Like myself, many members of Charedi society are second-generation children of baalei teshuvah. The teshuvah movement in Israel gained momentum in the 1970s, including numerous flourishing organizations and thousands of members, making baalei teshuvah integral to the fabric of Charedi Judaism. Over the years, various integration challenges emerged, including both institutional and cultural issues, particularly among the second generation of baalei teshuvah.
In this brief essay, I aim to propose a framework for understanding the unique and vital role of this generation.
A Cost Discourse
A few months ago, I was approached by an organization dedicated to baalei teshuvah and their families, requesting that I host a podcast focused on the children of the second generation. I inquired about the podcast’s purpose and discovered that they sought to highlight the numerous difficulties faced by these children due to the lack of acceptance within Haredi society (at best) or outright condemnation and ostracism (at worst). In other words, they aimed to raise awareness of the social, economic, and psychological needs of the second generation.
I declined the offer, not because the issues raised were unimportant—on the contrary, I believe these matters to be critical and deserving of attention—but because the voice I wish to amplify for the second generation is entirely different: one of empowerment rather than victimhood.
Indeed, much has been said about the heavy toll paid by children of baalei teshuvah within the Charedi space. The infamous joke notes, tongue in cheek, that the best way to augment Israel’s secular population is to encourage the teshuvah movement. We all know about the struggles of adaptation, the Charedi language barrier, and the comparison with similar experiences of other cultural immigrants.
We know about the pain parents go through, their helplessness in the face of a rigid and impersonal system, and their desperate attempts to integrate
Moreover, we know about the pain parents go through, their helplessness in the face of a rigid and impersonal system, and their desperate attempts to integrate. High dropout rates, rifts within families, and the heartbreak of cherished individuals who left everything to embrace a new life only to see their children moving in the opposite direction—all these are all too familiar.
Alongside the awareness of this pain and the insights it carries, I wish to raise a different voice, one that requires the perspective of time.
The Flaw is the Virtue
Israeli society, often portrayed in the media as fractured and divided, yearns for connection. It seeks a connection to tradition, to Jewish identity, and to people from diverse backgrounds. One need not be a prophet to sense this; it is enough to observe the prominence of various unity initiatives to know how deep this yearning runs.
One eye discerns the injustices and falsehoods in this community, while the other sees the parallel injustices and falsehoods in the other. One ear hears the shortcomings here, while the other is attuned to the shortcomings there
Into the pain of division steps the sacred mission of the children of baalei teshuvah. We speak two languages: Israeli and Charedi. One eye discerns the injustices and falsehoods in this community, while the other sees the parallel injustices and falsehoods in the other. One ear hears the shortcomings here, while the other is attuned to the shortcomings there. One foot stands in this world, and another in the other world across the fence.
This is not a sociological understanding, nor a detached, academic observation, but a genuine human empathy—an attunement to the frequencies and murmurs of the heart, a deep and alert comprehension of cultural and human processes.
Those very deficiencies lamented by the second generation—the experience of disconnection, the lack of a solidified identity, the sense of being an outsider—are transformed, in this moment, into a profound virtue. They enable us to engage in dialogue with each side, identifying with one while maintaining a degree of detachment from the other. This detachment allows for a measure of objectivity, dissolves any sense of paternalism, and grants us a two-dimensional perspective.
This ability is nothing short of extraordinary. It fosters identification with the values we choose to convey and radiates trust. This is not manipulation but truth—we possess the capacity for honest, authentic observation untainted by the need to defend what requires no defense. We strive for pure and genuine clarification, attuned to the sincere desires of the other side, too.
Three Peace Models
“Rabbi Chanan said: There are three symbols of peace: a river, a bird, and a pot. A river, as it is written, ‘Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river. (Yeshayahu 66:12)’ A bird, as it is written, ‘Like birds hovering, so will the Lord of Hosts protect’ (Yeshayahu 31:5). A pot, as it is written, ‘Hashem, You will establish peace for us’ (Yeshayahu 26:12).”
This teaching of the Sages has been widely discussed regarding the different types of peace. I offer a personal perspective to elucidate it without pretension to fully penetrate its depths.
The river’s way of making peace is by connecting two cities. The river enables people to trade goods, to come and go by boat, to give and take. The children of baalei teshuvah are a river. They connect the city from which their parents came to the city they have entered. They import ideas, symbols, customs, beliefs, and worldviews. Though the river challenges the inhabitants of both cities (its very existence permits migration, and one may, God forbid, drown in it), those who wish to benefit from it are enriched, their worlds expanded, and their narrow existence broadened.
The challenging choice to continue living between the sacred and the secular, without relinquishing either quality—not to clip their wings and live only on the ground, nor to sever their legs and remain only in the heights—is a choice that inspires both heaven and earth
The peace of the bird lies in its ability to live on both land and air, bringing the message of the heavens to the earth and the produce of the earth to the heavens. The mere presence of people who successfully traverse both worlds, establishes peace. One powerful expression of this is in the Israeli music scene—Charedim and secular Israelis alike listen with admiration to holy songs that articulate the gap between worlds as well as their deep connection. Artists like Shuli Rand, Evyatar Banai, and others are birds that bring peace by their very existence. A bird cannot be employed like a river, but it connects between worlds. The second generation of baalei teshuvah lives in this gap, whether they wish to or not. The challenging choice to continue living between the sacred and the secular, without relinquishing either quality—not to clip their wings and live only on the ground, nor to sever their legs and remain only in the heights—is a choice that inspires both heaven and earth.
In contrast, the pot is not merely a connection between two worlds but a synthesis of them. The pot, filled with all things good and fine, requires a fire beneath it despite the inherent danger of such a situation. The fire transforms the contents of the pot into something fit to eat. Deep within, second-generation children feel that Israeli society needs Charedi Judaism and its message and that Haredi Judaism needs Israeli society and its message. This understanding is something they yearn to proclaim with all their might. The second generation longs for the day when the fire will warm the water, the water will not extinguish the fire, and the two worlds will unite in love.
Our parents chose to embark on a nearly impossible journey. Now, we—the generation of children—must sweeten that journey
“Only of myself do I know to tell,” said the poet Rachel. I, too, speak of myself, but not only of myself. These words were written after identifying a trend and countless hours of conversation with many from the second generation of baalei teshuvah. They are beginning to understand that they possess a unique voice to share, a voice that both Charedi and Israeli society desperately need.
The Hearts of Fathers and Sons
“Behold, I will send you Eliyahu the prophet before the coming of the great and awesome day of Hashem. And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children, and the hearts of children to their fathers” (Malachi 3:23-24). It is often said jokingly that children go in the opposite direction of their fathers, and the grandchildren, who go in the opposite direction of their parents, bring the children—the parents—back to the fathers—the grandparents. Perhaps this is more than just a joke. Our parents chose to embark on a nearly impossible journey. Now, we—the generation of children—must sweeten that journey, bridge the worlds, and, in doing so, turn the hearts of the children back to their Father in Heaven.
