AS a frum mother and wife who is also an op-ed columnist  — unlike Nechama Kichel, who only has a comic strip — I felt compelled to respond to The Kichels strip in which Nechama, hysterical and angsty, recounts to her husband Yechiel the significant accomplishments of her friends while she has nothing. When Yechiel reminds her that she has a magazine column, she responds: “It’s a comic strip! I’m not an op-ed columnist, or a mechaneches, unlike my friend Shaindy, who opened a seminary! Or Breindy, who just put out a book! Or Fraidy, who’s still the same size since seminary! I need to do something! Be something! Accomplish! Renovate! Publish a book! Go back to school! File for a patent! Get Botox!”

Yechiel tries to assuage Nechama by reminding her that her family is her truest accomplishment and reflection of her innermost aspirations and that she is the pillar of the family. Yechiel’s pep talk doesn’t work. Dejected, Nechama wonders if she should do Ozempic.

Bracha Stein and Chani Judowitz, the layers are deep. It’s strips like these that solidify The Kichels as frum social commentary at its finest.

This strip addresses various messages and attitudes frum women receive, intentionally or not, about their roles and expectations. Let’s begin with self-fulfillment via the family unit. A mother’s greatest accomplishment is her family. Yechiel even suggests that the family is the pinnacle of a woman’s aspirations and desires. Yet none of these ideas are comforting to Nechama, even though she herself likely believes them.

Nechama is a stay-at-home mom singularly devoted to fulfilling the needs of her family. In the examples she gives of women doing more than her, she’s not pointing out women who own businesses or have secular careers. She mentions the women doing klal work: the mechaneches, the chinuch expert, the op-ed columnist, the author, the seminary head. These are women who are “changing the world” and contributing to Klal Yisrael, while ostensibly also being fulfilled mothers and wives.

And this puts pressure on Nechama that she’s doing nothing. Why can’t she be fulfilled knowing that she is the pride and pillar of her family, that her family is her greatest accomplishment? Why is that not enough for Nechama? Is she digging for some sort of spiritual fulfillment?

And finally, why does Nechama wonder out loud if Ozempic is the answer to her woes? In the mix of friends who are doing impressive Jewish communal work, Nechama incongruously mentions Fraidy, who is still the same size since seminary. Is Ozempic really the answer to achieving the status and success Nechama seeks?

So what exactly is the broader social commentary behind Nechama’s saga? That stay-at-home mothers are dissatisfied? That the messages about self-fulfillment through home and family don’t work anymore? That women are feeling pressured to do more and more to make a difference outside their homes?

Whatever Bracha and Chani’s intention was (the beauty of art is that its interpretation lies in the beholder), I believe the core issue raised in this strip is that of self-actualization. Abraham Maslow, the creator of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, defined self-actualization as “self-fulfillment, namely the tendency for him [the individual] to become actualized in what he is potentially. This tendency might be phrased as the desire to become more and more what one is, to become everything that one is capable of becoming.” In fact, Maslow believed that self-actualization, the highest level of psychological development, rarely occurs and is only seen in less than one percent of the adult population. He called this the psychopathy of normality, that most of us, most of the time, function on the level lower than self-actualization.

Nonetheless, so many of us, like Nechama, have a deep desire to do more, to be more. We feel that we have potential that has not yet been fully tapped, and we’re either striving or waiting for the next big thing in our lives. We don’t want our talents and abilities to go to waste.

Self-fulfillment for frum women is highly personal. It is influenced by factors such as upbringing, chinuch, religious outlook, personality, and emotional makeup, to name a few.  For many women, a family-centric, home-centered life without additional outside responsibilities is truly the pinnacle of their aspirations and desires. Homemaking and full-time motherhood are satisfying and more than enough — as they also utilize creativity, talents and strengths. For others, working outside the home provides a different and additional outlet for self-expression and self-actualization. And in today’s economic climate, many frum women don’t have a choice, whether they’re breadwinners supporting a husband in kollel or working due to the increasing need for dual incomes.

Self-actualization is also impacted by stage of life. Nechama no longer has little ones at home, but she’s very busy managing the needs of her children, ranging from bar mitzvah bochur to marrieds. If Nechama represents the average stay-at-home, middle-aged mom, the strip suggests she is experiencing a mid-life crisis, that what worked for her up until now no longer works, and that she needs some sort of external self-validation and fulfillment. Truthfully, Nechama doesn’t want to open the next seminary or pitch an op-ed column. She complains that she needs to do something, but I’m convinced she’s less driven by a desire for self-actualization than by an uncomfortable feeling of inferiority.

In a sense, Nechama realizes she can’t change the world, but she can change herself. The low-hanging fruit is the perceived easy route to weight loss, as changing oneself is often very external.

While we’ll never know if Nechama is expressing latent spiritual aspirations or if she’s just feeling less-than, what she really needs is a way to fill her tank. Frum women are perpetual givers, carrying various loads to maintain their homes and the emotional and physical needs of their families. While that may be inherently fulfilling for many, women still need meaningful chizuk, outlets, and connection.

Nechama might benefit from getting a job (part-time works!) or train in a field that suits her interests. While joining the workforce is not a prerequisite for self-actualization, work can add another layer of personal fulfillment to our lives. Exploring interests through hobbies, passion projects, and volunteer work also helps. But there still needs to be a level of self-awareness of one’s unique strengths and abilities in selecting suitable work or areas of interest, and not to just do what everyone else is doing.

If Nechama weren’t a comical character, I’d introduce her to Aliza Bulow, founder of Core Torah. Core offers “circles” of support to strengthen relationships and ignite passion and purpose among women in local communities, networking those circles both regionally and internationally. Nechama would benefit from joining a Core Circle, a micro-community of women who get together regularly to nurture meaningful relationships.

“Mothers today need more attention and support and are getting less. There’s more work to be done, more demands on our time, and the social fabric of our lives is fraying,” Aliza said in a Family First interview three years ago. “Women report having less and less time to nurture the friendships that have the power to sustain and fulfill them.”

The most important thing is that whatever we do to fill our tanks, whatever attempt we make at self-actualization, we stay in our lane. We stop looking around at what others are doing. We stop feeling pressured to do what’s trending. We have the confidence to do what we need to do to, based on our unique makeup and circumstances. Comparing ourselves to others stifles self-actualization. This is particularly challenging since we live in close-knit communities, and as we admire our friends and neighbors, we are more prone to compare ourselves to them. Yet comparison inevitably results in feelings of inferiority, distracting us from acknowledging or even discovering our own gifts and abilities.

Dear reader, you may think I’ve lost my mind analyzing the motives and actions of a cartoon character. But I quote Bracha Stein in an interview I did with her and Chani Judowitz on the podcast I co-host with Rivki Silver, Deep Meaningful Conversations (DMC): “Humor is a great tool for making points. It softens the edges and makes people more receptive. Humor is also such a valuable tool in helping you get through life. When you’re able to find humor and laugh, it’s very empowering and gives you the tools to tackle your challenges in a serious way as well.”

Nechama’s angst may have hit some readers in a real way. Seeing our experiences reflected in the faces of cartoons can have a surprisingly cathartic effect. If nothing else, it gives us a moment’s pause to self-reflect and laugh at our idiosyncrasies. Maybe we’ll even be more receptive to change and grow.

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, columnist, co-host of the Deep Meaningful Conversations podcast, and creative director of Faces of Orthodoxy, an initiative of the Orthodox Union. Alexandra lives in University Heights, Ohio, with her family.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1019)

The post What’s Behind Nechama Kichel’s Angst? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Your child is overseas when a war starts. The United States government is evacuating its citizens from the country. Is there any question of what to do?

In any other country, of course not. Why would you keep your child in a war-torn land? But for us parents with children learning in Eretz Yisrael, the answer is not so simple.

We have both a daughter in seminary and a son in yeshivah in Yerushalayim. While we decided from the beginning of the war that our children will stay, I admit that I’ve had wavering emotions surrounding that decision. Despite my convictions, my feelings often respond in turn to the news I’m exposed to or the chizuk I’ve heard or seen. And then there’s the biological response that creeps up on me even when it’s a good day, even when “I’m feeling fine.” My body tells me otherwise.

