Realizing a Dream

There’s a certain magic about these new out-of-town communities. Yoel Friedman, who was the first of the pioneering group of explorers (“meshugo’im,” in his own words) to purchase a home in Canvey back in 2015, is the community’s quasi-official spokesperson and ambassador. As a founding father of the Jewish settlement who witnessed its growth from a miniscule outpost to flourishing community, the articulate Satmar chassid with a Mancunian accent and a background in public relations is its greatest advocate — a passion that even extends to his car’s license plate, which reads C4NVE.

Almost 20 years ago, Yoel and his young family lived in a small rented home in Tottenham, adjacent to Stamford Hill. He was considered one of the lucky ones — simply by virtue of having found a house to rent.

“It was only two-and-a-half bedrooms and at the time suited our needs, but finding a home like that with a garden was a big deal, even back in 2008. Today, many families are stuck in a tiny two-bedroom apartment with eight children or more,” he says.

Motty Pinter is the director of public affairs at  the Agudas Israel Housing Association (AIHA), a social housing provider established more than 40 years ago to help people in the chareidi community find homes, whether through rent or shared ownership (a way of buying a residential home in small increments).

Although AIHA has a portfolio of more than 900 units in London, Gateshead, and Manchester, the growth of the chareidi community means that the demand hopelessly outstrips supply.

“When one property in Stamford Hill goes on the market for shared ownership, we can easily hit sixty applications for that one property,” Pinter says. “In contrast, in Golders Green that number was around ten. So Stamford Hill clearly has an existential housing problem.”

And thanks to the kehillah’s exponential growth, the housing crisis is only worsening. Whereas in 1991, the UK chareidi community was an estimated 18,000 people, today it stands at over 80,000.

“To buy a home on the open market on the most sought-after streets in Stamford Hill can easily cost anywhere between £1.1 million and £1.8 million,” says Reb Yoel. Even in neighboring Tottenham, where homes are smaller, prices still remain stubbornly high, leaving little or no hope for first-time buyers.

Frustrated at the seeming impossibility of ever buying a home, Yoel joined a group of men determined to stake out alternative housing options outside of London.

The group had clear criteria for their ideal location: It would have to be within an hour’s drive of London to facilitate a doable commute for work, family visits, and shopping; housing prices had to be reasonable, and there had to be a steady supply of nice-sized homes for sale. They also kept their eyes peeled for buildings that could be used for schools and shuls.

The group considered more than ten different locations, but Canvey hit the sweet spot. In Victorian times, the island was a popular holiday destination for Londoners looking to escape the city. It experienced a population swell after World War II, in its height reaching 45,000 inhabitants when middle-class families seeking to escape the smoggy capital moved out. Back then, non-Jewish families were larger and lived in homes of three or four bedrooms. Now, with that generation aging and downsizing — and their offspring preferring city dwelling — homes in Canvey are in steady supply.

“There’s not much to keep someone living here,” says Reb Yoel. “There’s just one pub, and the nightlife has moved to other nearby towns, so people aren’t moving in much anymore.”

However, it took time for the momentum to build. An initial 100 families expressed interest in moving to Canvey, where a spacious detached five-bedroom home with lawns front and back costs £550,000 (about $740,000) — a third of the price of a similar-sized home in Stamford Hill, which costs £1.5 million — but the group eventually dwindled to just ten families.

“We were having meeting after meeting but nothing was moving, the same ten people sitting round the table looking at each other,” says Yoel. “But eventually we bit the bullet, and six of us set a date for moving, signing on homes in Canvey in the meantime. It was a surreal moment when we had our first Shabbos in this strange place in July 2016.”

Yoel soon found himself being hounded by media outlets desperate to cover the new phenomenon. Speaking to a curious journalist from The Guardian after his move ten years ago, he reflected on how different life in Canvey is.

“As you drive onto the island it all suddenly changes. The quietness hits you,” he said. “You cross the marshes, you see the cattle grazing and it gives you five minutes just to quiet down and get used to a different pace.”

