There are a number of suicide hotlines in Israel, available 24/7, staffed by people who speak various languages. One of these is the Tikvah Helpline for Olim, regardless of how long they have been in Israel. The staff are all licensed mental health providers. The number is 074-775-1433.
Suicide in Israel is a grave public crisis—complex, painful, and cutting across every line of demarcation: ethnic, communal, gender, and socio-economic. According to data from the Ministry of Health, some 400 people in Israel take their own lives each year, while over 6,000 others attempt suicide (Ministry of Health, 2019). Behind every single number lies a person, a family, a community—realities of deep fracture, of unbearable pain, and of a system that does not always know how to extend a hand in time.
Suicide does not occur in a vacuum. It is born of emotional, psychological, social, and at times even physical distress, bound together in tangled knots. It grows out of depression, anxiety, trauma, loneliness, failure, disconnection, or loss of meaning—and each of these is shaped by culture, by society, by community. To speak of suicide responsibly is therefore to speak in layers: to see the individual within the social fabric in which his or her despair unfolds.
Though suicide is a phenomenon that traverses all sectors of Israeli society, in the Charedi world it takes on distinctive, fraught, and particularly complex forms. On the surface, suicide rates in Charedi cities appear dramatically lower than national averages: Bnei Brak, Modi’in Illit, Elad, and Beitar Illit report rates approaching zero, in sharp contrast to Tel Aviv, Haifa, Petach Tikva, or mixed cities (Zeleznik, 2024). Such figures can foster a sense of security: here is proof that the Charedi community protects its own; that its networks of support, strong communal values, spiritual purpose, and clear boundaries create a buffer of resilience. And indeed, these resources are real, and they do provide genuine strength.
Emotional distress is not absent from the Charedi community—it simply finds other channels of expression. At times it is silenced. At times repressed. At times addressed through indirect means that prevent any open or full confrontation
But the deeper one peers beneath the polished surface, the more complicated the picture becomes. Emotional distress is not absent from the Charedi community—it simply finds other channels of expression. At times it is silenced. At times repressed. At times addressed through indirect means that prevent any open or full confrontation. Cultural constraints, rigid communal norms, fear of stigma, anxiety about family reputation, and above all the ever-present specter of harm to marriage prospects—all of these converge to weave a tight web of concealment and denial. This web may protect communal stability on the surface, but it exacts a heavy toll from the lives lived within it.
The tension between concealment and intervention marks almost every encounter with suicide in Charedi society. It is not a theoretical matter; it is a searing, practical, moral, and value-laden question: How can one extend help, build effective responses, and develop services and infrastructures for treatment without threatening the social fabric, undermining public trust in rabbinic leadership, or shaking the very pillars on which Charedi identity rests?
And the difficulty is not only conceptual but practical. Time and again, professionals working within the Charedi community (myself included, in my capacity at the Ministry of Welfare) find themselves caught between two imperatives: the need for cultural sensitivity on the one hand, and the moral and professional duty to save lives on the other. The question is not only how to identify those at risk, but also how to treat them without unraveling the delicate weave of their family, social, and communal existence.
Suicide in Israel and in Charedi Communities
Suicide is not a marginal issue. In Israel, as across the world, it is a pressing public health crisis. According to the Ministry of Health, each year approximately 400 Israelis end their own lives, while more than 6,000 attempt suicide (2019 data). Each case reverberates outward: children, parents, spouses, neighbors, communities—all are scarred by the shattering loss.
Suicide never occurs in a vacuum. It is the culmination of emotional, psychological, social, and sometimes even physical distress. It arises against the backdrop of depression, trauma, loneliness, anxiety, loss of meaning, social alienation. These factors are always interwoven with culture, community, and social structure. Hence, suicide must be viewed not only through the prism of the individual, but also within the context of the social fabric in which it occurs.
In Charedi communities, official statistics paint a striking picture: in cities such as Bnei Brak, Beitar Illit, and Elad, reported suicide rates are nearly zero. By contrast, Tel Aviv, Haifa, and mixed cities present numbers in line with global norms. On the surface, this disparity appears to testify to the strength of the Charedi world: the protective power of family, the depth of faith, the bonds of community. And indeed, these do provide real resilience.