My tight chest developed the day the Al-Ahli hospital in Gaza City was hit and the media was eager to jump at the opportunity to blame Israel. And since then, it’s been all downhill for the Jews. It’s no exaggeration to feel that the world has turned against us. That we don’t know which colleague or neighbor is against us. Has the world changed, or has it always been this way? Have we been living in a bubble cushioned from the truth all this time? My tight chest comes and goes, day by day, surprising me when no triggers seem immediately apparent. It must be because I’m living in a different world than the one I inhabited a month ago.

So it seems we’re all facing danger. Except my two oldest children are currently residing in the only country they can call their own and that is designed to protect them as Jews. And I’m grateful and quite frankly envious that they are there — even though my motherly instincts fight me daily and try to convince me that the safest place they can be is within the four walls of our home in Ohio… of all places.

There are mammoth fears surrounding this war and the potential for evil it could chas v’shalom unleash. One cannot sleep contemplating the horrors. One cannot accomplish too much in a day, or even simply put one foot in front of the other, worrying about the “what-ifs.” These are not paranoid what-ifs. Israel is surrounded by nations with evil capabilities and no lack of motivation to pursue them. This is our greatest fear for the safety of our children, our people, and our land.

And then there’s the generational trauma that we’ve all experienced as Jews through our DNA, even if we do not have family that went through the Holocaust. At the beginning of this war, there were the evacuations and sign-ups and “are you getting out” conversations. We’ve been there before; it’s frightening and triggering, and this is just the post-trauma. Our initial trauma was discovering that the unthinkable was done to so many of our brothers and sisters.

This is the bad news that keeps us up at night. But then there’s the good news. And thanks to that, I have more or less been able to keep my equilibrium and my fears at bay. I am praying mightily that the good news upon good news is going to push out all the bad and build itself into the ultimate good — the emergence of our rock-solid faith and unity as we, infused with Hashem’s great chesed and mercy, push back the brutal enemies that are out to destroy us.

There are three pillars that are keeping me together: the positive experience of my children in Eretz Yisrael, the chizuk I’ve received from others there, and the support I’ve received from other parents in chutz l’Aretz.

I’m grateful that my children are happy and productive where they are. If one of them were to be debilitated by anxiety over the war or checked out, I wouldn’t have a question about bringing him or her home. But my gratitude extends deeper than their current emotional welfare. Raising children in America has many challenges, and I’ve always wondered if this comfortable, bubble-wrapped environment can produce within children a sense of sacrifice for what one truly believes in. Being in Israel during this war has put it to the test. It has exposed our children firsthand to a resilient, united, and fierce ancient nation — and has shown them that they are a part of it too. They are rubbing shoulders with an Am Yisrael on the front lines, both physically and spiritually. And everything they’re doing matters and is appreciated. They are quite literally part of the war effort.

Baking cakes for chayalim and tying thousands of pairs of tzitzis aren’t PR moments for newsletters to email back home. It’s real, and that’s the best chinuch — to know that we step up to help because we can.

During one of my more challenging days, I saw a Meaningful Minute video of bochurim dancing a belated hakafos shniyos for the displaced families in Sderot who found themselves under attack and fighting for their lives on Simchas Torah. I knew my son’s yeshivah, Aderes HaTorah, had done this, and I wondered if this could be his yeshivah. And then I saw him in the middle of the circle, holding a little boy on his shoulders. My eyes welled up with tears. The kindness of it all was astounding. These boys were giving life-affirming chizuk to these precious refugees, and at the same time, their video was giving huge chizuk to their parents back at home, who may be questioning if they made the right decision to keep their sons in Israel.

But this was just a glimpse of the lessons in chesed and sensitivity that my son is receiving. Aderes HaTorah, otherwise known as Senter’s, has transformed their bottom floor into a refugee center. They purchased washing machines for the refugees who are staying in nearby hotels to use, have set up play areas with toys for the children, and have been providing self-care opportunities for the mothers. Because these are fellow Jews who need Am Yisrael’s help right now, and the yeshivah is committed to utilizing whatever resources and manpower it has to share, to truly be nosei ol b’chaveiro.

They’ve even tented off the bochurim’s outdoor recreation area for the refugee children because they needed more space. That means the bochurim have had to give up their “ninja” course, although the yeshivah made sure to provide additional exercise equipment and a pool table for the bochurim so they would still have their healthy outlets. Even so, our American boys are sacrificing some of their creature comforts to make a huge difference for their fellow Jews in dire need. These are life-changing experiences.

Their latest project, arranging flowers Erev Shabbos for the refugees at the hotels (a parent’s initiative) made me smile. It was nothing short of adorable to see pictures of the bochurim carefully arranging roses and greenery. And this is, of course, after a long week of hunkering down in the beis medrash with a single-mindedness that, according to Rabbi Chaim Tzvi Senter, has developed itself acutely during the past few weeks. There’s the base, and then there’s the beis, as Rabbi Senter shared during our recent parent Zoom meeting. Our boys in both places have their job to do.

My second source of support has been from other mothers with children learning in Israel. I lean on the emunah of my friends in the same situation when my doubts creep up. While they assure me that they too are scared and worried, having a safe and shared space to communicate together has been significantly helpful and therapeutic.

I was marveling one day how just speaking through my concerns and feelings with a friend had eased the tension in my chest when I turned on a recent episode of the 18Forty podcast with Rabbi Dovid Bashevkin. His first guest was with trauma specialist Dr. Danny Brom. What he said was so simple, but such a gem of truth — and so essential to understand during this time.

“What regulates people is another person,” Dr. Brom explained. “When you are together with someone you really trust, that helps… Whatever you went through, I’m able to hear it, and I’m with you.”

Just having a friend to call or hug — or a mentor or professional to connect with — is the best technique to manage the anxiety and distress so many of us are feeling during this time.

I need to be reminded by my friends of the reasons why they are confident in keeping their children in Israel. I need to tap into their emunah to strengthen mine. One friend told me that she doesn’t feel any safer as a Jew in America right now. That the world has gone crazy and there is one place she would want to be: in her homeland with her people who will protect her no matter what. Another shared that she’s nervous, but what gives her strength is knowing that it means so much to the Israelis when others don’t run away. And then there are the text messages I revisit, such as this one: I truly feel like they’re safer in Yerushalayim than we are here. They’re involved in learning and chesed and I believe in that zechus they’ll be safe bez”H.

Finally, in these past few weeks, I’ve had the privilege to interview a number of olim for a special feature on Faces of Orthodoxy, an initiative powered by the Orthodox Union that tells the stories of Orthodox Jews. Yehudis Schamroth of Ramat Beit Shemesh, who does most of her volunteer work with lone soldiers, shared, “These days, everyone is asking how I’m holding up. You develop so much emunah and connection to G-d when you live here. I’m not the same person I was 20 years ago.”

Who knows if my kids will be privileged to live in Eretz Yisrael long-term, but I know that the time they are spending in the Holy Land now is developing their emunah and connection to Hashem like nowhere else, and like no other time.

But it’s the words of Dr. Aviva Goldstein, a therapist in Jerusalem who focuses on gap-year students, that have become my mantra and greatest source of comfort. “It’s important to remember how capable our kids are emotionally. They have tremendous capacity for emotional resilience, and we don’t know it’s there until it’s tested. Even amid fear and unpredictability, most kids can find a way to thrive. But you’ll never know if things are easy.”

It is my fervent tefillah that our children — and all of Klal Yisrael — are not tested too hard in the coming days and weeks. Hashem, please protect us all. 

Alexandra Fleksher is the creative director of the Faces of Orthodoxy initiative and co-host of the Deep Meaningful Conversations podcast. She lives with her family in Cleveland, Ohio.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 985)

The post Back on the Home Front first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

T

his past winter, I visited Eretz Yisrael with my husband and children for the first time in 18 years. I am an only child. Besides my parents, the rest of my small family lives in Israel. It was impossible to truly catch up. There’s so much to say, so much to learn from each other about life — and actually, quite a bit to mourn as you introduce your children, some of whom are young adults, to this house full of people they’ve never known.

One observation my cousin shared with me made a profound impression. My cousins are South African and moved to the States as adults before making aliyah. I, however, was born and raised in America.