Yoel’s bucolic description aside, standing in the center of Jewish Canvey on this early Sunday afternoon, I observe lots of activity. As cheder ends for the day, mothers arrive to fetch their young sons. Off to the right of the community-owned complex, the well-stocked grocery store is doing brisk business, and ahead, men stroll to and from the shul in the huge building that also houses a simchah hall, the girls’ high school, and the yeshivah ketanah.

“Look at what we have here,” says the chassidish fellow manning the register at the busy grocery, waving his arm toward the well-stocked shelves and fridges. “There’s nothing in Stamford Hill that you can’t get here.”

Integration Education

“I almost crashed my car the first time I saw one of the chassidic Jews wandering around in their full garb. They looked so out of place,” remembers Rebecca Harris. As MP of Castle Point (a constituency that includes Canvey Island), she’s been a key player in helping smooth tensions between the Canvey locals and the chassidic influx.

Initially, local political leanings seemed to be unfavorable to the new venture; Castle Point was in the top-five Brexit-supporting areas in the country, with 73 percent of people voting to leave the European Union in the 2019 referendum, a stance seen as fueled by nationalist tendencies — and often characterized by hostility to foreigners.

“People warned us that Canvey is a racist place, one of the least diverse areas in the entire country,” says Yoel Friedman, “whereas we came from Hackney, one of the most ethnically diverse places in London.

“But we soon saw that a lot of the antipathy from the locals came from a place of ignorance about our community, not from a place of hate. We quickly found that if we engage with people and behave like menschen, we can live peacefully alongside each other.”

Rebecca stresses that Canvey’s reputation as racist is unfairly earned. “Brexit was about protecting our jobs, not being run by Europe, and having independence as proud Brits. It was not about racism,” she says emphatically.

“In fact,” she continues, “it was interesting to observe that once the Jewish community started to move in, many locals came out of the woodwork as having Jewish roots. ‘But you go to church?’ I challenged one of them. ‘Oh yes, I go to church but I had a bar mitzvah.’ ”

The island natives are primarily white British Cockneys, originally from London’s East End, with a reputation for being a little rough and ready. “I tell them we’re just like them, emigrating out of London — just fifty years after they did,” Yoel says. “A lot of them remember Jews from the East End, the big shuls and the lox bagels, so there’s lots of shared history and common ground that I try to capitalize on.”

“Canvey is really the old East End,” Rebecca says of the capital’s immigrant-heavy eastern quarter, the great melting pot of arrivals at the port of London at the turn of the century, similar to New York’s Lower East Side.

In fact, upon hearing that Jews were coming to Canvey, the non-Jewish locals — London expats who remembered the East End eateries — wanted to know when the same enterprises would be coming to Canvey as well.

“I found that people’s biggest concern was when a bagel shop would open,” Rebecca says.

Still, the new neighbors sent culture shock waves surging through the island. Touring the Jewish area of Canvey, it’s easy to pick out the homes owned by Jews. Overflowing garbage cans and large vans parked at jaunty angles with windows left open make no secret of a Jewish family living there; next door, a gleaming late-model car sits in front of a house with prim hedges and nary a piece of litter in sight.

“I remember when a Hatzalah responder on call made an illegal right turn soon after we arrived,” says Yoel. “There was a himmelgeshrai! Everyone was talking about it.”

An unlikely bridge builder between the locals and the new arrivals was Chris Fenwick, a local hotelier and larger-than-life personality who has been nicknamed Mr. Canvey. For over 50 years, ponytailed Chris has been the manager of a rock band with an international following. (He still spends a chunk of the year on tour with the group doing gigs.)

Canvey born-and-bred, Chris has become the new Jewish community’s greatest friend, advocate, and defender. A master raconteur, he has found innovative ways to bridge the gap between the nascent kehillah and the locals.

“I remember when I first bumped into the hassidics when they came on a recce,” says Chris. “I found two of them by the sea wall in their full hassidic long coats and hats. They were both called Abraham. Until today I call them the two Abrahams.”

“I said, ‘Shalom gentlemen, what brings you to Canvey?’ They were quite open about their aspirations for creating a community here, telling me about housing pressures in North London, and we immediately connected.

