Meirav* grew up in a typically secular Israeli family, with anti-religious leanings. In the weeks post October 7th, to restore the feeling of security, soldiers were positioned all over checkpoints in the south. So when she received her orders post-October 7th, she was extremely annoyed.
“I have to stand guard outside the women’s mikvah in Netivot?” she fumed. “I don’t even believe in all that stuff? Couldn’t they send someone else?”
Grumbling still, she took her first shift outside the mikvah. She scoffed as she watched the women enter one at a time, each of them rushing into the safe embrace of the building as fast as they could. But as the night wore on, she felt a grudging respect beginning to grow. As she repeated her duty night after night, the respect and admiration won, and soon grew to curiosity.
We’re so close to Gaza, and things are still so dangerous and unsettled. What gives these women the courage to leave their homes and families and come here at night alone? She began to wonder. I must learn more about it!
When things returned to some semblance of normalcy and Meirav returned to college in Haifa, she immediately enrolled in our JLI course.
“Those women inspired me with their courage and strength,” she explained. “I need to understand what it was all for. Please teach me.”
Meirav has now started lighting Shabbos candles and turns her phone off for the entirety of the holy day. She is adamant that when she marries, she, too, will keep the mitzvah of Taharas Hamishpacha, inspired by the women of Netivot she stood guardian.
My seven-year-old daughter loved setting out a table with Shabbos candles every Friday afternoon. She’d stop women walking by and urge them to take one and light it.
The dean of the university passed by, but of course, my daughter didn’t know who she was.
“Ma’am, light these Shabbos candles!” she commanded in her high-pitched voice.
The dean was so touched. This seven-year-old girl just wanted her to light Shabbos candles. She took a box and lit them that night.
She later told me that my daughter’s simple, one sentence imperative had inspired her to start lighting candles every week.
Reim* was never overly enthusiastic about Judaism, but he sometimes agreed to put on tefillin, and enrolled in the JLI course I gave each week.
Reim is part of the Magdan Combat Unit, an elite troop in the IDF. For four months, he was fighting deep in Gaza and never had a moment to breathe, let alone make a phone call! When his unit finally received temporary reprieve, Reim called me.
“Reim! Mah nishmah! I haven’t heard from you in months!” I answered, cheerfully.
“Everything’s changed,” he told me, seriously. “Let me tell you what happened on October 7th.
I was in Tel Aviv, just hanging out and enjoying myself, when disturbing reports started coming in. I felt so angry and helpless, so I just got in my car and drove to my army base. I had nothing on me - no guns, no protective armor, no weapons - but I just felt like I had to be doing something.
We sat there for hours, begging the commander to send us on a mission. But information was still coming in and being processed, and we had no idea whether terrorists were still freely roaming the streets.
Eventually, we had enough. We just had to be doing something. We were right near Kibbutz Beiri, so we drove there to see what we could do. It was awful. I’ve seen things in war, but walking through those streets was a special kind of nightmare.
We were told there was one house where a mother was hiding out with her two little children. We knocked on her door, telling her that we were from the IDF and were coming to help her. The poor woman was petrified. She was sure we were just another wave of terrorists, as many had dressed up as Israeli soldiers to gain even more victims.
We tried proving our identity and showing who we were, but she refused to open the door. The situation was so sad and heartbreaking - a sister, too afraid to open the door to her own brother. I needed to do something that would convince her I was for real. I thought deep and realized I know a Jewish line that no terrorist could say.
From the depth of my heart I cried out with emotion, “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad!”
A few moments later, the door crack opened and we could finally see her face, still white with fear.
“You’re really Jewish!” she exclaimed happily, and finally let us in.
“That’s when everything changed for me, Rabbi,” Reim continued. “This woman was a secular kibutznik – they don’t let anything Jewish in that place, through and through. I don’t think she’s ever said Shema Yisrael once in her life. At best, she’s heard of it. Even for me, it’s not something I’m used to saying every day. I am not religious by any means. But that was all it took to forge a connection between us and to allow her to trust who I was.
“It showed me that Yehadut is something that defies any labels or limitations. It’s something intangible that is connected to our innermost core as Jews. It’s something that comes alive, even when we’ve been brought up our whole lives to abhor it. It’s our blood; it’s our soul; it’s our life.