Cultural constraints, communal norms, deep-seated fear of stigma, concern for family honor, dread of harming children’s marriage prospects—all create a system of concealment and denial
But beneath the surface, the picture is far more complex. Emotional and psychological suffering is not absent. It simply manifests differently. It is suppressed, denied, redirected. Cultural constraints, communal norms, deep-seated fear of stigma, concern for family honor, dread of harming children’s marriage prospects—all create a system of concealment and denial. On one hand, this system can protect the collective. On the other, it exacts a heavy toll on individuals.
Here lies the central tension: how can one provide help, open avenues of care, and respond responsibly—without threatening the delicate fabric of Charedi society, without undermining trust in rabbinic leadership, and without destabilizing the very structures that grant the community its strength?
Suicide in Halacha
Jewish tradition regards life as an ultimate value, with the sanctity of life a principle beyond dispute. The prohibition against suicide is learned from God’s stern words to the children of Noah: “But your blood of your lives will I require” (Bereishis 9:5). As Rashi explains from the Sages: “But—to include one who strangles himself.” In other words, not only the shedding of another’s blood is forbidden, but even one’s own. Maimonides reinforces this in unequivocal terms: “One who kills himself is a shedder of blood.”
Yet the halachic approach has never been flat or binary. Halacha recognizes human complexity and allows for situations in which anguish overwhelms the capacity for free choice. Already in the Shulchan Aruch it is ruled: “One who takes his own life, but was under duress, like King Shaul—nothing is withheld from him.” Shaul, “the chosen of God,” ended his life on the battlefield of Gilboa, and halacha interprets his act not as sin but as compulsion. This ruling opens the door to broader interpretation: it allows communities and decisors to view cases of suicide not as absolute transgression but as responses to crushing inner torment, where freedom of choice is dimmed and the sufferer becomes captive to his pain.
Likewise, Hannah and her seven sons, who chose death in sanctification of God’s Name, were enshrined in Jewish memory as paragons of valor and faith
This duality—between an absolute prohibition and an acknowledgment of broken humanity—runs like a thread through our sources. Consider the Talmudic tale of the executioner who hastened Rabbi Hanina ben Teradyon’s death by fire. Far from condemning him, the act is presented as heroic. A heavenly voice proclaimed: “Rabbi Hanina ben Teradyon and the executioner are destined for life in the World to Come.” Likewise, Hannah and her seven sons, who chose death in sanctification of God’s Name, were enshrined in Jewish memory as paragons of valor and faith.
Such examples reveal that suicide is not always seen, in every circumstance, as a categorical sin. At times, death itself is framed as a choice of principle, a stand for values, an act of transcendence. And even when the act stems not from religious devotion but from despair, from intolerable pain, from psychological torment—the halachic view does not necessarily label it sin in the simple sense, but rather as the tragic outcome of an unbearably human condition.
A Living Reality
As noted above, official statistics paint a picture of near-zero suicide rates in Charedi cities—figures that, at first glance, suggest a society of remarkable resilience and stability. Yet beneath the surface lies a far more tangled reality. Over generations, the Charedi community has cultivated powerful cultural and social defense mechanisms, designed to safeguard its unity, preserve its values, and protect its inner cohesion. Chief among these is the halachic prohibition against suicide, viewed as a grave sin and a desecration of life’s sanctity. Added to this are communal solidarity, an abiding sense of belonging and mutual responsibility, robust networks of formal and informal support, a strong family structure reinforced by relatively early marriage, and a daily rhythm of life grounded in spiritual mission. Taken together, these elements do indeed serve as a protective wall against the loneliness, alienation, and meaninglessness that are among the greatest risk factors for suicide.
A society built upon solidarity, purity, morality, and modesty also generates intense levels of social surveillance, rigid norms, and relentless expectations to conform to communal standards
Yet in a troubling paradox, those same protective structures can themselves become a trap. A society built upon solidarity, purity, morality, and modesty also generates intense levels of social surveillance, rigid norms, and relentless expectations to conform to communal standards. Within this environment, emotional distress struggles to gain legitimacy. It is not always perceived as a medical or psychological condition, but as a spiritual failing, a personal weakness, even evidence of distance from Torah values or loss of faith. As a result, acknowledging emotional pain—let alone voicing suicidal thoughts—may be seen not merely as a personal blemish but as an existential threat to the family’s standing within the community.
The fear of stigma and the dread of social rejection are not theoretical. They represent lived reality, where even suspicion of mental health struggle can lead to silent ostracism, exclusion from vital circles of belonging, and at times even rupture within one’s own family.