“You are your parents’ American Dream,” my cousin reflected.

To see yourself as others see you can be enlightening. With this one line, everything made sense, but I had never thought of myself that way. My parents came to this country to live the American Dream (if you read “Got Any Gum, Chum?” in the Pesach issue, that’s my dad) and I was their one child, their one chance to pass it on. I was born in Manhattan but raised in idyllic Atlanta, Georgia. I went to summer camps, took piano lessons, got braces, and graduated from college. In the middle of that trajectory, we joined the Orthodox community. My cousin was right: I was raised living the American Dream without even knowing it.

This observation led me down a path of reflection not only about my life, but about how the American Dream pertains to our dreams, goals, and aspirations as frum Jews living in this country.

What is the American Dream? According to the Oxford Dictionary, the American Dream is “the ideal by which equality of opportunity is available to any American, allowing the highest aspirations and goals to be achieved.” We tend to misinterpret the American Dream to be about having stuff — the proverbial white picket fence, the renovated fixer- upper, the two leased cars in the driveway.

But the American Dream is really about having opportunity. It incorporates the ideals of democracy, rights, liberty, individualism, and equality. The term was coined in 1931 by American writer and historian James Truslow Adams, who said, “Life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.”

Over the years, there have been discussions about whether or not the American Dream is dead. The question has emerged once again with a new Wall Street Journal poll conducted by the University of Chicago and published this spring, which indicates that America is pulling back from the values that once defined it.

According to an NBC News/Wall Street Journal survey conducted in August 2019, 89% of Americans thought hard work was very important; over 60% felt that patriotism was very important; 48% saw religion as very important, and 43% saw having children as very important.

The new Wall Street Journal poll, however, indicates that support for all these values has dropped significantly. Now, only four years later, just 67% of Americans see hard work as very important, 38% see patriotism as very important, 39% feel religion is very important, and 30% see having children as very important.

What about the values that define us as frum Jews? While we would need our own WSJ poll to see how the pandemic has impacted some of our societal values, our stand on the importance of religion, community, having children, and “patriotism” for Yiddishkeit — all key components of our mesorah — wouldn’t falter significantly within the span of four years. While certainly there are nuances in each category that might warrant further investigation, our overarching values don’t become upended as so many of them have in general society. Fealty to our mesorah has gotten us through longer and harder times.

So, do we have a frum version of the American Dream that keeps us aligned with our values and aspirations as we try to build the life we want for ourselves and for our children?

IF the original American Dream is not about having things but about having opportunity while allowing the highest aspirations and goals to be achieved, then the frum American Dream is about aspiring to spiritual wealth, as opposed to material riches. Even in America, we can achieve spiritual greatness. In a nod to Adams, life is better and fuller and richer when we grow and achieve. We can all be afforded opportunities to learn, to grow and to reach our most lofty aspirations and goals for a life dedicated to Hashem and Torah ideals. And like the original American Dream, we don’t only want this for ourselves. We want these opportunities for our children too. We have this dream for the whole family.

And we don’t want the winds of general societal change to impact that vision. We want, for ourselves and for our children, to be strong in the face of shifting standards in the outside world. Just because American society seems to have lost its grasp on its core values even over a few short years, we are determined to hold on tight to our defining beliefs.

For my parents, the American Dream informed the goals and aspirations they pursued as they tried to create the life they wanted for themselves and their only child. We lived in the right suburb that had the best public schools. America is the land of opportunity, and their dream was for me to get a college education. No avenue of possibility would be blocked off from their daughter.

Indeed, becoming frum blocked off a number of avenues of possibility, but it opened up a whole new world they could never have imagined. Putting spiritual opportunities first often means saying no to other opportunities.

The summer before our family moved into the Orthodox community, I was enrolled in an acting camp at the local regional theater. The campers put on a series of skits at the end of the summer. Afterward, the program director came up to my parents and explained that one of the purposes of the camp was to recruit child actors to perform in the main theater year-round. He told my parents that I had talent and invited them to enroll me in the troupe. My mother was flattered, but without skipping a beat, she asked when practices were. Upon hearing they were on Saturdays, she promptly responded that we were Sabbath-observant and “I’m sorry, but my daughter will not be able to participate.”

My parents weren’t even fully shomer Shabbos at that point. How, then, did my mother have the strength of conviction to say no? Because my parents had developed new platforms of possibilities — Shabbos and living a life close to Hashem and His Torah. For that, my parents would close off this other avenue of possibility for their daughter. Quite simply, it wasn’t aligned with their new American Dream.

Fast-forward to 2023, and we, too, might need to ask the question: Is the frum American Dream dead?

Only if we let it die.

We have accessible, convenient, and rich opportunities for growth all around us. When we make excuses for not taking those opportunities, when we don’t stretch higher to achieve our spiritual goals and aspirations — and we stop even wanting to — a bit of that dream dies inside of us. We’ve stopped imagining who we can become and what we can achieve.

What about the frum American Dream for our children? My parents were blessed that their only child joined them in redefining their dreams and aspirations as we became religious together as a family. All us parents feel blessed when our children share our dreams for their spiritual growth and aspirations, staying on the path we so carefully laid out for them. But you cannot dream for another person, and there is no guarantee that our kids are going to necessarily be aligned with our spiritual expectations.

My dream is that our schools are places that enable all our children, regardless of learning style, differences, or ability, to have the equality of opportunity to make and achieve their academic and spiritual goals. That finding their place within the Torah world — and especially via their Torah institutions — be accessible, warm, and inviting. My dream is that all children receive the message that they belong. And that our homes are places where individuality is embraced, love is given unconditionally, and children are empowered to dream their own dreams, with our biggest and most beautiful dreams of spiritual aspirations and closeness to Hashem guiding them in their hearts and souls.

Alexandra Fleksher is the creative director of the Faces of Orthodoxy initiative and co-host of the Deep Meaningful Conversations podcast. She lives with her family in Cleveland, Ohio.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 971.

The post Living the Dream first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

“Hellenism and Judaism: when examined in depth, they are found to be the two leading forces that are again today struggling for mastery in the Jewish world.”

While these words were written by Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch in the mid-19th century in his Collected Writings Volume II, we know all too well how true they ring today. Hellenism, a worldview rooted in Greece whose emphasis on beauty has influenced the world, clashes with Judaism, both as a doctrine and a civilization. Both compete for mastery of the world and of our mind and spirit.

Yet in Judaism, we do not believe in the wholesale rejection of beauty. We use it to enhance our mitzvos, utilizing material possessions to complement our service of Hashem. So why does finding the right balance in today’s consumerist society sometimes feel like a battle of Hasmonean proportions? Why do we feel like we’re losing the war to stuff and baubles, despite our understanding that material goods are but means to an end and not ends in and of themselves? And why are we attributing so much importance to it all, as evidenced by our investment of time, energy, and resources?

It is crucial here to note the distinction between aesthetics and materialism. The dictionary defines aesthetics as a set of principles concerned with the nature and appreciation of beauty, especially in art. Materialism, on the other hand, is a way of thinking that gives too much importance to possessions and money and not enough to spiritual or intellectual matters.

One can be a person who appreciates aesthetics but is not materialistic. This means that one can be raised in a home that appreciates the finer things in life — good music, art, architecture, design — yet the focus is on the appreciating, not on the possessing. Money is not a prerequisite to valuing aesthetics. We do not have to buy the Monet we are taking in at the art museum to appreciate it. But we can take that aesthetic we have acquired from our exposure to beautiful things and utilize it in our own lives within the restraints of our budget, values, and religious beliefs.

The Torah approach to aesthetics can best be encapsulated in the brachah Noach gives to his descendants: “Hashem gave beauty to Yafes and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem” (Bereishis 9:27). Beauty is manifested in its ultimate form when it lives in the tents of Shem, when it is restrained within the confines of spirituality. Noach’s brachah acknowledges that Yafes’s gift is important and valuable, but only if it serves a greater truth, as represented by Shem.

As Rav Hirsch explains, “Without an external ideal that controls and directs both the perceptions and expressions of beauty, man descends to immoral and unethical hedonism. This is the beauty of Yafes divorced from the tents of Shem. Together they are the perfection Noach envisioned. Separate, they are the tragedy that fills the history of the world.”

