When I visited Eretz Yisrael in late summer, the municipal election season was just starting to stir awake as the electorate, in all its shapes and forms, began to choose sides. There wasn’t yet much clarity about who the candidates would be and where the various religious parties would end up. Journalists were still finding random pedestrians in Machaneh Yehudah unburdened by any real insight into the political process to weigh in on which candidate they liked best.

It was Chodesh Elul and sunny and there was much talk of shalom, of the chareidi parties working hand in hand — but that’s not precisely what happened. In fact, it’s precisely what didn’t happen.

Things fell apart. The Satan came dancing in, creating a gap that kept getting bigger and bigger. There was breaking news on Erev Yom Kippur, reports of fresh disagreements on Motzaei Yom Kippur, and a steady stream of mudslinging as succah walls went up. As people walked around the bimah on Hoshana Rabbah, recalling the march that toppled the walls of Yericho, fresh walls were being erected.

The elections finally came. The Agudas Yisrael-backed candidate lost, and the candidate backed by Degel HaTorah and Shas emerged from the indecisive first round, making it to the runoff.

Even then, the Satan wasn’t done. Videos circulated of yeshivah bochurim dancing to the words “heimah karu v’nafalu,” as if exulting in the “fall” of enemies. Bad optics. The divide deepened.

Last week, I returned to Eretz Yisrael just as the runoff election took place. There was electricity in the air, jingles spilling out of microphones mounted atop taxis, the refrain “Moshe Lion, rosh ha’ir habah” warbling through the streets to the tune of the Sephardic piyut “Yismach Chatani.” (Maybe these songs are effective, but I would imagine that the last person the taxi driver will vote for would be Moshe Lion. He probably hates the sound of the candidate’s name after a 12-hour loop.)

Again, people who complete each other’s minyanim and daf yomi shiurim, who work together to raise money for poor families were split, each demographic following its rebbe or rosh yeshivah.

It looked bad.

But here’s what I learned, being on site. The bad blood and distrust and what looks like hate from North America take on a different tone when you’re local. Machlokes is always ugly, for sure, but after Shacharis in one of the shtiblach of the great Belzer shul, MK Rabbi Yisroel Eichler explained it to me.

Speaking calmly, almost serenely, Rabbi Eichler, his tallis still on his shoulders, remarked, “Look, the teenage bochurim here don’t play basketball or football. It’s all very intense, but election season is where normal teenage exuberance comes out. I’m not offended by what happened, I understand.”

In American terms, you might say it’s a little like color war. It’s not personal.

The split between Agudah and Degel brought a disproportionate amount of passion and emotion and, yes, poor judgment, Eichler was saying, but it’s not all machlokes. It’s certainly not a modern-day incarnation of the ideological divide between heirs of the Baal Shem Tov and the Vilna Gaon, as some are making it out to be.

So don’t take dancing bochurim so seriously.

And if you want to take them seriously, see the way these young soldiers marched through hallways and alleyways with fire in their eyes to carry out the mission they’d been given by their rebbeim: to ensure that the candidate who would uphold the holiness of the city, who had a sense of responsibility to Torah mosdos, would make it into office. They knocked on doors and spoke with the earnestness of junior salesmen, wheeled elderly nursing home residents to the voting stations and proudly took shifts as poll overseers. I’m not sure that our American teenagers, following the Yankees and the Mets, have ever tasted that sort of idealism, have felt the pain of Shabbos or cried out for the sanctity of the streets of Yerushalayim, at such a young age.

As for the adults: In America, it’s hard to imagine, but the Israeli municipal party in power might well decide if your child learns in a freezing cold caravan or real cheder building, if your shul will get a permit to build an ezras nashim before next Rosh Hashanah. These elections make a difference. So yes, it would be nice if everyone could get along, but different kehillos have different needs, all legitimate, and it’s natural to want to have representation on the body that decides where the funds will end up.

The party in power might take chillul Shabbos less seriously than you do, and your vote is more than a civic responsibility; it’s an essential element of your mission in this world.

Something else I noticed from up close is that nearly everyone was following their rav or rebbe, and with that shared understanding, there were no real arguments. Machlokes is never pretty, but in the passion and zeal, there is a declaration. No matter the outcome, this election was a testament to the power of the chareidi system and its commitment to following a higher authority.

A wise rav I know was asked to address a group of secular Jewish community leaders. Rather than a formal speech, the rav offered them a discussion. He asked if they had any questions.

Yes, one well-meaning, sincere Jew spoke up. He had a question.

In his community, he said, there were many rabbis. Some were more religious, some less so. Some were even Conservative or Reform, but they all got along well. They met regularly.

“Why,” he asked in exasperation, “do the Orthodox rabbis always seem to be fighting with each other? Why can’t they get along?”

The rav thought for a moment, then looked around the table at the expectant faces.

“Have any of you ever attended a shivah?” he asked.

Sure, the men nodded, of course they had paid shivah visits.

“So then you know,” the rav continued, “that if you walk into a shivah home and the mourners are sitting in a circle — if you feel the warmth and love between them, then it’s clear that there’s no big yerushah, no big inheritance at stake. But if you walk in and you feel stress — the mourners are divided in little groups, speaking to each other in hushed tones — then you know that there’s lots of money involved. If it’s tense between them, there’s something significant that they all want.”

The men nodded knowingly.

“So, what can I tell you,” the rav said gently. “Sometimes rabbis are fighting over a very small yerushah, so why not get along? You’ll never hear one Conservative rabbi calling another one a ‘sheigetz,’ it’s true. But we on the other hand are fighting over something very valuable. Our yerushah means so much to us that we’re not willing to look away from breaches in mesorah, in halachah, in hashkafah. So of course there’s going to be more tension. We’re fighting over something that means the world to us.”

Politics, for us, aren’t just politics.

They’re everything.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 736. Yisroel Besser may be contacted directly at besser@mishpacha.com