In the Charedi world, depression often manifests in hidden, passive, or veiled ways: vague talk of “tiredness from life,” of emptiness or lack of desire, of “nothing to get up for in the morning.” Sometimes distress is expressed in failing physical health, in unexplained bodily pain, or in prolonged social withdrawal. “Death wishes” are rarely stated outright; they are hinted, whispered, tucked between the lines. In a culture that sanctifies silence, psychological anguish is translated into a language of allusion and concealment. This makes it extraordinarily difficult for professionals, family members, and even close friends to recognize the signs of distress in time (Moshkovitz, 2024).
This state of affairs creates a formidable challenge for anyone seeking to develop effective therapeutic responses within the community. How can one identify a person at risk if that individual cannot—or dares not—admit it to themselves? How can we open a conversation about psychological pain when the very act of speaking is deemed a moral failure? And more than this: how can help be extended without endangering a person’s social standing or a family’s wholeness?
The difficulty emerges even in the hesitant voices of contemporary rabbinic leaders who, sometimes with heavy hearts and trembling voices, dare to breach the wall of silence. Thus, for example, in an unusually sharp shiur on Parashas Noach (5782), Rav Asher Weiss spoke on the verse “And surely your blood of your lives will I require”:
“It is not pleasant to deal with this subject, and even less so to say that it is relevant. But sadly, shamefully, and with great pain—we must admit: even in our community, even in the Charedi world, there are cases of suicide. In recent years there were two very well-known incidents that shook the entire public, and brought some awareness to this great tragedy. But what many do not know is that every year there are dozens of such cases in Israel—and even more in the United States and across the Jewish world.”
These words, painful as they are, amount to a cry to abandon denial and to choose, however painfully, to shine light into the darkest corners. The Sephardic Chief Rabbi, Rabbi Yitzhak Yosef, addressed the issue almost a decade ago. In a talk delivered with deep sorrow, he said (Kikar HaShabbat, 19.09.16):
“Today, to our great sorrow, we hear of cases of young men taking their own lives. They suffer from depression—and they commit suicide. We need to speak about this. It is something terrible and dreadful. A person who commits suicide loses both this world and the World to Come. He is cut off entirely…”
We cannot allow ourselves to continue looking away. I cry out in pain to all community rabbis: go down to the people, speak with your congregants, and join together in devising ways to confront this silent epidemic
To this anguished picture we can add the voice of Rabbi Yitzchok Mordechai Brach, a senior member of the Chevra Kadisha in New York, who in Adar 5785 issued a dramatic public letter. He warned of a “silent epidemic” of suicide among Charedi youth in America, and in words that pierced the heart he called for the urgent establishment of support centers. He wrote (Kikar HaShabbat, 19.03.25):
“We are in a state of real emergency… We cannot allow ourselves to continue looking away. I cry out in pain to all community rabbis: go down to the people, speak with your congregants, and join together in devising ways to confront this silent epidemic… Charedi youth are choosing to end their lives, bringing grief and destruction upon themselves and upon their families.”
And indeed, he warned, every delay in developing proper responses is itself the loss of more lives. Tragically, since the publication of his letter, additional names have been added to the list of victims.
Groups at Risk
Although Charedi society as a whole benefits from strong protective factors—communal cohesion, mutual support systems, deep faith, and stable family structures—there are groups within it that face heightened, sometimes dramatically heightened, risk of depression, despair, and even suicide. The danger arises when the very mechanisms of protection that the community provides cease to function for the individual.
At the top of the list are those who have left the fold. For one raised within the Charedi community, personal identity is inextricably bound with communal belonging. Exiting is not experienced merely as a shift in worldview, but as a severing from every system that sustains existence: family, friends, education, faith, and even the cultural and linguistic framework. For many, leaving entails not only estrangement from society but painful rupture with family. Studies show that the risk of suicide in this group is 50 percent, compared with 12 percent in the general population (Zeleznik, 2024). The crisis they endure is not only a crisis of faith, but a collapse of existential identity: the loss of support networks, the breakdown of belonging, immense economic challenges, obstacles to integration in the world of employment and higher education, and often the delayed processing of childhood traumas or emotional and sexual abuse long hidden from view.