The field of social science confirms that materialism can result in the tragedies of both social destruction and self-destruction. As Rav Hirsch similarly reflects: “As long as Hellenism is not coupled with the spirit of Shem, as long as it prides itself on being the sole road to happiness, it falls prey to error and illusion, degeneration and decay.”

Social scientists define materialism as a value system that is preoccupied with possessions and the social image they project. So the materialistic person does not even need to value the aesthetics of the possessions he acquires; he most values the social image obtained from those possessions.

According to Tim Kasser, PhD, the author of The High Price of Materialism and Psychology and Consumer Culture, to be materialistic means to have values that put a high priority not only on having money and many possessions, but also on image and popularity, which are predominantly expressed via money and possessions. He explains that there are two sets of factors that lead people to have materialistic values: first, exposure to messages suggesting that materialistic pursuits are important, via friends, family, society, and/or media; and second, a feeling of insecurity or threat, such as social rejection or economic fear.

Materialism pits us against anyone in our midst. It forces us to always compare what we have to what others have. It is a never-ending competition of the have-nots — and haves — against the have-mores that leaves us always wanting the next best thing.

Regarding self-destruction, studies show that materialism is associated with anxiety, depression, and broken relationships. When the attainment of possessions is used as an indicator of success, and when happiness is defined by acquiring those possessions, our well-being suffers. Our self-esteem is tied up with the pursuit of material things, because we erroneously believe that having more money and things enhances our well-being.

Research via longitudinal studies has shown that as people become more materialistic, their well-being, as defined by good relationships, autonomy, and sense of purpose, diminishes. They experience more unpleasant emotions, depression and anxiety, and even physical ailments. They have lower levels of life satisfaction. As they become less materialistic, however, overall well-being increases.

So we like nice things, we want comfortable lives, and we may even be aesthetically inclined, but we’re all pretty clear that we don’t want to be materialistic. We know it’s not good for us, our children, or our bank account, and we’re very clear that the pursuit of gashmiyus is most certainly not a Torah value.

But let us revisit the tents of Shem. We may observe that sometimes our appreciation for aesthetics has in fact taken us out of the tent of our ancestor.

We know the lines between aesthetics and materialism have been blurred when our appearance and the way we spend our money to reflect our style are used to separate ourselves from others. When they are used to create social divides and class structures within our community based on socioeconomic status. When we’re more concerned with who has what than who people are. When we conflate aesthetics and beautiful things with money and power.

We know we’ve got it wrong when our appreciation for beautiful clothes, home decor, or cuisine leads to unhealthy behaviors, both psychologically and economically. When we feel like we are excessively focused on shopping, acquiring things, and being au courant in every material aspect of our lives. When we live beyond our means. And when we feel a pressure to not just have more, but look like we have it all.

We know we haven’t struck the right balance when we attribute too much significance to “types” and appearances and too little to people’s accomplishments, endeavors, principles, intellectual and spiritual strivings, middos, and inner value.

Finally, we lose sight when it’s more hiddur than mitzvah, when the beauty feeds our ego more than our neshamah, and when it no longer becomes a means to an end because we’ve spent so much time, money, and emotional investment on the means. Beauty can so easily turn garish and pretentious.

In the secular world, we are bombarded with appeals to buy more because our society functions as long as people continue to spend. We continue to need more and want more of everything that is flaunted in our face. Sometimes it feels that frum society is challenged by the same consumerist ethos. It takes tremendous willpower and loyalty to our deepest values to just say no. I don’t need it. I have enough. I am enough.

So we are engaged in a battle that began with Mattisyahu, and there seems to be no letting up. Perhaps we should return to the timeless messages of Chanukah to receive our marching orders. We can remember the symbolism of the Menorah, whose opulent external appearance was always a means to an end, a vessel of the finest materials and aesthetic design used to embellish the candles, which represent the Torah and mitzvos.

Rav Hirsch suggests kindling the menorah as the very antidote. The menorah proclaims to us and the world where our true loyalties lie, even if we are tempted, swayed, and influenced by the glittering objects around us:

Thus if a glimmer of the false Hellenistic spirit challenges the dominion of the timeless spirit of the Jewish Law over the dwelling and hearts of Judah; if it estranges Judah’s daughters and sons from the splendor of G-d’s Law and His Divine light and makes them fall prey to the beguiling sensuality of Greek culture; if they are made to abandon truth and insight, harmony and beauty and to adopt the empty superficiality and sensual gratification of Hellenism — then let us kindle the light of the Hasmoneans in our homes as a tribute to G-d and His Law. Each Jewish home will become a bastion of G-d’s Law and rise triumphantly and victoriously over the futile opposition and antagonism of an erring world.

May Hashem illuminate our path forward and give us strength to live up to our long-held values and ideals, bayamim hahem bizman hazeh.

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, a published writer on Jewish contemporary issues, and an active member of her Jewish community in Cleveland, Ohio.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 941)

The post Battles and Baubles first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

This past summer, I was involved in a campaign to reclaim the narrative about Orthodox women from the megaphone of the entertainment industry, as one television series in particular made a targeted attempt to inaccurately represent our people. Thousands of frum women, representing the entire spectrum of Orthodoxy, utilized their voices on various online and print platforms to tell their stories, refuting the claims made against them and sharing the beauty of our lifestyle and beliefs. It was a moment not only for Orthodox women, but for Orthodox Judaism. As one non-Jewish woman posted on LinkedIn, “Tonight I wish I were an Orthodox Jewish woman. I am sure anyone seeing the beautiful rich posts of Esther, Shany, and Shterny would wish that too! These women are not just successful in their professional lives, but they are much more. They are devoted wives, caring mothers, and the best example of how a normal society should be.”

The campaign got press in both Jewish and secular media all over the world. Back in August, I mused with Rivkie Feiner, one of the contributors to the campaign, how incredible it would be if we could do a talk about this at the Agudah convention. And then much to my surprise and delight, we were later invited to speak at the livestreamed Thursday night session that took place this past Thanksgiving weekend.

Our panel was entitled, “Our Orthodox Lives: Breaking Stereotypes, Living Our Values.” Moderated by Mrs. Chanie Jacobowitz, vice president of government affairs for Beis Medrash Govoha, the panel addressed what we can do as frum women to properly represent ourselves to the outside world, whether it be in our involvement in politics, social media, or everyday community relations.

The essential questions at the root of the panel actually apply to all members of the frum community. Is it our job to combat the media’s negative portrayal of the Orthodox community, or is it better to ignore and not draw attention to it? How important is it for us to be concerned about how the outside world perceives us? When we speak out to combat stereotypes, what is our goal — to make ourselves feel validated because the negative portrayal of the frum community touches a nerve, or is it coming from a place of strength and proactive effort to change the narrative? Finally, how do we avoid the pitfalls of social media when we attempt to use it to break stereotypes about the Orthodox community?

I JOINED TWO ESTEEMED community activists and role models on the podium: Mrs. Rivkie Feiner and Rebbetzin Faigie Horowitz. Both are examples of influential women who have invested their energies in creating organizations and initiatives to serve our community best, but who are also attuned to the importance of our interactions with the secular world, and the ramifications — both negative and positive — for the welfare of the Orthodox community.

As CEO of Feiner Grant Strategies, Mrs. Feiner and her firm are responsible for bringing in hundreds of millions of dollars in funding to frum mosdos and nonprofits in the United States and beyond. As a resident of Rockland County, she often represents the frum community to the media, government officials, and diverse community leaders, and serves on various Federation and community boards. She also has joined lay-leader trips to Albany and Washington. The trust and mutual respect she’s fostered with key members of both the broader Jewish and non-Jewish communities is her secret sauce to breaking stereotypes and effectively representing our community and values.

Rivkie uses her people skills and leadership abilities to network and foster cooperation and collaboration between diverse populations, and in doing so, she represents Orthodox women to the outside world as confident, capable, knowledgeable, and respected, destroying the stereotypical view of religious women as downtrodden and oppressed.

