The organization had their eye on a college in Haifa, and was looking for the right couple to begin. Fifteen other couples had already applied and visited before we were offered the position. Although it has its challenges - its deep downtown, so everything is industrialized and there’s no kid-friendly spaces, and it’s far from the religious parts of town, where the shuls and schools are - we decided to accept.
One thing that many people don’t realize about Israeli colleges is that while the average university student starts at 18 and graduates at around 22, Israeli teens go straight from high school into the army. After their mandatory 3-year service, many take a year or two to tour Europe and Asia. Only afterwards, when they’re already 23 years old, do they return home and begin settling into “real life” by attending college.
On the one hand, it makes our job a little more challenging, since they’re older and busier. They’re in college for a very specific reason, not just to party, have fun, and hopefully learn something meanwhile. On the other hand, since so many of them are fresh off the heels of their own journeys of “self discovery,” hoping to find the answers to their spiritual emptiness, when they meet us, they recognize the value of what we offer.
Over the last year, our shlichus has completely changed. Almost every student we have is in miluim and was called up in the wake of October 7. College was canceled for months, and campus was utterly deserted. Even now, we spend more time meeting our students in uniform on their army bases than we do on campus. Our hometown of Haifa and the university in particular are under regular rocket attacks.
Many students who avoided us on campus or previously felt uncomfortable are now happy to reach out and invite us for a visit and a chat - and some excellent food, of course. In that way, the war has brought us closer together.
While we offer many shiurim and classes, I’ve found that today’s youth are looking for something else. Of course, the importance of learning Torah can never be overstated. Recent events have shown us, more than ever, how important human connection is.
The war forced us to look away from our phones, computers, and screens, and develop the emotional connection with others we so desperately need. My students want to sit and talk. They come to the Chabad house for companionship.
Knowing how important it is, I make sure I’m just as available for a good shmooze as I am to give a lecture.
Like every good shliach, I spend Rosh Hashanah afternoons on the street, blowing shofar for passersby.
One year, I was doing my usual rounds. I was blowing a round of shofar blasts for a couple in the street when I suddenly felt cold water drench me from head to toe. Astonished, I looked up and saw a woman leaning out of her window with the pail she’d just emptied on my head.
“Go away!” she screamed at me. “No one wants to hear your loud, annoying horn! We don’t need you! Get out of here!”
I knew there was little point engaging, so I shook off my dripping hat, wished her a Shana tova, and moved on to another area.
A week later, as I sat in shul on Yom Kippur, I was shocked to see the same lady slip in and find an unobtrusive seat in the back row.
“Chag sameach!” I greeted her. “I’m so happy you could join us today!”
“I’ve never been in a synagogue before,” she said, somewhat redundantly. “But I had to come today. You might not remember, but last week, I -”
“I remember,” I said, quietly.
“Right. Well,” she continued, embarrassed. “A few nights ago, my grandfather appeared to me in a dream. What’s wrong with you? He scolded me. Your grandmother and I grew up in Communist Russia, and we still heard the shofar on Rosh Hashanah! Who do you think you are to stop that rabbi from blowing the shofar?
“I came today to apologize,” she concluded.
“Today is the day of forgiveness, so how could I possibly withhold mine?” I replied. “We’re honored to have you here.”
“Excuse me, do you want to put on tefillin today?” I asked a young man passing by my tefillin booth.
“@#!+ no!” he responded, before walking away.
I was accustomed to refusals... albeit not quite as rude as that one, but I took it in stride.
A few months later, he was back at my table.
“Do you want to put on tefillin today?” I asked him.
“A few months ago, you asked me the same question, and I responded very rudely,” he answered. “But today - yes. Yes, I want to put on tefillin.”
I helped him bind his arm with the leather straps. I could see that he was very emotional as he covered his eyes and said Shema.
His eyes were wet when he handed me back the velvet pouch.
“I had a friend when I was in Gaza,” he said, quietly. “He wasn’t religious, but he made sure to put on tefillin every single day, no matter what. He was killed in battle, and I just wanted to feel close to him again - to do something I know he’d be doing if he were alive today. This is for him.”
As we prepare for the Yamim Noarim this year, I keep getting requests from students who’ve never celebrated these holidays in their lives.
“I really want to come to Rosh Hashanah this year. Please tell me Chabad is hosting teffilot,” one student texted.
“I’m coming for every tefillah!” another student told me. “I’d like to learn more about the tefillot, what they mean, and how to pray. Is there a special siddur I can buy?”
These requests are coming from young men and women that are so far removed from Yiddishkeit, Yom Kippur meant absolutely nothing to them. At the most, their parents may have “commemorated” the holy day by staying home and watching movies.
Now, for the first time in their lives, post October 7th, they want to connect and learn more. We’re only too happy to help.
“You owe property taxes for the year!” the school president told me, in a threatening voice. “You better pay up!”
“My taxes have never been that high before!” I protested. “We’ve always been able to get an exemption.”
Nothing I said seemed to make any difference at all. The school threatened to close us down and ban us from campus if we didn’t make a complete payment right away.
There was absolutely no way I could afford it. I didn’t know what to do, so I poured out my heart in a letter to the Rebbe. I sent it off to the ohel. Time passed. Somehow, (I’m too scared to ask too many questions) everything seemed to resolve peacefully, and they never bothered me again.
Since our students are older, and many of them are settling down, getting married, and starting families, showing them what a Torah-observant family looks like is very important. We make sure our children share a Dvar Torah by every Shabbos meal, and encourage them to take part in our shlichus.
One Shabbos, everyone was chatting around the table. My seven-year old daughter saw one of the girls pull out her phone.
“Shabbos is so beautiful!” my daughter said. “You don’t even need your phone! If you put your phone away, you can enjoy the Shabbos table, and the yummy Shabbos food, and all our friends!”
We held our breath, but the girl smiled and said, “You’re right!” She put her phone away and chatted comfortably with the group.
In fact, for the next few weeks, she kept her phone off the entire Shabbos!
“Mipi olilim viyonkim yisadita oz,” - “From the mouths of babes You established strength.”
My wife learned with Rina* for a long time prepping her for marriage, but she was still ambivalent about using the mikvah. After discussing it with a rav, my wife figured out a way to make Rina a little more comfortable. Instead of using a traditional mikvah, she’d immerse in the ocean. Rina agreed, and began preparing.
That night, my wife accompanied Rina to the beach. On the way, Rina suddenly turned to her and said, “Devorie, I changed my mind. Let’s go to a real mikvah. For thousands of years, our mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers have been immersing in a mikvah. I don’t want to be the one to break the chain.”
