Op-Ed: Hillel, Dignity, and the Cost of Torah Education

by Ayecho Editor – https://ayecho.substack.com/

Some two thousand years ago, Hillel was so eager to learn that, instead of arguing with the doorman about his inability to pay the entrance fee—an assessment that was out of touch with reality, if the guard had only done his homework—he chose to preserve the little dignity he had left. And in that moment, he showed us the true form of dignity, self-worth and self-sacrifice. He climbed onto the freezing roof, pressed his ear to the skylight, and strained to absorb the sweet words of Torah from within. He nearly died doing so.

This story is held up—by many, including the Rebbe—as the ultimate illustration of what it means to sacrifice for Torah learning. Hillel went above and beyond. So should we. But the Rebbe also pointed out something often overlooked: the watchman was culpable. His quick judgment—assuming Hillel was trying to cheat the system—nearly cost the life of one of our greatest sages, and with it, all the teachings he would go on to share with the world, and that live on to this day.

Recently, I completed the registration process for four of my children in a single school. The contract I was asked to sign included over seventy thousand dollars in tuition. That doesn’t include other schools for our other children, which add up to an additional sixty thousand dollars. (This does not include flights, fees of various sorts, and other costs that kick in or creep up throughout the year.) The collective financial burden we’re expected to carry is simply not realistic. By any standard, it’s not normal. The emotions I felt as this reality set in were complex—and conflicting.

I want to be like Hillel. But does that mean I’m meant to risk my children’s lives? I may have the right to play it risky with my own, but if I gamble my family’s financial wellbeing to cover these costs, am I not gambling with their futures? If I push too far and lose control—when the required autopayment drains my account before the mortgage clears—what then?

I have great respect for the volunteers who run our schools, sit on boards, and ensure teachers are paid on time. If I were a teacher, I would be forever indebted to those efforts. But I also deserve respect in return.

Every institution is quick to say: “It’s not our problem. We provide a service. We have bills to pay. We gave you a small discount—a scholarship.” But let’s be honest: would the chadorim of old ever have used that term? Jewish children aren’t charity cases. They’re not line items. They’re ours. And if we start speaking about them as burdens or exceptions, we’ve lost our way.

I understand the financial realities. I really do. But even after receiving what’s labeled a generous discount, I’m still on the hook for a number that simply isn’t sustainable—plus additional expenses from other schools, camps, and seminaries, many of which feel even more disconnected from what families like mine are going through.

So again, I ask: Who am I supposed to turn to?

I work hard. I pay my bills. I live up to the values these very mosdos taught me: build a large family, earn an honest living, give to tzedakah, help others in need. And yet, I feel like I’m getting kicked around by the very system that encouraged me to live this way. There’s no easy answer. I know that.

But here’s my simple request: treat me with respect. If I’m expected to hear the school’s story—about their financial needs and obligations—then please, hear mine as well. With mutual respect, we can reach an agreement. One that stretches us both, yes—but also makes G‑d smile. Makes the Rebbe smile. And shows our children that we mean what we preach.

But if you strong-arm me—if you break me—then no matter how much lipstick I put on this pig, the children we’re all trying to raise will see right through it. And they’ll wonder why I exchanged their quality of life for an education laced with duplicity, sanctimony, and self-righteousness.

Let’s not do that. Let’s work together—with genuine ahavas re’im and the fiery ahavas yisroel our Rebbeim instilled in us. Not long ago, that spirit was the very foundation of what it meant to be a Lubavitcher and Chossid of the Rebbe. It can be that way again.

It must. Because if not, all we’ll be left with are beautiful buildings and full bank accounts—but hollowed-out walls and, worse, hollowed-out hearts. The very children we hope to uplift will sense the void and cry out—not only at the cost we demanded of their parents, but at the betrayal of the values that built our mosdos in the first place.

The good news is, I was able to call the school’s director, and within minutes we were able to work something out—something meaningful, that made a huge difference. And they did it with respect, in contrast to some of the other schools and camps that hide behind boards, powerless functionaries, and secretaries who make it nearly impossible—and often downright degrading—to have a similar conversation.

It makes me wonder. I’m fortunate, and I know I’m not alone in feeling that way. As my own experience showed, our school truly strives to live up to the standard embedded in its name. But what about the many other schools, camps, yeshivahs and seminaries whose names also proudly carry the essence of a Lubavitch institution? What about the families who aren’t as fortunate? Who will stand by them when they’re in need?

I encourage you—whether you are personally going through this, or are fortunate enough to meet these obligations with ease—to look around next Shabbos in shul. Look to your left and to your right. Reach out to those who may be carrying an untold story filled with pain and untold humiliation, and offer to be their voice. Let them know they are not alone, that there are others who understand, and that together we can storm the halls of power that seem to have veered off track, and demand respect.

Demand honest and compassionate dialogue—one rooted in empathy and solidarity with our fellow Anash. We may not solve the financial crisis overnight, if ever, but if people feel genuinely heard, understood, and respected, then perhaps the goodwill that follows will make a difference. A few more dollars. A few less real estate transactions. And maybe—just maybe—the burden on families staring down tuition bills in the hundreds of thousands won’t feel so crushing, and even just little more realistic.

Demand to be treated like the Hillel we all learned about in our youth—but insist that we’ve been freezing on the roof for far too long. It’s time we got our families’ feet back on the ground, with access to Torah and community that doesn’t come at the cost of their stability, their dignity—and in some cases, even their lives.