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When Yehuda Teichtal stands in front of his wardrobe, he doesn’t have much choice. As an orthodox rabbi, he can’t choose how Jewish he wants to look – he has to look Jewish. The full beard, the black suit, the black kippah and, on top of it, a wide-brimmed felt hat, the Borsalino, are obligatory for Rabbi Teichtal and his fellow believers, the Chabad Jews, also known as Lubavitch. Hiding the kippah underneath a baseball cap, as an increasing number of devout Jews are said to do in some areas of Berlin, is out of the question for Rabbi Teichtal.

We have arranged to meet on Sonnenallee, a major thoroughfare in the Berlin district of Neukölln. There is hardly a street in Berlin that is more "Arab" than this one. There are halal butcher shops next to wedding shops displaying niqabs, the face-covering for women, in their window and Lebanese cafés competing over who has the best hummus. The Central Council of Jews has been talking about "no-go areas" or "problem districts" for Jews in Berlin for quite a while and it most likely meant streets like Sonnenallee. A fierce dispute has flared up in the Jewish community over just how dangerous it is to be recognized as a Jew there. We wanted to put it to the test.

Rabbi Teichtal, 44 years old, shows up to meet us full of an electric and bemused delight, something that is as much a part of the faith of Chabad Jews as the Borsalino. The orthodox group, which came into being 250 years ago in the village of Lyubavichi in Belarus and is now present in around 70 countries, likes to be extrovert in celebrating its love of God – with ecstatic dance, with singing and clapping. This winter, when Christmas Eve and the beginning of the Jewish Festival of Lights, Hanukkah, fell on the same day, Rabbi Teichtal lit a huge nine-candled menorah in front of the Brandenburg Gate and smaller candles across the city. But not in Neukölln.

As a greeting, Rabbi Teichtal gives a slight nod, indicating a bow – he is not allowed to shake hands with women. "Some say it is best to be low key with things Jewish in Berlin," he says. "But that makes no sense at all to me. We are here! And that sure is wonderful!" He moves through the throngs of people with a bouncy step. At the corner of Weichselstrasse we pass a young boy, barely eight-years old, smoking an electronic cigarette. No one is paying any attention to him. There is music blaring out of a car in front of me driven by a young girl. No one takes any notice of her either. But everybody seems to be noticing the orthodox Jew.

Most people pass by silently. But during the 45 minutes that we have already been walking down the street, two people have rolled down their car window and bellowed something at the rabbi. Yahoud, "Jew," is the only word that can be understood amid the traffic noise. Two young men pass by, one is fingering his prayer beads. They say nothing. But their looks are icy. A man bumps into Rabbi Teichtal, a woman spits on the street when passing by – whether by accident or design, isn’t clear either time. People at the stoplight honk their horns, grin at him, seem to feel pressure to somehow comment on his presence.

It is certainly not a no-go area, no one has threatened the rabbi with physical violence. But neither do things feel good or natural. With a photographer to the left and a reporter to the right – it appears as if we need to protect him, which Rabbi Teichtal adamantly rejects. "God protects me," is all he says. All the cheerfulness has drained away from his face in the meantime. In the morning, when he left his home to come meet us, his wife had asked him, "Does it have to be Neukölln?" She was afraid. Rabbi Teichtal mentions it off-hand. He came just the same.

It’s one thing to read about anti-Semitism in the newspaper – but something completely different to experience physically first hand being at the mercy of other people’s feelings of hate. Rabbi Teichtal has a broad, friendly face, alert eyes above a full beard. "I come from New York," he says, with a nasal Brooklyn accent. "I never had the feeling there like I do here on the street. It’s not right that I have to be afraid to come here! That I have to be afraid for my children! That is certainly not normal!"

Rabbi Teichtal comes from a family of 13 children, something that is normal for Chabad Jews. He has six himself. His family had lived for 500 years in Germany, until the Nazis came – only his grandfather survived the Holocaust. Yehuda Teichtal moved to Berlin 20 years ago with his wife, because the leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, known as the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, asked him to come and ensure that there was Jewish life in the city once again.

Rabbi Teichtal is one of thousands of "Shluchim," Chabad-Lubavitch emissaries, something like missionaries. And he is very successful at it. His Chabad Center now has a kindergarten, a synagogue, an elementary school and high school. But Rabbi Teichtal is also feeling a headwind. His youngest daughter, who is six years old, recently came home pale from fright. In her physical education class, a Muslim fellow pupil said he didn’t want any Jews on his team and nobody protested. She was no longer a girl, she was a Jew. "What am I supposed to do, daddy?" she had asked Rabbi Teichtal. Yes, what is she supposed to do when she encounters an anti-Semite? His reply: "Nothing at all. Do nothing at all. Ignore them."