To the parents sending their daughters to seminary in Eretz Yisroel, I ask: Do you know what you’re paying for? When my oldest granddaughter was accepted into the seminary of her choice, I was overjoyed. I vividly remember the pride I felt years ago when my son left for yeshiva in Eretz Yisroel, and just a few months later, I saw a transformed young man—refined, responsible, and uplifted by the kedusha of Eretz Hakodesh. Naturally, I expected to experience that same pride when I saw my granddaughter after her time in seminary. Despite the astronomical cost of flights and hotels, I did not hesitate to make the trip for Yeshiva Week. This was an opportunity to witness firsthand the growth and maturity I believed seminary instilled in our bnos Yisroel. My granddaughter was thrilled when I told her I was coming, but instead of excitedly planning our visits to Kever Rochel or davening at the Kosel, she was more concerned about which restaurants we’d be dining at and how many friends she could bring along. I brushed it off—surely, she was just eager to introduce me to her friends. But then, reality hit. After an exhausting flight, I couldn’t wait for that first iconic walk through the Old City to the Kosel. I called my granddaughter and asked her to meet me so we could experience it together. She agreed and assured me she’d be there shortly. Thirty minutes away, she said. An hour later, she strolled into the hotel, casually apologizing. The reason for her delay? “Sorry, Bubby, I was STARVING and stopped to grab something to eat.” I was stunned. Had she not understood the significance of this moment? Had I misjudged what seminary was meant to do for our girls? Our walk to the Kosel was not the heartfelt, meaningful experience I had envisioned. Instead of deep conversations about her growth, her learning, or her connection to Eretz Yisroel, my granddaughter spent most of the time on her phone—making plans, laughing about social events, and talking about where she wanted to eat the next night. I barely got a word in. I soon realized she was not an exception. The following evening, I took her and her friends out to the restaurant she had insisted was “the only place to go.” These were supposed to be the friends who would shape her future, the girls she would build lifelong bonds with. Instead, they were rowdy, self-absorbed, and barely acknowledged my presence—aside from their lengthy orders of appetizers, desserts, and the most expensive items on the menu. And then came Shabbos. I insisted on a family-only Shabbos meal, hoping for at least one sacred moment together. But as soon as the seudah ended, my granddaughter disappeared—to the hotel lobby, where I found a scene that left me speechless. Young women and yeshiva bochurim, lounging on couches, mingling freely, acting as if there were no barriers, no standards, no sense of kedusha. Is this what parents are paying upwards of $30,000 for? Are we sending our daughters across the world to “find themselves,” only for them to lose their entire sense of responsibility? Do parents know what is happening—and if they do, why are they allowing it? Seminary is supposed to be a year of growth, of reflection, of […]