Before the Enclave: A Neighborhood of Many Jews

To most people today, Hasidic Williamsburg evokes a single image: black coats, Yiddish signs, and the tightly knit world of Satmar Hasidim. It’s a neighborhood that feels sealed off, devout, insular, and focused on preserving its traditions, in contrast to the outreach-oriented Lubavitchers. But the south side of Williamsburg didn’t always look this way. More than a century ago, the streets now filled with kosher markets and boys’ yeshivas were home to a strikingly diverse Jewish population: Reform and Orthodox, Hasidim and secular Jews, Zionists and communists. The transformation of Williamsburg into a Hasidic stronghold happened slowly and gradually, over many decades.

In the early 1900s, Eastern European Jewish immigrants began moving out of Manhattan’s overcrowded Lower East Side, crossing the newly built Williamsburg Bridge in search of more space and improved living conditions. They brought with them not just belongings, but synagogues, customs, and strong communal ties. Among these early arrivals was Zecharia Dershowitz, the great-grandfather of attorney Alan Dershowitz. In 1910, he moved into a four-story house and established what would become Williamsburg’s first Hasidic shtiebel, located in the building’s basement. As Alan Dershowitz recalled in his memoir Chutzpah, the shtiebel was a family effort: his grandfather, Louis, led the prayers, while seven sons and several nephews made up the choir, singing in traditional Hasidic style.

At the time, about a third of Williamsburg’s population was Jewish, and non-Jews often stood out. While other neighborhoods, such as the Lower East Side, Brownsville, and the Bronx, also had large Jewish communities, Williamsburg was already beginning to stand out for its strong Orthodox presence. That influence shaped the atmosphere of the neighborhood, even for families that weren’t strictly observant. “You felt the Shabbes,” one resident recalled. “My father wouldn’t smoke in the street on Shabbes. My mother wouldn’t do anything outside. Inside, maybe she’d play the radio.”

As Williamsburg’s Jewish population grew, so did its religious infrastructure. A few years after Zecharia Dershowitz opened his shtiebel, others followed—including Beth Aharon on Ross Street, which became a center for some of the founding members of Yeshiva Torah Vodaath. That school, which opened in 1918 in a private home on Marcy and Keap, was a turning point. At the time, most parents sent their kids to public school and relied on afternoon religious instruction. It was the so-called frum fanatics—often Polish Hasidim—who pushed for a full-day Jewish education.

In 1923, the neighborhood welcomed one of its first Hasidic rebbes: Reb Yaakov Perlow, the Stoliner Rebbe. Known affectionately as Reb Yankele, he quickly earned a reputation for his boundless love for every Jew. Yeshiva boys on their way to Torah Vodaath would often detour through Rodney Street, hurrying to line up to see the Rebbe, who took delight in handing out candies and pennies.

Still, during the interwar years, South Williamsburg had not yet become the Hasidic enclave it would later be. The Hasidim who lived there at the time were mostly Polish and relatively moderate. Reform temples stood just a few blocks from Orthodox shtieblach, and it wasn’t uncommon for families to include both yeshiva students and committed socialists under one roof. The streets were full of working-class Jews trying to make a living. Teenagers danced in neighborhood halls and watched movies in now-vanished theaters—one of which was so run-down it was known as “The Dump,” with cats wandering through and, according to some, even the occasional dog. By 1951, the last movie theater in Jewish Williamsburg closed its doors and reopened as the home and synagogue of the Klausenburger Rebbe.

As more Hungarian Hasidim settled in Williamsburg over time, the neighborhood took on a more insular and strictly religious character, prompting many non-Hasidic Jews to gradually move elsewhere. Yet in its earlier decades, Williamsburg was shaped by diversity, change, and the quiet rise of what would eventually become a major center of American Hasidic life. In recent years, the neighborhood has drawn growing interest from tourists and online viewers, with countless YouTube videos and guided tours seeking to capture the rhythms of Hasidic daily life. Even if they only scratch the surface, these glimpses reveal something deeper: the continued curiosity about Hasidic life, and the quiet connection between this insular world and the wider public that has always been part of Williamsburg’s story.