By Reuvain Borchardt

 

 

 

 

 

For most parents, the year their oldest child turns four is filled with excitement and nervous anticipation for their start of primary the next year.

 

But for those in the Lakewood area, before all that happens, there’s a more basic anxiety: Will I be able to get my kid into school at all?

 

Along with every congratulations and candy platter and latest-style impractical $40 baby stretchy, the new parents are sure to receive (only half-joking) advice about how they’d better start thinking about schools now, figuring out the right person to cozy up to, and who in their contacts list might know someone who knows someone who knows the menahel of the best mosad in town.

 

As in any situation where the supply struggles to meet the demand, there are those who get left behind and feel resentful of the system. They say that schools give preference to the “better” families (i.e., frummer/more yeshivish/conforming/money never hurts) and decry how they’ve been left out in the cold.

 

But along with the problems come those committed to finding solutions. There are rabbanim and askanim and va’adim who work on placing the children who didn’t make it on their initial application. Though the process involves much stress and uncertainty, by the time the school year rolls around, year after year, nearly every child has a primary class.

 

The Voice spoke with some of the people involved in the system about the issues, the difficulties, the solutions, how they work to ensure no child gets left behind, and what you can do to have the best chance of your kid getting into the school of your choice.

 

The space crunch in Lakewood elementary schools is a demographic reality in a community whose growth is, baruch Hashem, so rapid that the schools can’t keep up.

 

The Lakewood area has 61,000 children in K–12 yeshivos (and another 25,000 younger than primary). There are 6,000 primary seats in Lakewood yeshivos this year, but 6,500 frum babies were born in the area in 2025, meaning that at least another 500 seats will have to be created in the next five years or less. (All statistics are approximate and come courtesy of Shlomo Schorr, director of Agudath Israel’s New Jersey office and the Garden State’s unofficial stats guru.)

 

Of course, most of the kids applying for primary now aren’t the oldest in their families, and their placement is assured. But for the girls who do have to go through applications, this might be the toughest year yet, according to Rabbi Avrohom Baum, who runs the girls’ department of the Vaad, an organization of dedicated volunteer askanim that helps guide parents through the application process and works with litvish mosdos to place kids in primary if they haven’t gotten in during the regular application process.

 

Being on the Vaad is a time-consuming and often thankless position. Baum apologized for his lateness in getting back to me for this interview, explaining that he’d been on a bunch of calls with parents that day. When I ask about the background noise, he replies, “I’m in the hospital; my wife had a baby girl yesterday.”

 

Typically, the Vaad starts putting ads out around January, asking parents whose kids didn’t get accepted to a school to reach out. But this year, suspecting that things might be even tighter than usual, Baum started placing the ads in November—just weeks after the application period had opened for next year’s primary class.

 

The responses confirmed his suspicions.

 

“There are about 170 more girls starting primary this year than did last year,” he says. “Four schools added a new parallel class for around 110 additional seats, but there are still around 60 girls who don’t have a school for next year. That’s going to likely make it our toughest year ever.

 

“And the issue of there not being enough space in the schools affects every part of our community. No family type is spared, and many of the mishpachos who reach out and are helped are from the most upstanding members of our communities, who for whatever reason have yet to be placed.”

 

After registration closes, the askanim spend time getting to know the families that still need schools and the circumstances behind the numbers and begin dialogue with the mosdos to assess their capabilities for the coming year. But the families have to remain patient, because it’s typically only after Pesach—and continuing late into the summer—that the Vaad and the schools can place those who still don’t have a seat.

 

That’s because before the Vaad can place anyone, it needs to know exactly how many kids don’t yet have classes, exactly how many additional seats are needed for next year, and exactly how many seats from those who were accepted into primary became available because the kid needs another year of kindergarten or the family is moving out of town.

 

And that’s what this is, largely: a numbers game. Once the players—roshei mosdos, askanim, and Vaad leaders—know how many seats are needed for the next year, they can decide on how the solutions will be apportioned: typically some combination of having existing mosdos add a class, new schools opening, and sprinkling the remaining children around the schools that are just about maxed out but might be able to squeeze in an extra slot or two.

 

On the boys’ side, the situation for next year is more manageable. With three new primaries opening, there are currently just 25 boys the Vaad is aware of without primary seats for next year. In general, there are more options for boys than girls, due to there being more schools for the former, according to Rabbi Yaakov Septimus, who runs the boys’ end of the Vaad.

 

Septimus and Baum caution that young parents shouldn’t pay much attention to those who warn them about how impossible it is to get into school in this town.

“People put misinformation out there, and others just repeat what they hear,” Septimus says. “A lot of it is just hype that causes unnecessary anxiety. The vast majority of people applying to school don’t need outside help.”

