Eviatar Banai on Humility, Teshuvah and True Freedom: Inside the Inner World of a Jewish Artist

“Working on humility means living with my weaknesses — with acceptance and humor, with tolerance and constant inner work — and mainly, stopping the belief that my biggest danger in life is my own weakness, and that I must hide it quickly before my life falls apart or something like that.” These words reflect quite accurately the unique personality of the singer Eviatar Banai.

Banai gave an interview to Karov Eilecha magazine, revealing a glimpse into his inner world, the changes he has undergone throughout his life, and the changes he still hopes to achieve.

Banai’s songs reflect his constant inner conflict — between materiality and spirituality, between the so-called “freedom” of the external world and the true freedom found in observing mitzvot. During his early years as a ba’al teshuvah, Banai turned deeply inward, but in recent years he has returned to the stage and to playlists — without losing any of the spiritual progress he worked so hard to build.

Education Begins With Myself

When asked about his approach to education, Banai — true to form, turned the answer back on himself:

“I deeply believe in something that appears often in the writings of Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin,” he said. “That when the father returns to God and purifies his soul, the spiritual garments of the child are purified as well. This echoes into the souls of my children and my children’s children.”

When asked whether negative spiritual influences also pass to one’s children, Banai responded: “I don’t care. I’m not busy with that. I’m busy growing, not beating myself up. The measure of goodness is always greater than the measure of punishment. My inner movements influence my child for the good — and that’s wonderful.”

Passover Used to Fill Him With Stress

Banai admitted that in the past, holidays — especially Pesach and the Seder, were a great source of anxiety for him. The many halachot, the desire to be meticulous, and the pressure to transmit a deep spiritual experience to his children all weighed heavily on him.

“With the years, I let go of a lot of the religious pressure,” he said.
“At the Seder now I try to enjoy, to see my children and be with them as much as they allow… In the early years I tried to discuss Choshen Mishpat topics with five-year-olds… I wanted to give them a role model. There was always a dissonance between wanting to rise to very high spiritual places and the simple reality of life.”

“Today I know that ‘For with joy you shall go out.’ Freedom is joy; sadness is slavery. Sadness is the soul’s default — it’s a prison… The ability to choose between wisdom and study versus the emotional state that automatically pulls you in — the ability to observe it, to know yourself within the situation — that is freedom.”

Seeking Peace and Balance at Home

Banai spoke about his aspiration for calm and balance in his relationship with his children.

“I feel the home needs to be a cleaner space — a place where I’m present without rushing outward to be nourished from outside sources. For years I lived in dissonance. I wanted to be authentic and natural with my children, but not overly casual. Someone once said, ‘My father wasn’t my friend — but he was my father.’ It takes time to find that balance.”

He described real-life dilemmas: Should he allow his son to go watch a Hapoel Jerusalem soccer game? Should he go with him? How much space should his music have in his children’s lives? Should they be at concerts?

“I don’t have answers to all these things. But we’re in constant movement, and with the years the extremes begin to knit together.”

A Hunger for Stability, Holiness, and Family

Banai admits he has grown immensely and learned a great deal, but he still feels like he is at the beginning of his journey.

“I deeply yearn for a life of marriage and family — for a life of holiness and loyalty, without emotional upheaval. For years I thought choosing a life of Torah and mitzvot was like buying life insurance. And in many ways, miraculously, it was true! Baruch Hashem, it’s a miracle that I have my children and the Torah.”

“But now my journey is to bring things down into action. This connection between my authenticity and Torah is complicated. Many times I go straight from learning Gemara into a rehearsal room — and still feel the dissonance between my raw self in rehearsal and the commandment-voice sitting with me by the Gemara.”

How Do You Spread Torah Without Preaching?

“You don’t try to make people religious.”

He explains: “I don’t want to be anarchistic, but often people come with an agenda — ‘wanting to do something to this person.’ They look at him, speak to him, but don’t see him. They just see someone to influence. It’s external. It pushes me away. It feels like they want to do something to him — but he doesn’t know what or who. It’s so distant and pressured.”

“Really, the person has everything he needs inside him. There is a treasure within. I’m only meant to speak to him in a way that awakens him — not to make him religious, but to make him think.”

Did You Return to Judaism Gently or With a Hammer?

Banai smiles: “With a hammer made of good points.”

He recalls his early encounters with Torah — stories told by Rabbi Gisin above a pizza shop on Sheinkin Street, after he had returned from India and Mitzpe Ramon, heartbroken and feeling suffocated by the enormous posters in the streets.

“His stories spoke to a place inside me that was holy. That place woke up. It was beautiful — but it was a huge identity shock. It takes a long time to form a stable identity when you’re constantly torn between your past self and a life of faith, marriage, and family.”

Connecting to His Family Story

As a child, Banai didn’t feel connected to any story, but through teshuvah he began to explore the journey of his ancestors.

He tells of his great-grandparents crossing deserts with camels in 1880, traveling from Persia to India, then to Egypt, then to Jaffa, and finally arriving in Jerusalem after months of hardship.

“Since I discovered that story, I feel Jerusalemite. I’m not a vacuum. I’m a branch on a tree with roots.”

The Fear of Music’s Pull

“I’m still afraid of my music. It pulls me toward externality — success, ego, competition, money. I always thought I’d one day be able to give it up. The years pass, and it doesn’t happen.”

“But I also understand there is something essential and true giving life to this music. By a miracle I know how to do it. I don’t feel like a musician. I don’t really know how to play. I don’t really know how to sing.”

So what are you doing on stage?

“I have some ability to connect with people. There’s a blessing there. I always say to God, ‘Okay, enough already.’ And I’m afraid He won’t give more — but then He gives more.”

Songwriting: A Private, Inner Moment

“When I play a single chord, two hundred thousand people walk into my house. The home fills with silent people watching me. Slowly, the house empties. And if a song comes out — it means I was alone. It’s like prayer. These things can only happen in intimacy.”

Closer to God Than Ever

Banai says: “I’m closer to Him in internal work. I merit to practice hitbodedut regularly, and it brings me closer to myself, and probably to God as well.”

He shares a parable he learned in a Torah class: A map is useless unless you also know where you are on the map. “In serving God, many people rush forward but abandon inner work. A person must learn to know himself.”

On Religious Sectors — and Missing Humility

Asked where he fits among religious sub-groups, Banai answers:“I feel that humility is missing in every sector. Each one looks down on the sector next to it. And I, as someone who has no sector, sometimes look down on all of them. It becomes a very arrogant world, as though each person is some great treasure.”

“We’re all broken. Each one clings to his system. If we come with humility — we’ll receive so much more.”