by Hella Winston
Refugees from the hasidic world
The women are doing all they can to make me feel welcome (plying me with food, complimenting my sweater, producing photos of children), though I am sure this is just as awkward for them as it is for me. All of them are members of the extremely insular Satmar Hasidic sect, and mingling with a secular Jew like me—let alone having one in their home for a meal—is something most would do only under very unusual circumstances, if at all. But despite their hair coverings (monochromatic cloth turbans) and modest dress (long sleeved, high-necked sweaters, skirts well below the knee, thick stockings), there is something about these women that seems familiar, and soon I begin to feel more at ease.
by Hella Winston
Behind women’s masks of perfection ("My kids are wonderful. My life is happy. Feminists are wrong.") having to keep even tiny transgressions (like reading books in English, or flirting in a bar) from the eyes of the neighbors.
by Lynn Davidman
Some Hasidic men, despite no newspapers or T.V., learn to question. Escape routes for women follow a different path.