Why Haredim will never be part of Israeli society

In Israel, the military is more than a defense force; it’s the crucible where young adults forge a shared identity, a rite of passage that binds a diverse nation.

For most Israelis, serving in the Israel Defense Forces is a common language, a grueling but unifying entry into adulthood. But for the Haredi, or ultra-Orthodox Jewish community, this experience remains largely absent, creating a chasm that keeps them on the margins of Israeli society.

The issue isn’t their unwillingness to serve (although that is a problem in and of itself): it’s the tangible absence of that shared journey, a gap that shapes their isolation in profound, emotional ways.

Once again, it's not that they can't be accepted into Israeli society, it's the fact that they don't serve which sets them apart.

A Nation Forged in Uniform

Walk through Tel Aviv or Haifa, and you’ll hear it: stories of late nights in army barracks, of friendships born under pressure, of lessons learned in the Negev’s dust or the Golan’s chill.

For Israelis, mandatory conscription at 18 isn’t just about security; it’s also where secular and religious, Ashkenazi and Sephardi, urban and rural meet. In mess halls and training fields, they argue, laugh, and cry, emerging with a sense of belonging that carries into workplaces, universities, and neighborhoods. The IDF, for all its flaws, is Israel’s great equalizer, a place where a bank teller and a future tech mogul share a bunk and a purpose.

This shared language shapes adult life. Job interviews often start with, “Where did you serve?” Social circles form around unit buddies. Even political debates carry the weight of who carried a rifle and who didn’t. Service is more than just a duty: it’s a cultural currency, a badge of sacrifice that signals you’ve paid your dues to the collective.

The Haredi Absence

Haredim, numbering over 1.2 million or about 13% of Israel’s population, largely sit this out. Exemptions for full-time yeshiva students, rooted in a 1948 deal to preserve religious scholarship, have ballooned as the community grew. In 2024, only about 1,200 Haredim enlisted, a fraction of the 13,000 draft eligible each year, per IDF data.

While some Haredi units exist, like the Netzah Yehuda battalion, participation remains minimal. The rest stay in study halls, their lives centered on Torah, not tanks.

This isn’t about cowardice or disloyalty. Haredi communities cherish their role as spiritual guardians, and they truly believe their learning protects Israel as much as any soldier’s rifle (if not more). But the absence of that barracks camaraderie, the sweaty marches, the shared fear of a midnight alert, leaves them outside the national conversation.

A Cultural Disconnect

Imagine a young Haredi man, 22, brilliant in Talmudic debate, stepping into a Tel Aviv job interview. The manager, a former paratrooper, asks about his service. He explains his yeshiva studies, but the room cools. It’s not disdain though: it’s a void. The manager can’t picture him shouldering a pack or joking through a drill. That unspoken bond, built in boot camp, is absent, and the Haredi candidate feels it. He’s not less capable, but he’s an outsider in a society where army stories are a handshake.

This disconnect ripples. Haredim often live in insular enclaves like Bnei Brak or Mea Shearim, their schools teaching little secular curriculum. Without IDF service, they miss a rare chance to mix with Israelis who vote differently, love differently, dream differently. The army isn’t perfect, it’s messy, hierarchical, sometimes bruising, but it’s a melting pot where a kid from a kibbutz might bunk with one from a settlement. Haredim, by staying out, remain a world apart, their interactions with broader Israel limited to tense protests or fleeting encounters.

The Cost of Separation

The emotional toll is heavy. Haredi youth grow up knowing they’re seen as “other,” their contribution questioned in a nation that venerates sacrifice. Secular and national religious Israelis, meanwhile, carry resentment, feeling the draft’s burden falls unfairly.

A 2023 poll by the Israel Democracy Institute found 70% of Israelis support ending Haredi exemptions, a sentiment driven not by hatred but by a sense of unequal stakes. When a reservist leaves his family for Gaza, he wonders why his Haredi neighbor stays home, studying. The question isn’t just practical: it’s a wound to the shared ethos.

This divide shapes policy and perception. Haredi political parties, like Shas and United Torah Judaism, wield outsized influence, securing funds for yeshivas while defending exemptions. But their isolation breeds mistrust. In workplaces, Haredim face stereotypes as “freeloaders,” even if they work hard. Socially, friendships across the divide are rare, each side wary of the other’s values. The absence of that common IDF language, a late night watch, a botched drill turned into a laugh, means fewer bridges, fewer moments of “we’re in this together.”

A Path Untraveled

Could it be different? Some Haredim serve, proving integration is possible. The Netzah Yehuda battalion goes to out of its way to accommodate religious needs, and its soldiers earn respect. Programs like Shachar offer tech roles for Haredim. But these are exceptions, rather than the rule. Most Haredi leaders resist, fearing the army’s secular culture will erode their youth’s faith.

They’re not completely wrong to worry: IDF service exposes soldiers to new ideas, from atheism to Zionism, but if one's religion and Jewish practice is forged at home and at school, borne out of love for Judaism, belief in G-d, His Torah and Mitzvot and a profound understanding of the value of a deeply meaningful life, it's far from impossible to remain religious.

The tragedy isn’t just the draft dodge; it’s the missed chance for connection. A Haredi soldier sharing a tent with a Tel Aviv hipster might change both their worlds. They’d argue over kashrut, politics, life. They’d see each other’s humanity. Without that, Haredim remain a parallel society, their Torah study vital to them but invisible to the soldier who guarded a checkpoint all night.

A Nation’s Heartache

Israel thrives on its shared story: of survival, of standing together against odds. The IDF, for better or worse, is where that story is written, in sweat and sacrifice. Now, more than eve,. this is true, where all sectors of Israeli society, including many Druze serve, where they won't. The National Religious shoulder the burden, while they won't. And people are angry.

But even if you put that to the side, one thing rings true: Haredim, by missing this chapter, stand apart, not because they lack courage or love for Israel, but because they speak a different language. The pain of this divide runs deep, a quiet ache for a nation that longs to be whole but can’t find the words to bridge the gap.