Charlie* left his hometown in Australia for Zambia, looking for new business ventures. His Judaism, or lack thereof, had never really bothered him before. Suddenly, very aware of his isolation, he felt a burning desire to connect with G-d.
“Where can I find a prayerbook or other Jewish book in this G-d forsaken country?” he asked a friend.
“Check if there’s a Chabad house nearby,” his friend suggested.
“Chabad? In Zambia?” Charlie replied, incredulous. “No way!”
But a simple Google search revealed there was, indeed, a shliach nearby.
Charlie immediately contacted me. I helped him wrap tefillin for the second time in his life, and gifted him a siddur and Chumash to continue his Jewish education.
Zambia is full of lonely lost souls like Charlie, and it is our privilege to find them and help them connect to Hashem.
I met Eyal* on the street, and he was happy to see a fellow Jew so unexpectedly in such a random part of the world. He asked if he could join us for the Pesach seder, and, of course, I agreed, but I saw that he was apprehensive about taking on any more, so I didn’t pressure him to put on tefillin.
A couple of months later, on Yom Hazikaron, I called him and asked if he’d want to put on tefillin in honor of the special day.
“Sure, come to my house,” he replied.
We chatted for a while, commiserating about the awful war and sharing Eyal’s personal experiences in the Israeli army. Then I brought out my tefillin and offered them to him.
I helped Eyal wrap the straps around his forehead and arm, as he remained uncommonly quiet and still.
“You know,” he said, removing the tefillin with suspicious moisture in his eyes, “this is only the second time I’ve put on tefillin. My first was only because my Savta told me she wouldn’t let me in her house unless I put them on. I did it only to oblige her, so I don’t know what happened today. For some reason, it was incredibly moving and meaningful. Thank you.”
