Welcome to Israel’s era of pop emuni, when tzitzit are a fashion accessory and pop stars in thigh-high boots sing about God’s love
BY DANA KESSLER
Israeli pop star Odeya is standing on stage at the Caesarea Amphitheater, in front of 4,000 screaming admirers, dressed in an oversize Balenciaga T-shirt and thigh-high vinyl boots, legs bare. She takes out her phone and asks her fans to help her write a new song. But then she commands them to repeat “Amen” after her, and she starts singing sentences like “May the Messiah come this year,” and the audience screams, “Amen!” Welcome to postwar Israeli pop culture.
Twenty-four-year-old Odeya Azulay, who goes by the mononym Odeya, is one of Israel’s hottest stars. At 22, she was named on Israel’s Forbes 30 Under 30. She grew up in Bat Yam in a religious Moroccan household. At 11, she switched to a secular school, and after several years, she started reconnecting with her faith, as many of her generation do.
Her sound and look are 100% contemporary Israeli chart pop à la Noa Kirel, but her lyrics range from being faith-based to explicit relationship lyrics—often in the same song. One may deem this hypocrisy, but the truth is that Odeya’s music, lyrics, and overall persona perfectly reflect today’s Israeli youth. Why choose religious or secular when you can be both? As she sings in her song “Intellectu-ars”: “I’m half Haredi and I’m half dressed.” Her mix of naughty modern pop, her TikTok look, and devotional themes is what it’s all about. Judaism has become fashionable, and being a believer is now considered cool, thanks in part to a major social media craze, with rabbis preaching on TikTok and teens boasting about their newfound belief in God in short-form video format.
This transformation, in a culture once divided between the secular and the religious and the traditionalist, didn’t happen overnight. Since Oct. 7, what was once a minor trend has become a flood. According to a special report on the war’s effect on religiosity (emphasizing youth up to age 25) published in November 2025 by the Jewish People Policy Institute, many Israelis report increased observance of tradition since the onset of the war. A quarter of Jewish Israelis say they are more tradition-observant than in the past; the share is higher among young people. If global trends have made gender and sexuality less binary and more fluid, the same shift is happening with religious identity in Israel.
Much of this is driven by the continually increasing influence of the Mizrahim (Israelis originating from Jewish communities that lived in Muslim and Arab countries). Many of them come from traditional households that are secular but hold on to various religious practices, such as keeping kosher or observing Shabbat, as tradition. In many of these families, the grandparents were religious, the parents became secular while still observing tradition, and now the young generation is rediscovering religion and finding new meaning in their parents’ traditions.
Everyday Jewish spirituality, often closely integrated with social media technology, has become mainstream in Israel. You see kids kissing the mezuzah at the dental office. You hear religious expressions in everyday slang—youngsters say “HaShem Yitbarach” (blessed be God). Faith-based messages now spread through traditionally secular channels: TV shows, online platforms, T-shirts, even tattoos. Many of these youngsters believe that we are in the messianic era, or at least approaching it. Perhaps the resurgence of antisemitism across the globe, widely reported in Israeli media, also makes teens want to emphasize their Jewishness as an act of defiance.
Since becoming part of the dominant culture, the sound of pop emuni has broadened. Nowadays this style dominates radio, and thousands attend live shows at huge venues.
Odeya is part of the popular musical genre pop emuni. Emuna means “faith” in Hebrew, so you could call her genre faith-based music, spiritual pop, or simply Jewish pop. Jewish music started infiltrating the mainstream about 20 years ago, via singer-songwriters such as Eviatar Banai and Amir Benayoun, who were successful as secular artists and continued making music after becoming religious, altering their lyrical themes. They influenced religious singer-songwriters, such as Ishay Ribo—one of the genre’s most established stars—to break out.
Since becoming part of the dominant culture, the sound of pop emuni has broadened. For a long time, the category was more oriented toward singer-songwriter or rock music; today the bulk of it is teen-friendly mainstream pop, with dance, hip-hop, and Mizrahi influences. In fact, the only giveaway is the lyrics. Sometimes you hear a ballad on the radio that sounds like any love ballad, but by the chorus, it dawns on you that it’s not a love song to a girl, but to God.
Whatever the sound, nowadays this style dominates radio, and thousands attend live shows at huge venues like the Menora Mivtachim Arena in southeastern Tel Aviv or the Caesarea Amphitheater. To understand how strange and unprecedented this is, imagine if Christian rock were to suddenly break out of its niche and take over the mainstream pop charts in the United States.
