‘Too Close to Skver’: What One Mother Discovered About Her Neighbors

 

See the website that explains the Skver Terror Tactics on their neighbors!

As we stand on the threshold of the 17th of Tammuz and the start of the Three Weeks, I feel it’s important to highlight a different side of the so-called “Unholy Mile.” A few months ago, I took one of my children to a specialist in Westchester. In the waiting room, I noticed a young chassidish mother holding her baby. Later, as I was leaving, I saw her standing outside waiting for a taxi. I asked where she was headed. She said, “New Square.” I smiled and told her I lived in New Hempstead and would be happy to give her a ride. She gratefully accepted.

I think she may have misunderstood where I lived. On the way, she shared that it was “good” I lived in Wesley Hills and not too close to New Square. She explained that they didn’t want others moving nearby — chas v’shalom, they might want to send their children to their schools. So, leadership in the community came up with a plan: buy up the homes within a mile and rent them to non-Jews to discourage other frum families from settling there. She even mentioned her father-in-law had bought one of the houses.

I didn’t respond. I stayed quiet the rest of the way.

But I’ve thought about it a lot since then.

And if I could go back, this is what I wish I had said:

Let me tell you about the place I call home. Our community — the one that sits proudly within the mile — is something truly special. It’s not just where we live. It’s where we belong. It’s a place built on love, kindness, and connection.

Our shul? It wasn’t just “built” — it was raised, with the hands of its members. Every beam, every wall, every coat of paint has a story. I remember when one of our members was making a Bar Mitzvah — everyone chipped in to finish the kiddush room, and then stayed up all night scrubbing the floors to make sure it would be ready in time. There’s always someone changing a light bulb, fixing an A/C, unclogging a sink — not because they’re asked to, but because they care.

Shabbos here is something magical. As our Rav says, we have all twelve Shevatim — and then some. Everyone is welcome. Everyone belongs. The kiddush farbrengens go on for hours — not because of the food, but because of the warmth. No politics. No business talk. Just good people, enjoying each other, like neighbors should.

And our Rav… where do I even begin? He’s a tzaddik in every sense. My children feel safe turning to him with anything on their minds — and no matter how busy he is, he listens, he answers, and he cares. He’s even personally called schools to advocate for our children when needed.

His wife — our Rebbetzin — is pure heart. My daughter adores her, and feels like part of her family. They sit and talk on quiet Shabbos afternoons. She also runs our new women’s Friday night mikvah — giving up time with her own family to care for ours. That mikvah exists because one family gave up their own home so our women could have a place. Every Friday, the wife cleans it herself and stocks it lovingly.

And the community.. It is beautiful, inside and out. There is no competition here, no pressure to keep up. Just good, kind-hearted Yidden, living simply and generously. When one member couldn’t afford a Bar Mitzvah, the whole community came together to make it happen. But we don’t do lavish. We do unity. No one feels the need to impress — we just want to belong to one another.

And when someone needs help — a meal, a ride, babysitting, errands — we show up. When I had a baby in the hospital, my family was taken care of without me asking. When I had to rush one child to the ER, my other kids were picked up and fed by neighbors. When our A/C broke on a hot Shabbos night, someone came right after Tisha B’Av to fix it. When our hot water heater exploded on Sukkos, someone else showed up to help.

This is not rare. This is normal here. The chesed never stops. Every person here is knee-deep in giving. Not for honor. Not for reward. Just for the love of another Jew.

When we celebrated our Hachnasas Sefer Torah, our Mexican neighbors stood outside in awe. They watched us, in the blazing heat, dancing the Torah to its new home — and they felt the joy. Every kind of Jew was there — modern, chassidish, yeshivish — together, as one.

And our children? They’ve grown up in that atmosphere. They don’t judge people by their hats or schools. They play with everyone, all ages, schools, and backgrounds. They help arrange sefarim, babysit for free, attend simchas. My teenage daughter once told me, “Mommy, you have to love every Jew — no matter their label.”

Sometimes I worry about letting her walk alone, especially with some of the newer renters. But when I talk about moving, my kids say the same thing, every time:

“There’s nowhere else we’d rather live.”

This place has become our anchor, our haven, our village. Why would anyone want to tear that down?

To those who worry about us being too close, I say this: If you met us, you’d see — we’re not here to change you. We’re just here to live good, honest, meaningful Jewish lives. And we’re doing that — with joy, with unity, and with boundless love for one another.

With gratitude,
A Mother, and a Proud Resident of the Mile