“ ‘What do you think,’ they asked me, ‘will we be welcomed here?’ ”

With characteristic Cockney candor, Chris told them what he thought: You will be very welcome, provided you don’t try and upstage the locals. Don’t try and get clever with them or appear above them.

“We exchanged phone numbers and I didn’t see them again for a year. Next thing I know, there’s hassidic people and a housing association buying up properties in Sixty Acres, on the north side of the island.”

The Canvey newcomers weren’t Chris’s first encounter with Jews. In his teenage years he had attended a drama school near Golders Green, an area of North West London dominated by Jewish families, although the kids he met there were predominantly from secular Jewish families. “I’ve mixed with Jewish people all my life,” says Chris, “but the hassidics are an entirely different ballgame.”

Seeking a way to encourage some level of integration between the newcomers and the locals, the showbiz guru facilitated a welcome event.

At the evening, which featured separate seating for men and women and was attended by the vicar as well as some local couples, the Canvey natives had their first lesson in Jewish cultural awareness. Having turned up nice and early, they sat around waiting endlessly for the chassidim to arrive, wondering if maybe there had been a mix-up with the date. The newcomers eventually showed up — more than an hour late. “I know what I’m gonna buy ’em for Xmas,” grumbled Chris good naturedly. “Watches.”

As the event got underway, the women explained to their inquisitive non-Jewish counterparts what a potato knish is and the men kibitzed about local housing costs. Barriers slowly melted, making way for a cautious trust.

But nobody among the chassidic contingent was quite prepared for the next item on the program. Chris had brought along one of his lead guitarists to provide some live entertainment. Introducing him with all the flourish he could muster, the musician belted out one of the band’s late ’70s chart-busting hits. The chassidim looked on agog, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Around the same time, the BBC approached Chris and Yoel to work on a documentary about the new chassidic Essex phenomenon.

“This was post-Brexit and we all knew where this was coming from,” says Rebecca Harris. “They wanted to cover how an uber-Brexit area is putting up with the influx of foreigners. But amazingly, both sides of the community came together to deny the BBC that narrative and show a united Canvey.”

By and large, the local community doesn’t show signs of resenting the burgeoning chassidic population. “It’s generally calm — I don’t get much casework relating to community tensions,” says Rebecca. “We had the odd bit of graffiti and some bacon smeared on door handles at one point, but that stopped. Canvey is a friendly place and the Jewish community are good, law-abiding citizens who make for good constituents and get along with everyone else.”

The main complaint, she says, is about homes being turned into shuls, which is really a parking matter, explains the MP. “I had to explain to the Jewish community that because the roads are fairly narrow, people don’t want a whole load of cars being parked from Friday afternoon until Saturday night at one particular place, clogging up the area.”

She’s also had constituents say that the boys at the yeshivah are unfriendly.

“ ‘When was the last time you had a conversation with a teenage boy who doesn’t know you?’ I countered back,” she says.

Yoel and his friends have made sure to welcome key Canvey figures like Chris and Rebecca into their homes. His wife Mindy teamed up with a group of friends to host the MP for a challah bake one Thursday night.

“I had to get the ladies to slow down a lot to see what they were doing — they were working so fast!” the MP says.

For his part, Chris enjoys going to shul a few times a year to show his face.

“It took me a long time to gain their trust until they let me in. I wanted right away to pray and dance with them, and I think they needed me to slow down a little,” he laughs, “but eventually they let me come.

“I’ve got nothing but respect for the way they conduct themselves,” Chris continues. “It makes a lot of common sense. They’re very family-oriented and that means a lot to me, I’m the same and I can see the similarities. The way the dads and boys bond, the way kids are allowed to be kids, and just the simple strength of family, they have that in spades. I’ve got nothing but total respect for how they live and what they do. I think there’s something we could all learn from them.”

At hardware store GMD Mowers and Tools, the Cockney-chassidic interactions are just as amusing and revealing. Owners Garry and Sandra Durant got to know the newcomers who come by for their Pesach and Succos purchases.

