Israeli singer Ishay Ribo received the kind of offer most Israeli musicians would find almost impossible to refuse. The producers of the NEXT Hanukkah shows wanted him to join their 2025 holiday tour, one of the most coveted and well-oiled productions in Israel’s music industry. Top-tier stars, major venues, generous budgets, a huge publicity campaign and tens of thousands of young fans were all part of the package.
For an artist looking to expand his audience, it was more than another concert. For Ribo, a religious singer who emerged from the Haredi world and crossed decisively into the Israeli mainstream, it could have opened even more doors. But instead of signing, he went to consult his rabbi.
The production had already made several accommodations for his religious lifestyle and was awaiting a positive answer, only to learn later that Ribo had sought his rabbi’s guidance. The answer was brief: Don’t do it.
Ribo walked away from the tour, from what music industry estimates put at more than 1 million shekels in earnings, and from exposure that could have strengthened his standing among a younger, broader audience.
The episode neatly captures the tension running through his career: a religious singer whose music is rooted unmistakably in faith, yet who has become highly sought after in an entertainment industry whose norms often differ sharply from those he grew up with.
Ribo is not standing outside that world preaching against it. He loves performing, enjoys his success and understands exactly what this kind of exposure can do for a career. He wanted to take part. That was precisely what made the decision difficult.
“There were so many advantages: publicity, success, recognition, exposure and a generous budget,” he said. “It was very flattering. But at the same time, I felt I would be crossing a line I had never crossed before. Part of me thought, ‘Maybe you should go and bring your own values into it.’ But I also had to ask myself whether I would actually feel comfortable on that stage. With some things, I immediately know whether the answer is yes or no. This time, I couldn’t decide on my own.”
Was crossing the line involved the presence of female singers and dancers?
“It’s not that I’ve never performed on a stage where women were also appearing,” he said. “But this was a large production with male and female singers, male and female dancers, and I don’t sing with women. The production made some accommodations for me, and I really appreciated that.
“At the same time, I didn’t want to come in and change the character of an existing show just because I was part of it. Beyond my own religious observance, I also felt a responsibility toward my core audience.”
“The rabbi helped me see that point. If I take part in a show like that, that audience may feel as though I’ve effectively permitted them to see things they usually wouldn’t. They might feel that I gave legitimacy to forms of exposure that suit one public more than another. He showed me that I also have responsibility in that respect, and helped me reach a decision I genuinely felt at peace with.”
You went to the rabbi after negotiations were already advanced.
“That’s true, and that was my mistake in the process. I waited a little too long to ask. Things were already moving in a positive direction and suddenly they needed an answer. I said, 'Wait, I have to decide now whether I’m doing the right thing'.
“There’s a saying: ‘Make yourself a rabbi and remove yourself from doubt.’ In a certain sense, you entrust the decision to a wise person you trust, and that can also bring a sense of relief.”
But part of you still wanted to be there.
“Absolutely. Later I went to NEXT to see Amir Dadon, who is a close friend and was participating. Suddenly I really wanted to be there. I looked at the audience and thought, no one here knows it, but I was also supposed to be part of this lineup.
“On the one hand, I was very flattered. On the other, watching the show made me realize I had made the right decision for myself. This wasn’t a one-off performance where you could feel uncomfortable and simply move on. It was an entire series. If I had joined and felt uneasy every night, I would already have been committed to the production, the audience and everyone involved. I don’t like taking on something like that and then walking away halfway through.”
You left a lot of money on the table, and a young audience that might otherwise never have reached you.
“Of course it was a test. I won’t pretend otherwise. There was exposure, recognition and a lot of money involved, and something like that can give an artist a major boost. But I also believe that everything comes from Heaven, including my livelihood.”
Ribo has a point. The fact that he was approached in the first place was clear evidence of his standing in the secular mainstream as well. Productions like this do not hand out favors; they book artists they believe can sell tickets. His ability to take the compliment without joining the lineup marks a shift. In the past, he says, every form of outside validation immediately became another rung he felt compelled to climb. Now, it is enough to know the door opened, even if he chose not to walk through it.
You were also offered a judging role on a music reality show. There, you could have brought your own perspective without having to dance, and also voiced your opinions on different issues.
