The ultra-Orthodox landscape of the early 2010s seemed to hold promise: Knesset Member Rabbi Chaim Amsalem split from Shas to form a moderate and inclusive ultra-Orthodox political movement; a petition filed by adv.
Yoav Laloum against ultra-Orthodox seminaries that discriminated against Sephardic girls was accepted by the Supreme Court; and in October 2012, an ultra-Orthodox activist named Esty Shoshan created a Facebook page calling on her ultra-Orthodox brothers not to vote for religious parties that excluded women from their lists.
"It was so radical and crazy at the time," Shoshan recalls today. "Ultra-Orthodox women were not only afraid to join this new initiative, they also didn’t know how to talk about feminism. The concept of 'ultra-Orthodox feminism' seemed impossible."
Yet, against all odds, the movement began to take shape, and by 2015, it was officially registered as an organization under the name "No Voice, No Vote" (in Hebrew: “Lo Nivcharot Lo Bocharot,” abbreviated as "LoNiLoBo"). The movement was led by Shoshan alongside four other women: Esty Reider-Indorsky, who co-founded the initiative and served as co-director alongside Shoshan, Tali Farkash, Racheli Ibenboim, and Michal Tsarno-Witzki. The organization was later renamed "Nivcharot" ("Chosen"). The story of the movement is detailed in Orly Tzarfati's new book, Women of Protest, which was recently celebrated at a special event at "ANU – Museum of the Jewish People."
"The first step I took was to check whether there was a halachic issue with electing women," Shoshan said at the book launch. "When I learned that this was a cultural, not a halachic issue, we turned to a learned rabbi, who published a Torah booklet clarifying that there is no halachic obstacle to electing women to the Knesset. However, the rabbi refused to attach his name to the booklet."
The rabbi’s decision to remain anonymous proved wise. Within just a few years, the movement penetrated collective ultra-Orthodox awareness. Many women joined the initiative in secret, and in 2018, the movement reached its peak when it joined Tami Ben-Porat in the "United Torah Judaism Supreme Court Petition" and succeeded in forcing United Torah Judaism and Shas to amend their party regulations, which had previously implied that women were prohibited from joining.
The success did not go unnoticed. Ultra-Orthodox rabbis and political activists began attacking the movement and its leaders. "Most of the attacks were related to mental health—they called us 'mentally ill,' 'schizophrenic.' Later, they graduated to calling us 'Reformists' and 'traitors to Israel,'" the activists recall.
Shoshan herself was falsely rumored to be divorced while still married. One day, she remembers, Lithuanian ultra-Orthodox activist Rabbi Mordechai Blau spoke about her on the radio, asking, "Who is this woman? Where do her children study?" "At that moment, I realized I had to protect my children," Shoshan says. "I understood I had to transfer them from their Lithuanian ultra-Orthodox schools before he sank his claws into them."
Despite the activists’ intensive efforts, women have still not been included in ultra-Orthodox political parties, nor has a women's ultra-Orthodox party been established. So, what has changed? Ahead of the 2015 Knesset elections, Shas created a seemingly avant-garde initiative: the "Shas Women’s Council." Party leader Aryeh Deri held a press conference and announced that the council, which was intended to promote women's issues, would be led by Rabbanit Adina Bar-Shalom, the eldest daughter of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, along with Deri’s wife, Yaffa. The event was impressive, even dramatic by ultra-Orthodox standards, and many ultra-Orthodox women dared to hope that change was finally on the horizon. But they were disappointed—the council never convened, and it quickly dissolved without leaving any public impact.
Surprisingly, Rabbanit Bar-Shalom reveals that her father supported the idea of a women’s council for Shas: "My father was very interested in and pushed for it. Eli Yishai, the then-chairman of Shas, was not interested. My father used words Yishai didn’t like when he said, 'We need an ultra-Orthodox Na’amat' [a reference to the secular women’s organization]. He didn’t say ‘like Na’amat,’ he said, 'an ultra-Orthodox Na’amat.'"
Initially, Bar-Shalom had high hopes for the initiative. "There were women in Shas whom my father met with to explore ways to promote things that would help them. I remember one strong woman from Be’er Sheva who used to sit with my father about this. That’s why, when Aryeh [Deri] said, 'Come help us revive the party, I’ll create and lead the women’s council,' I thought it would work," she explains.
In practice, she says with regret, women have no role in Shas. They hold no positions of influence and are not involved in decision-making. Could this change in the future? Bar-Shalom is adamant: "Shas today is not ready for this change. It’s a pale imitation of United Torah Judaism. Whatever United Torah Judaism does, Shas will follow."
Despite everything, Shoshan doesn’t believe her movement has failed. "In the past, there were just five of us. Today, many ultra-Orthodox women know how to talk about feminism," she says. "True, we haven’t gotten women into the Knesset, but we’ve created a political language for ultra-Orthodox women. They understand the distinction between the public and private spheres and what it means to remain outside the political game."
Shoshan also points to a fascinating recent development in the ultra-Orthodox community, which she says is a direct result of the movement’s work: in the last municipal elections, no fewer than 14 ultra-Orthodox women ran for office, and two were elected to local councils. Additionally, ultra-Orthodox women were appointed to lead religious councils by court order, such as Hila Hassan-Lefkowitz, the chairwoman of the religious council in Kfar Yona and a former "Nivcharot" activist.
Each year, "Nivcharot" runs long-term programs for ultra-Orthodox women, turning them into activists and equipping them with leadership tools. The organization also produces a popular podcast led by Shoshan. One of the program’s hosts is journalist and activist Efrat Shukrun (the daughter of Rabbi Chaim Amsalem, who split from Shas). Shukrun says she became aware of feminism on the day a Lithuanian seminary refused to accept her: "My father was at the height of his political and rabbinical power and could have fixed the situation with one phone call, but he refused to stoop to that level. When you witness injustices firsthand, you want to act."
When asked if ultra-Orthodox women themselves oppose change, Shoshan says: "Dozens of women join our programs every year, and even more apply for admission. They share personal stories and experiences, particularly from rabbinical courts, which is entirely new. In the past, women like this were seen as crazy or insolent for demanding their rights. Today, many ultra-Orthodox women understand they have the legitimacy to speak up and fight for their rights."
Does ultra-Orthodox education hinder feminism?
"Ultra-Orthodox education promotes an ideal that often comes at a high personal cost. For example, the aspiration for a Torah scholar husband and a life of financial struggle doesn’t suit everyone. Similarly, in marital dynamics, the idea of 'a righteous woman does her husband’s will' has evolved into a metaphor of head and neck: the husband is the head, and the wife is the neck, subtly guiding him. This model undeniably undermines women’s sovereignty over themselves."
Are you optimistic?
"The day a law forces ultra-Orthodox parties to include women, they’ll grit their teeth but find a way to compromise. They won’t risk being excluded from the Knesset, even if the price is including a female MK," says Shukrun.
Shoshan is confident this will happen: "I don’t know when. We’ve laid the groundwork, and the struggle for those who follow us won’t be as difficult as ours. The next ultra-Orthodox female MKs may still be playing in a kindergarten yard, but their time will come."
Would you become MKs yourselves?
"I never dreamed of it," Shoshan admits. "I wanted to make an impact, to bring about change, but I’m not sure I’d be a good politician."
Shukrun doesn’t rule out the possibility but says she’s waiting for the day when she’d be recognized as an independent social and political entity: "I won’t join the Knesset just to fill a token female slot."