Rebbetzin Faigie Horowitz, the daughter of the Novominsker Rebbe ztz”l, has served in various senior roles at nonprofits. A writer and political advocate, Rebbetzin Horowitz cofounded a shelter for homeless girls, as well as JWOW (Jewish Women of Wisdom), a national community for mid-lifers, in addition to being the community rebbetzin of Agudas Achim of Lawrence. Rebbetzin Faigie is passionate about what the average, overwhelmingly busy frum woman can do to combat stereotypes and make a kiddush Hashem in her daily life. While our secular neighbors may never fully understand our way of life or our values, we can do our best to make sure we are perceived as sensitive, courteous, and good neighbors.

Rebbetzin Faigie believes one of the best ways to achieve this is through one-on-one exchanges with people outside our own community; talking about our own personal chesed work creates connection. Moreover, it fosters respect for our community, and nurtures positive interest in us as human beings. Chesed is the great equalizer.

My job was to represent the role we can take in breaking stereotypes in the media. Media misrepresentation is an issue for all minority groups, but it seems that Orthodox Jews have taken the spotlight in recent years, with depictions in the entertainment industry that are far from flattering — or authentic. Hollywood is full of examples that peddle stereotypes, tropes, and inaccuracies about Orthodox Jews. This is partly due to poor fact-checking and lazy efforts to properly research our way of life. In addition, it’s the ex-Orthodox Jews who are serving as consultants, writing scripts, and starring in the shows. Our supposed story is being told by those who have left and have no qualms about burning the building down on their way out.

Those of us who are proud to be here need to reclaim our narrative. But how?

Writing letters to movie streaming companies isn’t going to make a difference. But there are those, like Allison Josephs of Jew in the City, whose mission is to fight media misrepresentation of the Jewish community on an organizational scale. Allison breaks stereotypes daily through her social media activism, programming, and educational efforts, and she’s even launching a Hollywood bureau for Orthodox Jews, similar to the bureaus representing other minority groups, which will fight for better storytelling and more authentic depictions of Jews on the silver — or computer — screen.

HOLLYWOOD IS POWERFUL. It shapes people’s views and beliefs about groups to whom many have zero exposure. So, if a show claims, from the perspective of a former insider, that Jewish women are uneducated, fundamentalist baby-making machines who have no autonomy or agency to accomplish anything besides serving their husbands, people will consider such a spokesperson reliable. And if you’ve never met an Orthodox Jew before, you may very well believe it.

Yet each time frum people live their most authentic, truest lives, representing the values of Judaism to the outside world through everyday, positive interactions — or daily, more personal connections in the workforce — they are breaking the stereotypes that the average Joe just learned on television the night before. Even if the frum woman seems to fit the standard Orthodox stereotype as her children spill out of her minivan, the personal interaction and connection is what turns this woman from a mere stereotype into a wonderful mom next door who values motherhood and childrearing. Furthermore, when relationships are built, whether it’s the patient-doctor relationship or the next-door neighbor relationship, those who are not familiar with our community can come to the one Orthodox Jew they know and ask their questions. People read and people watch, but when you know someone, you can ask if the messages you are consuming about them are even true, fair, or accurate.

Publishing articles in print and in online publications, as well as posting on social media, for those who use it, can also be used as a storytelling device, as well as a platform to fight stereotypes. I learned over the past few months that when people tell their stories showcasing healthy and fulfilled lives as Orthodox Jews, that’s a powerful way to tell the world who we really are, not who Hollywood says we are, especially if these individuals are followed by secular business or political contacts. Real and sincere stories from the heart, especially those that shine a little light on vulnerabilities and struggles, are powerful in restoring humanity to Orthodox Jews.

Reclaiming our narrative needs to come from a place of strength and authenticity. Particularly for those treading the murky waters of social media, it is imperative that people identify their motives: Is it about jumping on a trending bandwagon, getting likes, attention, and validation or, ideally, using the platform to share their voice in speaking their inner resolve, values and belief systems? If all those good things are in place, our interactions with the outside world — whether via social media, grocery run chats, or missions to Washington — will naturally overflow from their authentic source. You don’t have to be a VP, CEO, or rebbetzin to accomplish this. You just have to be a sincere Jew.

I can’t deliver the call to action better than Chanie Jacobowitz did at the conclusion of our panel:

Many of us, most of us — won’t find themselves in Washington, Albany, or Trenton. Some of us aren’t comfortable venturing onto social media. Yet all of us have a part to play. Find the power in your realm. Teach your children to make a kiddush Hashem always, by doing what is right. Reach out to others with kindness and dignity. Find ways to make a human connection with your neighbors, those you meet in the street… Lead by example and encourage your friends to do the same.

What will you do?

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, speaker, writer, and co-host of the Normal Frum Women podcast.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 894.

The post Tell It Like It Is first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I am their one and only: an only child.

I am one chance to get it right. One hope and dream. One mouth to feed. One tuition to pay.

One child to love.

There are benefits to growing up as an only child. I had my own room, a quiet house, new clothes, and undivided attention from my parents. If I had a request or a need, it didn’t compete with anyone else’s wants or needs. Life revolved around our small family unit, and perhaps, around me. I’ll never forget when Rabbi Menachem Nissel, my seminary rabbi, visited my home in Atlanta and called it “a shrine to Alex.” With pictures of just one child gracing the walls, I guess it sort of was.

Shabbos afternoon lunches epitomized my childhood experience as the only kid around the Shabbos table. Naturally, my parents invited their friends, and their Shabbos day meals were famous for ending at 5 p.m. There may or may not have been other kids at the table, but my childhood Shabbos memories are filled with me sitting at a table of adults talking, laughing, and debating.

In my pre-teen years, I would sit and listen. Soak up the discourse. Watch adults engage and interact as they would talk about issues from Judaism to current events, history to culture. A quiet observer, I’d silently formulate my own opinions about the issues and concepts that animated them.

As I entered my teens, I began to share my own thoughts. While I had always sat alongside the adults, I now started to take my seat at the table. As my father would say, the Shabbos table is where he saw me grow up. I would share my opinions about whatever topic was at hand, finding just the right point in the adult conversation to interject my thoughts, with an equal dose of confidence and hesitation. And here is where I developed the belief that my opinions and thoughts were valuable. That what I had to say was worthy. In other words, I was worthy.

When I joined the conversation, the adults around the table were eager to embrace me. I was never shut down for just being a teenager who didn’t know anything, or for being ostensibly wrong. (My parents get the biggest credit for that.) When I think back to those Shabbos table discussions, I see in my mind’s eye my parents and our guests around the table smiling at me, welcoming me, including me. The Shabbos table was where I not only developed my interest in communal issues and love for the Jewish people, but also my confidence as a thinker.

One child at one Shabbos table, week after week, going through this exercise of self-esteem building as my enthusiasm was mirrored in the faces of encouraging adults. An ideal existence — or maybe not.

Today, at my own Shabbos table, there are five children, their faces mirroring not only the faces of their parents and guests, but also those of their siblings.

No, their siblings are not as welcoming as the guests of my youth. Our Shabbos table hosts passionate debates about rights and wrongs, ideals and beliefs. The older ones fend for what they believe as if their life depends on it, and the younger ones listen in amusement, and sometimes confusion.

We parents try to keep the temperature down. We try not to ignore the younger ones. We try to model and teach how to listen, how to make a point and how to respectfully disagree.

And I wonder how their Shabbos table experience compares to my own. Back then, as the solitary child, I was preaching to a choir that gently nodded along. My children have the more difficult task of persuading skeptics. They are called upon to defend their place in the family and their right to their own ideas.

Maybe ideas and opinions develop more robustly in this kind of environment. Time will tell. In the meantime, I thank my parents for choosing for their one child a lifestyle built around a Shabbos table, no matter how different (and how much calmer) it was from my own one now.

Maybe my nine-year-old daughter will look back at her Shabbos table growing up and say it was the breeding ground for her to formulate her own opinions and thoughts about life. Maybe my 16-year-old will say that her heated Friday night arguments about politics helped her become a better communicator.

There are five stories in the wings, waiting to emerge.

