In a Post-Work World, Israel’s Ultra-Orthodox Point the Way

(Bloomberg Businessweek) -- The relentless march of technology evokes fears that machines will one day displace most humans from work, and with good reason. Artificial intelligence can coach soccer players and write news stories, and more than 2 million robots make everything from Porsches to pizzas—a number that researcher Oxford Economics predicts will jump tenfold over the next decade, sending 20 million factory hands to the unemployment lines. So how to find purpose in this low-employment future in which erstwhile workers have almost unlimited free time?

Some researchers suggest looking at one of the world’s most traditional communities: the ultra-Orthodox, or Haredim, of Israel.

Thousands of Haredi men—distinguished by a look modeled after 18th century Polish nobility, with long side-curls, black fedoras, and knee-length coats—don’t work and instead spend their days studying religious texts. They live off government support and their wives’ salaries, and they shun smartphones for fear of encountering unfiltered information and immodest imagery. Yet in a government survey published last year, 98% of ultra-Orthodox said they’re satisfied with their lives, more than any other group in Israel. Yuval Noah Harari, a bestselling author and history professor at Hebrew University of Jerusalem, calls the Haredim “the most successful experiment so far in how to live a contented life in a post-work world.”

Few Haredi men receive a secular education past their early teens, locking them out of many fields. By adulthood, roughly half of them spend as much as 12 hours a day poring over ancient texts, debating biblical history and the finer points of Judaic law in community centers, synagogues, or religious schools. “The main passion is to be able to sustain the family’s needs and not necessarily run after money,” says Eli Paley, owner of Mishpacha Media Group, a publisher that serves the Orthodox community.

Religious study wouldn’t be the first choice of most people pushed out of the labor force. But some economists and politicians who envision a society without jobs at the center have called for a basic minimum income for everyone. While opponents of the idea say the vast sums needed would be better spent on more targeted policies, supporters insist it’s the only way to provide economic stability in times of mass displacement. And the concept is gaining momentum: Former Democratic presidential candidate Andrew Yang made such a plan the centerpiece of his campaign. Coronavirus relief programs have some similarities to the idea, offering cash payments and subsidies for the jobless (the U.S. alone has logged about 17 million new unemployment claims in recent weeks).

The income that Israel’s Haredim get from state support is indeed “basic”—at best. A Haredi family can get as much as 5,000 shekels ($1,400) a month in various forms of government assistance, according to the Israel Democracy Institute, a research center in Jerusalem. That sum, roughly equivalent to Israel’s minimum wage, is usually supplemented by the earnings of women in the community. Their employment rate is similar to that of secular Jewish women, but they tend to earn less, because they typically work part time or in lower-level jobs such as teaching.

Members of the community insist their lifestyle forges close social bonds, though those ties have become a threat in the coronavirus era. The outbreak is spreading much faster among Haredim than in secular Israeli communities as some rabbis were slow to end prayer services and study sessions despite a government-ordered lockdown. Gilad Malach, director of the ultra-Orthodox program at the Israel Democracy Institute, questions the reliability of quality-of-life surveys. “I’m not sure we can trust that they live in paradise,” he says. When outsiders ask “whether they’re satisfied, they see themselves as obliged to say they are.”

For millennia, Jews have closely examined the founding texts of Judaism, and today’s Haredim draw inspiration from an 18th century Eastern European movement, the Mitnagdim, that prized devout study. The current arrangement dates to 1949, when founding Israeli Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion granted some 400 religious scholars an exemption from mandatory military service. Since then, the ranks of exempted scholars have surged, to about 30,000 today.

Haredi women have on average seven children, vs. just more than two for secular Jewish Israelis; by 2040, ultra-Orthodox will account for about a fifth of the population, double today’s share. That’s spurring a backlash among secular Israelis angered that their taxes and army service allow the ultra-Orthodox a free ride even as the growing Haredi population has seen increasing political influence. On issues from public transportation on the Sabbath to marriage, the Haredim have been able to impose their rules on all Israelis. “Our problems begin and end with the Haredim,” says Dan Ben-David, president of the Shoresh Institution for Socioeconomic Research. “It’s a bit of a fallacy that they don’t want to live in a modern world. They want to, and they certainly know how to enjoy all the benefits of the modern world without any concern for the rest of the country.”

Growing numbers of ultra-Orthodox, balking at the prospect of nonstop religious study or seeking to make a greater contribution, are embracing an alternative lifestyle. Some have founded tech startups, others work in national security (Torah study isn’t that different from parsing intelligence documents), and there’s even a military group for Haredim who want to serve, with religious instruction, kosher meals, and no women. “I couldn’t sit and study the Torah all day,” says Major Yossi Levi, who was raised in the community but chose a career in the army. “I felt like I had to make the choice alone. There is no choice in Haredi society.”

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