At the beginning of the intifada, I was invited to join a chizuk mission to Israel. On the third day, we visited a kibbutz. In the dining hall, I greeted the woman in charge cordially, and she extended her hand. I explained that I do not shake hands with women.
“Oh,” she said archly, “you are one of those people.”
“Do you know why we don’t shake hands with women?” I asked.
“Because you are afraid,” she said.
I opened my wallet and showed her a picture of my wife. “I am happily married to this lady,” I said. “Do you really think I am afraid of you? Do you want to know the real reason? I won’t shake your hand because I respect you; it is a sign of honor.”
The woman was genuinely surprised; it was the first time she had heard such an explanation for this practice. Her entire demeanor changed, and she took us on a tour of the kibbutz and attended to all the group’s needs.
“Do you know why I got so angry when I saw you?” she asked. “I grew up in Meah Shearim, and at 17 I ran away from it all. When I see people like you, I know I was supposed to be like you, and I become angry at myself.”
The tragedy of this woman’s story is that Yiddishkeit was never explained to her in a way that she could appreciate. Had someone taken the time to help her achieve even a little understanding, It might have made a major difference in her life. The smallest ray of light can repel an immense amount of darkness.
Reproduced from A Life Worth Living by Rabbi Shraga Freedman with permission of the copyright holders, ArtScroll/Mesorah Publications, Ltd.
