Between Refusal and Belonging

One day during our training, a mass demonstration took place in Jerusalem against military service — the gathering that came to be known as the “Million-Person Rally.” There were not a million participants. The protest was limited to men only, and much of the turnout appears to have been institutional. Still, the numbers were immense — likely around two hundred thousand.

Unsurprisingly, the event did not pass unnoticed. In my platoon, the commander even initiated a short, formal discussion. The guiding question was simple: If you could, would you attend the demonstration — and why?

The answers varied. The more institutionally Haredi soldiers — those rooted in established Haredi communities, with children in Haredi schools — tended to answer yes. “My children are there,” one said. “If I weren’t here, I’d be with them.” The further a soldier stood from the organized Haredi core, the more likely he was to answer no.

As for myself, I was left thoughtful.

 

A Repeating Irony

The demonstration brought me back to an earlier “Million-Person Rally,” held in 2014 — larger than this one, and likewise directed against conscription in general and the Supreme Court in particular.

At the time, I was clerking at the Supreme Court itself, part of the very institution against which hundreds of thousands of Haredim were protesting. I remember standing with fellow clerks, watching through the courtroom windows as a vast sea of black hats flooded the streets below. The sight was so unusual that we all descended the stairs to see it up close.

At the checkpoint separating the Court from the masses, our paths diverged. My colleagues remained observers; I crossed into the crowd. I met neighbors from my street, friends from the kollel I had only recently left. When I entered the demonstration, I was no longer watching it — I was part of it.

Strangely enough, I did not experience a deep inner conflict at the time. I believed then, and still believe, that judicial intervention in the conscription issue was misguided. My loyalty to the institution was professional, not ideological, and I could distinguish between my daily legal work and my opposition to the Court’s role in this sensitive public debate.

This time, in 2025, the situation was similar — yet fundamentally different.

After the unbearable cost paid by thousands of families, I could no longer imagine standing beneath slogans of categorical refusal

Once again, I found myself serving an institution — alongside others — against which my Haredi peers were protesting. But after two years of war, after the unbearable cost paid by thousands of families, I could no longer imagine standing beneath slogans of categorical refusal. Even if some intended subtler messages, the dominant cry of “we will not serve” struck me as a moral failure.

Unlike a Supreme Court clerkship, which is a conventional step for anyone pursuing a legal career, my military service was neither obvious nor instrumental. It was not undertaken for advancement. It was meant to say yes — cautiously, thoughtfully, but clearly. A message diametrically opposed to that of the demonstration.

In that sense, I was grateful to the army — the very object of the protest — for sparing me the need to choose.

 

Not a Contradiction

I have described a tension between the great “no” of the demonstration and a personal “yes.” Yet the two are not irreconcilable.

Toward the end of my service, I spoke with a female soldier who was attending a commander course on base. In passing, she told me how she and her peers viewed our company — a group of Haredi men who had paused their lives to undergo basic training and enlist. “It’s incredible,” she said simply. “You give us hope.”

Her words offered anecdotal confirmation of something I have argued for years: Israeli society does not expect the full conscription of Haredi society. That is not the point. What it seeks — what it desperately needs — is partnership. Participation. A sense that we, the Haredim, are with the rest of the nation, sharing its burdens and its fate.

The protest’s message was precisely the opposite: we are not part. Haredi society stands apart. Am levadad yishkon.

Our presence on base conveyed something entirely different: we belong. That is the heart of the matter. And here lies the resolution of the apparent contradiction: in the appreciation that this is not a zero-sum game.

 

The Boundaries of the Torah World

Claims that the State of Israel is waging war on the Torah world are not dissimilar to accusations of genocide in Gaza. Both collapse under the weight of facts. If Israel were conducting genocide, it would be a singularly ineffective one. The same is true of the Torah world, which today numbers approximately 160,000 full-time learners (on the books).

What the State does demand is not destruction, but definition. That the Torah world articulate its boundaries — and that (a significant) part of Haredi society serve.

Historically, this balance existed organically. Before the remarkable rebuilding of the Torah world in Israel, the division between those whose Torah was their vocation and those who lived beyond the study hall emerged through personal choice. From among millions of Jews, a small elite chose lives of full devotion to Torah, often at great personal cost.

Even today, in the Diaspora — and to a limited extent in Israel — this model persists. Many Haredim choose paths outside the beit midrash, fully aware of the alternatives before them. That very choice creates balance. Lakewood itself, a city of Torah, is filled with God-fearing Jews whose Torah is not their sole occupation.

There is no need to artificially police the boundaries of the study hall. What is needed is choice

The lesson is clear: there is no need to artificially police the boundaries of the study hall. What is needed is choice — within a social framework that prizes Torah deeply, but not exclusively. From such a framework, balance emerges naturally.

The same applies to military service. Once service becomes a legitimate option, the obsessive fixation on who must serve and who must remain will fade. Choice itself will regulate the system. At the outset, incentives will be necessary — hence the importance of current conscription debates. But ultimately, service will not be determined by legislation or court rulings. It will hinge on whether society regards it as worthy, legitimate, and necessary — as a mitzvah.

The rest will follow.

***

Standing on base during those days of training, surrounded by uniforms, commands, fatigue, and quiet resolve, the question no longer felt abstract. It was not about ideology or slogans, but about presence. About showing up.

Israel does not ask the Haredi world to abandon its soul, only to stand with the rest of the nation in moments of trial. And Haredi society, for its part, need not surrender Torah in order to say yes. Between coercion and refusal lies a deeper covenant — one rooted in choice, responsibility, and belonging. When service becomes a legitimate path rather than a forbidden one, balance will re-emerge, not by force but by conscience. And then, without proclamations or marches, we will simply be there: part of the camp.

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In the picture: the 2025 Haredi demonstration against the draft (Zeevbr, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons)