Last Friday night, I went to the house of a family friend for a tish that had been organised by the local kolel. In attendance were 25 men and five women. The women were made to sit on the sofa, whilst the men sat round the table studying and singing. The women could join in only in hushed tones. They were discouraged from sitting with the religious men or chatting to them — so instead they gossiped and were forgotten. Sometimes they got up to pour their husband a drink. 

The evening was excruciating. I wanted nothing more than to join in, study, sing and chat to the men. But I was told time and again that my presence would upset them, my participation would embarrass them and my brashness would simply be inappropriate.

This is just one example of what it feels like to be a Jewish woman in a religious space. It is totally normal to prevent women from accessing and participating in their own religion. We are simply not welcome.  

Women are told to keep our voices low when we’re praying, are told not to dance in Shul on Simchat Torah, and are made to feel guilty for simply being visible to religious men. 

At my school, female religious education was never prioritised in the same way as male religious education. Whilst the boys’ class was regularly taught by the deputy head of religious education and learned rabbis, the girls’ class was taught by Beit staff, who are frankly much less qualified. No wonder so few bothered to turn up…

I want to be an active participant in my Judaism. I want to sing loudly, dance proudly and engage publicly. That public participation would, for me, be a meaningful way to practice my religion. 

At university I decided that if religious spaces did not want me, then I did not want them. Though I love being Jewish — the food, the music, the people — I’m afraid to say that I now hold a lot of resentment towards my religion.

It doesn’t feel nice to be excluded. I hate feeling embarrassed for practicing loudly. I don’t like it when religious men refuse to look me in the eye when we’re engaging in conversation. 

It causes me much frustration and sadness. I would love to participate more fully. Though the cultural aspect is beautiful, in spite of everything I am still deeply in love with many aspects of religious practice. 

Don’t get me wrong: when the religious aspects of Judaism can be practised on my own terms, I get involved. When I’m in an environment where I am able to pray as loudly and as freely as I like, then I do. I host Friday night dinners every week, partake in all the festivals and keep kosher. 

But when it comes to the formal participation of Judaism, women are hugely excluded from leadership roles and public practice. There are no accepted female Orthodox rabbis and women in United Synagogue shuls are literally not allowed to participate in the service. Whilst boys are needed to form a minyan, women are simply tolerated in prayer spaces. 

That is why Miriam Lorie is so inspiring. She is studying for ordination at New York’s pioneering Yeshivat Maharat for women, and has started work part-time as a “rabbi in training” with Kehillat Nashira, a partnership minyan in Borehamwood. 

Despite all the barriers Lorie has faced, she continues to engage with the religious aspect of Judaism. I cannot begin to imagine the strength needed to engage with such oppressive, male-dominated environments. 

It is staggering the extent of the barriers that still exist for women when it comes to the religious aspects of Judaism. For the women not willing to abandon their religion and throw their practice away, life can be incredibly frustrating. Frankly, Miriam Lorie has far more patience and resilience than most will ever be able to muster. 

The modern Orthodox community is in dire need of a feminist revolution. If Judaism continues to so blatantly oppress women then it will lose these women to secularism. 

The modern woman will no longer be willingly mistreated by an ancient religion. Future female educators, rabbis, and leaders will be lost because of the blatant, acceptable sexism in the modern Orthodox community. And that would be a crying shame.