The gap between the ideal of the joyous, devoted, and fulfilled mother, and the complex emotional reality that often follows childbirth, can create a profound sense of failure
Another significant risk group is postpartum women. Charedi society has both high fertility rates and birth intervals far shorter than the national average. While the broader Israeli society has made strides in recognizing postpartum depression and establishing support systems, in the Charedi world awareness is still developing. The gap between the ideal of the joyous, devoted, and fulfilled mother, and the complex emotional reality that often follows childbirth, can create a profound sense of failure. A cultural script that elevates motherhood as the central axis of Charedi life transforms any deviation from this role into a source of shame, guilt, and fear. Women suffering from postpartum depression often hesitate to seek help, fearing the impact on their marital harmony, their family’s standing, or once again—the marriage prospects of their children.
Within this tapestry, we must also name one of the most silent and anguished groups of all: survivors of sexual abuse. Despite significant progress in recent years, the Charedi community still struggles to create a public platform of acknowledgment for abuse. The tendency to favor internal handling, concealment, and at times outright silencing leaves victims carrying their pain in profound isolation. They suffer not only the initial trauma, but also the secondary trauma of denial: the trauma of being unacknowledged, delegitimized, blamed, and afraid. For many, this silence and isolation lead to chronic depression, anxiety, and a sense of inescapable despair that places them at heightened risk for suicidal ideation and attempts.
What unites all of these risk groups is the way in which communal defense mechanisms—the same structures that shield members from the outside—become barriers from within. The very mechanisms designed to guard can, in these cases, stifle. The individual finds himself trapped between the desperate need to remain part of the community and the equally desperate need to cry out: I am in pain. I can’t go on. I need help.
Research and Systemic Response
Recent findings from the research literature show that suicide in Charedi society (as in Israeli society more broadly) follows a pattern of constant tension: between exposure and concealment, between recognition of reality and repression that serves cultural and social ends. The State of Israel, through its Ministry of Health, operates the National Suicide Prevention Program—a multi-year, multi-system initiative integrating the health, welfare, education, security, and civil sectors. Its goals include early detection, restricting access to lethal means, training “gatekeepers,” and raising awareness of mental health while reducing stigma (Ministry of Health, 2019).
International research underscores the effectiveness of measures such as limiting access to means of suicide (closing bridges, regulating medication sales), alongside the use of evidence-based therapies like CBT and DBT, both of which have proven highly effective in reducing suicidal ideation. Pharmacological treatments to reduce immediate suicidal thoughts have also demonstrated significant impact (Mann et al., 2021; Zaltzman et al., 2016).
At the same time, modern research warns unequivocally of the contagious effect of suicide—the so-called “Werther Effect.” This is a recognized pattern of social imitation, where exposure to a suicide, particularly of someone known or prominent, significantly raises suicide risk among others. Hence the enormous responsibility that falls on professionals, educators, parents, and the media: to speak carefully, but to speak nonetheless. There is no place for glorifying suicide, no place for presenting it as a solution. But nor can the subject be left in silence. We must talk about it. We must place on the table the pain of the living—those who ask to be seen, to be heard, to be believed.
He did not speak about risk, nor about prevention. He did not cite protocols or statistics. Instead, he spoke—plainly, painfully—about the soul. About the child. About listening.
When I asked my colleague Rabbi Shimon Aflalo—a social worker, suicide-prevention expert, and trainer of prevention workshops in the Charedi community—what he thought was the single most important message to convey on this subject, I was surprised by where he began. He did not speak about risk, nor about prevention. He did not cite protocols or statistics. Instead, he spoke—plainly, painfully—about the soul. About the child. About listening.
He quoted the piercing words of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch in his commentary on Parashat Toldot, on the verse “And the boys grew”:
“To wish to teach and educate Jacob and Esau on the same school bench, with the same habits of life, in the same way for the same future of study and thought, is certainly the surest way to ruin one of them.”
Words written more than a century ago could hardly be more relevant today. How often do we—parents, teachers, friends—try to force all our children, all members of our community, into a single mold? How often do we overlook individuality, difference, emotional need, and inner struggle?
Rabbi Aflalo’s message was sharp and unambiguous:
“Parents—listen. Understand. Care. Speak. Do not neglect. Seek professional advice. Use the tools offered by community and state alike. Do not say: ‘This doesn’t happen here,’ or, ‘Time will heal it.’ Pain does not simply go away. Pain only takes on new forms—quieter, more dangerous forms.”
