More than three years have passed since the ultra-Orthodox world was rocked by allegations of sexual abuse two highly prominent figures: Chaim Walder and Yehuda Meshi-Zahav. In November 2021, Haaretz published an investigation alleging that Walder – a much-loved columnist and author, especially of children’s literature – sexually abused young girls over the course of many years, while at the same time maintaining an image as a respected and approachable public figure. One of the girls he assaulted was little more than 12 when the exploitation began, while two others were 15 and 20. Walder died by suicide just weeks after publication of the allegations. Haaretz also exposed evidence that Meshi-Zahav – the founder and chairman of the Zaka emergency response unit – sexually harassed and assaulted men, women, boys, and girls. Just hours before Uvda, Channel 12’s flagship investigative program, was due to publish further evidence against him, Meshi-Zahav tried to hang himself. He survived but died in hospital more than a year later.

One could be forgiven for thinking that the exposure of such heinous crimes, involving two prominent and respected figures, would lead to some kind of soul-searching and recalibration of the mechanisms of oversight in ultra-Orthodox society – especially given the shockwaves that these cases sent through the community itself. This, however, is far from being the situation today. Testimony collected by Shomrim indicates that the culture of silencing around “sensitive issues” and the practice of urging male and female victims of sexual assault not to turn to the police but, rather, to “deal with the issue” more discreetly, continue unabated.

The culture of silencing permeates every aspect of ultra-Orthodox society. Rabbis and influential community figures are known to handle cases of sexual assault, yet based on extensive evidence and testimony, their primary goal appears to be “keeping the dirt from getting out” and ensuring that Israel’s law enforcement agencies are not involved. The silence in the ultra-Orthodox media is equally deafening. Aside from the NGO Hineni - Lo Tishtok, virtually no one is addressing the issue. Even those who have already made the difficult decision to speak out face intense pressure to remain silent. Out of fear that they or their families could be targeted, all the survivors who agreed to be interviewed for this article insisted on complete anonymity.

Efraim – not his real name – is very familiar with the behind-the-scenes efforts within ultra-Orthodox society to bring the Meshi-Zahav and Waldman affairs to a quiet conclusion. In the end, he says, those two affairs damaged the people within ultra-Orthodox society who tried to bring them to light or to help the victims. Efraim cites one particular rabbi, whose name has also been redacted here, among those people. “He cooperated with the investigation into Walder and, thereafter, he met with the people handling it. He was one of those people who condemned Walder. That led to a conflict with one of the most important councils of ultra-Orthodox rabbis; in other words, the people who really run things. Now, that rabbi is a far less influential figure than he was before,” Efrain tells Shomrim.

Aharon Rabinovitz, the Haaretz journalist who, along with Shira Elk, published the original investigation into Walder, agrees that breaking the walls of silence that exist in ultra-Orthodox society can come at a very heavy price. “There are two parts to the silencing: the active silencing happens when someone is very literally told to be quiet; the passive silencing happens when someone simply decides not to say anything because they are afraid or ashamed,” he says. To illustrate his point, Rabinovitz points to another Haaretz investigation, which uncovered recordings and evidence of alleged pressure applied by senior rabbis from the Ger Hasidic community against a female victim of sexual assault and her family – in an effort to persuade them to withdraw a criminal complaint. “The moment that the story about the complaints and the intimidation gets out and people see what happens to anyone who complains – everyone else is too frightened to speak out,” Rabinovitz adds.

Mechanisms of Silencing

Racheli – not her real name – never imagined as a 17-year-old that an evening spent babysitting for her neighbors in Bnei Brak would end like it did; with the father of the children – a yeshiva student from the central stream of Hasidism – raping her. Unlike many other victims of sexual assault, Racheli did not stay silent and told her family what had happened. Her father contacted influential figures within the Hasidic community, who told him that the usual procedure was for the alleged abuser to be summoned to a hearing at which he would be presented with the allegations against him. If he denied them, these figures told Racheli’s father, a police complaint could be considered.

During the hearing, the alleged culprit vehemently denied any wrongdoing but, nonetheless, no police complaint was submitted. Racheli and her family were told that this was because the accused declared that he was willing to undergo a polygraph test. According to these influential figures, this was enough to prove his innocence, without even needing to administer the test.

The rape and the subsequent coverup took a heavy price from Racheli and her family. Her brother, who contacted Shomrim, says that after the incident, Racheli suffered a severe emotional breakdown, which in turn led to addiction. Recently, he says, she was in rehab, in an effort to get her life back on track.

