We Lost an Election. Did We Find a Movement?

Reflections on HaTzibbur HaChareidi and the search for a missing Torah community

Fourteen years ago, I wrote an essay entitled “Modern Orthodox or Chareidi: Are Those the Only Choices?”. I was lamenting the disappearance of a large segment of Orthodox Jewry that I had known growing up: people who were serious Bnei Torah, deeply committed to halacha and respectful of Gedolim, but who did not fit comfortably into either the Chareidi or Modern Orthodox camps as they had come to be defined.

These were people who valued Torah learning enormously but expected most men to work and support their families. They were not necessarily Religious Zionists, but they appreciated the State of Israel, recognized the enormous good it had accomplished, and certainly did not regard its soldiers or institutions as enemies. They respected their Rabbonim without believing that every political opinion expressed by a prominent Rav became an obligation binding upon all of Klal Yisrael.

I grew up in that world and watched it gradually lose its distinct identity as the definition of authentic Chareidi Judaism became increasingly narrow and uncompromising. I wrote then that there ought to be a recognized place for those of us who still believed in that approach.

Fourteen years later, when I was invited to join the list of HaTzibbur HaChareidi as a candidate for the Knesset, I thought perhaps that long-awaited opportunity had finally arrived.

Well, the election is over, and the results were miserable—there is no way to sugarcoat them. Despite the enthusiasm, the encouraging internal polls, the assurances of support, and the remarkable energy that developed around the campaign, we received only a small fraction of the votes we expected.

I have been fairly quiet since the election, partly because I am still trying to understand what happened and partly because I am not sure that all the conclusions being drawn from the results are justified.

What Went Wrong?

A recent analysis by Daas Yochid makes several criticisms of the campaign, some of which I think are quite correct.

I agree that encouraging people to vote for us secretly, “behind the curtain,” was a mistake. It was intended to reassure those afraid of the consequences of publicly supporting us, but it was hardly the way to build a confident political movement.

My daughter told me about a friend who very much wanted to vote for us, but whose rebbe instructed her to vote Gimmel. She took both slips, mixed them up, and put one into the envelope, leaving it to the Ribbono Shel Olam to decide.

That may sound amusing, but it illustrates something we seriously underestimated. The contemporary Chareidi understanding of Daas Torah has become so deeply ingrained that many people are convinced they must disregard their own judgment in political matters, even when other respected Gedolim hold contrary views.

I experienced this in my own family. I have very close and loving relationships with my family, yet virtually none of them voted for me! Their decision had little to do with their feelings about me or even, necessarily, their assessment of our platform. The Chareidi Gedolim had instructed people to vote otherwise, and that was the end of the discussion.

I find this interpretation of Daas Torah profoundly troubling. I have spent my life seeking guidance from great Torah scholars. But that is very different from believing that a person must surrender his own judgment in political matters to whichever authorities the communal establishment has designated as binding, regardless of what other great Torah scholars might say.

If so many people sincerely believe that voting for another party is tantamount to defying Hashem, we were probably fooling ourselves in thinking that persuasive arguments and a reasonable platform would change their minds.

Another difficulty was the rabbinic support that we repeatedly promised to publicize but ultimately could not.

I was very involved in trying to obtain signatures from prominent Rabbonim for letters supporting our movement. Again and again, I heard how much they admired our goals, how desperately something like this was needed, and how much they wished us success. But they could not bring themselves to sign publicly, given the threats and intimidation that have been directed even against prominent Rabbonim who dared to express opinions contrary to the party line. This became even more difficult after Rav Landau's extraordinary statements comparing a vote for us to eating on Yom Kippur or eating chametz on Seder night.

Rav Yitzchok Breitowitz שליט"א deserves enormous credit for his courage. He publicly expressed support for what we were attempting and confirmed that he personally knew of important Rabbonim who shared our views and intended to vote for us, but could not say so publicly. After I circulated a video clip of his remarks, he graciously forgave me and stood by his position despite considerable pressure.

Another very well-known Rav with an international following gave me explicit permission to publish his name in support of our movement. I was enormously moved by his willingness to do so. In the end, however, I decided against it. I did not want him to become the lone public target of all the hostility being directed at us.

Unfortunately, our inability to produce the promised endorsements created the impression that we had exaggerated the support we claimed. I understand why people were skeptical, although I know firsthand how unfair that impression was.

There were other mistakes. In retrospect, I think we should have withdrawn several days before the election when Netanyahu was reportedly urging us to do so. We might have preserved our potential political influence without subjecting it to the test of an election. I greatly admire Motti Leitner's courage and determination, and I know how seriously he felt his obligation not to disappoint our supporters. Nevertheless, I suspect we became too caught up in the enthusiasm and positive media attention and convinced ourselves that it would translate into votes.

The controversy surrounding Dr. Nachumi Yaffe may also have hurt us. Opponents successfully branded her as a left-wing feminist, and although we accepted that some of her earlier statements did not reflect her intentions for the future, many voters remained skeptical. Whether she attracted more votes than she cost us is debatable. Perhaps including women on the list meant taking on another controversial issue when we already had enough battles to fight.

I do not want to minimize the intimidation directed against us. Several fellow candidates and I suffered serious personal consequences because of efforts to silence us. It was ugly, and in some cases deeply painful. But I do not regret my involvement for a moment. It was worth it.

What Were We Really Trying to Build?

These considerations help explain the disappointing result, but there is a more fundamental question that goes back to my 2012 essay.

Daas Yochid argues that our fundamental error was attempting to create a new Chareidi movement rather than broadening the definition of acceptable Chareidi life. According to him, modern Chareidim want to remain part of the mainstream Chareidi community. They may want working, studying English, attending Mamlach schools, and even national or military service to become acceptable options, but they do not want to be considered anything other than mainstream Chareidim.

