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Off the Derech
When a person loses his faith, does God die?
If God dies, does one lose his religion?
And if one thinks he loses his religion, when he says, "I am an atheist," - can he still be a Jew?
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​About 12 percent of Jews are ultraorthodox, most of them live in Israel and the United States.
There are no exact numbers on how many Charedim leave Orthodoxy each year, but the trend seems to be increasing. It is their quest for freedom and a self-determined daily life that leads them to turn away from the Orthodox community and its narrow rules. They are driven by their loss of faith in God, desire for sexual emancipation, or curiosity about the world outside Orthodoxy. Some are filled with the fear of not being able to satisfy God, of living the wrong life by His side and they experience this as a tremendous burden.
They chose a path of transformation, at the end of which they find a modern world whose rules are foreign to them and whose boundaries offer no support. Some do find themselves this way. Others get lost and perish. Most eventually learn to cope.
Off The Derech literally means "gone astray" ("derech" Hebrew for way). For those who decide to take that path, to leave their familiar environment and social structure, „Off The Derech" can have various meanings: a complete renunciation of religion, a rethinking within the Orthodox orientation, or a turn to liberal Judaism or a completely different religion.
My name is Shlomo. I think my story is perhaps no more extraordinary than anyone else's. I have fifteen brothers and sisters. Maybe there were only fourteen, I can't remember exactly. There were too many. My family belongs to the Ger dynasty, one of the most conservative streams in Ultra-Orthodox Judaism. My great-grandparents were in Auschwitz. I remember that they had a number, but they didn't talk about it. I didn't talk much with my parents either; there was no close bond. I never saw my mother's real hair. Orthodox Jewish women are very chaste, they wear a wig over their real hair. Even we children were not allowed to see her hair, not to smell it, not to touch it.
The first time I had sex was in Uman, a Jewish Orthodox pilgrimage site in Ukraine, on a lake in a paddle boat. I didn't even know then that women didn't have penises. I didn't know they had anything there that matched what I had. And I didn't know it was so beautiful. Ultra-Orthodox Jewish teens are not sexually educated until just before the wedding night. This girl on the lake, she showed me everything and I liked it. She was not Jewish. After that I knew I couldn't go back, not back to my old life. At home in Jerusalem I packed my backpack with some clothes and my tefillin. And then I left.
My name is Akiva. I am an rabbi and I am ex-Orthodox. I grew up in Brooklyn, New York, in one of the most conservative ultra-Orthodox communities, the Satmar Hasidim. Leaving Jewish Orthodoxy was a long and difficult process. I lived in Israel for ten years, then I decided to go to Germany. When I left Israel, I thought that I never wanted to have anything to do with Judaism again. In Germany I felt like a refugee. I had taken only two suitcases from my old life with me, and sometimes I thought about not wanting to live anymore. As a dropout from Orthodoxy, you lose your whole identity, your origin. It's not easy to reinvent an identity.
Today I have found my Jewish self, in Refom Judaism. I am a liberal rabbi and I eat pork. Yes, maybe also on Shabbat. Why? Why not. There is no reason for me not to. I don't believe in God as a creature who tells me what to do or not to do. That's a contradiction? Being a rabbi and not believing in an all-powerful God? Why? It's not like I don't have faith. Everybody believes in something. I believe in something spiritual that is in each of us. In the beauty of Jewish tradition. In belonging to the Jewish people. And in humanism.
I believe that religion is more than God. Jewish tradition is stronger than God.
My name is Ami. My parents named me Amrom, which is a very Orthodox name. Today I call myself Ami.
When I was a teenager, I wanted many things: I wanted to be a doctor, or a journalist, or a photographer. When you grow up in an Orthodox environment, you don't know anything. You don't know anything about the world, and you don't know anything about yourself. All I knew was that I didn't want to be Orthodox. When I was nineteen I got married, when I was twenty my daughter was born. Then I became a soldier. I joined the Israeli army for three years, in a unit where only the pious serve and where you can keep all the religious commandments.
Many Orthodox are anti-Zionist and reject the Israeli state as a secular construct. They believe that only the Messiah will bring the Jewish people their own state. So they are waiting for him to come. I didn't have a Messiah. I feared God like everyone else, I lived according to his commandments, I lived my whole life according to them. Little by little I broke more and more commandments and nothing happened. No anger, no punishment and no consequence. I turned the lights on and off on Shabbat, ate unkosher food, stopped praying - nothing. That's when I knew I was going to join the army because God doesn't care about my concerns.
My name is Haim. Actually, I would prefer to be called Ben. But that's not my name.