Racheli’s story is a little unusual, in that the family pushed for some kind of process within the community, but silencing within ultra-Orthodox society appears in many forms – even in cases where the victim has left the Haredi fold. This was the case with David, a 23-year-old former member of the ultra-Orthodox community, who experienced the destructive nature of this silencing twice.

“When I was in eighth grade, a teacher from another class sexually abused me,” he tells Shomrim. “He would call me into his room after classes, lock the door and perform sexual acts on me. He did the same to other children.” According to David, he and his friends talked to each other about these incidents and realized that they were going through similar experiences; together, they decided to approach another teacher to complain. “The teacher we approached was nice; he didn’t assault us and didn’t hit the children, unlike the others,” David says.

The teacher’s proposed solution was odd. According to David, he invited each of the boys to a separate, nighttime meeting at the synagogue – without their parents’ knowledge – where he lectured them on the importance of remaining pure. “He told us that the synagogue had been dedicated to the souls of girls in the Holocaust that the Germans wanted to do unholy things to – and they killed themselves. Looking back, I wonder what he wanted to tell us. Was he trying to suggest we kill ourselves?”

A few days later, David says, the school principal summoned the boys. “The nice teacher was also there, and the principal asked whether what I had complained to him about was true. I said that it was, and the principal asked: ‘Are you sure he’s not just hugging you and so on? Because sometimes it happens that a teacher likes some students more than others.’ I said that I am sure, and he replied that he would handle it.”

That, according to David, was the end of the matter. No police complaint was ever filed and the teacher who assaulted him and his friends continued to work at the same school for years thereafter.

The second time that David experienced the ultra-Orthodox mechanisms of silencing came two years ago, when he decided to report that abusive teacher to the police. Even though he had already left ultra-Orthodox society, his family was put under intense pressure from every direction – all aimed at persuading David to withdraw his police complaint. Among those contacting the family was somebody who said he had been asked to do so by the school principal. “The principal convinced them that it was all made up and the imagination of someone who had abandoned his faith and was now trying to denigrate ultra-Orthodox people,” he says.

Other people – both members of the extended family and acquaintances – tried to persuade David’s immediate family to pressure him, too. They told them that the principal had recently been widowed, that he was trying to marry off a daughter and so on and so forth. According to David, his mother consulted various rabbis and influential figures in the community – each of whom also pressured her and sent her to another rabbi. “One of these figures tried to intimidate her by saying that she could get into trouble and that she could be investigated,” David says.

Halacha on the Line: Who’s Really Answering Ultra-Orthodox Hotline Calls?

One of the so-called solutions that ultra-Orthodox society employs to deal with sensitive issues of this kind is Halaha Hotlines. These are dedicated hotlines for members of the ultra-Orthodox community who want to consult with rabbis and halachic teachers about any aspect of their lives. Who are the people dishing out advice from the other end of a telephone line and how much do they really understand the areas on which they are being asked? The people using these hotlines cannot answer those questions, but it is doubtful whether any of the counselors have the training or knowledge to answer some of the questions they are asked.

Hani is also a former member of the ultra-Orthodox community. She is in her late 20s and, when she was a child, she was raped and sexually abused over many years by a relative. When she was 19, she says, she felt that she had to do something to come to terms with the assaults she experienced and, at a certain point, she called the Halacha Hotline. “I was convinced that I had done something wrong, that I had transgressed. So, I called to ask how I could atone for my sins,” she tells Shomrim. The rabbi who answered the phone, she says, saw fit to “interrogate her,” asking her, for example, whether the incidents happened after she started menstruating and whether she played any role in the abuse happening. “And then he told me that I should just shut it up in a ‘black box’ and I would forget about it. In order to ‘repent,’ he told me I should donate 200 shekels to charity, recant and forget about it all. He told me that there is also the option of therapy, if I wanted, but he said it would be better just to forget about it.”

Despite the rabbi’s advice, Hani was unable to simply “ forget” the assaults and, at the age of 20, she told her mother for the first time. Together, they went to see a rabbi from their neighborhood – whose name is known to Shomrim – and who was considered one of the leading rabbis in the community. “I thought about filing a complaint, but he said that it would be bad for the family, that it would make a lot of noise and that maybe we would be better off not complaining. Not long after we had been to see him, the post-traumatic symptoms erupted, and I was hospitalized.”

Reservations expressed by rabbis — on Halacha hotlines and beyond — are a recurring theme in how ultra-Orthodox society responds to victims who seek police involvement. Usually, this is accompanied by suggestions – sometimes subtle, sometimes less so – that “airing the community’s dirty laundry in public” is not the best course of action.

