"I light Shabbat candles - and go to a party": The generation that broke the barriers between religion and secularism

It is a sight that is becoming more and more common: a festive Hafrashat Challah (taking of challah) in honor of an 18th birthday. Agam, the birthday girl, chose to mark the transition to adulthood in a way that was once reserved for brides before their wedding or for strictly religious women: Hafrashat Challah. Around the table, dozens of girls, many of them in shorts, tank tops, and with loose hair, listen with concentration to the words coming from the heart.

"It is amazing to see this," says Aiyar Zinger, the host of the Hafrashat Challah event. "Hafrashat Challah in honor of the birthday, to bless in this way the special day when you arrived in the world." Agam asked to invite all her friends, even those who in their daily lives are light-years away from synagogues or religious ceremonies. For them, this is not coercion and not a political statement - it is simply a way to connect.

What is happening in this room is a microcosm of a much broader phenomenon that has been sweeping Israel over the last two years. It is a rapprochement of secular youth with religion in a way different from what we knew; a way that the youth paved themselves, without intermediaries from the rabbinical establishment and without rigid rules of all or nothing.

The refuge of October 7th

When the girls are asked what caused them to approach religion, the answer almost always returns to one point in time: the morning of the Black Saturday. For a generation that grew up into a world of technological certainty, the war was the first and deepest fracture. "I can say that on the morning of October 7th, everything changed," says Yaali Abergel. "My father is a reservist. I woke up and saw him already packing his bag in uniform, and I had nothing to do. I couldn't go fight with him, I couldn't be with him. Faith was my refuge. The only thing left for me to do was to pray that he would be okay, and that he would return to me on Shabbat."

For many of them, prayer was not a return to religion in the classical sense, but an internal need for security in a world that lost its stability. Orian Voldfin Maman, a resident of Ashkelon, found God under rocket barrages. "In this situation, you look up and say - this is what I have right now," she recalls. "He is with me and that's it. You sit and pray and talk to Him, because you know you have no one else to talk to. You see mom in stress and dad in stress, and my sister was drafted into the army. Who else can I turn to?"

Religion - in the "For You" version

In the past, the path to religion went through yeshivas or seminars, today it goes through the "For You" feed. "Today you will open TikTok and you can suddenly stumble upon a Torah lesson," says Mika Naor, one of the participants. Network influencers film themselves lighting Shabbat candles or sharing feelings from Hafrashat Challah, and this content becomes viral to the same extent as a dance video or a makeup recommendation.

Music plays a no less central role. Songs by artists like Odia and Ben Tzur, which combine texts of faith with up-to-date pop production, have become the soundtrack of this generation. In a survey that Orian conducted in a WhatsApp group of girls strengthening their faith, one figure was especially amazing: almost 95 percent of the girls feel that these songs manage to make them approach religion. "I am not a Rabbanit," said Odia during an interview on a special interview program. "But I feel that my songs have strengthened many people in approaching the Creator of the world. There are children who turn to me and tell me that they started keeping Shabbat thanks to a song."

The need for depth also comes as a reaction to the emptiness of social networks. "Most of the things that were on the networks until today were empty of content," explains Agam Levi, one of the participants in the birthday. "Swimsuits, parties - this is not something that has depth. Faith gives you something to hold onto."

The "both and" revolution

The most distinct characteristic of the phenomenon is the refusal of old definitions. These are girls and boys who live in both worlds simultaneously, without feeling a contradiction. "I can light Shabbat candles in the afternoon and in the evening go out to a party with friends, I don't think it contradicts," Yaali Abergel explains the philosophy of the new generation. "I light candles, but I don't eat kosher. What is important in my eyes is character and values," adds Noya Knor.

Orian shows us her wardrobe, which demonstrates the dissonance perfectly: "My wardrobe is half exposed and half modest. What is comfortable and good in the situation - that is what I will put on. If I feel that a skirt suits me, I will put on a skirt. If I want shorts, I will put them on. For me, any effort is a blessing."

Sigalit Banai, a director and lecturer in cinema, and also a mother of two children who are approaching religion - and since then she has been researching the subject. "It is very different from the return to religion that was in my generation, of people who crossed the lines like Uri Zohar. Suddenly there is a whole generation that says: 'Guys, all your definitions are null and void. We are inventing something new - we will be both religious and secular'."

It doesn't stop only with the girls. Among the boys, the phenomenon is also evident. Yanir Hershko, a waiter in Petah Tikva, walks around with tzitzit under his shirt but is not in a hurry to wear a kippah regularly. "It is very dependent on the day," he says. "Sometimes the tzitzit are inside, sometimes outside. I keep Shabbat 'once in a while', I try as much as possible. Sometimes I travel on Shabbat, but if I do, then in an electric car, because that is not lighting a fire." For Yanir and his friends, faith is also a tool for strengthening before military service: "It is strengthening to know that there is someone who guards us and holds us when we go to fight."

The fear of the slippery slope

Despite the openness of the teenagers, for the parents it is sometimes an anxiety-inducing event. In liberal secular homes, the appearance of a skirt or a demand for kashrut in the kitchen is sometimes received with suspicion. "I came from a home that is the most opposite of religious as possible," says Lihai Shapira. "The second I told them that I was strengthening my faith, they belittled me. My brother told me: 'I am returning from the big trip and preparing shrimp for you, you will eat'. There is no discussion at all."

Parents fear the slippery slope - what started as a small external sign might turn into a foreign lifestyle that will separate the child from his family. "For me, it sits within categories that scare me a little," admits Banai as a mother of teenagers strengthening their faith. However, she also identifies the family gain: "I suddenly have teenagers at home without a phone on Shabbat. They don't go out on Friday night, they are with us, we play cards and have conversations. It is a huge gain as a family."

Ultimately, this youth teaches adults a lesson in flexibility. In a world where everyone tries to label and divide, they choose soft patterns. "Life is much more interesting when it is both and and and," summarizes one of Agam's friends, while they organize together for the continuation of the celebrations. Their faith might not match any traditional halachic protocol, but for them it is the most real anchor they have in the heart of the Israeli storm.