Each month, I travel to the farm to observe the cows being milked so I can bring back home fresh Cholov Yisroel milk for my family. When we first arrived here, though, it wasn't so simple. I needed fresh milk for my baby, so I went around asking the nearby farmers if I could observe them milk their cows.
To my dismay, they all refused! Apparently, they had this tradition that if a stranger watches a cow being milked, the cow will die! I offered to pay a lot of money, but they didn't budge. Finally, I found an old couple who once had Jewish neighbours, so they were familiar with the concept.
I would come at 5am, watch them milk their one and only cow for an hour, and return home with three litres of milk. One week, they told me that their cow was pregnant and would stop giving milk, so I should come every day to stock up.
When the cow finally gave birth, it had twins! The couple was ecstatic—they could sell one of the calves for a half a year's salary! It was the talk of the town that "the rabbi blessed the cow". From then on, all the farmers were eager to let me watch them milk their cows in the hopes that their cows might be blessed as well!
One of the main programs we run, and I helped develop, is our Kollel Torah, which is an hour-long Torah class following davening. Each morning, Jews come to daven and learn Torah, and in return, we give them a stipend. For these Jews, it makes a big difference. Not only are they growing in their Yiddishkeit, but we are literally helping them put bread on their table! Once a week, we have a Torah class for women as well. The program has spread and currently around 7,000 men and 3,000 women participate in this program across the FSU and Europe, and it changes their lives.
Who would have ever imagined that a little city in Ukraine would have a shul with a minyan and daily Kollel learning for men, weekly classes for women and a beautiful mikvah?
The Rebbe sent shluchim all over the world to ignite their neshamos and bring Yiddishkeit to even the furthest of places. When people ask me how I keep going in such a small town, I tell them that in matters of holiness, there is no big or small. Very few Jews live here, but a mitzvah is a mitzvah, and Hashem treasures each one. If I helped even one Jew put on tefillin, that's why I'm here.
I'm from Canada originally, and never had any connection to Russia growing up. When I look back at what brought me here, it's almost amusing. I was in yeshiva in Israel, and my roommate was planning on spending his summer volunteering at a camp in Russia. At first, I had no interest in going - I already had my plans in place to spend my summer in California. But after much cajoling from my roommates, I gave in and agreed to join him.
It was 1998. We landed in Crimea - and neither of us spoke even a word of Russian. Just two 18-year-old boys, planning to run a camp for kids with whom we couldn't even communicate. We had a bit of a rocky start, but eventually, we found our groove. I remember a week into camp, a young boy came to me and asked for a bris. Naturally, I was taken aback.
“Go... play some basketball,” I said. “Your friends are all on the court.”
A couple of days later, he came back with the same request. Again, I panicked.
“There's candy over there in the dining room!” I told him. “Go get some before it's all gone!”
But when he came back a third time, I realised this was something I couldn't ignore. So, later that night, I brought up the issue at a staff meeting. The head counsellor wasn't surprised.
“We have a mohel come every year,” he said. “Whoever wants a bris gets one on the last day of camp.”
I was shocked. I couldn't imagine what that would look like. Groups of young boys, most of whom have never even heard of matzah or menorahs, all getting brissim? I couldn't imagine someone developing such a strong connection to something they barely understood. But, lo and behold, on one of the last days of camp came, the Mohel arrived and performed a bris on many of the boys right there in camp!
That summer was my first real experience with shlichus. I watched young men completely abandon the lives they came from for a much more spiritual one. I felt attached to these kids. I felt responsible for them. I called them up every week before Shabbos to ask about their journeys. I felt I was their only connection to Yiddishkeit, and I couldn't imagine walking away.
I tried to return to my life in Canada, but I found that those boys were always on my mind. It was then that I made the decision to return the following year. But, somehow, that still didn't feel like enough. I was watching them turn their backs on 70 years of communism; on their parents' and their grandparents' lives. I watched them learn about Torah and Tanach with such joy - it was inspirational. These kids were gaining so much, after only getting a little jumpstart from camp. I wondered what things would be like if we made them a camp similar to the calibre of Jewish camps in the States.
It was this thought that inspired me to start Camp Yeka. Yeka was modelled to enrich the lives of Jewish children, both spiritually as well as physically. We planned fun adventures, daytime trips, and overnights, as well as shiurim, davening, and learning. I gathered the best staff I could and poured my soul into this project.
It was never easy, but I know it was worth it. Yeka changed the lives of these children. Every summer was spent planning new ways to inspire and enlighten these young minds.
I truly felt these children were my calling - however, when I got married, my wife didn't feel the same. She preferred to settle down somewhere a little more stable, with a Jewish community and plenty of kosher food.
My wife and I spent a few years in California, had a baby, and settled into our traditional lives. But I wasn't thrilled. I knew there was more for me out there. One day, I got a call that there was no Rabbi in Rostov, and the Jewish community was looking for someone desperately. My wife and I discussed it, and she agreed to go visit and see what it was like. We spent Shabbos there and davened in the community's 150-year-old shul.
The shul was built by Cantonist soldiers who felt rejected by the Jewish community after returning from 25 years in military service. The community found them ignorant and disconnected, due to their large gap in Yiddishkeit. But these men felt passionate about serving Hashem and decided to build a shul of their own. Rostov had 12 synagogues at one time, but sadly, they were all confiscated or destroyed. Incidentally, the Cantonist Shul is now the last one standing.
The few days we spent visiting Rostov were inspiring. We encountered countless individuals desperate for connection to Judaism. They felt so blessed to have us join them and begged us to stay long-term. When my wife and I eventually left for Israel (where we were continuing to after Russia) we both knew we had to go back.
“This is an incredible opportunity to really do something great,” she said. “We need to go back to Russia. It is our calling.”
That week, we sold our belongings in Pasadena, drove across the country to JFK, and boarded a plane to Russia. It's been 13 years since then - and we've never looked back.
Reprinted from DollarDaily.org
Rabbi Yechiel Shlomo Levitansky, Chabad of Sumy, Ukraine
Rabbi Chaim & Kaila Danzinger
From Canada to Rostov, Russia
A Bris in A Russian Summer Camp