Most of the audience at these shows doesn’t look observant. Girls are scantily clad in miniskirts, jeans, and tops that show plenty of cleavage or in leggings and crop tops that show midriff. They have glass hair with a sleek middle part, brushed-up eyebrows, and a permanent pout—the typical contemporary look. Boys are also stylishly dressed, in crisp oversize T-shirts with tzitzit hanging out—some have a kippah on, many don’t.
The tzitzit became a must-have accessory for boys. They buy long, hefty ones and leave them hanging out—either complementing a sporty-elegant outfit or a modern skater/rapper look, complete with a snapback, a chain, and a hip-hop-inspired pimp limp. One business that has capitalized on this movement is 613, a menswear brand that turned the tzitzit into a fashion statement. The name stems from the 613 commandments in the Torah, and the company’s mission statement boasts, “613 is a brand that was born out of a desire to bring a revolutionary message of connection between worlds. A connection of unique and uncompromising fashion, which incorporates the structure of the ancient tzitzit garment.” And, yes, the brand ships internationally.
One of the trendsetters of the tzitzit-without-a-kippah style is 26-year-old singer-songwriter Ben Tzur (born Ben-Zion Haim Tzur in Safed). “I wear tzitzit without a kippah, because tzitzit is a Torah commandment,” he explained on Channel 13 news last November. “They say wearing tzitzit gives you protection and counts as fulfilling all the Torah’s commandments. I do what feels right for me. It genuinely gives me a sense of protection, happiness, safety. I put it on and I feel like I’m glowing. God loves us just as we are.”
Like Odeya, Ben Tzur is one of the loudest voices of his generation. Many of today’s teens describe themselves as neshamot tzme’ot (thirsty souls), after one of Ben Tzur’s hits. In it, he states (roughly translated), “A generation of thirsty souls / Reverence for God without labels / Not making public statements / Torah study and then lights / Modesty is from within / That’s what the girls say / Skirt one day a week / Trying to make an effort.”
Judaism for many teens in Israel today means having your cake and eating it too. The cake is a personal connection to God (they call him Abba, meaning “Father”); the icing on the cake is that it’s on trend. There is no need to make major changes to your lifestyle to be observant in this way. Observing the mitzvot is perfection, but God doesn’t expect you to be perfect. He appreciates the effort. “Trying” is more than enough. You want to wear a tzitzit but no kippah? No problem. You want to dress modestly only on Shabbat? Go for it. You want to separate meat and dairy at home but eat a cheeseburger when going out? Why not. It’s all good—it’s the thought that counts.
There is a touching and tragic naivety in which these kids, whose lives and sense of security have been blown apart by the harsh realities of war, talk about their rapport with the Creator. “He’s just like a therapist,” explained one girl who was interviewed at a Ben Tzur concert on Channel 13 news. “Instead of paying to talk to someone, you can tell Father in Heaven your problems. God is searching for us, He wants us to come to Him, He wants us to get closer.”
This type of thinking is inspired in part by Breslov Chassidut, founded by Rabbi Nachman of Breslov (1772-1810). Rabbi Nachman emphasized that the struggle itself and the genuine desire to do good are what matter most to God, not just the results. He taught that even if someone repeatedly fails, as long as they keep trying and their heart is in the right place, their efforts are precious to God. One could say that today’s Israeli youth take advantage of this optimistic, compassionate approach to human imperfection and interpret it to suit them. To them, religion is a pick-and-mix buffet as well as an insurance policy—the first concept aligns with the prevailing mentality of Generation Z, while the second is what local kids (and adults) have needed on a psychological level since Oct. 7.
“Tamid Ohev Oti” (“Always Loves Me”) by rapper and singer ElaytZur (born Yair Elitzur)—released in the summer of 2024—
took this need for hope and reassurance to another level. This over-the-top anthem, celebrating HaShem’s unconditional love, was written by ElaytZur, who held a career as a teenager in Israel’s hip-hop scene before becoming a Breslov Hasid, in collaboration with his 73-year-old rabbi, Shalom Arush, at Arush’s request. Its lyrics—roughly translated—state, “And things will get even better for me / Even better, Even better, Even better, Even better, Even better / And I’ll always have only good.”