“True, but how can I judge women singing if I myself don’t perform with women? It doesn’t feel right. There’s another issue too. Onstage, within music, I feel very comfortable, but put a camera in front of me asking me to speak and judge people, and I start overthinking and sweating. I know where I’m good. That’s both an advantage and a disadvantage.”
Ishay Ribo
(Photo: Shai Franco)
The boundaries he maintains also surface in far more ordinary moments, such as when a female fan reaches out to shake his hand. “The overwhelming majority of the audience is very respectful,” he said. “There were times when a woman came to shake my hand and when I refrained I felt that it hurt her. There were other times when I instinctively shook a hand back, but I don’t torment myself afterward over why I did or didn’t.
“People know I’m married and have children, and in 95% of cases they are very respectful. There have been a few times when people put their hands in places that crossed a line, and I had to set boundaries. That’s it.”
You perform texts from Jewish sources under stage lights, with sponsors, ticket sales and applause. Where does prayer end and the commercial show begin?
“I don’t think the two necessarily contradict each other. Music that brings income and success can be a blessing if it is done in the right and honest way. I didn’t steal or cheat to earn that money. There is also the idea of tithing, of giving part of what you earn to charity. I’ve been fortunate to do that for many years, and in my view, that is the real money, the part that stays with me. The rest comes and goes. If you use your success to do good, you widen the channel through which that money can flow.”
What do you think of the trend of secular celebrities who publicly embrace selected Jewish practices like Hafrashat Challah (separating challah) or Nidah, while living otherwise secular lives and dressing differently? Is it hypocrisy for marketing purposes?
“Look, sometimes I see things that seem absurd and smile, but I prefer to view them generously. Singer Ben Tzur wrote a beautiful line: ‘A skirt one day a week, trying to make an effort.’ That’s exactly it. You can see that this is someone who is trying.
“If, for example, a person is a gossip but decides that one day a week they won’t speak badly about others, maybe that can grow into something more. In my view, dressing provocatively is not positive. Some women like to dress revealingly and are not doing it to provoke. That's their challenge, and I don’t judge them. But if a woman who dresses that way says she understands there may be something problematic about it and makes an effort one day a week, I see that positively, not as hypocrisy.”
***
Ribo has little reason to regret missing NEXT. Alongside a September 16 performance at the MAX amphitheater in Rishon Lezion with an orchestra, he was preparing last week for shows in Miami and at New York’s Radio City Music Hall with the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, a major logistical undertaking involving about 100 crew members and musicians.
There is a certain irony in seeing one of the entertainment industry’s most famous venues light up for an artist who has spent the past three years trying to distance himself from smaller screens.
Ribo has no Instagram or Facebook on his phone. He owns a smartphone, but it is filtered down to navigation and other basic services. He does not scroll, post family selfies or document scenery to prove he was there.
In February, with the release of his song The Soul Is Not Meta, he went further, blacking out his official social media accounts for 40 days. For him, it was not a short publicity-driven detox, but another stage in a longer struggle over the right to decide what enters his eyes and mind.
“Three years ago, I removed social media from my phone,” he said. “I would go online looking for something positive, and suddenly something negative I hadn’t chosen to see would appear, like gossip, an argument, something upsetting.”
“I said, 'Wait, this is taking away my ability to choose'. At first social media was a wonderful tool. You have a show, you advertise it instead of hanging posters in the street. Later I realized that I was expected to follow everyone, see everything and play a game that was no longer good, healthy or right for me.”
Ishay Ribo
(Photo: Shai Franco)
But you have a smartphone.
“With a filtering system. I have Waze and basic things. I don’t have access to social media, and for a certain period I didn’t even have access to news sites. My pages exist to advertise shows and songs, like a bulletin board.”
Your managers didn’t tell you that was a mistake, that you would lose audiences?
“They did, and I know there is a price. I know that if I were on social media, I would be more famous, more recognized and more successful, no doubt about that. But what happened to me personally was good. It no longer controls me.”
Ribo knows his audience will show up even without discount codes or snapshots of his morning coffee. They have done so at Amphitheater Caesarea, Menora Mivtachim Arena and Madison Square Garden.
“I’ve already performed with the Philharmonic in Israel, but taking something like this abroad is a major operation involving the entire crew and a lot of logistics,” he said.