“I decided to start wearing tefillin every day from that point on. I had to say those words daily. So far, I haven’t missed a day, despite the craziness of the war.”
My eyes and heart were too overwhelmed with tears to answer.
Lioz* was stationed in a cleared area in Gaza. He was standing on the rooftop of a building, peering into the darkness for any signs of approaching danger. Everything looked clear, so Lioz allowed himself to relax, and to start thinking about other things.
It’s Chanukah tonight! Lioz suddenly realized. I must light a chanukiyah! I’m sure I can find something to light. Let me go look.
Lioz headed for the stairwell leading off the roof, and had just made it to the next landing, when the entire building shook, and loud thuds sounded from the roof above him.
“Rabbi, had I been standing there even one minute later, I would not be talking to you right now,” Lioz told me in a phone call a short while later. “It was my Chanukah miracle!”
We host a chavrusa learning program where students from the nearby yeshiva study Gemara, Halachah, and Mishnayos with our college students. Recently, Avi* joined the weekly learning sessions.
He told me he wanted to dedicate his learning to the memory of his friends who had died in Gaza, including a Bedouin soldier he was friendly with. It was his first time ever opening a Gemara, and he did so with tears in his eyes in honor of his friend.
Ayelet* and Nina* served as paramedics in the IDF. For months, they were stationed in the field hospital near Gaza, treated the most lightly wounded as best as they could and triaging the rest.
“It was horrible,” Ayelet told us. “We saw so much pain and suffering. And despite our medical training, there’s only so much we can do.”
“There was one particular soldier,” Nina recalled, her eyes darkening as she spoke, “who was wounded really badly. I didn’t think he’d make it, even if we called for a helicopter evacuation. But he begged me to keep trying; to save him. I knew there was nothing I or medical science could do for him. I took out this picture of the Rebbe,” she pulled out a pocket sized photo and showed it to us. “I spoke to the Rebbe. I told him this man needed a miracle, straight from Hakadosh Baruch Hu.
“I evacuated the soldier to the hospital and they were able to save his life. I know for a fact it was 100% due to the Rebbe’s bracha.”
“There were so many situations like that,” Ayelet agreed. “I asked the Rebbe for strength and for brachot for all the soldiers. I felt the Rebbe with me, giving me the strength to continue.”
Every year, Chabad on Campus in Israel arranges a trip to New York. This year, Ayelet and Nina requested to join, specifically so they could go to the Rebbe’s Ohel and thank him in person for the miracles they saw in Gaza.
I met Menashe* as we were walking down the street in opposite directions. I greeted him, and found out he was attending our college.
“You must join us for Shabbos!” I said. “We have a Chabad house just down the street!”
Menashe gave me a strange look I didn’t fully understand. “Chabad?” he repeated, with raised eyebrows.
Later, when I got to know more about him, he explained.
“I grew up in Meah Shearim,” he told me. “I heard a lot about Chabad growing up - maybe too much. Almost none of it was good.
“Eventually, I decided to leave. I was angry at my family, at G-d, and at Judaism, and I decided to drop everything and everyone. I dropped contact with my family, cut off my peyot, and moved up north. In fact, you were the first dati person I’d seen since leaving. You looked so normal, which is why I was so surprised to hear you say you were Chabad. From everything I’d heard, I expected something very different!
“You completely unnerved me when you invited me for Shabbos, just like that. You didn’t care about my background, my leanings, or my history. You accepted me, just because I was a Jew. That is special.”
It was the beginning of a long, warm, healing friendship between us. Menashe eventually learned to overcome all his prejudices against Chabad and started putting on tefillin again every day.
Every Shabbos, I would tell him to reconnect with his family.
“I’m sure they miss you and wish you would call,” I told him.
“No,” he’d always respond. “I’m sure they wrote me off a long time ago. They’d be upset if I dared to call.”
“Let’s try it!” I dared him. “On Motzei Shabbos, call your mother.”
Menashe finally agreed and I watched him dial the familiar number with trembling fingers. When I heard his mother’s joyful voice on the other end of the phone, I closed the door to give him some privacy, a huge smile on my face. Helping Menashe reconnect with his family is one of the greatest privileges of my life.
*Names changed to protect privacy