“You have some funny foibles, don’t’cha,” says Sandra, her Cockney accent dropping the letter “l” in favour of a “w.” “You cover all your furniture for Passover, right?”

Although they’ve grown friendly with many of the locals, Sandra admits she struggles with names. “One of the lads, I call him Belgium, ’cos that’s where’s he from, innit. And the car deala, I call ’im Smiley, ’cos I can’t remember his name. And there’s so many Grossenbergers that I’ve lost count!”

But Sandra is happy with the influx of chassidic families. “They’re lovely. They don’t worry me,” she says. “They don’t burgle your house or sell drugs — better than some!”

She’s unwittingly become the point of contact to explain some of the community’s mores to other locals. “ ‘They live in a shed for a week?’ they ask me. Yes, they’re eating and sleeping in a shed for a week.”

She has also discovered the new community’s relaxed approach to time keeping. “You’re all lastminute.com, all you lot are,” she says. “If there’s an event, we’ll always tell then it starts two hours before it actually begins, because there’s a chance they’ll show up! No sense of time at all,” she ends, shaking her head.

“But they’re wonderful. They invited us to the Torah scroll parade, and that was great. Very welcoming. And they love a drink!”

Getting Set Up

It’s easy to get fixated on the numbers when setting up any new venture — not least for a new kehillah, which needs a critical mass to make it a success. In Canvey’s early days, things were unstable and the community relied on good souls coming in from Stamford Hill to make up minyanim.

“Of course, at the beginning we were religiously counting the number of families joining,” says Yoel, “but I think it’s more important to focus on the consistency of the momentum, the flow of people coming. And it takes time: People are always interested in coming, but it can take about a year from taking the decision to actually making the move.”

He adds that it can also be a problem when a town grows so rapidly that its infrastructure lags behind, leaving shuls, stores, and schools unable to cope with the influx.

Today Canvey has a fully-stocked grocery with daily deliveries from Stamford Hill, but for seven or eight years, its offerings were minimal.

“Families had to put together a joint meat order, and it was delivered the next day from Stamford Hill,” Yoel says. As the town expanded, the store increased its offerings.

Another point the Canvey founders had to consider was how to prevent housing prices from creeping up, given the rising demand. They instituted a housing vaad, which regulates all purchases on the open market. Prospective buyers put their name on the vaad’s list, and when a home in the Jewish area goes on the market, the first name on the list gets priority. This prevents multiple Jews from vying for the same home and sellers from starting bidding wars and pushing the price up. The vaad also sources new homes to ensure a steady supply for those wishing to join the community.

But perhaps the Canvey kehillah’s biggest coup was the procurement of a site that is today the focal point of the young community, housing most of its infrastructure. After a state school shut its doors in 2011 and the campus sat empty until 2016, the local council had decided to demolish the collection of prefab buildings to create housing units.

Having been waiting for just such an opportunity, Yoel and his friends swung into action, roping in a Stamford Hill philanthropist to assist. Notwithstanding stiff opposition from the town council, the pioneering group was able to purchase the site for a paltry £1.75m — the cost of a house in Stamford Hill. Today, it houses the main shul, a simchah hall, the kosher shop, an all-through boys school (kindergarten through beis medrash, as is standard for chassidish mosdos) and separate girls school, the yeshivah ketanah, and Yeshiva Luzern, which is run by Rav Moshe Koppelman, son of the original Lucerne Yeshiva’s founder Rav Yitzchok Dov Koppelman.

With this critical infrastructure in place, Canvey finally gained its independence from Stamford Hill, although a shuttle bus makes its way to and from London three times a day for those who need it.

Always mindful of maintaining good relations within Canvey, Yoel and fellow founders speak individually to each new family arriving. “We explain that you’re an ambassador for the Jewish community, and that has to be borne out in your actions. You can’t do the things you might do back in London,” Yoel says. “You have to be more careful how you drive, how you put out your garbage, and also, make sure to greet people.”

To the non-Jews, Yoel explains that keeping lawns trim and cars perfectly waxed is less of a priority to the large Jewish families, who choose to be more invested in their children.

