Ruhi Çenet’s documentary, America’s Most Secretive Jewish Community: Hasidic Jews (48 Hours Inside), reached nearly 50 million views within a matter of days, igniting a major debate not only in Turkey but also in the United States. Its success cannot be dismissed. Çenet introduced a vast audience to a community that lives in the heart of modern New York yet remains, to a certain extent, insulated from the outside world, with its distinctive clothing, family structure, educational institutions, and daily rituals.
Yet the documentary’s greatest achievement also produced its greatest weakness: striking images overshadowed historical context. It did not adequately explain how internally diverse the world presented under the label “Hasidic Jews” actually is, or how differently its various groups approach Zionism, the State of Israel, and the idea of the Messiah. As a result, viewers were encouraged to draw conclusions about all Hasidim on the basis of one particular Hasidic milieu.
Hasidism, however, is not a single community. Nor is Chabad-Lubavitch simply another name for Hasidism as a whole.
What Does “Hasid” Mean?
The word “Hasid” comes from the Hebrew ḥasid, meaning “pious,” “devout,” “faithful to God,” or “righteous.” Its plural is Hasidim, while the doctrine and way of life are known as Hasidut. The term long predates modern Hasidism; for centuries, Jewish tradition used it to describe individuals distinguished by extraordinary piety and moral rigor.
Today, however, “Hasidism” primarily refers to the mystical-religious movement that emerged in the eighteenth century in Podolia and Volhynia—regions then belonging to the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and now located largely within western Ukraine. The movement’s founding figure was Israel ben Eliezer, known by the title Baal Shem Tov, “Master of the Good Name.” Although historians debate whether he personally founded an organized sect, they broadly agree that later generations transformed his teachings into a major religious movement. An Oxford University Press discussion of Hasidic history likewise notes that the Baal Shem Tov wrote little and probably did not consciously intend to establish a new movement. (Oxford University Press: https://blog.oup.com/2012/09/toward-a-new-history-of-hasidism/)
Hasidism challenged an understanding of religious life centered exclusively on the textual learning of elite rabbis. In its place, it emphasized prayer, joy, music, dance, mystical experience, and the presence of God in everyday life. Over time, however, this relatively populist spiritual revival developed into a collection of “dynasties,” each organized around a rabbi who functioned not merely as an authority on religious law but also as a charismatic spiritual leader. In many groups, leadership passed from father to son or to another male member of the same family, turning these communities into social and dynastic structures as well as religious ones.
When Did They Come to America, and Where Did They Come From?
The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries brought large waves of Jewish migration from Eastern Europe to the United States. Hasidim were among these immigrants, but the enclosed and highly institutionalized Hasidic neighborhoods familiar today developed primarily after World War II and the Holocaust. After the Nazis destroyed Jewish life and the great Hasidic centers of Eastern Europe, surviving rabbis and their followers settled mainly in the United States—especially New York—as well as in Mandatory Palestine and, later, Israel. Hasidism lost the classical Eastern European world in which it had flourished, but rebuilt itself in America and Israel. (YIVO Encyclopedia: https://encyclopedia.yivo.org/article/9; PBS, A Life Apart: https://www.pbs.org/alifeapart/intro_93.html)
Williamsburg, Crown Heights, and Borough Park in Brooklyn, along with Monsey, New Square, and Kiryas Joel in New York State, became major centers of this new world. But Hasidim do not live only in the United States. In a comprehensive study based on community directories, Marcin Wodziński identified approximately 129,000 Hasidic households as of 2016: roughly 62,000 in Israel, 53,000 in the United States, and the rest primarily in the United Kingdom and Canada, as well as elsewhere in Europe, Australia, and Latin America. Although the figures have changed since then, the geographical picture is clear: Israel and the United States are the two principal centers of Hasidism, but the movement is global. Chabad, meanwhile, has the most visible international network, with centers and representatives in more than one hundred countries.
Which Hasidic Groups Are We Talking About?
Most Hasidic groups take their names from the Eastern European towns in which they originated. Satmar derives its name from Satu Mare, now in Romania; Lubavitch from Lyubavichi in Russia; Bobov from Bobowa in Poland; Belz from the town of Belz in present-day Ukraine; and Ger from Góra Kalwaria in Poland. Vizhnitz, Sanz, Skver, Karlin-Stolin, and numerous other dynasties belong to this broader landscape. Breslov stands apart because, after the death of its founder, Rabbi Nachman, in 1810, the movement did not appoint a new rabbi to succeed him.
Although these groups may appear similar from the outside, their approaches to education, contact with the wider world, use of technology, religious practice, and politics are not the same. Satmar represents an intensely insular and ideologically anti-Zionist tradition, whereas Chabad engages far more extensively with the outside world through its global outreach network, which seeks to connect with Jews wherever they may be. If you encounter a Hasidic center on a university campus, at an airport, in a tourist destination, or in a remote corner of the world, it most likely belongs to Chabad.
Black coats, hats, beards, and sidelocks therefore do not signify a single, monolithic political and religious community. All Hasidim belong to the Haredi-Orthodox world, but not all Haredim are Hasidic, and not all Hasidim belong to Chabad.