In my family, there were no hugs, no physical closeness. My parents were very pious. I don't know why, but they just couldn't show love. Everything was regimented. What clothes to wear, what to eat, how to walk, how to run, how to breathe. Two months before I left Orthodoxy, I wanted to kill myself. I was twenty years old and there was just nothing left that made me happy. This life was not for me anymore. When I left, I knew I disappointed my parents terribly. I will always be the guy who disappointed his parents.
Jerusalem makes me nervous. This place evokes old habits and memories, that's why I moved to Tel Aviv. In Tel Aviv, I feel free. There I don't meet people who are like me. No one who reminds me of my past.
I don't believe in God anymore. Maybe one day I'll start again, who knows. But not now. I would like to change my name. Ben I think is beautiful. Haim is a very old-fashioned and pious name and it reminds me of the old days. Maybe Ben could start over again.
My name is Avishag. It’s actually my middle name. I can't stand my first name anymore, it sounds so religious. I grew up in an ultra-Orthodox home, then my parents divorced. My father remained Orthodox, and my mother turned away from religion. She rejected everything she associated with it. She was so unforgiving. She must have hated her past, so much so that she brought home pork on Yom Kippur. On the most important Jewish holiday, when fasting is supposed to be strict.
My whole life was torn between my father's Orthodoxy and my mother's radical atheism. When I was with my mother I was supposed to wear pants, with my father skirts. He said my mother was crazy, he believed she was possessed by the devil. She said that was nonsense, that the devil does not exist. But she never explained it to me.
I never found a home with either of them. At some point I simply left them. For one whole summer I slept on the street, the stars of Jerusalem as a roof over my head. Everything frightened me.
My name is Itzig. I grew up with eight siblings, my family belongs to the Ger dynasty which is the largest Orthodox stream in Israel. The rules are very strict, too many to follow them all. I left Orthodoxy when I was seventeen. My parents tried everything to bring me back, but I didn't want to. Sometimes they still call today.
There are rabbis who say parents of children who have left Orthodoxy should keep in touch. They should call them so they have the opportunity to come back. I'm not going to do them that favor. There are eight others who can be Orthodox children to them and give them pious grandchildren. One more or less makes no difference.
I wanted to be a normal Israeli - a recognized part of the Jewish state, without this curious Orthodoxy that makes one an outsider. I decided that I wanted to do military service, like all other Israelis do. All except the Orthodox, who have a special status and don't have to serve. Today I am simply a Jewish Israeli. Not a pious one waiting for the promised land. I am already here, in my country, and can defend my homeland when it matters. Through a system that actually works. Not through prayers to God.
My name is Yizi. Actually, my name is Yitzhak, but the name reminds me too much of the past.
Back then I wanted to become a rabbi. Then I secretly read Harry Potter which was forbidden, just like any other secular literature.
Today I know that I can no longer become a rabbi. Not because of Harry Potter, of course, but because it reminds me of a time when too much was too difficult. I realized early on that I was not attracted to women. In Yeshiva, students study strictly separated by gender. Boys never have contact with girls and so lots of boys have their first sexual contacts with other male students, although homosexuality is strictly forbidden.
I thought at that time, everybody is somehow homosexual. When I got to the age where I was supposed to get married, I realized it wasn’t. So I went to an internet cafe and googled „man loves man. That's when I started to understand myself.
Berlin was my liberation. Here I can be whoever I want, even a Jewish atheist.
What remains? Shabbat I still like, I think I've found my peace with it by now.
And that hand grip every morning, like putting on my kippah. Although I haven't worn one for a long time.
My name is Avrumi. My real name is Avraham, but now I go by Avrumi.
When I was nineteen, I married my ex-wife. An arranged marriage is called a "shiduch" in Yiddish; Orthodox marriages are always arranged. It is customary to meet two or three times in a public cafe before the wedding to get to know each other. Always under observation.
​My son is seven years old today, he lives with his mother. When I left Orthodoxy, he was two and that decision almost tore me apart. You lose everything, your home, your community, your identity, the whole concept of life.
And at that point you don't know what you gain. My friends predicted I would kill myself after a year. "All who leave, eventually kill themselves," they said. Because they can't cope on the outside, they meant. "Your son will never forgive you," they also said. I was thinking about killing myself. I had very dark thoughts during that time. But I hoped that eventually my son would forgive me.
Menucci and I have recently become a couple. I am her first boyfriend and she is my first girlfriend after my marriage. We met in a cafe, just normally. Menucci is twenty-two and comes from a religious neighborhood in Haifa. She has twelve siblings, her family belongs to the Chabad sect.
Through Menucci, I learned what love means in a relationship. I live a different life now and I believe that I can be a better father to my son that way.
If we had not left Orthodoxy, we probably would never have met. Weddings of members of different Orthodox streams are not common.
My name is Menucha, but I don't like the name anymore.