Rebecca Harris says she sees the presence of the Jewish community on Canvey as a huge positive in its future.

“Let’s be honest, they’ll never integrate fully,” she says, “but it’s been pretty smooth. They are nice people who are respectful and kind, and they make good neighbors. Who wouldn’t want that?”

Housing Woes

Back in 2018, 35-year-old Chezky Weiss and his wife Malky were living in a two-bedroom apartment in Stamford Hill — with five children and a newborn.

“Our second youngest was still sleeping in our bedroom when our new baby arrived, that’s how cramped it was,” he remembers.

The talk about the new community in Canvey just an hour away and its comparably low housing costs piqued their interest, but their reservations loomed large.

“When you move to a new place, it’s not just about the house,” says Malky Weiss. “You have to start from scratch, leaving behind your familiar community — the schools, friends, shul you daven in and even your doctor and dentist. It was definitely a big plunge.”

But desperately in need of more space and wanting to own a home of their own, the Weisses took the leap, and seven years ago became the 41st family to join the Canvey community.

The transition was challenging. They were the first Jewish family on their street, and they had to acclimate to all that living in a fledgling community entails.

“Back then, the shop carried only a few basic items,” Mrs. Weiss says. “I always had to have a Plan B for supper in case what I wanted was out of stock.”

Schooling was a challenge, too, with rebbeim and teachers being bused in from Stamford Hill and small classes adding to the complexity of the situation.

But as time went by, the family settled down and realized there was so much they appreciated about their new home beyond the affordable mortgage.

“I’m home with the children much more and I have more headspace to give them what they need,” says Mrs. Weiss. “I’m not caught up in the rat race, always running out to a clothes sale, a tena’im, or a chasunah. There’s much more yishuv hadaas and less peer pressure to keep up with others.

“Not being in the center of the action means that I don’t catch every sale and every simchah. But I always tell people that here I have everything I need, not everything I want. Canvey attracts a certain quiet and calmness and a tranquility. You cannot have this lifestyle in the city.”

Today, there are seven other Jewish families who live on their street, and the Weisses enjoy the company of a number of their siblings who have moved out to Canvey. Chezky’s parents have even bought a second home in Canvey that they use for Shabbos to be near their children.

For Shia Perl, the kehillah’s administrator, moving to Canvey from Stamford Hill was leap of faith.

“Anyone who tells you it’s all smooth sailing is telling a lie,” he says. “It’s only natural that living in a new community like this will bring its challenges. You can’t expect to have all the social and communal benefits straight away. But we would never look back.”

Shia found that for his personal development, there were enormous gains that he believes he wouldn’t have had in the busy London metropolis.

“You can maximize your potential here,” he says. “I’ve discovered my skills and talents in managing a busy office and learning about finance. Others have gotten involved on the mikveh vaad, or setting up Hatzalah, or any number of other kehillah initiatives. There are so many opportunities here to get involved and bring out people’s capabilities.”

Fairy-Tale Ending

Now that the Canvey community is firmly established with a steady stream of new arrivals, Yoel Friedman is focusing his efforts on making sure the kehillah’s infrastructure is keeping pace with the developing community.

In fact, Shia explains, Canvey Island is seeing a second generation settle there. As Canvey residents marry off their children, some young couples have opted to settle on home turf, creating natural growth in the community.

For his part, Yoel would like to see the kehillah expand beyond chassidim to include yeshivish families, too.

“I accept that in today’s day and age people are fussier when it comes to schooling and the existing mosdos might not fit the bill, so a critical mass might be required,” he says, “but it’s something I’m  hopeful for. Let them come and see Canvey. They’ll love it.”

He and Chris Fenwick continue to take a proactive stance to helping the newcomers and the wider community live peacefully alongside each other. While Yoel delivered cultural awareness training to some of the more hardnosed town councillors, Chris arranged for a joint visit with a church leader into local schools to explain more about the Jewish community.