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, a published writer on Jewish contemporary issues, and an active member of her Jewish community in Cleveland, Ohio.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 887)

The post One Child, One Shabbos Table first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

While the “Fuzzy Math” piece I wrote back in January spurred some lively conversation in these pages, it would be a shame if someone “did the math” and then realized an ideal profession, something that person was really drawn to, didn’t add up to support a frum lifestyle. Sometimes you have to follow your calling and figure things out along the way. But if someone did the math and realized a career in chinuch didn’t add up to support a frum lifestyle, that would be a crime. And if the bottom line is what’s keeping our best and our brightest away from klei kodesh, then we all — from parents to donors, community leaders to roshei yeshivah — have a responsibility to figure out how to make these crucial fields more attractive and sustainable.

Yes, we have a crisis on our hands. Torah Umesorah’s online job board currently has 90 teacher and administrator positions open for the 2021-2022 school year. Administrators around the country speak about the challenge of finding quality candidates to fill limudei kodesh positions, particularly in out-of-town communities — and Monsey, Far Rockaway, and 50 minutes out of Lakewood also count. Candidates interested in teaching younger boys’ elementary grades are scarce, and retaining high school moros — and replacing those who leave with qualified and experienced candidates — has hit crisis mode in many girls’ schools. In the field of kiruv, NCSY, among other outreach organizations, has openings coast to coast for full-time, front-line kiruv work. One major yeshivah in North America, which used to be known as a feeder into community kollels and whose graduates are known to have filled spots in all the major national klal-work organizations, is no longer “sending out” into community kollels or kiruv work. Those going into klei kodesh want pulpit rabbi positions; otherwise, those who leave full-time learning are typically going into business. When avreichim leave the beis medresh these days, it’s Amazon versus chinuch, and Amazon is winning.

What’s going on? Is it the salaries? The rising standard of frum living? The challenging nature of klei kodesh positions?

To illustrate the problem, one director of a kiruv organization shared with me that he recently interviewed two young men from a prominent American yeshivah. Both men told him that they couldn’t recommend any others for outreach positions because they themselves are anomalies. Both have unique backgrounds that led them to be interested in a kiruv position, but they know they are black sheep, pursuing a different path than the generally accepted goals within the system. He was left wondering if outreach is even a value anymore.

Yet on the other hand, one cannot criticize a young man’s desire to support his family and ease the burden off his wife. If an Amazon business or a real estate job is going to allow him to bring in a solid salary that meets the ever-increasing needs of a growing family, and allows him ample time to learn too, then taking care of one’s own may drown out any propensity or personal calling for teaching.

But what about the idealism and sense of achrayus for the klal that might motivate someone to go into kiruv or chinuch? Some say the Israel experience isn’t what it used to be, due to the distractions of technology, in effectively inspiring those who come from more modern backgrounds, for example, to then give back what they gained.

No doubt, the financial demands of the frum lifestyle are great, and seem to be getting greater as the years go by, which is another factor likely motivating earners to pursue more lucrative professions.

In addition, high school teachers have generally stopped talking to girls about “mesirus nefesh for Torah.” In 2021, when we want it all — and can often have it — calls for sacrifice fall on deaf ears. They often hear the message pushed later in seminary, particularly as it applies to supporting their future husbands in kollel, but when it comes time for shidduchim, sacrificing for Torah means supporting a learning husband with a good salary, not a teacher’s salary. Sadly trending these days is that teaching doesn’t look good on a shidduch résumé. Young women deciding not to go into teaching is an unintended yet dire corollary of the push for kollel.

The kiruv field has its own struggles. One might analyze the different factors causing shortages in kiruv and chinuch, but ultimately, they’re both are about the same thing: educating Jews, whether they’re our children or our unaffiliated neighbors.

Many who work in kiruv say the field is prone to burnout, and that people are looking for a growth trajectory and a model of incentivizing that rarely exists. Some wonder if people even view kiruv as a “real profession.” The investment of hours and energy is immense, but the compensation is often not enough (benefits depending on the organization) and does not increase adequately with time in the field. Often kiruv jobs require a move to a small community, with all the challenges that entails. And if the passion and mesirus nefesh is absent from the start, there’s bound to be little interest.

Yet the following statistic should frighten us all: According to the recent Pew Report, 40 percent of Jewish adults under 30 do not identify their religion as Judaism. The question is whether this will cause any reverberations in the yeshivah world, whose graduates are by and large not viewing kiruv as a calling or a profession.

(While shlichus within Chabad is afforded the greatest respect and there is no shortage of potential shluchim — according to Pew, 38 percent of all US Jews have engaged in some way with Chabad — it’s not easy for them either, as every Chabad shaliach still has to raise his own budget.)

AS A MOTHER OF CHILDREN, and as an adolescent and adult educator in the frum community, what concerns me most is the teacher shortage our communities are facing. Our children need much more than warm bodies in a room; more than ever, they need excellent rebbeim and morahs who not only view teaching as their life’s calling but are also equipped with the necessary skills and tools to be effective and to feel satisfaction from what they’re doing day in and day out.

My fifth-grade son’s rebbi this past school year at the Hebrew Academy of Cleveland almost decided to go into business when he moved here. The skills he uses in his classroom — team building, motivation techniques, management skills, technological savviness, and a knack for understanding human psychology — would have served him well in any business setting. After learning, mentoring, and being a meishiv in Eretz Yisrael for 14 years, all the while doing part-time business hustles and eventually working in management full-time, he moved back to the States with his family. An opportunity came his way to give classroom teaching a shot, and he figured it was now or never. While lacking a formal degree in education, he took teacher training programs and was mentored by experienced educators and supported by administrators who recognized his ability.

This is only his second year running his own classroom, but this is a rebbi whose teaching philosophy and methodology reflect some of the best concepts and practices of modern education. My child, and no doubt his classmates, have benefited from his understanding that skill development is not just about future Gemara learning, but about self-confidence; that differentiated learning is necessary to enable every talmid to succeed and take personal ownership of his learning; that engaged, student-centered learning keeps kids too busy to waste time getting into trouble, and that behavior is a reflection of something going on.

It takes a sensitive rebbi to take a cue during class or take time out for a little chat before problems escalate. My son has flourished in this environment, academically, emotionally, and religiously. And his rebbi himself feels fulfilled and accomplished in his work, utilizing his various skills and talents in creative and challenging ways. Is there anything else more valuable for both of them?

If we want talented people to go into education in 2021, the conversation can no longer be about sacrifice. The selling point must adapt to this identity-focused generation, where mission resonates more than mesirus nefesh. For those who have the proclivity for klal work, the message needs to be about finding your personal calling, identifying your passion, and utilizing your skills and talents to both fulfill your potential and contribute to the klal.

And maybe a life devoted to chinuch can’t require the kind of sacrifice of the past because it deters our potential educators of the future. We obviously need teachers; our society cannot function without them. And we need great ones. But we have to get them in the door.

THE GOOD NEWS IS that there are glimmers the market is correcting itself. According to Torah Umesorah, an effort has been made to increase teacher and administrator salaries in schools that recognize the problem and the necessity to do something about it. Yet it’s time for this to be done across the board, not just for the benefit of our current teachers, but for the intended purpose of changing the way chinuch is viewed as a sustainable profession in our communities.

Stakeholders and community leaders need to make this chinuch crisis an urgent priority. We need to take care of our teachers: pay them respectably, train and support them professionally, and recognize and acknowledge them properly. Salaries need to go up, and with that, an increased level of professionalism and accountability in the field. The pay gap between morahs and rebbeim needs to finally be closed.

And any opportunity to augment support of our mechanchim and mechanchos must be utilized: tuition breaks, scholarships for sleepaway camps, bonuses for Yamim Tovim, and benefits, as well as communal and individual tzedakah funds prioritized to respectably support our teachers, ideally via their paychecks (see Torah Umesorah’s Rebbi Initiative). With every resource utilized, including all parsonage allowances, the package offered to a rising chinuch professional doesn’t have to look all that bad.

Most frum families are trying their hardest for the math to add up at the end of the month. For our teachers, on whose shoulders rest the future of our children, let’s figure out a way to help their math add up easier, which will in turn encourage the next generation to consider chinuch as a real option.

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, a published writer on Jewish contemporary issues, and an active member of her Jewish community in Cleveland, Ohio.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 868)

The post Where Have All the Teachers Gone? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

While not terribly sentimental about birthdays and anniversaries, I am nostalgic about the journey of my life, often letting my mind wander over what could have been had I made certain decisions to do things differently. Mix that with a measure of idealism, and the inner wanderlust for a life I consciously decided not to lead, but still admire, makes surprise appearances from time to time.