Hasidism, Zionism, and the Messianic Expectation
One of the most important divisions among Hasidic groups concerns Zionism. According to classical Jewish religious thought, the end of the Jewish exile, the return to the Holy Land, and ultimate redemption will be completed with the coming of the Messiah. Political Zionism, which emerged in the late nineteenth century and was led largely by secular nationalists, sought to establish a Jewish state without waiting for the Messiah.
The Satmar tradition regards this project as wrong not only politically but also theologically. From the Satmar perspective, any human attempt to end the exile by force and establish a sovereign state before the Messiah’s arrival constitutes interference with the divine will. Satmar is therefore ideologically anti-Zionist, even though it has followers who live in Israel. One of the movement’s foundational texts, Va-Yo’el Moshe, is regarded in academic literature as one of the strongest modern Jewish texts opposing Zionism and the State of Israel. (Jewish Quarterly Review / JSTOR: https://www.jstor.org/stable/27274826)
It would nevertheless be wrong to conclude that “Hasidim are generally opposed to Israel.” Many dynasties take a pragmatic or neutral approach to the State of Israel, while others cooperate with it. Some are represented in Israeli politics through Haredi parties. Moreover, refusing to grant the State of Israel theological sanctity is not the same as opposing the security of Israeli society, the Jewish presence in the Holy Land, or every policy pursued by a particular Israeli government.
Chabad is perhaps the most striking example of this distinction. Historically, it has kept its distance from secular political Zionism and does not regard the state as the embodiment of messianic redemption. At the same time, it displays an exceptionally strong commitment to Israel, to the safety of Jews living there, and to the religious significance of the “Land of Israel.” Because it opposes territorial concessions, maintains close ties with the settlement movement, and supports hawkish security policies, Chabad appears in contemporary political terms to be strongly pro-Israel and often aligned with the Israeli right. Chabad’s own publications acknowledge that its early leaders opposed European nationalist Zionism, while arguing that after Israel’s establishment the issue had to be approached differently, in the context of Jewish life and security. (Chabad.org: https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/7084976/jewish/Pious-Arguments-Against-Defending-Israel-Refuted.htm)
Çenet’s post-documentary statement that “the Hasidim we filmed were members of Chabad-Lubavitch and were highly Zionist” is therefore important, but conceptually incomplete. A more accurate formulation would be this: Chabad is not the product of classical Zionist ideology; nevertheless, today it is strongly pro-Israel, deeply oriented toward the Holy Land, and close to the policies of the Israeli right on many issues. (Çenet’s statement as reported by Türkiye Today: https://www.turkiyetoday.com/nation/ruhi-cenet-says-hasidic-community-did-not-expect-political-documentary-3227487)
What Makes Chabad-Lubavitch Different?
“Chabad” is an acronym formed from the initial Hebrew letters of Chokhmah (wisdom), Binah (understanding), and Da’at (knowledge). The movement was founded in the late eighteenth century by Shneur Zalman of Liadi, and its foundational text, the Tanya, was published in 1796. “Lubavitch” is the name of the Russian town that served as the movement’s center for many years. (Jewish Virtual Library: https://jewishvirtuallibrary.org/lubavitch-and-chabad)
The sixth Lubavitch rabbi, Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, was rescued from Nazi-occupied Europe and arrived in New York in 1940. The building at 770 Eastern Parkway in Crown Heights became the movement’s headquarters that same year. His son-in-law, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, reached New York in 1941 and became the seventh rabbi and leader of the movement in 1951. (Chabad’s history of 770: https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/6277677/jewish/What-Is-770-Eastern-Parkway.htm)
Schneerson transformed a small Hasidic circle, largely devastated by the war, into a global organization. Representatives known as shluchim, whom he dispatched around the world, sought to reach Jews whose religious identity had weakened or who lacked access to Jewish institutions. This is the source of Chabad’s visibility and media sophistication. What distinguishes it from movements such as Satmar, which prefer greater separation from the outside world, is its selective use of modern tools in the service of religious outreach rather than their outright rejection.
A Dead Messiah: Chabad’s Great Paradox
The central issue that distinguishes Chabad from other Hasidic movements—and that the documentary almost entirely missed—is the messianic belief that developed around Menachem Mendel Schneerson.
Especially during Schneerson’s later years, some followers came to believe that he was the long-awaited Jewish Messiah. Even after he suffered a stroke in 1992, lost the ability to speak, and died in 1994, that belief did not disappear completely. On the contrary, some adherents sought to resolve the obvious theological contradiction created by his death by claiming that Schneerson had not truly died, had merely gone into hiding, or would reappear to complete his messianic mission. A study published in the Harvard Divinity Bulletin examines how, decades after the rabbi’s death, some Chabad members continue to believe in his messianic identity. (Harvard Divinity Bulletin: https://bulletin.hds.harvard.edu/after-the-death-of-chabads-messiah/)
The problem here is not limited to the question an outsider might ask: “How can a dead man become the Messiah in the future?” The claim is regarded as profoundly problematic within Jewish tradition itself. David Berger, an Orthodox rabbi and Jewish historian, argues that the belief that a person who died without fulfilling the messianic mission will return to complete it contradicts Judaism’s central objection to Christianity over the past two thousand years. In his view, this brings Chabad messianism, ironically, close to the Christian belief in the Second Coming of Jesus.
