Letters to the Rosh Yeshiva

Dear Rav Shlomo,

      I was born to baalei tshuva Americans who made aliyah in the 70’s and moved to a settlement in the Judean Mountains which included other baalei tshuva families. Many of the children in our community were raised in the same way: an emphasis on learning Torah and serving Hashem wholeheartedly. However, it never occurred to our newly observant parents that we were not identifying with or assimilating into any particular religious group.

      I learned in a school with a maximum of 12 kids per class, therefore each student got a lot of individual attention. So school and home life were equally enjoyable. Even as a young boy, I felt like I had it all.

      My confusion began when I was applying to Yeshiva Ketana. I was trained by my Rebbes to withhold certain personal information, for example that I played basketball or read anything other than seforim. I was so focused on getting accepted to a good yeshiva that I was willing to lie about myself although it bothered me and had a lasting effect.

      I began Yeshiva Ketana with enthusiasm, bent on becoming a talmid chacham. The level was higher than I was used to and I devoted myself to bridging the gap. I was studying intensely, but I still got low marks on most of my tests. I was no match for native born Israelis with fathers and grandfathers who had themselves experienced the pressures of yeshiva life and could help them succeed.

      These low marks led to an equally low standing in the eyes of my fellow students, and I was unable to get a good chavrusa. I tried to convince the better students to learn with me, but all I heard was "I don't have time," or "I can't learn with you." Finally, I gathered the courage to approach my rebbe and asked him to find me a good chavrusa. "No problem," he said. "Come back tomorrow and I'll work on it." But nothing was ever arranged…

      I was becoming more and more disillusioned. I'll never forget the bitter tears I shed at feeling so left out and unvalued in the yeshiva world.

      At the age of 15, I began my second year in yeshiva. I decided that the only way to succeed would be to become a true masmid. I began to learn like a meshugeneh. I hardly ate; I barely slept; I spent every waking moment in the beis midrash. I convinced myself that I was enjoying this regimen and pushed myself to the limit of my physical powers, but it made no impression on the other boys and I still failed to gain a good chavrusa. And the rabbis? No pat on the back, no encouraging word, not even a warning that perhaps I was overdoing it and should take better care of myself. Nothing.

      I was so desperate for attention that I once ripped apart my graded test in front of the rabbi. Another low grade had broken me and the pain and rejection burned like hot coals. But the rabbi simply turned around and walked away. Another cry for help that was never answered.

      During my third year in yeshiva ketana I felt like Rabbi Akiva Eiger. I was doing "tzarich iyun," deep contemplation, every moment of the day. Questions like: "What am I doing here?" "How am I connected to this place?" "Where is Hashem in the picture?" haunted me. But these questions went unanswered.

      Finally I graduated and at the age of 17, with a better grasp of Gemora but a hole in my soul, I entered Yeshiva Gedola. At last I was given a good chavrusa and a Rosh yeshiva who knew how to smile. I started to feel a sense of belonging to the yeshiva I was in.

    After about a year in Yeshiva Gedola something happened. A certain rabbi told the Rosh yeshiva that he had seen me in a neighborhood café watching television. Whoever he had seen there, it hadn’t been me.

“Why?” I wondered. Why had this rabbi badmouthed me this way? Just because he thought he saw me, did this give him the right to destroy everything I had worked so hard to achieve?

      I ran away. I no longer wanted to be in a place where a Rabbi could do such a thing. I no longer felt a need or saw a purpose in being part of the yeshiva world. Yet I still wanted to be close to Hashem. That and the desire to give nachas to my parents caused me to enroll in yet another yeshiva.

      It seemed like a miracle when one of the rabbis there approached me and gently inquired why I wasn't more involved with the other students and yeshiva life in general.

      I asked him if he would really try to understand and help me if I opened my heart. He answered, “Of course I will."

      And so, at the age of 18, I told him everything I had gone through in my years at yeshiva. I exposed my doubts about the charedi community and all it stood for, and trusted him to see that I was struggling for my place in the Torah world.

      There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds and then he spoke, “All I can say is this is not the yeshiva for you. I hope you will find a place that can save you.”

      In that one moment, this rabbi hurt me more than all the rabbis and students combined throughout my last four and a half years in yeshiva.

      This was the last betrayal I could withstand and I was soon out working, doing home renovations and moving jobs. It was hard physical work and I missed learning and dovening but I felt a tremendous relief just being myself. I no longer had to fit into a particular system or act a certain way. Yet I still hoped to find my own path back to Torah.

      It will come as no surprise that the great majority of my life-long friends, also sons of baalei tshuva, were going through similar trials. We were not Israelis but we were not Americans either. We were not secular and although we had grown up in a settlement we were not Dati Leumi. We weren’t baalei tshuva, having been born into religious families, but we were far from being standard FFB's with their legacy of Torah.  What were we and where did we belong?

      A year had passed when I met someone who recommended a wonderful yeshiva that helps modern orthodox students intensify their Torah observance and spirituality. He thought I might find what I was looking for in such a place.

      This yeshiva aimed to prepare their students to enter the "black" yeshiva world (which was certainly not what I was looking for). But the warmth of the rabbis and students gave me a reason to stay.

      But again, it was a hard fit. I had little in common with the Israeli modern orthodox students and he Rosh yeshiva finally concluded that his yeshiva was really not the place for me. His purpose was to motivate boys to enter the yeshiva world, not for those who had been inside it and dropped out.

      I heard about your yeshiva from a friend of mine who had just completed the army and was learning again for the first time in many years. You and your students made me feel so welcome and had so much in common with me that I immediately felt like I belonged. I feel so happy these last couple of months that I wanted to write and tell you how much I thank you and appreciate all your work.

      Your talmid,

      (Name withheld for sake of privacy)