Hanan Amar was a beloved barber in Ashkelon, known to everyone for his warmth, generosity, and boundless heart. On the morning of October 7th, 2023, Simchas Torah, Hanan was brutally murdered at the Nova Music Festival. In his final moments, he was not running. He was not hiding. He was physically shielding two young girls with his own body.
Hanan was only 38 years old. He was survived by his wife, Miri, and their three beautiful children: Avishag (13), Noam (11), and Eitan (five and a half). Friends described Hanan as a man with “the biggest heart you could ever encounter,” a person who loved people, loved his family endlessly, and was deeply in love with life, kindness and connection.
More than two years passed after that dark day.
A few months ago, as Noam approached his thirteenth birthday, his mother gently began speaking with him about his Bar Mitzvah. But to her shock and heartbreak, Noam told her he did not want one. The pain of entering this milestone without his father was simply too overwhelming.
Miri was stunned. “Every Jewish boy has a Bar Mitzvah,” she said. “You go to shul, you’re called to the Torah, you put on tefillin. Jewish boys have been doing this for thousands of years.” “No, Mommy,” Noam replied. “No Bar Mitzvah for me.”
Trying to understand, she asked, “So what would you like to do instead?” “I want a vacation,” he said. “I want to travel to the United States.” Miri’s heart sank. “My dear son, I would love to give you that, but we simply can’t afford it. I’m so sorry.” “You asked me what I want,” Noam said quietly. “That’s what I want.”
Then this extraordinary mother, this Yiddishe Imah, said something that changed everything.
“My precious son,” she told him, “you have two fathers in Heaven. Your biological father is there. And your Creator, Hashem, is there. Go talk to them. Tell them what you want. Because this is far beyond anything I can arrange.” Noam took her words to heart.
Later, he told me: “I went to the synagogue. I spoke to Hashem, and I spoke to my father. I asked my dad to intercede for me. And I asked Hashem to please arrange a trip to America.”
Life went on. Then, a few weeks later, Miri received a message on her phone.
An organization called Menucha V’Yeshua, founded by my dear friends, Mendy and Bracha Kenig, had reached out. The organization supports bereaved families after the October 7th massacre and the Gaza war. They were arranging a ten-day, all-expenses-paid vacation in the United States for grieving families. Miri looked at the dates. It was the exact week of Noam’s Bar Mitzvah.
“I thought I was hallucinating,” she later told me. “I thought I was dreaming.” She called immediately. “Of course,” they said. “Come. Bring your children. Your family will have a beautiful time.”
When Mendy Kenig heard the full story, he said without hesitation: “We are going to arrange your son’s Bar Mitzvah in the most beautiful hotel in the United States. Hundreds of Jews will celebrate with him. We will take care of everything.” I joined them too.
And so, weeks ago, Shabbos Parshas Chayei Sarah, I stood at the Oceanfront Berkeley Hotel in New Jersey, surrounded by hundreds of Jews, as Noam Amar was called up to the Torah. He was lifted onto shoulders. We danced, we sang, we showered him with candy. Widows, orphans, bereaved parents, donors, benefactors, people who had come thinking they were simply on a vacation, were suddenly united in something far greater.
I was asked to say a few words, and I said the following.
“Noam, my dear. Everyone in this room thought they came to America for a getaway. Nearly two hundred tickets were sponsored so these families could have joy again. But the truth is, none of us knew why we were really here.
This entire trip was arranged by your tefillos. By the prayers of a child who spoke to Hashem, and to his father in Heaven. You brought all of us together.”
I then noticed another man standing nearby, Achiya Eliyahu, who had been preparing Noam for his Bar Mitzvah.
He said to me quietly, “I had a son, Ariel. He was a tank gunner. On the morning of October 7th, he drove his tank to Be’eri. He eliminated dozens of terrorists and saved countless lives, until he was killed at the age of twenty.” Then he added, with trembling voice: “My son also celebrated his Bar Mitzvah on this very Shabbos—Parshas Chayei Sarah.”
Souls connected across generations.
Later that night, after Havdalah, as we were sitting together eating pizza, Noam looked at me and said: “I took my mother seriously. She told me to pray. She told me I had two fathers in Heaven. That’s what I did.”
Such is the power of a pure heart in prayer.
