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THE LOST TRIBE
By HEIDI SINGER
IN a dark little bar on the outskirts of her neighborhood, "Dini" trades her thick flesh-colored stockings and navy suit for high heels and short skirt. Back home in
Hasidic Williamsburg, she's the model of piousness - except for the dark towels covering her windows when she's watching her illicit TV, sneaked into her apartment in a garbage bag.
So goes the secret double life of a Hasidic rebel in the ultra-Orthodox Satmar sect, whose members live in a time warp and shun contact with the outside world.
A controversial new book, "Unchosen: The Hidden Lives of Hasidic Rebels," takes a bold look at the handful of Hasids who just don't fit into their close-knit but strictly religious communities. Author Hella Winston spent many months exploring this largely unknown Orthodox underworld for her doctoral thesis at City University of New York, and found stories of Hasids hoping to either cope or escape.
Some of the subjects, like Malkie Schwartz, boldly rip away their fur hats, wigs and prayer shawls and walk away from family, friends and the only community they've ever known, building new lives on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Others, like "Yossi," shave their beards and stop believing in a "Torah life," but struggle to find their way in the outside world, remaining with a foot uncomfortably in each.
And then there are married fathers like Yitzach, who doesn't dare rebel openly - but secretly dreams of getting a tattoo. Others take their fantasies a step farther, watching movies and reading non-religious books, changing into jeans and gelling back their sidelocks on the subway to Manhattan - and blogging about their lives on the Internet.
Although she's been taking heat from the ultra-Orthodox at book readings and Jewish radio shows, Winston insisted she's not attacking Hasidism.
"By no means do I have an agenda to condemn these communities or the religion," says Winston, who's Jewish. "I'm trying to show a side of things that really hasn't been out there - to show there are some serious problems and people are suffering."
The book's main character, Yossi (like most of her subjects, Winston changed his name to protect his identity) was a respected young scholar from the ultra-secretive Bobov sect, trapped in a loveless arranged marriage and a faith that no longer made sense to him.
After getting divorced and shaving his beard, Yossi's father kicked him out of the house and cut him loose. These days, Yossi mostly wanders around the city, looking for free things to do, and dreaming of going to college and becoming a filmmaker. At night, he hangs out in an East Village bar, changing into his religious garb for the subway ride back to Boro Park, where he lives with his grandmother.
"Some people make a religion of leaving - they want nothing more to do with the neighborhood," says the mild-mannered youth, over cheese blintzes in a Boro Park eatery. "But I come to Boro Park, I still schmooze."
Now that he has left, Yossi knows the tell-tale signs of other Hasids in rebellion. Walking down a residential street off bustling 13th Avenue, the heart of Boro Park, he points out suspected double-livers.
"That guy, he had a nice trim beard and short sidelocks," Yossi says, pointing to a young man hurrying down the street. "If someone trims, you know he's up to something."
Yossi still has a Yiddish accent, but in secular clothes, he walks and stands differently. When he's in a bookstore, coffee shop or even a nightclub, he sometimes spots other Hasidic rebels just by their posture. He's been shocked to discover the number of fellow travelers.
"I see it's not such a small community as they tell you - and there's always coming new people," he says. "I thought I might have a hard time adjusting but I found people from all communities are the same. They have the same craziness."
The book brings out some fascinating things about Hasids' reaction to the larger world.
Hasidic men are notorious night owls, accustomed to big gatherings with alcohol and dancing. So it's only natural they gravitate to nightclubs to recreate some semblance of the social life left behind.
And secret male TV watchers love Jennifer Aniston on "Friends," because her hair looks a little like the wigs Hassidic women don to cover their shaved heads. But "Seinfeld," the quintessential TV show about New York Jews isn't so popular, according to Yossi.
But Winston was amazed not by the differences but the similarities as she researched "Unchosen."
"The most striking to me was just how much like everybody else they are," Winston says. "They like the same kinds of things the rest of us do - like the Yankees or "Friends."
Hasid sects & the city
Hasids are ultra-Orthodox Jews whose members are dedicated to a "Torah" life. They worship with fervent prayer, song and dance and mystical devotion. Men wear dark suits and hats, with long beards and sidelocks. Women dress modestly and wear wigs or scarves.
About 200,000 Hasids live in the New York City area, mostly in Williamsburg, Crown Heights, Boro Park and Rockland and Orange counties. Sects are named after the Eastern European regions where they originated. Three of the most common in New York City:
Satmar - The largest sect, originated in Hungary and is among the most conservative. Its members are anti-Israel.
Bobov - From Poland, this group is less political.
Lubavitch - A Russian sect, it's concentrated in Crown Heights and is considered the most open to outsiders. Members try to recruit other Jews.
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RAPPER MATISYAHU - FROM BIBLE TO BILLBOARD
By CHRIS ERIKSON
COULD a bearded, brim-hatted Lubavitcher from Crown Heights be one of next year's breakout musical stars?
It's not as far-fetched as it might sound. Since his live album was released last year, the buzz has been growing around Matisyahu, a 26-year-old vocalist whose music combines reggae, hip-hop and Jewish spirituality.
It's an unlikely brew, but there are growing signs that it may be more marketable than anyone might have guessed. Released last winter, Matisyahu's "Live at Stubbs," a set recorded in Austin, Texas (at, ironically enough, a barbecue restaurant), has sold over 100,000 copies, and is still rising up the Billboard alternative chart, where it's No. 2 in the "heatseekers" category.
Matisyahu turned a lot of heads last summer at the music fest Bonnaroo, when in front of 90,000 people he got up onstage with former Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio to beatbox, chant ure and duet on the Bob Marley classic "No Woman No Cry." And in January he'll release his major-label debut on Epic Records.
"He's very quickly caught a buzz," says Josh Baron, executive editor of the music magazine Relix. "His music has a lot of appeal, and his live act is great."
It's another odd turn in the life of the former Matthew Miller, who grew up in a Reconstructionist Jewish household in White Plains. Miller got into reggae as a high-school student; after he dropped out, his adventures included several months spent following the jam band Phish on tour.
A spiritual seeker of sorts, Miller connected with his Jewish roots on a trip to Israel, and later became a convert to Chabad Hasidism, after meeting a rabbi in Washington Square Park. While studying 10 hours a day in a Crown Heights yeshiva, he never gave up his music (though dating women and taking drugs had to go). Eventually he released his debut, "Shake Off the Dust ... Arise!" in July 2004.
Onstage, Matisyahu cuts a decidedly original figure, incorporating quotes from the Torah and melodies from Hasidic chants into songs that percolate over a reggae beat, extolling devotion to God while wearing the traditional black suit.
Though a seeming contradiction, it helps that Matisyahu is part of the Lubavitch branch, which is more open to such creative outlets, says Hella Winston, author of "Unchosen: The Hidden Lives of Hasidic Rebels" "You couldn't be a Satmar rapper, I'm told," she says.
Still, Matisyahu's rabbi keeps tabs on his career, making sure he lives in accordance with the rules of the sect - he eschews Friday night gigs, for example, and requires kosher food at venues. He'd rather Matisyahu was back at the yeshiva studying, but, the singer has said, he feels a sense of mission about his new calling.
"I have a way to affect people and uplift them," he said last year. "To give that up is to go against what God wants."
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