The Ministry of Welfare, too, has joined efforts in this field, particularly in supporting bereaved families, accompanying those in crisis, and offering marital and family counseling through municipal treatment centers and regional hubs. Still, as of now, the Ministry lacks a dedicated, comprehensive, structured program for suicide prevention. As someone who works in the community day in and day out, I see this as a gap that must be filled quickly and responsibly. There are promising joint initiatives between the Health and Welfare Ministries, aimed at training professionals to recognize signs of psychological distress and provide immediate support. But the road ahead is long.
And yet, in our time, we are fortunate. Fortunate to have hotlines. Fortunate to have accessible, available, culturally attuned responses. Dozens of call centers and professionals with Charedi orientation are now available to anyone seeking help, anonymously and in full discretion. Sometimes a single phone call, a single question, a moment of genuine listening—can save a life. And no less important: the national hotline, 118, operated by the Ministry of Welfare, is always open.
Practical Tools
Having traced the unique contours of suicide within Charedi society—its halachic, cultural, and social contexts—it is clear that the response cannot be one-dimensional or generic. It must be precise, sensitive, culturally attuned, and grounded in a deep understanding of the community’s needs and challenges. The built-in tension between the sanctity of life on the one hand and the mechanisms of concealment and silence on the other demands a holistic, multi-system approach—one that weaves together professional knowledge, communal realities, and the values of Torah and halacha.
At the heart of every response lies a simple yet profound truth: suicide prevention is not only the responsibility of mental health professionals. It is a social, educational, communal, and spiritual responsibility as well
What follows is not a set of magic solutions but a framework of practical tools, drawn from professional experience, research findings, and long conversations with community leaders and field workers. These are stepping stones toward change: change in discourse, in the range of responses available, in the willingness to recognize pain and in the capacity to address it. At the heart of every response lies a simple yet profound truth: suicide prevention is not only the responsibility of mental health professionals. It is a social, educational, communal, and spiritual responsibility as well.
A Combined Approach
Addressing suicide in the Charedi world requires a holistic and multi-system strategy. No single institution can shoulder the task. Success depends on deep, coordinated collaboration between the health system, the welfare system, the education system, and rabbinic and communal leadership. The discourse must be delicately balanced: open, honest, transparent, and responsible on the one hand; and on the other, profoundly attuned to the cultural codes, values, and fears embedded within Charedi life. Such an approach demands that emotional pain not be framed as spiritual failure or shame, but as part of the human condition—requiring care and support. Without this foundational shift, all other solutions remain superficial patches.
Intra-Communal Education and Awareness
From my work in the field, I have learned that the most basic need of Charedi families is the willingness to speak—and that willingness must emerge from within. To cultivate it, awareness campaigns must be culturally tailored. External messaging, however well-meaning, rarely breaches the walls of defense and shame. Effective education must enlist rabbis, teachers, and counselors from within the community—people fluent in halacha, in communal sensitivities, in the dread of stigma and the fear of harm to family standing. They must bring the issue to light through Torah sources, moral language, and spiritual framing, emphasizing that Torah itself recognizes pain, struggle, and the duty to care for the soul no less—perhaps even more—than for the body.
Training Rabbinic and Educational Leadership
One conclusion emerges with stark clarity: in Charedi society, change begins and ends with spiritual and educational leadership. When a rabbi, rosh yeshiva, school principal, or other figure of authority gives permission to speak of pain, depression, and struggle, many barriers fall away. Professional training for rabbis and educators is not a luxury—it is a necessity. Such training should cover basic concepts in mental health, warning signs of suicidal risk, initial responses, and referral pathways. When these messages come clothed in the voice of Torah, the willingness to hear and to act rises dramatically.
Culturally Adapted Treatment
For a Charedi individual, entering psychotherapy can be accompanied by immense fear: What will people say? What will they think? Will it ruin my children’s shidduchim? Will it be seen as spiritual weakness? Effective treatment must therefore be not only professional but culturally congruent: therapists from within the community, clinics that respect religious norms, opportunities for anonymous and discreet help-seeking, and therapeutic content that does not clash with faith but integrates naturally with it. Again and again I have seen how, when such adaptation is present, willingness to seek help rises sharply and stigma weakens. This is not professional compromise. It is professional wisdom.