Maybe I should have known better. I knew I’d have to deal with lots of feelings if I listened to a podcast episode entitled “Living in Israel vs. Living in America,” episode two of the new Meaningful Minute podcast titled “Two Cents with the Bensoussan Brothers.” But I listened anyway. (I mean, how could you not listen to a podcast hosted by the Bensoussan brothers?)

While my husband and I never lived in Israel, besides our time learning there before we met, so much of Rabbi Ari and Rabbi Yossi’s reflections resonated. From my time spent in Israel as a seminary student, and all the summers I had spent there visiting my cousins, Israel played a formative role in my emerging identity as a teenager and young adult. The learning that took place was experiential. I learned that Eretz Yisrael is a holy land, unlike any other country; our history, our beliefs and our Torah are part of the very land; children belong outdoors in the sun and fresh air; living a life with Yiddishkeit at its center is everything; values are more important than things. The Land of Israel is rich and beautiful with sights and smells, tiyulim and experiences. The Land becomes a part of you, and you become a part of the Land. When I would return after spending my summers with my family, and then later learning on the NCSY summer program Michlelet, my parents never failed to remark driving home from the airport that Israel had rubbed off on me. It had changed me, just being there. Maybe it was because I was coming back from the place I really belonged.

When I got engaged and my chassan brought up the question about starting off in Israel for a year or so, I immediately shot it down. My pragmatism beat my idealism. I countered that I would be supporting the family as a teacher, and I couldn’t possibly teach English in an Israeli school. And that was it. Long term, we had agreed that we felt we could contribute the most here in the States. Besides, I struggled with the idea of trying to find the right community that most accurately reflected our hashkafah and wondered about what system we would choose to educate our future children. So, America it was. Ultimately, we had both taken what we had gained from our Israel experiences and were ready to put it to use.

When Rabbis Ari and Yossi reflected on their decade-plus stay in the Holy Land, the things they missed most about everyday life, and the values that permeate the lifestyle there, I felt a dormant part of me being slowly nudged awake. I had put away similar experiences and feelings about Eretz Yisrael in a box somewhere in the basement that says, “Old Life, the One You’re Not Leading.” The conversation was difficult enough for the two of them — Rabbi Yossi said multiple times that he didn’t realize how hard bringing up these memories and feelings would be for him. On more than one occasion the brothers tripped up — broken voices, dewy eyes. While their experiences were not mine — the joy of shopping for your family Erev Shabbos at the shuk, giving eight excuses to anyone who sees you driving a car because over there, people are self-conscious about “going too fancy” — I understood exactly what they meant. I have a conscious reference point chiseled in my mind, and it will always be a part of who I am and what I value. “The country is living your life. You can never forget that Rosh Chodesh is coming. Everything — your religion — is infused with so much meaning… There’s a part of my heart that’s still out there,” Rabbi Yossi said. I get it.

So I can’t help but wonder: How would my children have thrived being raised in the Holy Land? Would they be less impacted by technology and consumerism? Would they feel a stronger connection and pride about being Jewish? Would their lives be simpler?  Would their Torah be vaster and deeper? Would they have grown in ways I can’t even fathom? Or would they be equally challenged in many of the same ways they are here — and maybe more — because galus is galus?

And perhaps the more difficult question: How would we be different? How would we have grown living the kind of spiritually permeated life that could only exist in Israel? Or would it have been too hard, and we’d be back where we started?

MAYBE I’M FEELING PARTICULARLY PARCHED due to COVID. I’m still struggling with the after-effects of too-much-screen time with my kids from lockdown days. We’ve fallen into some bad habits that are hard to break. Sending the kids loose to run around the neighborhood ginah, as Rabbis Ari and Yossi reminisced, sounds pretty good right now. In addition, my sense of community — shul, communal gatherings, Shabbos meals with guests — which usually infuses my religious life with such joy and meaning, has been hit hard. It takes time to repair and rebuild. Along the way, I did learn that my religious identity, stripped of how it relates to others, is essentially between me and myself, and me and G-d. How I observe in the four walls of my home is the true litmus test of my commitment to mitzvos and my relationship with Hashem. So that has been humbling. Nonetheless, I wish I could say that I regularly feel the level of connection that seems to come with the very air one breathes in Eretz Yisrael.

Some comfort came with the acknowledgment that maybe the challenge of staying connected is simply a feature of being a Jew in chutz l’Aretz, and I’m not alone. “It’s so easy to be frum [in Israel],” Rabbi Yossi said. “It’s so easy to enjoy Yiddishkeit over there. One thing someone said to my wife when we were leaving: Now you’re going to finally realize what it means to sacrifice to be Jews. In Israel you know you’re a Jew.”

Rabbi Ari shared a moving story of when he was struggling with the decision to move back to the States to take a challenging position impacting the American Jewish community. With a broken heart, he opened a Chumash and “randomly” opened to parshas Korach (18:20), where he read the message Hashem gave to Aharon regarding the division of the Land. Being a Levi himself, Rabbi Bensoussan took the words of the pasuk to heart: “Hashem said to Aharon, ‘In their Land you shall have no heritage (nachalah), and a share (chelek) you shall not have among them; I am your share and your heritage among the Children of Israel.’” He got his answer.

We made a conscious decision from the beginning to live in America and raise our children here, with all its challenges. There are myriad challenges unique to Eretz Yisrael, and while Israel certainly brings out my idealistic, spiritually striving nature, I’m very much a realist when it comes to the struggles people face living there. Parts of me feel most at home in Israel, spiritually and physically, but there are equal parts that fit best here in America. I’ll go through years not even thinking about it, but something like the discussion I heard on the podcast will bring back all the feelings. I know something is missing as I live my day-to-day life in a town in Ohio called University Heights. Yet I’d like to hope we live here for the same reason Rabbi Ari decided to move back to America: your nachalah is among Bnei Yisrael.

Our oldest child is going to Eretz Yisrael to learn next year, G-d willing. Thinking about him getting to know his homeland makes me think of my own formative experiences. It also reopens that gaping hole and schleps up the sealed box from the basement. Our hope is that he will forge his own relationship with Israel and find a spiritual connection to the land, people, values and Torah of Eretz Yisrael. One can’t replicate another’s journey. He’ll need to go on his own. But I know learning in Israel is one of the most powerful ways to develop a rich inner life where values and beliefs are formed and a relationship with Hashem is strengthened in the warmth of one’s spiritual homeland.

May we all return soon, speedily in our days.

Alexandra Fleksher is an educator, a published writer on Jewish contemporary issues, and an active member of her Jewish community in Cleveland, Ohio.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 861.

The post The Road Not Taken   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

It’s inevitable that you’ll brush up against wrongdoing somewhere in your life — whether it’s the result of inadvertent error or a product of malicious intent.

Ideally, of course, you’d share your concerns or suggestions. But that requires a lot of strength. You may worry you’ll be punished, humiliated, or judged for speaking up. In order to feel psychologically safe voicing concern, you need to believe that the institution you’re interacting with is healthy enough to put a stop to wrongdoing and to hear your reports without penalizing you for them.

The topic of psychological safety has been on the rise for the past 30 years, growing in its popularity as our businesses and interpersonal lives have become increasingly more complicated. Amy Edmondson, a renowned lecturer on the topic, notes that psychological safety is crucial for the health of our businesses, communal institutions, and even families.

Here are three stories that show how the effects of psychological safety — or lack of it — can reverberate within our community.

Singularly Painful

I’ve been working in an office for three years now, and I’m really proud of what I’ve accomplished. I came in straight from seminary, without any experience, and I’ve picked up a lot of skills in the meantime. I turn in all my work on time and am the type of employee who can be counted on.

There’s only one problem: I’m still single.

And apparently, because of that, I don’t count.

Last week, when a coworker left, I assumed I’d be promoted to her position. I was the obvious next person in line. Yet somehow, Baila was chosen, after being here for only six months.

I was really hurt and upset. I’m extremely dedicated, I know I do a good job, but once again, I was turned down for a bonus or advancement.