 

“It’s very rare that a boy from Torah’dige family doesn’t end up in a school. We’re still a community, we have rabbanim and askanim and mosdos that are dedicated to making sure things work out, and while for some reason people may like to criticize the system here, there are actually fewer kids here without schools than in some other frum communities.”

 

Critics of the system say the reason some children have difficulty getting into school is mosdos’ pickiness and refusal to accept kids from families that don’t fit a particular box. But both Baum and Septimus say the main cause is simply that the demand for classroom space outstrips supply. And much of the Vaad’s focus is on getting new schools off the ground and helping recently opened schools to thrive.

 

“It’s important to realize that in Lakewood, all schools are privately owned entities,” Septimus says. “They’re each opened by individuals who stepped up to do something that few others were willing to do—accept the achrayus and challenge of opening a new mosad.”

 

A second reason why some kids don’t get into school, they say, is that parents aren’t realistic about where they are in life and which schools they fit into.

 

“Almost anyone in Lakewood has four boys’ schools that fit their family,” Septimus says, “though they may not get into the one they preferred.

 

“Most regular children from regular families will get into a good school on time,” he continues. “The anxiety you hear so much about is usually self-inflicted because the parents are waiting on a particular school. A lot of it is status—parents want to be able to tell their friends and relatives they have their kids in the ‘in’ school.”

 

And when someone does take the leap and open a new school to accommodate the overflow, that doesn’t mean grateful parents run to fill the seats. On the contrary, many will only send their kids to a new school as a last resort.

 

They fear that new schools are filled with rejects who couldn’t make it into established mosdos and that their child will be a guinea pig for a project that may or may not work out, and that he or she might grow up with many problematic classmates. Or, worse yet, that the family could be viewed askance because they belong to a new school, as families are often defined by the school their kids attend.

 

“Everyone wants to go to a place that’s popular in their circles,” says Baum. “But despite the stigma, the new schools are opened by extremely qualified roshei mosdos and hanhalah in a responsible way, and the vast majority are extremely matzliach.”

 

“People don’t see this,” adds Septimus, “but behind the scenes, existing schools help the new school with the input and details to be successful. They share their sheets and curricula and guide them.”

 

Septimus says that while he endeavors to help everyone get into the school of their choice, he’s not entirely sympathetic to “the notion that Klal Yisrael’s in crisis because your kid didn’t get into your first-choice school. Parents need to realize that older schools have more shibudim to siblings and more applications and you have less of a chance of being accepted there. Many schools don’t have any space at all once they’re through their siblings, alumni, and other shibudim.”

 

With established schools having so few slots available for kids without older siblings in the school, many students aren’t technically rejected. They simply were never considered.

 

“When the schools look through the pile of applications, they’re playing Jewish geography,” Septimus says. “They go for the easiest yeses; if someone doesn’t jump out as a yes, they may not even get looked at. So you need to find a common denominator you have with the school and make sure it’s pointed out. Otherwise you may not even get into the pile.”

 

Baum and Septimus urge that parents take a realistic assessment of their spiritual and social status and that no matter how much they may want their child to be in the best sevivah possible, they can’t expect a school whose student body comes from markedly different homes to accept their child.

 

“Parents send their children to a school with the understanding that the school will uphold certain standards,” says Septimus. “And the hanhalah will be held accountable for their choices if they accept too many children from families that don’t fit the mold.

 

“The chinuch your child gets in the house has to match the chinuch you’re expecting him to get in school,” he continues. “Children, as they grow older, will see the contradictions, which could lead to hashkafic confusion.”

 

If a family wants to make lifestyle changes to improve their child’s chances of getting into the school of their choice—whether it’s in the mother’s tznius or the father dressing in line with the typical Lakewood crowd or being kovei’a ittim laTorah—these changes should be made well before the application process.

 

A shul rav has a lot to deal with—giving drashos, paskening she’eilos, mediating shalom bayis issues—but in Lakewood, many take on an additional role: helping new parents prepare for the school application process, often years in advance.

 

“Some rabbanim take achrayus for their kehillah and spend time before application season sitting down with each couple and figuring out what’s right and realistic for them, and their mispallelim see greater success than those of rabbanim who don’t get involved until a family finds itself without a school,” Septimus says.

 

“Families from kehillos with dedicated rabbanim apply to realistic places, have good backup plans, and if they have difficulties, their rabbanim advocate for them. Those families have far less agmas nefesh throughout the process.”

 

The positive effect of this process can be felt even beyond the issue of which school the kids gets into, he says. “There are many parents who began dressing differently and the father started being kovei’a ittim, and the families shteiged tremendously because of it.”

