If a pious member of their small, insular communities saw them in a cafe with a reporter—a woman! “I am afraid,” one young Hasid from New Square, a religious village in upstate New York, told me.
“You realize that we are taking a risk just by exchanging words with you.” drape the mirrors with fabric and mourn his name.
The man’s peyos, or side curls, fall to his jaw below a round fur hat, called a .
His black satin jacket and white shirt—no tie—hang over a fringed prayer shawl.
He is handsome, in his twenties, pale, thin and childlike, with just a hint of facial hair.
I will call him Joseph; because of the consequences, his real name cannot be revealed here.
Most importantly, Satmar and other strict Hasidic groups strongly reject the outside world’s impurities.