In order to understand the mechanisms in use, Shomrim listened in on a conversation with one of the better-known Halacha Hotlines within the ultra-Orthodox community. The rabbi who answered the call was told about a young girl who had been sexually abused and was extremely determined to reach out to the police.

Although the rabbi explained that the option of involving the police was open to her, he went into great detail about how difficult that process is compared to how easy it would be to resolve using his method. “I’ll tell you what,” the rabbi said. “I can believe you and right here [the abuser] cannot deny it; he’ll be sent to treatment and will overcome his problem. But if you go to the police, take into account that it will be his word against yours – and the case will be closed due to lack of evidence.”

The rabbi added that the threat of going to the police can be used as a bargaining chip in the complainant’s dealings with the abuser. “Because of that fear, when I tell him ‘You also have a bad conscience over what happened,’ he will be persuaded to go to treatment. I am telling you this from personal experience. We have more success in this than the police,” he added.

Another rabbi from a different hotline who was told the same story sounded more embarrassed than anything else. Asked about the possibility of filing a police complaint, he merely mumbled that, “there could be an issue of chillul hashem [desecrating the name of God]. It’s complicated,” he added.

How Shame and Fear Mute the Conversation on Sexual Abuse

Why does the leadership of the ultra-Orthodox community prefer to cover up allegations of sexual abuse, notwithstanding the known risks to the general population? The answers, according to several experts in the field, are varied – ranging from the “natural” tendency of a conservative and insular society to refrain from any mention of sex to concern about upsetting the status quo within the families and the community. In this context, chillul hashem is a concept that comes up many times. On many occasions, its meaning is quite different to what one might expect and is primarily linked to safeguarding the reputation of the community.

Sari Kroizer, one of the founders of Lo Tishtok (“Do not remain silent’ in Hebrew), which is “committed to fighting sexual assault in ultra-Orthodox communities,” says that “there is always a sense in ultra-Orthodox society that people have got it in for us, that they want to besmirch us and spread dirt. That, of course, is another good reason why many times they prefer to deal with things within the community – even more so when every involvement of outside authorities or the media could lead to a community boycott against the complainant.”

According to Kroizer, the insular nature of ultra-Orthodox society makes it a haven for abusers. “In ultra-Orthodox communities, there is no open discourse about sexuality — let alone sexual assault — and certainly not when it involves influential figures. You're also not allowed to speak negatively about your parents. All of these elements combine to create a powerful mechanism of silence. While the ultra-Orthodox world is made up of various communities, they all share a deep concern for reputation — whether it’s the victim’s, the abuser’s, or their families’. Reputation is everything. That’s why these matters are handled with extreme caution. Victims are often told that the best way to deal with such incidents is quietly, behind closed doors, because going public could damage their own or their siblings’ chances of finding a suitable match. In other words, you will be the first to suffer if the story gets out.”

According to Kroizer, shame and guilt are also key factors which determine that, in the end, any dialogue about sexual abuse in ultra-Orthodox society is stifled. As an example, she cites an opinion that is also prevalent among the “more modern” streams of ultra-Orthodox society, according to which shaming the abuser is not less serious than shaming the victim. “On many occasions, they will come to us and ask: ‘What are you doing? What are you making so much noise? Go away and quietly set up therapy centers that can help. Why are you saying all this out loud?’” she says.

Another explanation for the way that leaders of the ultra-Orthodox community view this issue can be found in a 2022 article by Rabbi Tzvi Winter. Considered a member of the modern Haredi stream, Winter wrote an op-ed in the online magazine Tzarich Iyun, in which he lashed out at what he called the “Haredi MeToo” era, which he attributed to a problematic global movement. “The movement’s activists are aware that mob responses to these exposés sometimes lead to other kinds of injustices, such as trials in the public square that harm accused parties without sufficient evidence, or which punish them excessively given the nature of the offenses. These, however, are justified as an unfortunate but probably inevitable side-effect of pursuing a worthy cause. Correcting the norms of behavior between men and women is a goal that they claim justifies the disproportionate punishments imposed on the victims of the movement, without excessive demand and interrogation,” he wrote.

As for the “Haredi MeToo” era, Winter wrote that “this vogue framing misaligns with core beliefs of Haredi society about sexuality and public discourse.” This, he went on to argue, is because “it imposes on the [ultra-Orthodox] public concepts and values that are foreign to it and especially harms the struggle to correct injustices in matters of modesty.”

While there are many voices like Winter’s in the ultra-Orthodox discourse, Rabinovitz believes that there ought to be and are other voices. “The only way to tackle this is to talk about sexual abuse in public. We have to explain that there is nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “That does not exist yet. There is change happening below the surface, but that is not enough yet.”