“Radio City is a venue I always looked at from the outside when visiting New York. It’s an impressive building, one of the craziest venues, built purely for performances and not sports. I wanted to get there.”
Flying an entire Israeli orchestra to New York, especially now, is risky.
“We dare, we follow the dream and go for it properly. At first, when we did a series with the Philharmonic in Israel, we thought we would take the arrangements and perform abroad with local orchestras, the New York or Paris Philharmonics, because who even imagined you could fly dozens of musicians?
“Very quickly we understood that in the current situation that was almost unrealistic. All it takes is someone threatening local musicians, some of them saying they are afraid, and there is no show.
“In Boston, there were already threats against the sound company working with us. They withstood the pressure and didn’t cancel. We saw how easily that can happen. That’s why there is special significance in the Israel Philharmonic coming with us.”
Have you encountered antisemitism on tour abroad?
“I performed for students at Harvard, and there were protests outside the venue with chants against Israel, but no one targeted me personally. In Chicago, they canceled our show when the second war with Iran began. The people promoting the show online were harassed and cursed. We didn’t travel there.
“We also had cases where sound companies scheduled to work on my shows preferred not to, without giving a reason. They simply don’t like us. One venue in Boston that was supposed to host us received emails saying that if the show went ahead, it meant they supported genocide. We haven’t experienced too many cases like that, but we see how easily things can sometimes move in that direction even after shows have already been agreed.”
Ishay Ribo performs onstage
(Photo: Dana Kopel)
Ribo, 37, was born in Marseille and immigrated to Israel at age eight. His biography has crossed social boundaries almost from the beginning: childhood in a community shared by religious and secular residents, several years living in a trailer, studies in Haredi institutions, military service in the IDF’s Ordnance Corps and later in the Military Rabbinate band.
His audience developed in much the same way, layer by layer, until his kippah and tzitzit were no longer dividing lines on Israeli playlists. Songs including Tocho Ratzuf Ahava, Lashuv Habaita and Halev Sheli traveled from synagogues to mainstream radio and from yeshivas to major concert venues.
His childhood also shapes his relationship with money. Between ages nine and 14, his family lived modestly in a trailer in Kfar Adumim, an experience Ribo insists on describing as simplicity rather than hardship. At 16, he worked in a bakery brushing eggs onto challah.
Today he can afford things the boy he once was could hardly have imagined, which is why walking away from a lucrative NEXT contract is not the gesture of someone who never understood the value of money.
Toward the end of the previous decade, as Ribo’s career was accelerating, something inside him began to crack. His songs were dominating charts and his shows were selling out, but the COVID pandemic brought performances to a halt after years of relentless momentum. The forced quiet exposed a crisis that had already begun developing behind the scenes.
“There was a creative crisis,” he said. “Suddenly the songs weren’t flowing as easily. I was coming off several very good years: participating in the Independence Day torch-lighting ceremony, an album every two years, Shetach Afor, which was very successful, then Elul and annual shows.
“Then the world stopped. At first I handled it relatively well because it wasn’t something personal. As time passed, the questions began: From what place am I doing this? Is it because I’m already committed to an audience? To a certain status?
“I felt that I was starting to lose myself, that I wasn’t getting excited enough anymore. It was a difficult internal struggle.”
Give an example.
“At the height of the success, I posted about a show at Menora Hall on Facebook without promotion. Everything sold out quickly: three consecutive shows at Caesarea amphitheater, more big performances. I was indifferent to all of it. Then everything stopped, I went through the crisis and started asking myself whether I was still relevant, whether I was suited to this career.
“There was another thing that was technically difficult for me. I was used to releasing physical albums. COVID completely killed the world of CDs. I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do next. Release singles?
“I had been so devoted to the process of creating an album. I would drive specially to the printing house, order the paper from Italy, smell it. I was crazy about it. I loved it. Suddenly it was over, and that shook me.”
Even one of his biggest hits, Halev Sheli, was a reminder that careers do not always follow a plan. The first time Ribo performed it was for the family of a sick girl he had visited. “They couldn’t stop crying,” he recalled. “Even though they didn’t know the song and couldn’t sing along. I felt that there was something in this song that could bring comfort within pain.”
You nearly gave the song to Omer Adam, who, incidentally, is a major figure in NEXT.