I want to be called Menucci. Today I dream of studying fashion design in New York. If I hadn't left Orthodoxy, I probably would never have had the freedom to do something like that. I’d be a married woman by now, probably a mother. My parents belong to the Chabad sect and in Chabad only skirts are allowed for women. I never used to wear pants. When I left the Orthodox community, I was all on my own. I worked at Zara for a while to earn the money to support myself.
During that time, I bought my first pair of pants. I didn't know anything about pants, what suits me and what is fashionable. At first I still wore my long skirt over them. I thought everybody on the street was staring at me if I wouldn’t wear a skirt. Then my skirts got shorter and shorter over time. At some point, I left out the skirt altogether and decided to be a women who wears pants from now on.
Menucci doesn’t own pictures from her orthodox past anymore. She doesn’t want to be reminded.
My name is Sara. My parents were not born Jewish, they converted in an Orthodox community. I am the second oldest of nine siblings, we grew up in Bnei Berak, an ultra-Orthodox suburb of Tel Aviv. In Jewish Orthodoxy there are 613 rules. 248 commandments and 365 prohibitions. Once I went with my parents to a lecture by an influential rabbi who talked about the prohibitions. The smartphone is strictly forbidden, he said, it is very harmful for the faith, especially for young people. With the smartphone they hold the whole world in their hands, which he saw as a great danger.
And me? I thought, this is what I want! The whole world in my hands! I was so curious about everything out there. I wanted to see movies, read books, poetry and literature from outside the Orthodox community.
When I was still living with my parents, I had a boyfriend. Of course we only met in secret, my parents mustn’t know about it. I went to him when I decided that I had to get out of Orthodoxy. He already knew about sexuality and such, he taught me everything. The first time we slept together, I cried, but not from pain. Virginity is something you can't get back.
My name is Israel, just like the country of Israel. I used to dream of becoming a rabbi, a powerful and famous one. There was some kind of competition between the boys to see who would make it to the best yeshiva, who might become a great rabbi one day. It was like a pull. I was only concerned with religion, learning Torah all day long. There was even a phase when I wanted to become more pious than my parents. At some point I realized that I didn't want to become like my father. I have ten siblings, three of them have already left Orthodoxy.
So I knew that it was possible to exist outside of it, and when I was seventeen, I decided to go this way. My parents were very upset, they tried desperately to keep me. But I didn't want to become like them. I worked very hard studying for my high school diploma and applied to universities. I want to study IT, eventually become the boss of a big computer company and earn a lot of money.
I don't like the term atheist. People identify me as a Jew, but I don't know if I am one anymore. I don't know why it matters.
My name is Moshe. I want to become a scientist. I think I am a Jew and an atheist. Or atheist and Jew. Jewish atheist. Maybe Jewish agnostic? Or not a Jew at all. I don't know for sure. I don't believe that there is a God. But I can't prove it.
I didn't suffer, not from Orthodoxy, not in my parents' house. I just realized at some point that it's not my way. My friends in the yeshiva called me a "goy" because I broke the rules. I used my phone on Shabbat and ate unkosher food, just like an unbeliever.
The Hitler gauge makes me a Jew - if you have "Jewish blood," you are a Jew. Thanks to Hitler, I remain a Jew, even if I no longer want to be one. Judaism consists of religion, culture and nationality. Culture is still a part of me, that part of being Jewish is the only one I can enjoy. So culturally, I am a Jew.
I left the Orthodox community three years ago. I am the oldest of nine siblings. My parents accepted this step, for them the most important thing was that I would not influence my younger siblings. When I visit my family today, I wear kippah and put on tefillin to pray. It feels like a costume to me. Not like a part of me anymore.
My name is Benyamin. I am an artist, a jewish artist. The reason I left Orthodoxy is quite simple - I wanted freedom. Sexual freedom, to be able to be with whomever I want. I wanted to develop myself. The term freedom means something different for everybody. In Orthodoxy, I couldn't give to my soul what it was asking for.
I was born in Bnei Berak, an Orthodox suburb of Tel Aviv. I was seventeen when I left the religious community and went to Paris to study art. Now when I visit my old home, I feel like a voyeur.
Today I live in Berlin. I live together with my boyfriend, who is a rabbi. He is an openminded, but also traditional rabbi.
Not orthodox, not liberal. That works well for us. My father accepts how I live. He would prefer a conservative lifestyle for me, he is ultra-orthodox himself, but he is not a conformist. He gets along well with my boyfriend, they both like to talk about Jewish sources and literature. Sometimes I forget how far away I am from my parents because the human bond between us is so strong. From a theological point of view, I can understand that homosexuality is a sin, but only as long as it remains in theory. From a practical point of view there is no reason not to be homosexual and religious.
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