Well, this time was going to be different. I approached my boss and asked him if he could explain to me why I kept getting passed over for opportunities. His reply: “Devora, when you get married, we’ll consider you for one.”

I don’t think the word furious does justice to describe my feelings at that moment. Am I subpar because I haven’t found a husband? Am I less talented? Do I contribute less than my coworkers because I’m single? These were the questions that raced through my mind, but I wouldn’t dare say them out loud. I wish I could have.

I spent the rest of the day trying to calm down and bought myself a pity iced coffee on the way home. After thinking about it some more, I decided that since there was no resolution, I was going to go back to my boss again. I felt a renewed sense of confidence, not because my boss was open or receptive, which he was most definitely not, but because I felt emboldened to advocate for myself in the face of such injustice.

The post (Un)safe, (Un)sound, (Un)supportive       first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Shlomo Soroka is the director of government affairs for Agudath Israel of Illinois. He focuses much of his political advocacy in the areas of education funding, public safety, and protecting religious freedoms. He has worked with lawmakers to pass and defeat numerous pieces of legislation that affect his local Chicago Jewish community and beyond.

Interviewed by Alexandra Fleksher

In advocating for the American chareidi community, how much of the job is public relations?

Every time we interact with government officials, we are aware that how they perceive the Orthodox community plays a role in what kind of decisions they make. COVID has really brought that out in a very stark way — perceptions of the American Orthodox community have in some cases made it very difficult to be effective. In other situations, the perception of how the community has acted has been very beneficial. Sometimes it has to do with, to be quite blunt, whether they are looking at the community here or whether they’re looking at the headlines or what they see on TV.

Unfortunately, the way people sometimes behave has ramifications far beyond the borders of their community, which they may be oblivious to when they live in a more homogenous community, as opposed to living out in the Midwest or some other place where people are probably more naturally aware of how their conduct can have an impact.

I don’t know if it’s still like this but, for example, I remember when you were able to double-park in certain places in Lakewood and leave your keys in the car if someone needed you to move. It seemed to work, and that’s a beautiful thing. When living in a community where everyone is frum, you can view your neighbors like family, which is wonderful. But doing something like blocking traffic while hopping out to grab a package can inconvenience others, and is selfish. In over 20 years living in the Midwest, I have never seen someone block a stranger’s driveway while running into Minchah. (To be fair, we also don’t have parking issues in the Midwest.)

Can you share an example of how PR plays a role in advocacy work?

I’ll tell you a great story. Years ago, I reached out to a high-level government official regarding a program idea I had. I was warned that she was very busy, and that since my issue was not primary on her list, I was probably not going to get a chance to speak to her. I was pleasantly surprised when she responded right away to my request to meet.

She said, “If you’re wondering why you got this meeting right away, you’re not the first Orthodox Jew I’ve met with.”

As a teen, she went to an all-African-American school, and they a had a program designed to learn about other cultures and interact with people different from them. The school had reached out to a local Jewish school, and the ways the girls interacted with her and her friends made a significant impression. They treated her with respect, kindness, and sensitivity, which she never forgot. She told me she decided that if there was ever a way she could help this community, she wanted to explore those opportunities.

Turns out that the school she interacted with is the school my in-laws founded. My mother-in-law is still the principal there, and the class she met was probably my wife’s class. Needless to say, the meeting was very successful and was the beginning of a very fruitful relationship that has yielded many benefits to the community.

How do stories in the media highlighting non-compliance in the chareidi community impact public perception?

Unsurprisingly, these stories can be very harmful. People sometimes will bring them up and have a conversation, but even if they’re not openly discussing the latest article, they’re thinking about it. And when the front lines are in our backyard, the impact is felt even more keenly. When there are protests in the streets of one neighborhood with mask burnings, it has ramifications beyond the neighborhood’s borders. It made national front-page news on every paper and every TV network, and for many people, this became the perception they had of Orthodox Jews.

In this case, I explained that the rabble-rouser who created that spectacle was an attention-seeking fringe figure who has no standing in the community and has been completely marginalized, and that, as a general rule, our community does not attend protests, even peaceful ones. I emphasized that the majority of Orthodox Jews are law abiding and compliant. I even extended a few invitations for them to see for themselves.

The perception non-Jews have about Orthodox Jews is largely formed by the media. There is a non-Jewish woman who works for one of the Agudah camps and took an entire day to help my family out during a medical emergency. She told us that she had always thought that all Jews were rich, clever, smart and stingy, based on how Jews were portrayed in movies and on TV. She later learned that reality was quite different. She said in fact, we’re very generous, we’re not all wealthy, and we’re not all that smart. Everything was based on her preconceived notions formed by the media. All that went away when she had real interactions.

Look, I grew up in Flatbush. I’m a Flatbush boy. I understand what it is to be surrounded by frum people all the time. Your whole block, and the blocks surrounding you, are frum. You go from your house down the street to shul and yeshivah. The extent of your interactions with non-Jews is whether or not you cut a guy off on the street. I know what it’s like and how easy it is to forget. But we can’t forget. We have to realize that our actions and behavior have consequences.

The primary reason we should be behaving in a certain way, in whatever situation, is because it’s the right way to do things.

What do you wish every starting journalist knew about our community? What is a mistake too many of them make?

Journalists are responsible for portraying the Orthodox community in an accurate light. It’s hard to write about a community without understanding it. I don’t think it’s fair to report on a community without spending the time to get to know it. Maybe not everything they’re going to see is perfect. Don’t just assume they’re another fanatically religious or far-right community. And don’t make sweeping judgments based on anecdotal experiences. I see that commonly where the media will make certain assumptions. Journalists should be responsible and accurate in how they report, and understand that reporting has consequences.

What is the most dangerous aspect of the portrayal and perception of chareidim in the public sphere?

The most dangerous aspect is not how it’s going to impact our lives when people like me try to advocate for the community. Hashem is in charge of what happens. The most dangerous aspect is chillul Hashem. We are in this world to be mekadeish Sheim Shamayim, and if what we’re doing is a chillul Hashem, we’re doing the opposite of why we were brought here. Whether or not that translates into something that has an effect on us is really secondary.

That being said, the practical ramifications of chillul Hashem can be devastating to our communities. It literally rises to the level of pikuach nefesh. I have observed how misconceptions and negative impressions can influence both individual situations and policy decisions that literally make the difference between life and death. History is filled with examples where our failures in how we conduct ourselves have proven deadly and devastating. To think that the unthinkable can’t happen is myopic and foolish.

Regarding misconceptions, there are actually people out there who believe Jews have horns and that we control the stock markets and weather. Others think Jews will never donate organs but are happy to receive organs for transplants. Others misunderstand our commitment to Torah values as intolerance and believe that we’re right-wing radical bigots. I can’t tell you how many people have asked me if the way the Orthodox community is portrayed in a recent film is accurate. It’s not. And it’s very damaging.

What is the key element to a successful effort in reaching out to the media and non-Jewish policymakers about our community?

The key element is being honest. Thankfully, I represent a community that by and large does the right thing. I can say with a straight face that yes, our community is not perfect, but the overwhelming majority of the frum community has been compliant, respects the law, and respects opinions of the medical establishment. Even if they don’t understand or agree with every policy coming out of public health, at the end of the day, if it’s the law, the overwhelming majority are following the law. I can say that without compromising my integrity. My main currency is telling the truth. I have to be credible.

How can the average frum Jew be a good ambassador?

We conduct ourselves a certain way because we follow the Torah. Every single person can be a good ambassador simply by doing the right thing and just being a mensch. But awareness is also important. At the end of the day, I understand that I am the first and perhaps the last interaction people may ever have with a frum Jew, and I’m keenly aware that their first impression can be their lasting impression for decades to come. The average frum Jew can be a good ambassador by having a similar awareness.

The Agudah can’t fix things for people who aren’t going to do the right thing. We can only represent the community as good as the community is, and baruch Hashem we have so much to be proud of. As long as we’re consistent with the aspects of our lifestyle that have to do with the way Hashem instructs us to live, we’ll earn the respect and admiration of the world around us.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 852)

The post Rabbi Shlomo Soroka: The Front Line is in Our Own Backyard first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.