Matzav Inbox: In Thanks to the Roshei Mosdos
Dear Matzav Inbox,
A troubling tone has crept into our communal conversation, one that treats roshei mosdos not as devoted servants of the tzibbur, but as convenient targets for frustration, suspicion, and public scorn.
At a time when our mosdos are under unprecedented financial and societal pressure, the people standing at the helm are being second-guessed, attacked, and blamed for problems they did not create and cannot magically solve. It is long past time to pause, step back, and speak honestly about what roshei mosdos actually carry on their shoulders, and why they deserve our understanding, support, and gratitude rather than our anger.
Do you know what it’s like to be constantly harassed?
Not criticized in good faith. Not asked sincere questions. Harassed. Day in and day out. Anonymous emails. Public WhatsApp groups. Snide comments whispered at simchos. Armchair experts who have never balanced a budget, never signed a paycheck, never sat across from a rebbi whose rent is overdue, yet somehow feel fully qualified to pass judgment.
Do you know what it’s like to fundraise just to survive?
To wake up every morning knowing that if the checks don’t come in, the lights don’t stay on. That tuition — even when painfully high — still doesn’t cover expenses. That every month is a cliffhanger. That one donor pulling back can mean cutting a program, a rebbi, a therapist, a lifeline for a child who needs it most.
Do you know what it’s like to make payroll?
To stare at numbers late at night, calculating and recalculating, wondering how to stretch what you don’t have into what you must have. To sign checks knowing full well that your own salary — if you even take one — is the last priority. To absorb the stress so that rabbeim can teach, educators can inspire, and children can walk into a building that feels safe and stable.
Most roshei mosdos didn’t sign up for this.
They didn’t open yeshivos and schools because they wanted power, prestige, or a title. They opened mosdos to serve the community. To answer a need. To give children chinuch. To build something that would outlive them.
And instead, they are crushed under an impossible load.
They deal with parents who are hurting financially, but who sometimes turn that pain into anger directed at the very people trying to keep the doors open. They hear, “Why is tuition so high?” from both sides of their office door: parents who can’t afford it, and staff who can’t live without raises.
They deal with staff shortages, burnout, emotional crises, special needs cases that require infinite patience and resources, and children who come to school carrying burdens far heavier than backpacks. They are expected to be educators, administrators, fundraisers, social workers, compliance officers, and miracle workers — all at once.
They deal with ציבור pressure.
Everyone has an opinion. Everyone knows better. Everyone is sure there’s a simpler solution — until it’s their turn to sit in the chair.
And yet, despite all of this, they keep going.
They answer calls late at night. They sit with parents who are crying. They advocate for students who have no one else. They take the hits so others don’t have to. They absorb the stress, the blame, the venom — because if they don’t, the system collapses.
We owe them far more than criticism.
We owe them gratitude. Respect. Basic mentchlichkeit.
You don’t have to agree with every decision. You don’t have to think every policy is perfect. But the casual, relentless bashing of roshei mosdos has crossed a line. It is cruel. It is ignorant. And it is deeply unfair.
Before firing off that message. Before joining that pile-on. Before declaring, with great confidence, what “they should do,” ask yourself one question:
Could you do this?
Carry the financial burden. The emotional toll. The responsibility for hundreds or thousands of lives. The sleepless nights. The endless pressure. The public judgment.
Most people couldn’t last a week.
Roshei mosdos carry an impossible load so that our children can have a future. The least we can do is stop making it heavier.
L. K.
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