The repetition in the chorus is like a mantra, the kind you might find in any Breslov-inspired music, reflecting the gam zu l’tova (this too is for the good) philosophy. Saying that the song hit a nerve is an understatement: It became the ultimate crowd sing-along of the second year of the war, spewing unabashed and inappropriate elation while the population was drained, worn out, and hopeless. It spawned several cover versions; the most successful was recorded by teen heartthrob Sasson Shaulov, of TikTok fame, a few months later. Twenty-three-year-old Shaulov released a deliriously uplifting version—part soccer chant, part wedding staple—surpassing the original version’s popularity and amassing 45 million views on YouTube.
In the video, Shaulov in a white kippah prays at the Wailing Wall and performs kippah-less in a giant multiple-location party with Breslov Hasidim dancing on vans, elderly ladies in wheelchairs, female soldiers with guns, a raven-haired alternative chick with a lip piercing, a kid with a kippah and long side-curls, Ethiopians, religious folks, a girl in a Tupac T-shirt, beer-clutching dudes, and an assortment of average run-of-the-mill Israelis, all going crazy and dancing in an ecstatic frenzy as if each had personally won the lottery that very morning, though in reality the song was released while war was raging and multiple hostages were still in captivity.
“Tamid Ohev Oti” sparked much criticism. In addition to the gut-wrenching dissonance between the euphoric song and the timing of its release, putting the listener in a false “everything is fine” trance while the real world was being horrendous, it also sparked controversy from a theological point of view. Some rabbis stated that it presented a distorted image of divine providence and is, in fact, heresy.
These songs and their worldview are propagated by young influencers, such as Anahel Baradess, who has 759,000 followers on TikTok. In an interview, she said that she started wearing modest clothes and that she is sure that God notices and appreciates her doing this for him. When asked if she isn’t doing this for herself, she replied, “Yeah, also for me, but mainly for him.” In one of her TikTok posts, you see her in a denim maxi skirt hanging a verse from the Book of Psalms on the wall, with a song by Ben Tzur in the background. In another, she is showing off a revealing sexy-devil Purim costume.
Social media personality and model Shahar Hauon was quick to tap into the merch market with her very own Judaica brand, which she started with her mother. She has no qualms about posing in tiny bikinis, but she also sells mezuzah cases, tehillim booklets, and personalized Siddurim, with a customized engraving. As she states on her website, “My mother and I founded this business with the aspiration to bring holiness and light into people’s homes during the era of redemption, and to spread our ancient values in a contemporary language that speaks to the hearts of the new generation.”
Beautiful young starlets aside, the biggest TikTok and Instagram influencers of the day are rabbis: for example, Rabbi Igal Cohen (112,000 followers on TikTok, 183,000 followers on Instagram) and Rabbi Ronen Shaulov (982,000 followers on TikTok, 919,000 followers on Instagram). Social media is full of rabbis who have mastered the art of turning an hour-long sermon into a one-minute video. There are incubators for Jewish digital content creators and companies that specialize in turning rabbis into digital tastemakers and viral sensations.
The religious trend is hardly confined to content creators, rabbis, and musicians. It’s something real within society. Innumerable teenagers and 20-somethings—who look and behave as secular as they come—attend real-life Torah lessons. Sometimes the teacher is a rabbi, other times it’s some celebrity on the path to teshuvah (return to the faith), such as actor, model, and TV host Aviv Alush, who teaches Torah and cohosts a faith podcast. These youngsters don’t refer to themselves as chozrim b’teshuvah (returnees)—undoubtedly an extreme and committed step that requires concessions and uncomfortable lifestyle changes. They are mitchazkim. Literally, mitchazek means “to become stronger,” and it is a contemporary colloquial term rather than a classical religious category. The term describes a gradual strengthening in observance, which is seen as a personal journey with no strict rules. This new term is easy to sell since it sounds so positive: Who wouldn’t prefer to become stronger rather than weaker?
Yet whereas Israeli pop culture once attempted to engage with the world, this new wave is directed inward, distancing Israel culturally from the rest of the West while at the same time addressing the longstanding secular-religious divide within Israeli society. Fads come and go, and it’s hard to predict whether this movement will create a fundamental change in Israeli society. At the same time, it seems fair to say that the cultural centrality of this new blend of secular style and a quest for religious meaning is a product of Oct. 7 that few observers of Israeli society predicted.
