‘Chasdei Hashem” is the memorable catchphrase and refrain of the Shtisel series, the saga of a haredi family in an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Jerusalem that continued this past spring in a third, English-subtitled Netflix season, much to the delight of its diverse and international following of Jewish and non-Jewish fans. The phrase, which translates as “the kindnesses of God,” is regularly invoked in gratitude for good tidings but also in response to news or information that is undesirable and unwelcome. In its bipolarity it captures the essence of faith: the profession of belief in divine wisdom and providence, even when events elude human understanding and cause suffering. We’ve been witness in the last years to innumerable manifestations of corruption and violence around the world, and more recently, submerged in the fear and uncertainty of the COVID pandemic. Is it any wonder that the practices and beliefs of the faith-based community presented in Shtisel offer solace and comfort, even to the unfaithful?
Unlike the series’s creators and directors, Elon and Indursky, the actors in Shtisel do not stem from religious backgrounds, yet in their inhabitation of ultra-Orthodox dress, speech and mannerisms, in all their singularity, they convey the universality of human dreams and struggles: loss of a parent and spouse, the search for a soul mate, romantic rejection, the yearning for creative expression, infertility and even sibling rivalry. As viewers, we are drawn past the unfamiliar, perhaps off-putting appearance of these haredi Jews in their frock coats, sidelocks and head coverings and into their hearts and minds that turn out to function very much like ours. We come to know the characters in both their best and worst aspects, but even as they wrestle with their ungenerous and darker instincts, love, and especially family love, mostly triumphs. Shulem, the lead character, is initially presented in the full flower of his selfishness and narrow-mindedness: we learn early on that one daughter is estranged because of his opposition to her marriage years earlier, while in the present time of Season 1 he refuses financial aid to another daughter and son-in-law (Giti and her husband, Lippe) who would like to open a hardware store – thereby setting in motion a spiral of tragic repercussions for that family. The widower Shulem’s cluelessness and poor judgment play out in his attempts to find a new wife, as well, but unexpectedly in that process, he comes to mourn the loss of his wife, Devorah, whom it appears he has never fully appreciated in her lifetime.
The evolution of the dramatis personae in Shtisel is captivating, but almost overlooked because it is so seamlessly merged in the fabric of the narrative is the role of God, who is ever present, albeit invisible. A New Yorker article lauding the impact and artistry of Shtisel included a Norwegian Christian man’s disclosure that Shtisel made him long for the childhood in Geula (the religious Jerusalem neighborhood where the show is set) that he never had. Along with viewers’ nostalgic identification with intergenerational family solidarity and connectivity, is it possible that vestigial, perhaps archaic, feelings about living in a world defined by belief and security in the omnipresence and authority of God also tug at their hearts? This is not likely the conscious or lived experience of most contemporary assimilated Jews or of secular people in general, for whom a God-centered worldview has become further tainted by association with the destructive exertions of religious fundamentalism.
There’s a great gulf between the world of Shtisel and the depiction in My Unorthodox Life, a recent Netflix release, of ultra-Orthodox life as an oppressive system of rules that subjugate women and deny life’s pleasures and satisfactions to men and women alike. The chief fear of this reality show protagonist, Julia Haart, who has triumphantly escaped what she portrays as a draconian system, while drawing three of her four children into her newfound sybaritic empire, is that her youngest child will fall prey to the evils of “fundamentalism.” This fundamentalism is hardly of the Taliban variety, but refers to her son’s desire to abide by an Orthodox code of modesty regarding behavior with girls and his lack of enthusiasm for his mother’s version of secular life, which centers on flamboyant clothing, opulent surroundings, and forbidden (unkosher) foods. “All that glitters is not gold” might be the referendum on the over-the-top material world inhabited by Haart, particularly when compared with the materially modest but spiritually rich landscape of Shtisel.
Although at times notes of mutual animosity and distrust sound, Shtisel doesn’t enter the real-life conflicts between the ultra-Orthodox community and other segments of Israeli society. The view it presents of religious life is benign and softly lit, reflected in the translucently airy quality of Jerusalem light that filters through the narrow, crowded streets of Geula. Shtisel glides lightly over what elsewhere might be more harshly conveyed as religious constriction, on women in particular, and on freedom of individual expression. Tovie, wife of Shulem’s son, Tzvi Aryeh (who renounces his own dream of a musical career when it comes into conflict with Orthodox mores), skillfully maneuvers around her husband’s vetoes and secures both driving lessons and a car – ultimately garnering the satisfaction of her husband’s approval of their new status. And while the problems posed by Akiva’s artistic vocation, specifically the Orthodox Jewish taboo on representation of the human figure, are initially enacted in vivid conflicts with his father, they subside over time, as his family comes to accept his dual identity as artist and steadfastly observant Jew.
Bad things happen to good people in Shtisel, and much suffering ensues, but God remains an ally whose intercession is sought in times of trouble and need. Lippe, who like the prophet Jonah, rejects the authority of God and scripture in the wilds of Argentina, eventually returns to his family and his original lifestyle. Although we never learn how he deals with his temporary defection, in the last episode of Season 3 we see him on his knees, begging for God’s forgiveness and mercy on behalf of his daughter Ruchami, who is fighting for her life. And although Ruchami’s young and fervent husband, Chanina, is a stickler for halachic rectitude and stringency, his rabbinic mentor, Rabbi Soloveitchik, invokes a humane leniency in dealing with human anguish. Chanina stumbles on a passage in the Talmud that avows the salvation of someone accused by 999 people/angels and defended by just one person/angel – fortifying his belief in the improbable deliverance of his wife and his support of her in their joint endeavor. The power of one, manifested in the advocacy and protection of another being, human or divine, is undeniable. The quest to be a better and more whole person is bound up in religious values and principles, just as the bonds of family love are an extension of devotion to and love of God in Shtisel. Chasdei Hashem to all its viewers.
The writer is a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst in New York City. She has published in Azure, Encounter, Moment, The Forward, and Tikkun.