My grandfather, a devout Jew, played a pivotal role in my early religious upbringing, introducing me to the Chabad community. Even as a young boy, I was well aware of who the Rebbe was and familiar with Chabad terminology. For my bar mitzvah, I asked for and received a set of Rashi and Rabbeinu Tam tefillin, which I proudly carried in a velvet bag embroidered with “770,” the iconic Chabad building in New York.
Although I considered myself a Lubavitcher, my parents were less enthusiastic about my connection to Chabad. When I was accepted into Gateshead, often referred to as the “Oxford” of yeshivos, my father insisted it was a rare opportunity I couldn’t pass up. Despite this, I never truly felt at home there. My 770-adorned tefillin symbolized a connection that made me feel somewhat out of place. By the end of my first year, the Rosh Yeshiva recognized my struggle and advised me to decide which path I wanted to follow.
Seeking a sense of belonging, I eventually found camaraderie with a group of Bobover bochurim. This new connection led me to further explore the Bobover community. On a visit to New York in 2002 to check out a Bobover yeshiva, I couldn’t resist the pull to visit 770, the Chabad headquarters I’d heard so much about. Although I felt a strong connection to Chabad, I returned to Boro Park and continued my life among the Bobover chassidim, even transferring to a Bobover yeshiva in England.
A few years later, I got married, but after a few years of married life in England, I began to question whether the chassidishe lifestyle was my true path.
We wanted a fresh start, unburdened by what had been and the people who knew us before. We wanted to move back to Eretz Yisrael, but my parents were adamantly against it and brought up a slew of concerns.
I wrote a letter to the Rebbe, explaining all the pros and cons, including my parents’ reluctance. I put it in the Igros, and received an answer about how the air of Eretz Yisrael is said to make one wise, and that it would be a good idea to move, despite others’ objections. The Rebbe also encouraged spreading Yiddishkeit in Eretz Yisrael.
Armed with the Rebbe’s brachos, we moved to Eretz Yisrael. I dropped the chassidishe levush, opting instead to return to my parents’ Sefardi roots. We tried our best to make it work, but I didn’t have a steady job, and it was very difficult to manage in Eretz Yisrael. Just then, we both received excellent job offers - back in England.
Unsure of what to do, I wrote to the Rebbe again. The letter on the page welcomed the person on their visit to England, and gave a bracha for success.
So, once again, we packed up and moved back to England. Baruch Hashem, it seemed like things were finally falling into place. I renewed my interest in Chabad, learning Chassidus, and following daily Tanya shiurim. I helped the nearby Chabad rabbi in all his activities, and saw myself as a shliach of the Rebbe.
Although we were doing well in England, our desire to live in Eretz Yisrael never fully faded.
Of course, I wrote a letter to the Rebbe. This time, however, none of the letters on the page where I’d placed my note seemed to have anything to do with my question.
I was accustomed to perfectly clear answers, so I didn’t know what to do. After much discussion and soul searching, we decided to make the move. I wrote to the Rebbe, informing him of our decision. When I placed the letter in the Igros, the Rebbe’s answer read, “Regarding what you have determined upon, may it be with much success.” I understood that the Rebbe was simply waiting for me to make a firm decision one way or the other, to commit wholeheartedly, knowing there was no turning back.
We settled in Ramat Beit Shemesh, just across the street from the Chabad house. I davened there regularly, and offered to help the shliach, Rabbi Farro, in any way I could - giving shiurim, visiting people, setting up events, and more. After a couple of years, Rabbi Farro told my wife and me that there was an opening for an English-speaking shliach in a small community nearby.
We clearly saw this was Hashem’s plan for us, and we opened Chabad of Mishkafayim a short while later. Baruch Hashem, there’s been tremendous growth over the past five years, and, with Hashem’s brachos, there will continue to be much more.
Last summer, we moved into our new Chabad house. We were excited to inaugurate it with an amazing Tishrei, filled with minyanim, celebrations, and, of course, food! Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were beautiful, and Sukkos was wonderful. We decided to celebrate Simchas Torah in style, with a full buffet both at night and the next afternoon.
Hakafos that night were rocking! The room shook with sheer joy and love for the Torah. We all went to bed, exhausted but buoyant.
I woke up early the next morning and ran straight to shul to prepare for the morning minyan. Suddenly, I heard gigantic booms, and the walls shook like they had the night before. This time though, there were no jubilant celebrations to explain the quakes. I thought maybe someone was jumping on the roof, and I even went out to check.
A neighbor, who I strongly suspect is an intelligence agent, passed by. “You’d best get home, Rabbi,” he advised me. “We’re at war. The sirens will go off very soon. Go make sure your shelter is ready!”
I was a bit skeptical, but his prediction came true a short while later. I ran back home, and we huddled in the shelter for safety. The sirens seemed unending. No sooner had one quieted than the next began its unearthly wail.