I understand that position, and I am sure it describes many people. But it is not what I have been searching for.

I love the Torah and yiras Shamayim that characterize the best of the Chareidi world. I have spent most of my life within it, and my children and grandchildren are part of it. But I have become increasingly repelled by the ugly statements, intimidation, demonstrations, and political coercion that have become so prominent in its public life. I do not see why those of us who reject these things must constantly struggle to prove that we are still authentic Chareidim.

Perhaps this was one of the problems with our campaign. We called ourselves HaTzibbur HaChareidi, but how much of the conventional Chareidi public actually recognized itself in us?

Looking at photographs of the many chug bayit meetings we held, I noticed that the audiences often did not look like ordinary Chareidi gatherings. Many had mixed seating, and the people attending frequently appeared to come from different religious backgrounds. They were wonderful people, genuinely enthusiastic about our message, but I wondered whether a typical Chareidi looking at those pictures would see people with whom he identified.

Perhaps we were appealing largely to people who were already uncomfortable with the established Chareidi world, rather than to the mainstream public we hoped to persuade. There is nothing wrong with that, but it may mean we misunderstood whom we were representing.

The community I remember from my youth was not merely a more liberal version of today's Chareidi society. It had a different outlook. The world of Poalei Agudath Yisrael, and particularly the philosophy of Rav Dr. Yitzchok Breuer that my Rebbe, Rav Nachman Bulman זצ"ל, so admired, combined uncompromising Torah commitment with the conviction that Torah Jews must assume responsibility for the practical needs of Jewish society.

Many of those people were non-Zionists, not anti-Zionists. They appreciated the State and its accomplishments without subscribing to the religious ideology of Zionism. They did not say Hallel on Yom Ha'atzmaut, but they were deeply concerned for the success of the IDF and marveled at what the State had accomplished in building the country's infrastructure, developing its institutions, and absorbing millions of Jews.

Today, after decades of living in a sovereign Jewish state, the implications of that outlook are even harder to avoid. We enjoy the protection of the IDF, the benefits of the State's institutions, and the extraordinary blessings that Hashem has given us in Eretz Yisrael. Surely these benefits entail responsibilities.

This was essentially what our party advocated. We wanted genuine full-time Torah scholars to be able to continue learning without fear of arrest or punishment, while those not seriously engaged in full-time learning would undertake military or national service in frameworks that protected their religious way of life. We wanted families who chose state-funded Chareidi schools offering a basic education in mathematics and English to be free to do so without intimidation. And we wanted working Chareidim who supported their families, maintained their yiras Shamayim, and devoted regular time to Torah learning to be treated with respect, rather than as failures who had not made it in yeshiva or kollel.

I still believe those are thoroughly reasonable positions, and I am proud that we advocated them.

The voters rejected us overwhelmingly as an alternative Chareidi political party. That does not necessarily mean they rejected the ideas themselves. Perhaps we were offering them under an identity that many of the people we hoped to reach were unwilling to embrace.

Perhaps we were offering them under an identity that many of the people we hoped to reach were unwilling to embrace

Years ago, someone with whom I discussed these questions suggested that we try to establish an identity called Yereim. I have thought about that suggestion many times, particularly because I have become so uncomfortable with how broad and indiscriminate the term Chareidi has become.

Today that label encompasses everyone from people deeply engaged with the secular world, academia, and the professions at the highest levels, to Neturei Karta and other extremist groups whose conduct I find utterly reprehensible. Yet all are lumped together under the single designation “Chareidim.”

I shudder when I see another ugly demonstration on television, with people shouting that Israeli soldiers are Nazis or worse, and the news anchor announces another “Chareidi demonstration.” If I call myself Chareidi, then whether I like it or not, that description includes me as well. I deeply resent being identified with behavior and attitudes that I find abhorrent.

Perhaps Yereim could provide an alternative. The name expresses commitment to yiras Shamayim without all the political and social associations that have accumulated around the word Chareidi. Instead of continually seeking approval from an establishment whose outlook we fundamentally question, perhaps it is time to develop a communal identity of our own.

Of course, a new name accomplishes very little by itself. Any serious Torah movement would need respected Rabbonim willing to support it publicly and provide guidance. Our experience during this campaign demonstrated just how difficult that may be, but I believe it is worth exploring.

What Remains After the Election

For years, I have felt rather alone in expressing these concerns. I have written about them, spoken about them, and occasionally wondered whether I was simply an oddity who had failed to adjust to the direction in which the Orthodox world was moving.

My involvement in HaTzibbur HaChareidi changed that.

I discovered that many shared my longing for a Torah community reflecting the values with which I had grown up

I met extraordinary people, including Rabbonim, educators, professionals, and young people, who had been thinking about many of the same issues. Some were lifelong Chareidim, others came from different religious backgrounds, and we certainly did not agree about everything. But I discovered that many shared my longing for a Torah community reflecting the values with which I had grown up. For that I am profoundly grateful.

I hope HaTzibbur HaChareidi survives and that the people who came together through this effort remain connected. But I think we should resist rushing immediately into another electoral campaign. We first need to decide who we are and what we are trying to accomplish.

Perhaps what is needed is not another political party but a real community, with its own rabbinic guidance, educational institutions, and opportunities for people who share these convictions to meet, learn, and build something together.

We may have attempted to create a political movement before the community it was meant to represent had developed a sufficiently clear identity.

Fourteen years ago, I asked, "I am not Chareidi—but what am I?"

I still do not have a completely satisfactory answer, but I am more convinced than ever that the question is worth asking.

And this time, at least, I know that I am not asking it alone.