Want to learn more about Footsteps and its mission? Here you will find a collection of articles, videos, interviews, and blog posts about the Footsteps staff, members, and organization. Don’t worry – we know how important confidentiality is to our membership. Everyone interviewed and mentioned on this page gave their consent.
“I think the city should have taken a much tougher approach the minute they realized our allegations seemed to be true, that tens of thousands of children are being denied an education,” he [Naftali Moster, YAFFED executive director] said.
Faigy Roth never felt at home growing up in a conservative ultra-Orthodox Jewish community.
“I just didn’t fit in,” she said. “I knew I didn’t want the community life—I didn’t know much more. But then when [I turned] 18 or 19—when they wanted to marry me off—that’s when I realized it’s now or I’m screwed.”
Recently, iHeart Radio interviewed Tsivia Finman, Interim Executive Director, about the uphill battle Footsteps members face in family court. As Tsivia says, the community galvanizes around the people who stay, leaving the person who wants out — even if it’s the primary caretaker — to fend for themselves.
For more than a decade, victims of childhood sexual abuse in New York have asked lawmakers here for the chance to seek justice — only to be blocked by powerful interests including insurance companies, private schools and leaders from the Roman Catholic Church and Orthodox Jewish communities.
But in November, Democrats won control of the Senate. And on Monday, both the Senate and Assembly overwhelmingly approved the Child Victims Act, ending a bitter, protracted battle with some of the most powerful groups in the state. Gov. Andrew M. Cuomo has promised to sign the bill into law.
Under the new law, prosecutors could bring criminal charges until a victim turned 28 [extending the period from age 23] and victims could sue until age 55. The bill would also create a one-year “look-back window,” during which old claims that had already passed the statute of limitations could be revived.
In parts of New York City, there are students who can barely read and write in English and have not been taught that dinosaurs once roamed Earth or that the Civil War occurred.
That is the claim made by a group of graduates from ultra-Orthodox Jewish private schools called yeshivas, and they say that startling situation has been commonplace for decades.
Over three years ago, Mayor Bill de Blasio’s administration opened an investigation into a lack of secular education at yeshivas that serve about 57,000 students in the city, but the probe essentially stalled almost as soon as it began. The reason, advocates say, is the city’s politicians, including the mayor, are fearful of angering the Orthodox Jewish community that represents a crucial voting bloc in major elections.
“There’s no time to waste,” said Naftuli Moster, the founder of Young Advocates for Fair Education, which pushes for more secular instruction in yeshivas. “New York City has already been dragging its feet for three years.”
Leaving the ultra-Orthodox community is nothing new in Israel. Everyone, secular or religious, knows someone who used to be on, but is now “off the derech.” But the phenomenon hasn’t been well studied. Most of what we know comes from individual stories of people making the difficult transition from the insular Haredi world to mainstream Israeli society.
Now there is data to flesh out these stories, in the form of a report commissioned by the Israeli nonprofit Out For Change. The report provides a picture of ex-Haredim in unprecedented detail, estimating how many people leave Haredi communities each year, and describing who they are and why they leave. It also discusses new programs to serve the needs of ex-Haredim, many of them partnerships between nonprofits and the Israeli government. Still, it argues that much more must done to support ex-Haredim in the ways they deserve.
In 2015, concerned parents, teachers and former students filed a complaint to New York City’s Department of Education charging that 39 ultra-Orthodox Jewish schools in the city failed to give children a basic education, violating state law that requires instruction to be “substantially equivalent” to that in public schools.
Three years later, virtually nothing has been done to hold the schools to legal standards, as politicians have ducked their responsibility rather than challenge leaders of one of the city’s most powerful voting blocs. In a city with low turnout in primary elections, candidates often covet the support of Orthodox communities, which tend to vote based on the guidance of religious leaders.
On his Instagram page, there is a photo of Ari Hershkowitz wearing a virtual reality headset. It pretty much sums up his story: an escape from one world to another.
Hershkowitz met with The Times of Israel outside the Sydney Jewish Museum, a few days after he presented at Yom Limmud in Sydney. It is a wintry day Down Under and he is wearing black jeans and a red T-shirt. He doesn’t like to wear long sleeved shirts, he later says — it reminds him of his previous life. His American drawl makes it hard to imagine that for most of his life he could not speak English.
Chavie Weisberger grew up in an ultra-Orthodox Hasidic community in Monsey, New York, where she raised her three children after her 2008 divorce. But as she began questioning her faith and her sexuality, her neighbors told the religious authorities there that she was allowing secular behavior in her home.
Her estranged husband sued for custody and won, in a secular Brooklyn court — it upheld a religious court document she signed at the time of her divorce. Weisberger didn’t realize that in it she’d agreed to raise her children Hasidic.
Ultimately, another court overturned that decision and restored full custody to Weisberger.
Here & Now‘s Robin Young talks with Weisberger (@iamchavie) about the issues faced by Hasidic men and women who leave the community, and is also joined by Lani Santo(@notinabox_ls), executive director of Footsteps, a social services organization that provides social and financial services for those transitioning to a secular lifestyle.
Part 3: When you are born into the Hasidic Jewish community, you are born a Hasid for life. However, if one does choose to leave the community, they risk being an outcast in not just the Hasidic community but the secular community as well. Three Hasidic Jews who left the community reveal why they made the decision to cut their ties.
This is the last of a three-part series on insular enclaves of ultra-Orthodox Jews, the struggles they face, and the controversies that follow them.
Part 1: Some Americans may not realize that Hasidic Jews shun many common secular practices widely accepted across cultural and national borders, including the basics of education. For example, there are several yeshivas, or Hasidic Jewish schools, in the New York area that only teach subjects in Yiddish. Previous yeshiva students share the impact of these practices in their lives.