 

The Vaad leaders say that cynics’ allegation that all you need to get a school to violate its values is a good payoff is false. They say schools stick to their standards, and they’ve seen schools reject offers of large donations to accept a child who was a poor fit for the mosad.

 

And to those who question whether it’s appropriate for schools not to accept kids from solid homes with good hashkafos just because the parents dress differently than most in the community, Septimus’s response is, “Look, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

 

“By dressing differently than most of the parent body, you’re making a statement that you don’t want to be associated with this crowd. Even a school that’s more open-minded will look at it as a red flag.

 

“Some people call me to discuss schools before they even move to Lakewood, and I advise them, ‘Realize where you’re moving to and that most schools will expect you to blend in with the crowd.’ Roshei mosdos don’t want parents who stand out. Other parents in school don’t feel comfortable, and it doesn’t represent well in the street for any school. Some schools will say straight up, ‘Please don’t stick out.’”

 

Septimus and Baum have nothing but praise for the roshei mosdos, with whom they spend hundreds of hours each year essentially negotiating, begging, and pleading to accept kids into their schools.

 

“The roshei mosdos are exceptional people doing exceptional work and stretching themselves to their limits as it is,” says Baum. “Yet they all continue to step up to the plate and accept those who were left out, often knowingly taking in children from challenging family situations. While there are those who are quick to blame them, they and their principals should in fact all be applauded for their incredible work.”

 

“The amount of chessed and collaboration among the schools is simply amazing,” adds Septimus. “The roshei mosdos aren’t rejecting kids because they’re trying to be mean. There’s a shortage of space, and they’re overwhelmed with situations. There isn’t one rosh hamosad who hasn’t gone out of his way to help out when he was able to.

 

“Many people don’t realize the deep ramifications of ‘just one more child.’ As one menahel told me, ‘Your five-minute chessed could be a nine-year headache for me.’”

 

While Lakewood remains the premier Torah town in America, more and more families who didn’t go through the Lakewood system at all move into the surrounding towns every year. Many of these parents never had a connection to any kollel, dress differently, and have different standards of technology use and other issues than most families here.

 

“Lakewood is welcoming, but those moving here also need to realize that every mosad has their standard that they stand proud of,” says Septimus. “Educate yourself beforehand about what options make sense for you. With time, as the diversity increases, I’m hopeful that more mosdos will open. Baruch Hashem, our mosdos are diverse enough that they can properly accommodate most of Klal Yisrael, but if you don’t want to fit into Lakewood, don’t rely on Lakewood’s existing infrastructure.”

 

Finally, he says, it’s important to keep in perspective what Rabbi Eli Shulman told him the first time they met to discuss this issue. “We need to realize this problem is because of the rov brachah that Hashem is bestowing on Klal Yisrael. We’re growing tremendously, and with that, we need to understand the responsibility and get to work.”

 

So, I ask, are we just going to go through this year after year, with the Vaad having to place kids who don’t get into school because there isn’t enough space?

 

Baum laughs and sighs at the same time. “I hope not. The issue has solutions. And with siyata d’Shmaya, it can be resolved. The askanim are constantly discussing how things can be improved.

 

“Remember that Lakewood may be the only major frum city that has a group of people who work tirelessly and selflessly to make sure all boys and girls have an elementary school and high school. This standard of achrayus was exemplified by the Mashgaich zt”l and ylbc”t the Roshei Yeshivah, whose involvement and guidance are sought after throughout the process.”

 

And with that, he excuses himself. He has to get back to his baby girl.

 

Luckily, it’s not his first, so she’ll have no problem getting into school.

 

 

 

 

The chassidish and heimish community here, which has also seen sharp growth, is experiencing its own school shortage. And year after year, its askanim, too, have to scramble to place the kids who don’t get accepted into kindergarten (in chassidish mosdos, the yeshivos ketanos begin with kindergarten rather than primary).

 

Last summer, the rabbanim and askanim launched the Lakewood Mosdos Initiative (LMI), under which every parent whose oldest boy or girl is entering kindergarten in the fall of 2026 was asked to sign up in September of 2025.

 

The aim of this signup was that community leaders would know the exact number of students entering kindergarten the following year, which would immediately tell them whether they needed to add seats for that year and how many, either by opening new schools or having existing schools open another parallel class.

 

Well, it didn’t exactly work out as planned: Only about half of the parents registered their kids with LMI.

 

“Some of them felt that if they put their name on the list, there’s a stigma,” says Rabbi Yoni Morgenstern, an askan in the chassidish school community. “Or maybe they were lazy. I don’t know; I can’t get into their minds. Maybe they thought we’d place them in a school they didn’t want to go to.”