“I told Or Davidson, my manager, that I had sent the song to Omer. It felt like it could suit him. Or said, ‘It’s an amazing song, keep it for yourself.’ I sent Omer a message anyway and didn’t get a response; he was probably very busy. After two weeks I said, ' All good, I’ll release it myself'.
“About a year later we were invited to the Tamar Festival for a joint evening, and we performed the song together. In the end, the most beautiful thing happened: my song came out, and the joint performance with Omer also became a hit with tens of millions of views.
“Sometimes you are certain you know which move will bring success, and from Heaven things are seen differently.”
Ishay Ribo, Amir Dadon and Avraham Fried perform at a festival this year
(Photo: Chaim Tuito)
Ribo recently worked on a Hebrew-English collaboration with American Hasidic group Zusha, and is now planning an EP centered on social media. In one unreleased song, he writes: “How did I allow my good to live inside the bad, and how is that different from praying in a house of idol worship?”
Do you see Facebook and Instagram as a house of idol worship?
“I’m not declaring that. I’m asking a question,” he said. “According to Jewish law, you are forbidden to pray in a house where there is idol worship, even if I’m praying to God and not to the cross that is there. So apparently the place itself has meaning.
“There is a lot of good online, like information and things you can learn, but there is also a lot of bad, and everything is mixed. Terrorists filmed themselves on October 7 and did those horrific things through the same platforms, and we continued consuming them as though nothing had happened, almost without protest.”
On the morning of October 7, Ribo said his filtered phone turned out to have an advantage. He was with his wife, Yael, and their six children at her parents’ home in Moshav Tifrah, a short drive from Ofakim.
Sirens began sounding, and from the synagogue window he saw cars racing north along the road. It was Shabbat and Simchat Torah, and he could not understand why people were driving at extraordinary speed. Only later did he learn they were fleeing the Nova massacre.
“One of my brothers-in-law is a soldier and started updating us that horrific things were happening,” Ribo said. “At first it was hard to believe. They were talking about hostages and we couldn’t comprehend it. The moshav itself is barely protected, with a yellow gate and no fence. If the terrorists had turned toward us, we couldn't have fought back.
“On the other hand, we didn’t turn on television and I wasn’t exposed to the videos. I didn’t have Telegram. “I received updates because it was impossible to ignore what was happening, but I wasn’t exposed to the horrific images. Personally, I think that was a kind of miracle, because it helped me respond quickly instead of being frozen into inaction.”
Former hostage Itay Regev told Ynet in an interview that while being held captive alongside Omer Shem Tov, the two repeatedly sang Ribo’s Lashuv HaBaita (which means Coming Home in Hebrew).
Ribo wrote the song at 17 and composed its melody years later, never imagining that it would one day become a soundtrack inside a Gaza tunnel. “It’s insane,” he said. “You know, I’m wary of the word ‘mission’ when it comes to my profession. I usually don’t connect to it. It feels too big for me, almost frightening.
“I could never have imagined that the song would reach there. I heard former hostage Mia Schem say that she asked God for a sign that she would return home, and at that exact moment the song came on the radio. It’s incredible and impossible to grasp. Chills.”
After the Holocaust, people questioned the existence of God and how He could allow something like that to happen. Similar questions arose after October 7. Did you find yourself questioning too, or perhaps feeling angry with God?
“I need to be deeply grateful for my own life on a personal level. If someone does everything right and then suffers the opposite, I can understand the argument and the anger. I don’t know Heaven’s calculations, who deserves what and who doesn’t. The question is what we learn from the horrific massacre and the enormous pain. Every time we have not been united, something bad has happened to us.”
Ishay Ribo performs at Madison Square Garden
(Photo: Tamar Hanan)
The divisions began before the war.
“During the protests against the judicial overhaul, I felt the chaos myself as I watched what was happening in the streets. I found myself wondering whether there was any real hope for change. I’m not interested in taking sides now, but the way everything unfolded pushed us into deep internal turmoil.”
You perform for Israelis who have left the country. Is it legitimate for them to come back and vote?
“If an IDF reservist dropped everything and came from the United States on October 7, then later returned home, would you tell him he can’t vote? Of course not. He proved how deeply committed he is.
