‘I have chosen the way of faith’

When released hostage Agam Berger stepped off the helicopter, amid the deafening roar of its blades, she held up a whiteboard bearing a single line from Psalm 119: “I have chosen the way of faith” – derech emunah bacharti. Recently, a major Haredi political party chose those same words as its central election slogan . The phrase is far more than a slogan. It expresses something fundamental about Haredi society, that is often missed by those observing it from outside. Political parties ordinarily build their campaigns around promises, policies, and personalities. In the Haredi world, politics rests upon something deeper and far more enduring: a way of life shaped by faith. I came to understand the political significance of that difference during my years as chief of staff to the president of Israel. I sat in the most confidential rooms of the President’s Residence as party leaders arrived to recommend whom the president should entrust with forming a government. I watched alliances take shape, promises dissolve, and political calculations change almost overnight. During the unprecedented political upheaval of 2019, Israel was forced into repeated elections, the situation became so surreal that when we prepared the formal documents granting the mandate to form a government, the candidate’s first name remained the same – Benjamin – and only the surname had to be changed. The documents barely changed. Everything else did. Parties rose dramatically in the polls and then vanished. Political partnerships presented as historic broke apart. Leaders changed their positions as the electorate shifted beneath them. The Israeli political landscape appeared to rearrange itself with every new election. Against that turbulence, one fact stood out: the remarkable endurance of Haredi political representation. For decades, United Torah Judaism and Shas have maintained a degree of electoral stability that almost no other sector of Israeli society has achieved. Their voters are not entirely satisfied, nor are they untouched by the difficulties facing their communities. Haredi families live with those difficulties every day. Political loyalty should never be confused with the belief that every politician has succeeded or that every problem has been solved. New political voices may therefore express genuine frustration and raise questions that deserve to be heard. But anyone who sees that frustration and concludes that the foundations of Haredi political life are about to collapse has misunderstood what holds them together. The source of that endurance is not primarily political. It is spiritual, familial, and communal. It cannot be understood through conventional polling alone because it was not created by an election campaign. Recently, the Haredi daily newspaper, “Hamodia,” printed its main editorial headline in Japanese. The translated message was simple: “You do not understand us.” The front page was jarring, but its point was exact. The national conversation about Haredi society, particularly around military enlistment and the place of Torah study, is taking place in two different languages. Each side hears the words of the other, but not necessarily their meaning. It is no coincidence that Hebrew uses the phrase, “ hashkafat olam” – literally, a view of the world. What we see depends upon where we stand. If I stand on one mountain and you stand on another, we can look toward the same horizon and see two different landscapes. We may argue endlessly over which of us is describing reality correctly, while each remains unable to see what is visible from the other peak. To understand one another, we must be prepared to descend from our respective mountains, meet somewhere between them and look outward together. For a Haredi Jew, Torah study is not one communal interest among many, nor merely a cultural tradition requiring protection. It is bound up with the purpose and continuity of the Jewish people. The conviction that Torah sustains us is not a political message invented by party strategists. It is embedded in the rhythm of Haredi life and passed quietly from one generation to the next. One of the most moving moments in the weekly life of a Haredi home comes when a mother lights the Shabbat candles. Countless preparations lead to that moment. Meals have been cooked, the house has been cleaned, the silver polished, and the children bathed and dressed. Then the mother steps forward in her Shabbat clothes, covers her face with her hands, and prays. She asks God to grant her children and grandchildren wisdom and understanding; that they should love God, fear Him, and illuminate the world through Torah and good deeds. In those few private moments, she expresses the deepest aspiration of the home she is building. Long before her children know the name of a political party, they understand what their family holds sacred. This is the language in which Haredi political choices are ultimately made. That does not mean the Haredi community fears every change or considers its leaders beyond criticism. Yet change within the Haredi world rarely occurs because someone outside it declares that its foundations are illegitimate. It happens through trust, necessity, patient leadership and the ability to distinguish between what is sacred and what can be adapted. That distinction matters enormously. There is a tendency in Israeli public debate to treat every expression of Haredi resistance as proof of extremism or political manipulation. There is an equal temptation within Haredi society to experience every external demand as an attempt to destroy the Torah world. Neither reflex brings us closer to a solution. The Haredi community must be able to speak honestly about the pressures its families face and the responsibilities carried by the wider country. The rest of Israeli society must be able to understand that Haredi resistance is not simply stubbornness, opportunism, or indifference. It often comes from a deeply felt fear that what begins as a demand for participation will end as a demand to surrender identity. Political leaders on all sides find it easier to mobilize fear than to build trust. Fear keeps communities close and voters loyal. Translation is harder. It requires each side to explain not only what it demands, but what it fears losing. During my years at the President’s Residence, I watched political leaders negotiate over ministries, budgets, legislation, and mandates. But the most difficult conflicts in Israeli society are not ultimately arguments about numbers. They are arguments about identity, memory, and purpose. They cannot be resolved through political arithmetic alone. This is why neither a louder campaign nor a new political banner can by itself resolve the fracture between Haredi and wider Israeli society. Political movements may change, and leadership can and should be tested. But the underlying Haredi commitment to Torah, community, and continuity is not a passing electoral preference. External pressure frequently has the opposite of its intended effect. When Haredim believe their home is being threatened, even those who have questions or frustrations tend to return instinctively to its defense. The way forward is therefore not to imagine that the Haredi community can be defeated, frightened, or embarrassed into abandoning its foundational commitments. Nor can the Haredi community assume that faith relieves it of the need to hear the pain and anxiety of other Israelis. Each side must learn to recognize the humanity and sincerity of the other. “I have chosen the way of faith” does not mean that every practical arrangement must remain frozen forever. It means that change must be navigated according to a compass that the Haredi community will not discard. If Israeli society wants to break free of its tragic deadlock, it must stop shouting from one mountain to the other. The hour has come to descend from our opposing peaks, meet somewhere in the middle and begin the difficult work of translation. Only then might we discover that understanding another person’s language does not require surrendering our own.