 

Instead, Morgenstern had to find out the usual way, in January and February, based on the calls he got, how many kids didn’t have schools yet: There were 30 boys and 40 girls. He’s hopeful that their parents will get together and open new schools.

 

Many of the kids who don’t have schools yet are from solid families; they haven’t gotten in simply due to space constraints.

 

“We’re at a breaking point now,” he says. The situation is so bad that there are still six girls who are of kindergarten age but are in playgroups with girls a year younger than them.

 

“My message to the community,” he says, “is, don’t take it for granted that because in the past the askanim eventually got all the girls placed, it will work again. We need the effort of young parents who need schools to come together and say they want to make it happen.”

 

R’ Mordche Bernfeld was once one of those parents whose kid was left without a school, and he stepped up and made it happen.

 

Sixteen years ago, he was just a 26-year-old who had learned in BMG, was trying to start a business, and was unable to get his oldest boy into any of the heimish chadarim in town. He didn’t have money, but he had drive.

 

And that’s how Talmud Torah Darchei Avoseinu came about, with an opening kindergarten class of 16 students. Its expenses were rent on a home in Hearthstone and the salaries of one rebbi and a part-time principal. After all tuitions were paid, there was a $15,000 deficit, which was covered by a few of the parents.

 

The early years were very tough, he recalls, smiling at the memory of a difficult time that’s now well in the rearview mirror.

 

That new school took in 16 boys whom the heimishe chadarim didn’t have place for. “Our box of whom we defined as acceptable may have been too liberal,” he says, acknowledging that “it took us years to get over that name.”

 

Today, Darchei Avoseinu is a highly sought-after cheder, with parallel classes up to fifth grade and 28 or 29 kids per class.

 

And it’s far more selective than it was at first.

 

The reason he insists on a certain type of family is, he says, “Lakewood is not a community; it’s a kibbutz galuyos. Even various families in one development aren’t all same. What defines a family—and shapes the family—is the school.”

 

Like all roshei mosdos, Bernfeld feels a responsibility that “you can’t leave kids on the street.” All schools, including his, pitch in to divide up the kids who didn’t get in elsewhere. That’s one reason his classes are nearing 30 students each when his ideal is 25.

 

But the main reason he’s selective is that it’s demanded by the parent body.

 

“The first thing parents ask when looking at a school is ‘Who sends here?’” he explains.

 

“This isn’t l’sheim Shamayim that you can’t be mechanech a kid who comes from a house on a different madreigah. It’s mostly a business decision, and no one should tell you otherwise.

 

“To be successful, you have to look at the school as a business, even though it runs a deficit. It has to run like a business to run well. Otherwise, it’ll look like the struggling schools that open l’sheim Shamayim. I’m part of the sadly imperfect system that society has dictated. Where I grew up in Monsey, we had all types of kids in the classes; parents didn’t dictate as much as they do today.

 

“If I take in kids from families that have different standards, the school will fall apart. You can’t open a school for families that have different standards. In this society, you have to make a school for kids from good families and absorb a few from others.”

 

Does he wish, I ask, that parents didn’t dictate to the rosh hamosad what sort of kids he could take in?

 

“Yes and no.” He smiles. “At the end of day, just as society keeps a person in check, you need parents to keep a school in check. Not as much as they are, but somewhat. It’s not totally bad.”

 

When I ask whether money plays any factor in a child being accepted, he replies, “If there’s a family that’s acceptable and they only didn’t get into the first 25 spots because of space, and now they offer me substantial funds to take the kid in? Look, everything has a price tag. Nobody should ever tell you money doesn’t talk. What you can’t buy with money, you can buy with a lot of money.”

 

He says there’s already enough demand for him to open a third parallel class, but he’s not ready to do it.

 

 

And so, what’s the solution to what is perhaps Lakewood’s most vexing problem?

 

Bernfeld, like Morgenstern, like Baum, like Septimus, and like everyone else involved in the parshah, says it’s simple: New schools must be opened, and parents must be willing to send their kids there.

 

“It’s not easy to open a new school, but it’s not as hard as people think,” Bernfeld says. “Trust me. Been there, done that. Parents have to understand there’s nothing wrong with sending your kid to a new school. Build it up yourself. Shape it as you’d like. It’s a beautiful thing.”

 

The man who established one of the town’s leading chadarim (as well as a successful business) from scratch chuckles as he harkens back to the 26-year-old of moderate means, with nothing but a cheder-less child and a dream, which today is an edifice through which hundreds of tinokos shel beis rabban are educated each year.

 

“Lakewood is a gold mine,” he says. “Start digging.”

 

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