The Hasid in a Keffiyeh

On a damp gray London afternoon, my daughter Anna and I were walking down Whitehall, enjoying one of those rare moments when the city feels calm. As we passed 10 Downing Street, the quiet broke. A cluster of Neturei Karta men in fur hats and black coats stood waving placards accusing Israel of terrorism. The visual felt surreal: Big Ben behind them and a hasid wrapped in a keffiyeh in front of us.

To my daughter, it felt frightening. To passing Londoners, it probably looked like pious Jews protesting their own people. To me, it felt pathetic.

I usually ignore them. Engagement oxygen keeps them alive. Something in that scene, maybe Anna’s reaction or the grotesque contrast, made it impossible to walk on. One of them began shouting a mangled Talmudic reference. I corrected him. My tone shifted from polite to cold. I told him, “Being a rasha [wicked] is forgivable. Being an am haaretz [ignoramus] is shameful.” He erupted, shouting for the police to arrest me. The constable smiled. Evidently, labeling a man ignorant still falls short of incitement.

Anna laughed at the absurdity. The moment lingered. As we continued toward Parliament, she asked a question I have heard from many Jews in recent months.

“Why would Jews do this?”

A fair question. Jewish unity feels fragile. External pressure exposes every internal crack. From a distance, the men in those fur hats look like representatives of Satmar, the largest Hasidic community in the world. Their cadence, clothing, borrowed quotations and posturing suggest it.

The truth lives elsewhere. Neturei Karta is not Satmar. Neturei Karta is a distortion of Satmar, a parody wearing its costume. This distinction matters. A community with deep roots and complex thought is being slandered in London streets by men who share nothing with it except a wardrobe.

To explain that, I needed to give Anna the outline of the man whose name they exploit, Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum.

Rabbi Teitelbaum never operated as a political actor in the modern sense. He survived the collapse of European Jewry. He rebuilt communities from nothing and shaped a Hasidic world that regained strength after devastation. His philosophy rested on one conviction: Jews must not force redemption through political sovereignty before the messianic era. For him, this principle did not function as strategy. It functioned as metaphysics.

His work “Vyoel Moshe” is often caricatured as an antizionist manifesto. The text offers a theological argument about timing, humility, faith and the danger of believing that human action can accelerate destiny. He grounded this view in the Talmudic passage known as the Three Oaths, a warning against mass ascent to the Land of Israel or rebellion against nations before a divine summons.

Plenty of great rabbis rejected this interpretation. They debated the sources and the logic. They did not question his sincerity or his love for Jews. That point matters. Rabbi Teitelbaum loved Israel. He cried for its soldiers. He instructed his followers to recite Tehillim during Israel’s early wars. He visited the land and built institutions there. His opposition focused on political theory, not on personal hostility toward Israelis or toward the land itself.

Neturei Karta ignores this entire foundation. They strip Satmar of thought. They keep the uniform. They replace a theology of patience with a performance of rage. They weaponize texts they do not understand. They march with people who celebrate Jewish suffering. Rabbi Teitelbaum condemned them in his lifetime. He called them traitors. He never wavered.

Satmar’s identity rests on safeguarding holiness through restraint and discipline. Neturei Karta thrives on spectacle. Spectacle becomes its creed and its only language.

There is another element worth noting. Satmar faces constant caricature as an inward-facing community. Their institutions tell a different story. The Satmar Bikur Cholim network in New York operates on a staggering scale. Anyone who has spent time in a hospital there has seen the impact. Food, transportation, lodging, companionship and real kindness reach thousands of Jews who live outside Satmar entirely. The work carries no publicity. It carries no agenda. It carries love.

Nothing in Neturei Karta resembles this spirit.

As Anna and I walked along the Embankment, I tried to give her a framework. Jewish history contains fierce arguments, yet most lived inside a shared family. Rabbi Teitelbaum’s view on Zionism frustrated many Jews, especially in the years after the Holocaust. The disagreement grew out of memory, trauma and faith. It did not grow out of contempt for other Jews. It did not lead to alliances with those who dream of our disappearance.

Neturei Karta functions as the opposite of that tradition. Outrage becomes its identity. Hostility becomes its comfort. Allies come from any group willing to hate Israel loudly. No theology guides them. No humility restrains them.

Anna needed that distinction. The wider world needs it as well. A hasid draped in a keffiyeh creates an image that suggests Satmar. Anyone who knows the history understands the opposite message. He represents the fear Rabbi Teitelbaum expressed more than half a century ago, the fear of Jews mistaking rebellion for righteousness.

The sun began to set over the Thames. I gave Anna the clearest answer I could.

Not every critic of Zionism is a traitor, but every traitor is a distortion of our faith.

Philip Gross is a New York–born writer based in London. His work explores history, culture and the conflicts that define contemporary politics.