Leaning back in his chair in Yoel’s comfortable dining room, a sprawling golf course visible just beyond the low garden fence, Chris reflects on the community’s journey. “I think the hassidics got lucky to find Canvey,” he says, “ ’cos it’s a great place. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our hairy moments but I’m  hopeful that this is heading for a really nice fairy-tale ending that reads something like this: A bunch of hassidics landed in Canvey and flourished.”

Boom and Bust

For centuries, Jews have been spread out across provincial towns and cities right across the British Isles, often based in port cities where their boats landed as well as in heavily industrialized commercial centers such as Manchester and Birmingham. Jews also set up shop in flourishing provincial communities that saw an influx of newcomers after London was evacuated during World War II. In the North East of the country, for example, there was a plethora of smaller communities dotting the map in places such as Darlington, Durham, Bishop Auckland, and Whitley Bay. Today, frum families on vacation often stumble across a disused Jewish cemetery or other evidence of Jewish life in the most unlikely places.

In its heyday, Anglo Jewry flourished in England, with impressive synagogue buildings housing large congregations and with rabbis known as ministers and chazzanim who wore canonicals. But as communities declined, shul buildings — once the focal point of community life — were sold. According to a 2017 JPR study, the centrist United Synagogue sector has seen a 37 percent drop since 1990, while conversely, chareidi Jewry is expected to outpace all other Jewish sectors by 2040.

As an example, the city of Newcastle in the North East of England once boasted four shuls at its peak, but is now down to just one declining community. In contrast, it’s counterpart across the River Tyne, the exclusively chareidi town of Gateshead, is booming.

The 2021 government census further highlighted this decline, with outlying London areas such as Redbridge, Harrow, and Brent all experiencing a decline in their Jewish population of between 40 and 50 percent between 2001 and 2021.

Today, an estimated one in two Jewish births in London are attributed to chareidi families, whose communities grow at a rate of 4 percent per year. The population growth exacerbates the London housing crisis, further fueling the trend to move to outlying areas.

On the Edge of a Cliff

Canvey isn’t the only English town to find itself becoming home to chassidim looking to leave crowded London. The Canvey success story prompted another group of chassidim from Stamford Hill to make a similar move to nearby Westcliff, just a half hour away. There, the intrepid chassidim have encountered a local version of a national trend: an Anglo-Jewish community in steep decline, begrudgingly coming to terms with the new arrivals breathing new life into their dying Jewish outpost.

Located a half hour’s drive down the coastline from Canvey, Westcliff (population 24,000) was a similar seaside location of choice for London expats seeking a quieter life away from the city. Jews jumped on the bandwagon, and the Southend and Westcliff Hebrew Congregation was formed in 1906 to serve the flourishing Jewish community.

The current shul premises is a late 1960s building kept in immaculate condition, standing secure behind modern electric gates. Inside its cavernous interior there are rows upon rows of upholstered pews, an aron kodesh housing eleven sifrei Torah, a spacious function room, a second beis medrash upstairs, and even a stunning bridal suite (yichud room) off the main lobby. Ornate stained-glass windows and Israeli flag bunting draped high above our heads complete the picture. But all these trappings notwithstanding, the shul has one fundamental problem — there’s almost nobody left to fill it up.

“How many people come on a Shabbos morning?” I ask longtime gabbai Geoffrey Pepper, a septuagenarian with a goatee and ready smile. “Not enough,” retorts the usually soft-spoken man. “I don’t talk numbers,” he says a little abruptly.

It’s a strange statement for a retired accountant, and it belies a tinge of sadness, the uncomfortable knowledge that this shul with a glorious past, that once attracted over a thousand people on the Yamim Noraim, has perhaps had its time.

The building was inaugurated in 1967, when Jewish life in Westcliff was thriving.

“Those were the boom years,” says Dennis Baum, another local community activist whose family’s history has been intertwined with the shul’s over a span of many decades. “People who returned to the East End after the war wanted to get away from the overcrowding and have a more comfortable life. And this was a straight ride from London down here to the coast.”

Soon the seafront community was at its heyday, its thriving year-round activity augmented by Londoners who would vacation in Westcliff.

