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Dear Bintel,
I was raised Jewish and secular, and now I’m trying to be frum. I found a shul I love, and I want to convert to Orthodoxy because my mother’s halachic status as a Jew is insufficient. But I don’t think I can find a beit din that will accept me.
There are many ways that I clash with the majority of frum Jews. I’m anti-Zionist and support Palestinian liberation in no uncertain terms; I’m gay and proud.
But the biggest hurdle to being a part of this religious community is that I’m an out trans man. Even if I was already considered halachically Jewish, I wouldn’t be considered a Jewish man. I wouldn’t count in a minyan, I wouldn’t be given aliyot, I couldn’t leyn (chant from the Torah), and I couldn’t be the hazzan (cantor). I couldn’t be a full member of the community.
My rabbi is as supportive as he knows how to be and, after his own research, he lets me sit on the men’s side and shakes my hand, but most of the other men won’t touch me or even sit near me. It’s hard to say if they dislike me more for my queerness or my politics. Worse, the queer community is more antisemitic than anyone wants to admit, and I struggle to even talk to other queer Jews about my life as an aspiring Hasid because they don’t understand. I’m lonely.
I’ve tried out other Jewish communities — Reform, Kohenet, Trad-Egal, Modern Orthodox — but they aren’t good fits for me, aesthetically, spiritually or politically. I would rather be shunned in a frum shul than be welcomed somewhere else. I don’t like the discrimination, but the davening is incredible.
I know I’m not the first trans person in a hostile Orthodox environment, but I don’t know anyone who’s in a position to guide me. I’ve heard of a few other trans men who have navigated the same situation simply by being stealthy about everything — gender, politics and halachic status. But I can’t make myself that small.
On the other hand, because I’m out, lots of closeted trans people confide in me — people who want to change their clothes or try hormones but are afraid — but they’re in no position to help me. Instead, I help them. It seems like all the out trans people get (understandably) fed up and leave.
Am I naive for trying to fit in somewhere that doesn’t want me? Should I hold my nose at the many things I don’t like about more progressive communities? Can I be frum without a community? People tell me I need to start my own community, but I don’t have the shul skills, Jewish education or material resources to do that yet. Is there some secret fifth thing I haven’t thought of?
Signed,
Trans, frum and lonely
Dear TFL,
You may feel as lonely as a wandering Jew, but as you yourself note, you are by no means alone. Orthodox Judaism recently got its first openly gay rabbi , and I follow a popular rabbi on TikTok who uses the platform to #protecttranskids.
And check this out: Jewish Voice for Peace’s Havurah Network is a group for religious Jews seeking anti-Zionist prayer and ritual where you’d be heartily welcomed. Halachic Left also has many queer observant members, and though it welcomes both Zionists and anti-Zionists, they have sent groups to pro-Palestinian protests.
Of course it’s possible that, like the other options you discarded, none of these are perfect fits. And while I’m sympathetic to your challenges, you do seem a bit unrealistic. You won’t compromise to fit in with an existing community, but you don’t want to build your own; instead, you want others to create your perfect world. I also can’t help but note that you seem unbothered by the fact that the religious privileges you seek as a man are routinely denied to most Orthodox women — you’ve already rejected Trad-Egal services, in which the prayer is Orthodox but all genders can participate fully.
Bottom line: Nobody gets everything they want in life. You can always advocate for yourself, as it sounds like you have — successfully — with your current rabbi. But there’s no perfect solution that’s going to drop from the sky ready-made. Judaism is full of rules and compromises, and like the Talmudic sages, it’s ultimately up to you to decide which values matter so much that you’re willing to compromise.
Maybe you want the perfect davening experience, and that’s worth praying alongside people who disagree with you about Israel. But maybe even the most incredible Kabbalat Shabbat is ruined if you can’t take part fully, and you’re willing to make do with a community that’s still frum without the exact vibe you were hoping for. Choosing between imperfect options is simply part of life.
Also, while I get that you don’t feel ready to create your own havurah, I urge you to consider baby steps to build the community you seek. Invite like-minded folks over for a Shabbat potluck, a Yom Kippur break-fast, a Rosh Hashanah New Year’s toast, or dinner in your sukkah. No matter how much you love davening, so much Jewish joy comes from celebrating rituals outside shul.
Advice from an Orthodox trans man
All of that said, I want to address your practical questions with some specific advice. To help guide you in finding a beit din and participating in rituals typically reserved for cisgender men, I consulted with Avraham Kolenski, a trans man who went through an Orthodox conversion. He wrote a memoir about his journey, As Long as I ‘m Still Breathing: Becoming a Transgender Orthodox Jew , and generously took the time to offer detailed guidance for your queries.
“I can relate to many of your difficulties,” he wrote in response to your Bintel letter. “There’s two separate issues here: finding acceptance in a community while wanting to be frum, and finding an Orthodox beit din to do a conversion.”
Kolenski says you may have to engage with different communities to accomplish your goals. After all, the beit din must be conservative enough to “satisfy the community you end up in,” but it must be also progressive enough “to not discriminate against you for being a trans man.”
That won’t be easy, Kolenski said, but it’s feasible. He did two Orthodox conversions, one with a more progressive Modern Orthodox community in the U.S., and another with a mainstream Orthodox beit din in Israel.
Socially, Kolenski pointed out that some Chabad shuls welcome trans people while offering the Hasidic milieu you enjoy.
“I know some people who don’t fit in more ‘right-wing’ communities but are Hasidic who have found their place” in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, where Chabad is headquartered, he said.
Some shuls there, he explained, “cater to people who, for whatever reason, have something putting them a bit out of the box as Orthodoxy goes.” He knows individuals who converted in more progressive Modern Orthodox settings who were accepted by Chabad, and he also knows of communities in Crown Heights that might offer solidarity around your politics, “even if it’s not where you daven.”
Kolenski added that “Neo-Hasidic” communities might also be a good option, as they are trans-accepting and egalitarian, allowing people other than cisgender men to fully participate in services and rituals while being otherwise fully observant.
“I do think you can find your place in Jewish community, but you might not find everything you’re looking for in one community,” Kolenski advised. Whatever you do, he stressed, don’t stay “in a community where you don’t feel accepted just because it satisfies your religious needs. That doesn’t sound sustainable to me.”
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