Fairness, however, requires an important qualification: not all members of Chabad believe that Schneerson is the Messiah. After his death, the movement divided broadly between the Meshichists and those who either reject the messianic claim or seek to keep it out of public discourse. Chabad’s institutional mainstream places Schneerson’s legacy and authority at its center but tries to distance itself from openly proclaiming the deceased rabbi as the Messiah. Some groups, however, continue to call him the “King Messiah,” place messianic slogans beneath his photographs, and await his reappearance.
This belief provoked serious opposition among other Orthodox and Hasidic communities. Some rabbis called for a boycott of Chabad; others regarded the beliefs of its messianic wing as lying beyond the boundaries of Judaism. Nor did the tension remain confined to relations between Chabad and other communities. At times, it escalated into physical confrontations within Chabad itself.
The Real Story Behind the Tunnels
The unauthorized tunnel discovered beneath 770 Eastern Parkway in 2024 was linked online to conspiracy theories involving child trafficking. The police charges concerned offenses such as criminal mischief, reckless endangerment, and obstruction of governmental administration; no evidence was found that the tunnel had been used for the sinister purposes alleged online. (Associated Press: https://apnews.com/article/30dea243e1619716f8274ebc7f596f5c)
Yet the tunnel itself was not meaningless. The incident grew out of a long-running conflict between Chabad’s messianic faction and its institutional leadership over control of 770 and over how Schneerson’s desire to expand the building should be interpreted. In particular, radical messianic youths associated with a religious school in Safed, Israel—known as the Tzfatim—believed they were carrying out the rabbi’s will. Chabad’s institutional leadership, by contrast, described them as “rogue” and “extremist.” For years, these groups had clashed over the silencing of slogans and the destruction of books, with disputes sometimes escalating to beard-pulling and fistfights. (The Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2024/jan/16/crown-heights-tunnels-tzfat-chabad-lubavitch-synagogue-brooklyn)
Understanding the tunnels therefore requires understanding the struggle over messianism and authority within Chabad. This was one of the most historically dramatic stories available to Çenet’s documentary. Yet because the beliefs and factional conflict behind the tunnels were not adequately explained, viewers were given mystery without meaning.
Why Does the Documentary Resonate with Conservative Viewers?
What remained with viewers was not only the community’s insularity, public assistance, or political influence. The documentary also presented a way of life in which religion governs every detail of daily existence and in which large families, communal solidarity, traditional gender roles, and continuity across generations occupy a central place.
It is plausible that these images inspired a degree of admiration among conservative American Christians and even conservative Muslims. Faced with secularization, the weakening of the family, loneliness, and the loss of identity, Hasidic life can appear from the outside to offer strong belonging, discipline, and meaning. There is a kind of conservative mirror effect at work: the beliefs differ, but the objections to the modern world—and the values these communities seek to preserve—are often similar.
The Documentary’s Fundamental Error: Mistaking the Part for the Whole
Ruhi Çenet’s documentary is problematic not because it is ill-intentioned, but because its historical perspective is weak. The title “Hasidic Jews” creates the expectation that viewers are being taken inside the Hasidic world as a whole. In reality, the camera proceeds largely through particular individuals, locations, and circles associated with Chabad. When Satmar’s anti-Zionism, the distinct political practices of Ger and Belz, Breslov’s leaderless structure, and Chabad’s uniquely outward-facing outreach model are left unexplained, “the Hasidim” appear to constitute a homogeneous bloc with a single political will.
This omission also creates fertile ground for the question: “Are Zionists deliberately bringing these people to public attention in a controlled way?” But any such claim would require concrete evidence. A more plausible explanation is that Chabad is already open to the outside world, understands how to use media, operates on a global scale, and offers filmmakers easier access than more insular groups such as Satmar. That accessibility, in turn, allows it to be presented as though it represented Hasidism as a whole.
The real criticism should therefore be directed not toward a conspiracy theory, but toward the documentary’s method. Çenet captured powerful images but failed to locate the community he filmed clearly enough on the broader Hasidic map. Had he explained Chabad’s historical distance from political Zionism alongside its strong contemporary support for Israel, the messianic split that followed Schneerson’s death, and the relationship between that split and the tunnels, the result could have been not merely a widely watched documentary, but a genuinely instructive one.
For the most fascinating aspect of this story is not the black hats, long beards, or homes without internet access. The real story is how a movement that resists modernity built one of the modern world’s most effective communications networks; how it maintained a theological distance from political Zionism while becoming one of Israel’s most forceful defenders; and how, from within a tradition that rejects Christianity’s understanding of the Messiah, there emerged a group awaiting the return of its dead leader.
That is the great paradox the documentary missed.
