My shlichus is a continuation of the organization the Rebbe started after a widow of the Six Day War asked for guidance on how to carry on.
Rabbi Menachem Kutner, Chabad Terror Victims Project, Israel
The Rebbe encouraged her to help others in her situation, and thus, the Terror Victims Project began. We’re there for every wounded soldier, terror attack victim, and their families, to help them with anything we can. Once you’re part of our family, you aren’t getting away too quickly! We maintain connections with each and every member for many years.
On March 5, 2003, a devastating suicide bombing took place in the city of Haifa. A bomber from Hebron, concealing explosives beneath his clothing, targeted a crowded public bus, Haifa bus number 37, which was carrying children and teenagers returning from school. The explosion resulted in the tragic loss of 17 lives, while 53 others sustained injuries. I went to the shiva of the victims to personally offer my condolences and help.
When I visited the Golani family, they gave me polite, tight smiles as they asked me who I was and how I knew them. “I’m from Chabad. I’m here to help in any way I can,” I answered.
“Oh, that’s nice,” they answered, blandly. “Thank you very much for coming. Have a nice day!”
I could see they felt uncomfortable with a rabbi in their home, and clearly wanted nothing to do with me. Nevertheless, when I got back home, I entered their information into my database.
Every Purim, I send shluchim all over the country a list of names and addresses from my database so they can deliver mishloach manos to them. Since the Golani family was on my list, the shliach in Haifa received their information and brought a basket to their home. They didn’t answer his knock, so he left it on their doorstep with a cheery card attached, wishing them a “Purim Sameach from Chabad!”
Every year, the same scenario repeated itself. Some years, someone would answer the door, and eventually, the shliach was able to go inside and chat for a bit.
About twenty years later, I decided to host a public menorah lighting in Haifa. The menorah would stand in the exact spot where the terrorist attack had taken place. It would send a clear message that we fight darkness with light! Given the great significance behind the location, I asked the shliach to invite the family members of the victims of that terror attack.
Baruch Hashem, the event was very successful, and a large crowd was gathered. Towards the end of the festivities, a woman asked if she could address the audience. It was an unusual request, but I saw how earnestly she wanted to speak, so I handed her the mic.
“My name is Mrs. Golani,” she began. “I first met Chabad 20 years ago, right after the terrorist attack. Back then, my husband and I were very wary of rabbis. I’m pretty sure we even kicked Rabbi Menachem out of shiva. See, at the beginning, we had so much help and support, we didn’t need - or even want - Chabad. But then, after a few weeks, everyone resumed their regular lives. It was like everyone disappeared! A few years later, when my husband passed, I was really on my own. I sat, day after day, alone in my house, with no one to talk to. No one seemed to remember or care about me.
Except Chabad. I couldn’t believe it when I opened my door and saw the mishloach manos package, wrapped up so beautifully. We’d been so rude! And yet, Chabad didn’t forget us. I figured they, too, would soon drop us as everyone else had. But they didn’t. They came year after year, bringing me happy Purim greetings, and taking time to sit with me and talk. Thank you, Chabad, for not forgetting about me.”
Ziv was on guard duty by the Gaza border. His shift had already ended, but he went back to get something he’d forgotten. Seeing a Jewish soldier alone, the terrorists shot at him. His left arm was blown off completely, and his right arm sustained major damage as well. The doctors did everything they could, but it seemed like nothing would help.
“Your arm is too far gone to save,” they told Ziv. “You have no function, so it’s becoming a risk of infection. We need to amputate it.”
Ziv already had a hard enough time accepting the loss of his left arm. He couldn’t imagine life with no arms at all. He asked the doctors for some time to consider, but it didn’t seem like there was any other choice.
When I came to visit him in the hospital, Ziv was deeply depressed. The impending loss of his arm preyed on his mind constantly. I wanted to cheer him up and give him something to distract himself from the terrible decision he had to make, so I invited him to join a trip to New York I was organizing for a small group of wounded soldiers. I described all the attractions we’d see, and how much fun we’d have. In the end, Ziv agreed to join.
Of course, we toured Manhattan and all the major sites in New York, but we also made sure to stop in the Rebbe’s Ohel in Queens. Before entering, I explained to the group how to write a pan, and how to proceed once we entered. I advised them all to say the kapitel corresponding to their ages, and helped them find the right page.
“How old are you, Ziv?” I asked.
“I’m 25,” he answered.
“Great! That means you’ll be saying kapitel chof vav,” I said, flipping to the right page.
A few minutes later, Ziv approached me. “Uh, I’m not really 25,” he said. “My birthday is next week, so I already consider myself 25, but technically speaking, I’m actually 24.”
“Okay, no problem,” I replied. “Here is kapitel chof hey.”
When we left the Ohel, I could see Ziv was deeply upset and disturbed. I asked him what had happened.
“It was the Tehillim!” he blurted out, bitterly. “When you told us that we’d each say the chapter corresponding to our ages, I decided to ask for a sign. If my kapitel mentioned the word ‘hand,’ I’d take it as a bracha that I should refuse the surgery and my arm will recover. When I read kapitel chof hey, I didn’t see a single mention of any word relating to hand. So that…”