“It’s an issue worth discussing. Some people would say, look, either you live here and vote or you don’t. But if someone has money, lives abroad and can fly in his entire family, maybe bring others too, and land them in Israel for the election, then what? What if an even wealthier billionaire says, ‘I’m flying 2,000 people to Israel to vote’?
“It’s a subject worth debating, but I don’t think it should be about denying people the right to vote. Anyone who wants to vote should have that right.”
***
That question of unity becomes particularly charged when the subject turns to Haredi military enlistment. Ribo knows both worlds from the inside. He studied in a Haredi yeshiva and served in the military, first in the Ordnance Corps at Julis and later in the Military Rabbinate band, so he understands the value of both systems, and the divide between them that has become an open wound since the war began.
“October 7 only brought everything to the surface, and that’s why both sides need to move toward each other,” he said. “The secular world also needs to understand the value of Torah and how significant it is to our existence. We are indeed a powerful country in the Middle East, but what would happen if, God forbid, all our enemies fired missiles at us every day for five consecutive years? There are, after all, 150 million enemies around us. Theoretically, that isn’t inconceivable.”
What are you getting at?
“In such a case, I’m not sure we would survive. Meaning that beyond our military strength, there is also something miraculous happening here, and Torah has an inherent spiritual value in this world.
“I would like secular Israelis to truly understand the value of Torah, and I would like Haredim who do not enlist to understand the enormous value of those soldiers.”
That is an ideal world. But if the IDF chief of staff tells you he needs many more combat troops and many more Haredim to enlist and help carry the burden, not just words of praise?
“I think that’s where things are heading. They have to head in that direction and reach some kind of solution.”
You’ve become an artist embraced across wide sections of society. Can being a consensus figure also become a cage? Are you more careful about saying or doing things that could cost you part of your audience?
“I feel more nationally representative, and I know that everything can be interpreted in a way I never intended. I don’t like getting into politics, for example, because I don’t think there’s much point. I’ll say something, someone will immediately say the opposite, and everything will flare up.
“The whole idea of defining people as right or left drives me crazy. There is one people of Israel here, and the whole world is focused on us.”
He experienced that volatility around the first anniversary of the October 7 massacre. Organizers of the state memorial ceremony approached him about performing, but he was already committed to another private event. His inability to attend was quickly interpreted online through a political lens.
“What was the headline? ‘Ishay Ribo announces he refuses to perform,’ even though the truth was simply that I couldn’t,” he said. “Then automatically there were endless reactions about me. I understood how quickly everything ignites.”
What did you learn?
“You don’t need to be careful; you need to be very careful. And in the end, sometimes you have no control over what happens, so you have to let go. I simply couldn’t attend. It had nothing to do with the ceremony itself or the organizers. We received so many responses: you’re against it, you’re left-wing.
“At first I was deeply hurt, mainly by the ability people have to judge and dismiss a person in a second. Very quickly I understood that this is how the system works and that I couldn’t take it personally. But at the time, it hurt a lot.”
Ribo and his wife, Yael, are raising five sons and a daughter in Mevaseret Zion. Their older children have shown little urgency to follow him into music, perhaps because when their father brings his work home, a guitar can feel like just another piece of furniture. He sees more signs of musical interest among the younger ones.
What price do Yael and the children pay for your career?
“There is a price. There were years with a lot of travel abroad, recordings and shows. Today I try to balance it more. This summer I blocked out time to go on vacation with them, and even that wasn’t optimal because of the war and work. I learned to manage the schedule around the family the way you manage it around performances.”
Ishay Ribo performs at the Fattal Spirit Festival
(Photo: Ezra Levy)
The children are also growing up without personal smartphones, including the oldest, who is 15. There is a tablet at home that they are allowed to use at designated times, mainly on Fridays.
Ribo has no illusions that he can stop the outside world at the front door. “When they grow up, they will make their own decisions,” he said. “What we can instill is the idea of delaying this thing a little so it doesn’t lead them, and so they encounter it from a more informed place.
“It’s not an exact science. Every child has their own path. They are aware, for example, of developments in chatbots and sometimes want to ask questions.”
In five years, will Israelis consult chatbots more than rabbis?
“I think you can do both.”
Did you consult your rabbi before this interview?
“No, but I went to get his blessing.”