I am horrified and heartbroken.
The New York State Legislature is passing a bill to dilute and delay the implementation of education standards at yeshivas and other nonpublic schools across the state.
I grew up in the Hasidic community, a world where the needs of the community always came before the needs of the individual. A child’s well-being could be overlooked if it brought shame to the family or community.
At 16, my parents pulled me out of high school. I was devastated and tried to enlist the help of rabbis and others to support my desire to finish school. Instead of help, I was met with derision. My parents knew what was best, and that was that.
In the back of my mind, I always believed that if outsiders had known, someone would have stepped in, and I would have gotten the reprieve I deserved
But this week’s events have proven me wrong. Leaders everywhere are willing to overlook the well-being of children for political expediency.
In 2022, after years of advocacy by YAFFED, an organization that fights for the educational rights of Hasidic children, and one that I led for more than a year, the New York State Education Department released regulations to ensure that students in nonpublic schools would receive a basic academic education.
These regulations were rooted in a century-old law that guarantees every child in New York an education that enables them to function in modern society, regardless of which school they attend.
For generations, the Hasidic and parts of the Haredi community have openly disregarded this law, particularly when it comes to educating boys. The new regulations weren’t punitive. They were carefully crafted to protect children while honoring religious practice through culturally sensitive oversight.
And now, in one swift move, our leaders, led by Gov. Hochul, have passed a bill that guts those protections. Another generation of children will be denied the freedom and opportunity that only an education can provide.
I’ve spent years speaking out about this issue, not because it was easy, but because I had no choice.
In 2019, I filed a lawsuit against my youngest son’s yeshiva because he wasn’t learning how to read or write in English. He was bright and curious, and he was being failed by the very people who claimed to care for him. That lawsuit cost me dearly. I was cut off from community, from family, from any sense of safety.
But I did it because I believed that my child, and every child, deserves the chance to learn and to imagine a future beyond what’s been handed to them.
I have 14 grandchildren currently attending yeshivas. I don’t see most of them. I’m not a regular part of their lives. But I know they are bright and curious children who deserve an education.
Some of my children have called me a Nazi, a traitor. For the simple act of fighting for their right to learn. And even through that pain, I worry for them. I worry about what their children are missing. I worry about the curiosity that’s being crushed and the doors that will be closed to them before they even know those doors exist.
What devastates me most is not just that this is happening, but how familiar it feels.
I left a system that protected itself at all costs, thinking the outside world would be different. But what I’ve come to understand is that systems everywhere protect themselves first. Whether it’s religious authorities or political leaders, a beis din or the New York State Legislature, the instinct is the same: preserve power, maintain control, and silence dissent.
This decision doesn’t just hurt children. It erases them. It tells them they don’t matter and that their futures are worth sacrificing for someone else’s comfort or convenience.
For those of us who’ve already lived through that kind of erasure, this moment cuts even deeper. It’s not just political. It’s personal. And it’s a painful reminder that even speaking the truth, at great cost, doesn’t always change the outcome.
I may not see the impact today. But I will keep speaking, for the children who’ve been silenced, for the women who’ve been erased, and for the futures we still have a chance to fight for.
I know what it’s like to be voiceless. I know what silence costs. I’ve lived it. And I won’t go quiet again.
Weber is the former executive director of YAFFED.
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