Somewhere in Berlin, a diverse group of progressive, savvy music students prepare for a dinner party. We have Dasia, raised in Munich with Yemini roots, and Yael, who comes from Israel. Ahmed is from Nigeria, and deeply in love with his German boyfriend. Clemens’ parents come from Poland, and Robert is the only true Berliner. It would be hard to find a better example of Berlin’s sheer level of diversity. These are all young people who have been privileged enough to explore their true identities, taking a defiant stance against the societal, cultural and religious norms that try to tell us who we are.
Then we have Esty. Still finding her feet in Berlin, Esty is embracing a new kind of life, one that she has been shielded from since birth. The careless laughter and budding smiles of the dinner party are disrupted when she is asked about her escape from the ultra-Orthodox Satmar community. Esty appears defensive, but her response does not invite discomfort or deafening silence. No, it is quite the opposite. Her words empower and uplift the group: “God expected too much of me. Now I need to find my own path.”
This is Esty’s story. The fact that she has made it to Berlin unscathed is a miracle in itself. Amidst the unapologetic chaos and dazzling dreaminess of Berlin, she is trying to learn what it means to govern your own life. No rules. No expectations. Just life.
Unorthodox – a Netflix mini-series released in March 2020 – follows the story of Esther Shapiro (Shira Haas), who leaves her ultra-Orthodox Jewish community in New York and flees to Berlin. The four-part series is based on Deborah Feldman’s 2012 memoir ‘Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots’. Feldman, too, fled the community and settled in Germany when she was nineteen years old and pregnant, committed to raising her child without religious constraint.
“Esty is leaving a life behind that expects too much … a life of subordination and reproduction is anything but appealing to her.”
This seems to be a pivotal part of the show’s plot: the idea that religious practices often oppress women and leave them yearning for more. This experience is heightened for Esty, whose mother escaped the community when Esty was a child. Her resentment towards her mother is clear, but there is always a glimmer in her eyes that suggests something more – that Esty is also seeking the freedom her mother found for herself.
German actress and director Maria Schrader breathes symbolic value into the show’s locations as a way of tracking Esty’s fight for freedom, with an opening shot defining her entire existence in the Satmar community before she has even turned around or spoken a single word. Preparing to catch a flight to Berlin, she looks out of her apartment window one last time. There is a sense of yearning and entrapment here, and the silence – so crisp that you could hear a pin drop – reflects the uneventful monotony that reinforces Esty’s daily life in Williamsburg.
Esty is leaving a life behind that expects too much of her; she must marry at a young age, dress modestly, and conceive as quickly as possible. But, as Esty admits when she first meets her soon-to-be husband, Yanky, in a flashback, she is “not like the other girls.” A life of subordination and reproduction is anything but appealing to her. Leaving the apartment block, she must push her way through a crowd of mothers, rolling their baby strollers back and forth at a never-ending pace.
Berlin, on the other hand, offers a wealth of opportunities. Her apartment window in New York is replaced by the side window of the taxi that is sending her into the city’s bustling centre. The dim lights of her apartment are replaced by open green spaces and modern architecture, so beautiful that she sheds a tear. Instead of existing in silence, Esty auditions at one of Berlin’s music schools and overwhelms the room with her enthralling voice. Yet, there is an underlining sense of irony here; Esty has sought refuge and safety in a city that once capitulated to Nazism and its anti-Semitic ideology. It is here that she feels safest, despite her community’s struggles.
“[Esty] knows that, to discover her true identity, risks must be taken and time must not be wasted.”
It is also no surprise that a city as free as Berlin invites sexual curiosity from Esty. Her mother-in-law in Williamsburg condemns Esty for failing to conceive a child and undermining Yanky’s role as “the king” in the marriage. Sex proves incredibly painful for Esty, paralysing her into a state of total agony, but her concerns as a woman hold little importance. If Yanky represents Esty’s oppressive marriage, then Robert symbolises her sexual liberation. After a night of dancing under the electric blue lights of Berlin’s club scene, Esty initiates a sexual experience that is far more intimate and consensual. This experience has been built upon trust and personal choice, and, for the first time, Esty is not made to follow any set of rules.
It should be noted that religion is not the enemy here. Esty feels compelled to escape as a traumatised individual, but that does not mean that there is nothing comforting or enjoyable about Jewish tradition. The fact that such a community has preserved its traditions and protected its community, despite its past, is incredibly uplifting. Even Esty seems unwilling to reject her religion outright. She admits that children are “the most precious thing” where she comes from. She evidently still believes. It is more that she wants her faith to conform to her own life decisions, not the other way round.
Esty’s journey in the series is an inspiring one, especially for women. She risks a life of protection and convention for uncertainty and potential failure. She leaves a community that alienates her, only to be plunged into another world she barely knows. This is a woman who knows that, to discover her true identity, risks must be taken and time must not be wasted. After all, “If not me, then who? If not now, then when?”
Words by Katie McCarthy