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“Deborah Feldman was raised in a insular, oppressive world where she was taught that, being a woman, she wasn’t capable of independent thought. But she found the pluck and determination needed to make the break from that world and has written a brave, riveting account of her journey. Unorthodox is harrowing, yet triumphant.”—Jeannette Walls, #1 bestselling author of The Glass Castle and Half Broke Horses

“Feldman provides special insight in to a closed and repressive world. . . . Her memoir is fresh and tart and utterly absorbing.”—Library Journal

“Nicely written . . . [An] engaging and also at times gripping understanding of Brooklyn's Hasidic community.”—Publishers Weekly

“A remarkable tale.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Feldman’s evolution as well as her look in a very closed community make for fascinating reading … her storyteller’s sense plus a keen eye for details give readers a you-are-there sense of the items it can be like to become different when everybody else is the same.”—Booklist

In the tradition of Ayaan Hirsi Ali’s Infidel and Carolyn Jessop’s Escape, Unorthodox is really a captivating story about a woman going to live her life at any cost.
The Satmar sect of Hasidic Judaism will be as mysterious as it's intriguing to outsiders. In this arresting memoir, Deborah Feldman reveals what life is like trapped in a religious tradition that values silence and suffering over individual freedoms.

The child of a mentally disabled father as well as a mother who abandoned the city while her daughter used to be a toddler, Deborah was raised by her strictly religious grandparents, Bubby and Zeidy. Along having a rotating cast of aunts and uncles, they enforced customs with a relentless focus on rules that governed everything from what Deborah could wear and whom she could speak, as to what she was permitted to read. As she grew from an inquisitive young daughter to a independent-minded young woman, stolen moments reading in regards to the empowered literary characters of Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott helped her to imagine an alternate way of life. She had no idea how you can seize this dream that gave the impression to beckon to her from the skyscrapers of Manhattan, but she was determined to locate a way. The tension between Deborah’s desires and her responsibilities like a good Satmar girl grew more explosive until, in the age of seventeen, she found herself trapped in a sexually and emotionally dysfunctional marriage with a man she had met for only thirty minutes before they became engaged. As a result, she experienced debilitating anxiety which was exacerbated by the public shame of having failed to immediately consummate her marriage and thus serve her husband. But it wasn’t until she'd a youngster at nineteen that Deborah realized greater than just her very own future was at stake, and that, regardless in the obstacles, she would have to forge a path—for herself and her son—to happiness and freedom.

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From UNorthodox:

I have secrets too. Maybe Bubby is aware of them, but she won’t say anything about mine basically don’t say anything about hers. Or perhaps We've only imagined her complicity; there's a chance this agreement is only one-sided. Would Bubby tattle on me? I hide my books under the bed, and she hides hers in her own lingerie, and once per year when Zeidy inspects the house for Passover, poking through our things, we hover anxiously, terrified of being found out. Zeidy even rifles through my underwear drawer. Only after i make sure he understands that this can be my private female stuff does he desist, unwilling to violate a woman’s privacy, and move on my grandmother’s wardrobe. She can be as defensive as I'm when he rummages through her lingerie. We both realize that our small stash of secular books would shock my grandfather greater than a pile of chametz, the forbidden leavening, ever could. Bubby might get away having a scolding, but I'd personally 't be spared the entire extent of my grandfather’s wrath. When my zeide gets angry, his long white beard appears to lift up and spread around his face just like a fiery flame. I wither instantly inside heat of his scorn. “Der tumeneh shprach!” he thunders at me when he overhears me talking to my cousins in English. An impure language, Zeidy says, acts like a poison to the soul. Reading an English book is even worse; it leaves my soul vulnerable, a welcome mat create for your devil.







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