“There were kosher hotels, restaurants, and five kosher butchers,” remembers Dennis. “It was close enough to London for commuting. The men would go to shul early for Shacharis before heading into the city and come here right from work before going home, so the shul was always busy.”

It thrived right into the 1980s and early ’90s. “The function suite was busy all the time. Everyone got married in the shul and held their bar mitzvahs here.”

But the communal boom led to skyrocketing house prices, and Dennis’s contemporaries began moving out to cheaper areas nearby. As they began their own families, the attraction of good jobs in London and the distaste for the commute lured them away from Westcliff.

There was also another, more fundamental issue fraying the fabric of Westcliff’s Jewish communal life.

“The lack of Jewish education was a primary factor,” says Dennis, explaining the background to the community’s decline. “Couples that wanted to give their children even a basic Jewish education did not find that in Westcliff, and they either moved away or resigned themselves to the reality — both of which further weakened the Jewish fabric of the community.

“As people became less religious, they Anglicized, wanting to be more like their non-Jewish workmates.” Dennis continues. “It might not be popular to say this, but we are diluting ourselves. People don’t want to get married in these sorts of surroundings anymore,” he says, gesturing to the polished mahogany bimah. “They like posh hotels and high-end event venues, but the United Synagogue won’t marry them if it’s not a kosher location. So they don’t bother with a kosher marriage ceremony.”

Statistics from the London-based Jewish Policy Research think tank (JPR) affirm his assessment. Between the years 1975 to 1994, marriages in the mainstream United Synagogue sector fell by 25 percent whereas those in the chareidi sector climbed by as much as 42 percent.

Around twenty years ago, with the formerly bustling shul experiencing a perpetual decline and keeping up the weekday minyanim a constant struggle, Geoffrey Pepper decided to write in to the Jewish Tribune, a frum weekly newspaper. He penned a series of letters to the editor aimed at raising the profile of Westcliff and attracting new residents, hoping that, in his words, “the Modern Orthodox might start coming.”

But while they didn’t come, another group did. Buoyed by the success of Canvey just 30 minutes away, chassidim began showing an interest in this other seaside town.

“They started coming for Shabbos and we showed them around,” says Geoffrey. “Although yes, they were greeted with some trepidation.”

In 2017, the first contingent of chassidim moved in and filled the ranks of the weekday minyan. For Geoffrey, it was a dream come true. “For the first time in years we had a minyan three times a day. On Friday nights, when we get about twenty people, half of them are the chassidim.”

As we talk in the parking lot, Dennis gestures to the building next door, a property of the shul’s that’s been rented as a cheder to the chassidim. As if on cue, hordes of chassidishe boys stream out of the building into the yard for recess, and Dennis smiles wryly.

“Look,” he says bluntly, “people took exception to the lackadaisical manner in which they operated, not the same the English manner that we were used to with rigid rules and strict enforcement. You know, this door must be locked and those lights switched off. It was a bit of a lack of respect for what we were used to. It’s a new version of Judaism than what we were accustomed to.”

Sheya Klein, who hails from Montreal and was living in Stamford Hill, moved to Westcliff around six years ago. Together with friends, he has involved himself in Geoffrey’s shul. “There used to be some here who were very anti to us, so we left and built our own shul. But now we’re in touch with them every day. They really need our input for minyanim, funerals, and the like. We also upgraded the existing mikveh, with their permission.”

The chassidim of Westcliff, which boasts three chassidish shuls, now also have a seat on the board of the dying shul. “I think they no longer see us as the threat they originally did. They see our young, growing community, whereas they experience a lot of intermarriage,” says Sheya.

Before we leave, Geoffrey and Dennis insist we view the shul’s boardroom. On the wall hang portraits of the previous rabbinic leaders of the congregation, an impressive gallery of glory days long gone.

Do they see the chassidim as a future here? I ask. “I think so,” says Geoffrey. Dennis just smiles, opting not to answer. I suspect he knows, as I do, that Westcliff’s boom and bust story is sadly a microcosm of the story of Anglo Jewry.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1085)