First of three stories on the inherent tensions between the ultra-Orthodox communities and the legal and social norms in the NYC metro area. Be sure to watch the video above with Naftali Moster of Yaffed.
The questioning went on for days. Did she allow her children to watch a Christmas video? Did she include plastic Easter eggs as part of her celebration of the Jewish holiday of Purim? Did she use English nicknames for them, instead of their Hebrew names?
This grilling of Chavie Weisberger, 35, took place not in front of a rabbi or a religious court, but in State Supreme Court in Brooklyn, during a custody battle with her ultra-Orthodox Jewish ex-husband after she came out as lesbian and decided to leave the ultra-Orthodox fold. The stakes could not have been higher. In fact, the judge, Eric I. Prus, eventually ruled that she should lose custody of her children, largely because she had lapsed in raising them according to Hasidic customs.
Ms. Weisberger’s case, which was reversed on appeal in August, is still reverberating through New York courts that handle divorce and custody matters for the state’s hundreds of thousands of ultra-Orthodox Jews.
Some who have left the ultra-Orthodox say that in recent years, the community has become more organized in how it aids the religious parent and ostracizes the parent leaving the fold.
For the parent leaving, the trauma goes beyond the private dissolution of a marriage. “Their job gets in jeopardy, their home,” said Chani Getter, a program manager at Footsteps, an organization that offers support to formerly ultra-Orthodox Jews. “If they are renting from a religious landlord, surveillance goes up,” she said. Each child, she said, is considered by the community as a Jewish soul that cannot be lost.
In recent years, education activists, among them former Hasidic yeshiva graduates, have pushed aggressively to bring the yeshivas into compliance with the state’s education laws. Simcha Felder, the state senator from Brooklyn who represents the heavily ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods of Borough Park and Midwood, was on a mission to get legal permission for the state to turn a blind eye to the near-absence of secular instruction in many yeshivas. The upshot? Tens of thousands of children would continue to graduate without the most basic skills.
I know about the cost. I was one of those kids.
According to New York State law, nonpublic schools are required to offer a curriculum that is “substantially equivalent” to that of public schools. But when it comes to Hasidic yeshivas, this law has gone unenforced for decades. The result is a community crippled by poverty and a systemic reliance on government funding for virtually all aspects of life.
Chavie Weisberger was raised in a Hasidic family — an ultra-orthodox Jewish sect — and “was groomed for the ultimate level of success, which was marriage,” she tells PEOPLE.
But after she came out to her family, “all hell broke loose,” says the 35-year-old Brooklyn native who now works at Footsteps, an organization that helps people who want to leave or have left the ultra-Orthodox community. “I lost my job and the support of my family and friends.”
She also lost custody of her three children, but after a five-year battle in court, she won her appeal in August 2017. Since then, it’s been “a whirlwind of new experiences and beautiful family bonding time.”
There are layers, both literal and spiritual, to getting dressed as a Hasidic person or an ultra-Orthodox Jew. It’s like a math equation. For women, there is often a “shell”—a cap-sleeved shirt to cover the collarbone—and then another shirt, sometimes with a collar and typically of a solid hue, that must reach past the elbow. Depending on the sect, or the individual’s or family’s religious preference, there is thick opaque hosiery, sometimes in a peachy orange hue, branded with raised quarter-inch seams running down the back. There is, of course, a skirt that goes below the knee.
As for those who leave their lives as Orthodox Jews—the ones deemed as “off the derech” (meaning “off the path,” OTD for short)—they are faced, in the secular world, with both finding themselves and, eventually, their style. “You have to admire that kind of courage,” says the project’s photographer Gillian Laub. “Risking the loss of everything you’ve known to live an authentic life.” So, what does a post-Hasidic wardrobe look like? In one case, there is Abby Stein, a transgender woman who meets me at a coffee shop near Columbia University, where she is currently studying public policy and gender studies. Now a trans activist, she was once a rabbi who hailed from a high-ranking Hasidic dynasty, a mishmash of two of the most extreme sects, Bobov and Satmar. She is a direct descendant of the founder of Hasidic Judaism, the Baal Shem Tov, and compares her early life to something like being born into European royalty. Stein eventually left the sect with the help of Footsteps, a nonprofit New York–based organization that provides support to the ultra-Orthodox looking to leave the community.
(Abby) Stein knew from a young age that didn’t fit neatly into the gender-segregated roles outlined by her Hasidic community, a sect of Judaism that chooses to live in isolation from the secular world. In 2012, Stein secretly used the Internet for the first time to research what she was feeling and found a Wikipedia page explaining the term “transgender.” That’s when everything started making sense. Soon after, her son was born, a joyful moment but also one that made her think, “What if my kid is going to be like me?” That was the catalyst for what she calls her two transitions: first, leaving Hasidism and distancing herself from its rigid interpretation of Judaism, and second, presenting as the woman she’d long suspected she was.
A small number of other organizations exist that engage with the problems in the Haredi world, but their issues are far from the broader Jewish agenda. Footsteps, an organization that helps those who wish to explore the world outside their Haredi enclaves, with which I’ve worked closely, is a small organization that operates largely outside the mainstream Jewish organizational network. Unchained At Last, founded by a former Haredi woman who, as a teenager, was pressured into an arranged marriage that turned violently abusive, seeks to help women get out of similar situations, but it also operates largely unknown to the broader Jewish world. These — and others — are small organizations with big missions, missions that should be the purview of all Jews, but aren’t.
Chavie Weisberger married a man she’d barely met and suffered for years until she realized she was a lesbian. But her greatest battle was yet to come.
Read the full article and watch a WPIX interview with Chavie.