But I try to deal with what I have, to make the most of it.'
Meir Tahover, 25, believes that his process of adjustment took only several months because he began to scientifically research the non-haredi world as a teen, when he already began to doubt his hassidic lifestyle, asking questions like: 'It didn't make sense that God would create a person so that he'll suffer - why create fruit only to forbid it?'
From 19, this self-professed former model yeshiva student began to investigate other streams of Judaism, including religious Zionism, until he came to the conclusion at 23 that 'religion is not for me.' When his parents understood that he had abandoned religion completely, they threw him out of the house. At that point, Tahover became a member of Hillel, which assisted him in putting a roof over his head and funding studies toward his matriculation exam. He currently works in a stationary store and defines his goal simply: 'To build a new life. To make a better future for my children.'
With the passage of time his parents have softened toward him. Tahover recently attended his sister's wedding, where his father shook his hand for the first time in two years. He participates regularly in the popular Tapuz chat forum, responding to concerns raised by potential yotzim.
'One type is very intellectual and asks the right questions,' he says of the yotzim he has encountered. This group, he says, is a minority because a healthy sense of reason and inquiry is stifled at an early age. 'The second type, of which there are more, consists of those who don't have it good in the haredi community and seek a change.'
Faranak Margolese, author of the book Off the Derech, which examines why Jews leave Orthodoxy, cites a common thread in the motivations of haredim who leave. 'It seems the pressure to be religious in one particular way is often too stifling. The road becomes too narrow to walk, and the inability to legitimately move to another brand of observance leaves too few options for those who don't fit the mold,' she notes.
Ofir notices that most Hillel members abandon any belief in God or religious observance - at least in the early stages of rebellion. This trend could be stemmed, says Margolese, if haredi communities would change their attitudes toward other Jewish streams. 'A fair number of those in the haredi world who go off might have stayed at least somewhat observant if other communities or observant options were considered legitimate to their own world,' she says.
Considering the independent spirit, intellectual curiosity and mental fortitude required to leave their communities, yotzim who succeed in providing for their basic needs - whether through organizations like Hillel or on their own - often become productive, even overachieving members of society, notes Ofir. Hillel members have graduated from top Israeli universities and several have become army officers.
Perhaps the most telltale incident of the yotzim's assimilation into secular society occurred after Friday dinner, when they gathered to watch the popular television parody show Eretz Nehederet. They sat on sofas, laughing at all the jokes poked at politicians and celebrities.
As one member put it: 'The television show has nothing to do with being yotzim. Two million people watch it.'
In their jeans and T-shirts, they looked like the average Israeli who grew up on television, but their laughter may have been a little louder.
(BOX) They're in the army now
In haredi communities, the IDF is a symbol of the secular Jewish state that they reject outright. In principle, yeshiva students are exempt from military service and the government considers yeshiva study as national service. Haredi men who do not study in yeshiva, however, are required by law to enlist but are often encouraged by rabbis and community leaders to deliberately fail recruitment exams.
'One reason haredim don't want yeshiva students to go to the army is very simple,' says T., 19, a Hillel member in his second year of army service. 'As soon as they're exposed to the secular world, they see a new way and there's more chance of them leaving the haredi way of life.'
Prior to his break from his Sephardi haredi community, T. lied to the army about the state of his psychological health in order to secure an exemption. After much hesitation, he eventually decided to fulfill his army service. He worked to nullify his self-imposed exemption, but given his fake psychological profile, was placed in a unit for ex-cons and at-risk youth.
Despite this setback he successfully passed an officers' training course and now works in his field of choice, computers, although army bureaucracy still prevents him from upgrading his profile.
'We sometimes get in the picture to help them gain better positions,' says Hillel director Rina Ofir. 'The army isn't attentive enough and doesn't listen to us enough, and so we always have problems with the army.'
A Hillel liaison takes up cases like T's, and also assists in shortening service for those who are not prepared to serve the standard three years.
'Generally, we are supportive of their serving in the army,' says Ofir. 'But not everyone can do it. They have been educated since childhood against the army, and it's not easy for them.'
Such was the case with M., a handsome teen with gelled hair who left his hassidic Mea She'arim community at 16. 'At first I didn't want to be recruited because I heard bad stories about the army,' he explains in Hebrew, which he says he didn't learn properly until age 13.
M. met with an army psychologist to veto his exemption, and now serves as a driver with the status of a lone soldier.
Serving in the army, he says, has improved his self-image. Upon first leaving home, he would hang out with a ruffian crowd in Jerusalem streets before finding shelter at a youth hostel through a local organization assisting victims of family violence.
'I see all types of people in the army,' he says. 'It's very interesting. At first I thought I couldn't be in a structured environment. I was a problematic kid. Now I see from the army that I can be in a structured environment.'
His military service, however, has tarnished the image of his family. 'My 18-year-old brother is having trouble finding a shiduch [arranged marriage] because his brother is a soldier. They don't understand that we are protecting them.'
One of the greatest obstacles for ex-haredi soldiers is the loneliness. 'When I joined up, everyone came with their parents and I came by myself,' recalls M. 'I almost wanted to cry.'
Understanding this, Hillel representatives attend army ceremonies with the members and send them care packages every month. Volunteer families work with Hillel to 'adopt' soldiers - to give them a place to spend the weekend for a good meal, laundry and other amenities regular soldiers usually enjoy at their parents' house.
Despite the obstacles, T. is grateful for this opportunity. 'Thanks to the army I got a chance to understand secular society. I can still see the differences between them and me. They'll talk about cartoons they watched as a kid, and I don't.'
He also notices another, unlikely difference. 'Today I love the army - probably more than the others. I think I'm moved more than any other soldier when I hear Hatikva played every Thursday.'
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