Granting Legitimacy to Speak of Pain
Perhaps above all, the central tool is legitimacy: the permission to speak of struggle. The Torah is not a Torah of silence. It is filled with stories of anguish, of trial, of despair and of desperate cries—and equally, of hope, consolation, and mutual responsibility. One need only read the verse “A broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise” to understand: the Torah does not demand repression, but deep listening to the soul. Precisely by engaging with the sources of our tradition that encourage honesty about suffering and the search for help, we can begin to dismantle the wall between the spiritual world and the world of mental health. And we can affirm that mental well-being is not less than a halachic obligation.
A Doorway of Hope
I write these lines in the hope—deep, genuine, and prayerful—that they may serve as a small anchor for anyone standing on the edge, feeling the ground slip beneath their feet, searching for meaning in pain that seems beyond bearing. May these words be a signpost of hope. If even one person feels a little less alone, one family feels more understood, one community leader dares to open his eyes and say aloud: “This exists here, among us, and we will no longer be silent”—then these words will not have been written in vain.
I do not write only as a researcher, a professional, or a public servant. I write also as a human being, as a friend, as a child of this community, as someone who has looked pain in the eyes. Suicide is not an abstract phenomenon, not a matter of cold statistics. It is names and faces. It is friends and classmates. It is families who gave their very hearts to their children, who loved them, prayed for them, fought for them—and yet lost them. The grief does not fade. Even years later it remains, a wound carried in every conversation, every lecture, every encounter with a family in crisis, with a teenager struggling, with a parent terrified for their child’s life.
I, too, carry such a name. In my prayers, I once raised the name of a beloved childhood friend—Israel ben T.K.—with all my strength, begging that he would find the spark of hope to hold him here, with us. He did not find it. He left us. His absence remains with me always. And in his absence, I hear the charge to speak, to act, to refuse silence.
To break the silence is not to dishonor our community but to redeem it—to allow the sanctity of life, kedushat ha-chayim, to shine even in the darkest places
And so, out of that very brokenness, I want to send a call—to parents, to families, to communities: remember your loved ones, honor their memory, hold their names in your hearts. And then, live. Live fully. Invest your love in those who remain beside you. Give life to life. I believe with all my being that those who left us do not want us to drown in their pain. They want us to carry them with us, yes—but to build, to believe, to hope, to embrace the gift of life with even greater intensity.
Our tradition teaches: “A broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.” The task before us is not to erase or repress the pain, but to transform it into responsibility, into care, into solidarity. To break the silence is not to dishonor our community but to redeem it—to allow the sanctity of life, kedushat ha-chayim, to shine even in the darkest places.
If we can do this—if we can make space for the cry, for the conversation, for the listening—then perhaps we will open not only a doorway of hope for the afflicted, but also a doorway of renewal for all of us.
Sources
Babylonian Talmud, Avodah Zarah 18a.
Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Laws of Murder and Preservation of Life, Chapter 2.
Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah, Section 345.
Mushkowitz, A. (2024). I Wanted to Die – Until I Went to a Rabbi. Midaos, 105, 16–23.
Zelznik, D. (n.d.). Issues in Suicide and Suicide Assessment in the Charedi Community in Israel. Hebrew Psychology. Retrieved from: https://www.hebpsy.net/articles.asp?id=3255
Mann, J. J., Michel, C. A., & Auerbach, R. P. (2021). Improving suicide prevention through evidence-based strategies: A systematic review. American Journal of Psychiatry, 178(7), 611–624.
Zalsman, G., Hawton, K., Wasserman, D., van Heeringen, K., Arensman, E., Sarchiapone, M., Carli, V., Höschl, C., Barzilay, R., Balazs, J., Purebl, G., Kahn, J. P., Sáiz, P. A., Lipsicas, C. B., Bobes, J., Cozman, D., Hegerl, U., & Zohar, J. (2016). Suicide prevention strategies revisited: 10-year systematic review. The Lancet Psychiatry, 3(7), 646–659.
Kikar HaShabbat (19.09.16). “One Who Studies Torah Has No Suicidal Thoughts.” Retrieved from: https://www.kikar.co.il/haredim-news/210486
Kikar HaShabbat (19.03.25). “People End Their Lives in Ways Beyond Comprehension” | The Letter that Shook the U.S. Retrieved from: https://www.kikar.co.il/haredim-news/haredi-rabbi-suicide-crisis
