English Blog

A few weeks before my trip to South Africa, my brother-in-law called to ask me a favor. He was ordering a new credit card and asked if I would trouble myself to bring it with me when I came. “Of course,” I said. He thanked me and urged me to keep it safe.

Where is the safest place I can keep it? I asked myself. And I decided to keep it with my own credit card. That way it is guaranteed safe.

And I did. As soon as the envelope arrived, I tore it open and slid his card in right beside mine. What could go wrong with something kept as close as I keep my own.

Then came the chaos of a 15-hour flight with 8 children! Oy gevalt.

We landed in Cape Town already late for the bar mitzvah. We ran to pick up our rental and the woman at the counter said, “License and credit card, please.” I reached for them … and they were gone. No card. No license. Not in my wallet, not in my pocket, not in any of our bags.

I had a photo of my license but she couldn’t accept it. So we put the van under my wife’s name and I drove. (We will not dwell on the fine print of that arrangement) Thank G-d, we made it to the bar mitzvah in one piece.

The next day, my brother-in-law called: someone was using his card in Cape Town. And that’s when it clicked. I hadn't misplaced anything; I had been robbed. Somewhere over those 15 dark hours on the airplane, someone had quietly lifted my cards and my license, and my brother-in-law's precious card right along with them, and was now enjoying a shopping spree across the city.

I'll spare you my first instinct, which was to note that the thief was spending rather more modestly than my own family does, and to briefly wonder whether we should simply let him keep it. That's a joke. (Mostly.) I cancelled everything, of course, and my brother-in-law also ordered a new card (and, I'm fairly sure, found a more reliable courier than me to carry it).

 But the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a powerful lesson I’d just been shown.

I tried hard to keep the credit card safe. I gave it thought and put it in the safest place I could think of—right alongside my own card, where I would protect it as I do my own. And still, it was stolen.

Because what really protects us is not our own actions, but Hashem. He is in control and He decides if my credit card will stay in my pocket or be stolen on the other side of the world.

Sometimes Hashem allows something small to be taken from us to teach us something much bigger about what we should really be holding onto.

The credit card was replaceable. The license was replaceable. The money was replaceable. But the lesson? That is something only He could teach me.

During our trip to South Africa, we took the kids to Cape Point about two hours outside of Cape Town, at the very tip of the Cape Peninsula—the most south-east corner of the country. 

It’s scenic and mountainous, and unique to South Africa’s rugged beauty. The hike up the cliffs is absolutely worth the effort, and the views from the lighthouse are truly breathtaking.

When we were ready to leave, I took one of my sons to the restroom, while the rest of the kids went ahead to wait in the car with my wife.

We were gone for all of three minutes, but when we returned, an entirely new scene greeted us: a whole troop of wild baboons! They had descended on the area and were ransacking the garbage cans like they'd been waiting all day! One large male had claimed a pile of trash as his own and was baring his teeth at any of the other baboons who dared come close.

Then I noticed a woman standing nearby with her back to the scene. She had no idea what was going on! One of the baboons crept up behind her and grabbed her handbag (fortunately, he didn’t try too hard, and she was able to hold onto it!)  

We walked towards our car and that’s when I saw it—a wild baboon had made itself quite comfortable atop our vehicle. 

So there I am, my wife is inside, my children are inside, and I’m standing about twenty feet away, doing the only truly heroic thing a father can do in a moment like this: filming it.

The doors and windows were closed and locked, so everyone was safe. But the baboon was climbing onto the hood, peering through the windows, as if deciding which tasty snack to go for first.

Inside, some of the kids were losing it. One of my daughters in particular was terrified. She couldn’t stop shaking. 

But I loved every second of it.

I grew up with these baboons. And here were my own children getting to experience the exact thing I lived as a boy.

As much as I wanted to stay and watch them, soaking in the nostalgia, as soon as the baboon climbed off the car, I jumped in and drove off to try and calm my daughter. 

I wondered why she was so afraid. The baboon didn’t do anything to her. It couldn't. They were separated by glass and steel. 

But the baboon looked dangerous, and so that’s how she perceived it. That perception was powerful enough to make her scream, and powerful enough to make us drive away.

And she’s not alone. Much of what scares us isn’t actually dangerous, it just looks that way. And that perception is strong enough to keep us shut away, missing the very experiences that could have been the best day of our lives.

But the baboon was never going to hurt my daughter, and the thing you're afraid of isn’t going to hurt you either.  

Afraid to start keeping Shabbat? That makes sense! It looks like giving something up. But if you let go and dive in, you’ll discover that it adds so much more to your life than it takes away. 

Scared to start keeping kosher? It looks complicated and restrictive. And it definitely is a big step! But once you take the first step, and then the next, it will become a lot less overwhelming.

Anxious about walking into the daily minyan for the first time? Makes sense! It’s intimidating walking into any unfamiliar space. But if you let go and take the plunge, you’ll soon wonder what you were ever afraid of. 

We're standing at the doorway of a brand-new year, the perfect time to stop trusting the perception and start taking the leap. 

It’s not as scary as it seems!

P.S. I still have the video. My daughter has since watched it roughly forty times — from the safety of our living room couch, where no baboon has ever once appeared. Funny how brave we all get once there's an ocean between us and the thing we were afraid of! Give her a few years and she'll be telling her own kids that this was the greatest day of her life. 

I spent two nights in Pilanesberg Game Reserve this week, with my brother, my nephew, and all our kids. We traveled in three separate cars, but did everything together.

Monday was absolutely spectacular. Everything we dreamed of. We saw elephants, lions, buffalo, zebras, giraffes, hippos, and more. 

The next day it rained and the rocky dirt roads started to turn to mud. Jokingly, I turned to my family and asked: "You know, these roads are really rough. What would happen if we got a flat tire out here?"

Twenty minutes later, we found out.

My nephew spotted it first from his car. "You have a flat tire." My brother double-checked. He was right.

We were in the middle of the African bush. We had no phone service, no internet, no WhatsApp, and no Google Maps. And because of the rain, we hadn't passed another car in ages. 

The first rule they drill into you when you enter the reserve is: stay in your vehicle no matter what! You’re surrounded by wild animals, predators who move quickly and quietly. You’re in their home, on their turf, where they live and hunt, and as soon as you’re out of the vehicle, you’re easy prey. 

But now, we had no choice. We now had to get out of the car.

The kids started getting nervous. "What if lions come?" I tried to reassure them but I was worried too. I just had the good sense not to say it out loud this time, having already learned my lesson about making predictions!

I got out and started hunting for the spare. I knew there had to be a jack and a tire somewhere. But I searched the entire car and came up empty-handed. 

My brother and nephew set off in their cars to look for help. We moved my four younger children into their vehicles, two in each, and then we did the only thing left to do: wait and pray.

About ten minutes later, a Jeep appeared on the horizon. Inside was an Afrikaans couple who introduced themselves as Mecayla and Divan and pulled over to see if we needed help. 

We explained what had happened, and without hesitation, Divan climbed underneath the vehicle, into the mud and pouring rain, to show me that the spare lives underneath the car on this particular model. For the next hour, two complete strangers worked to change the tire of a family they had never met, in the middle of a game reserve, while our children kept watch out the windows for lions, rhinos, and buffalo.

Then another couple stopped and introduced themselves. It turned out they were Jewish and my mother had taught the woman in school years earlier. Then a third couple pulled over. And then a man named Anthony.

All these strangers willing to put themselves in danger to help other strangers. I was blown away!

When I asked, Anthony told me it had been a very long time since he last put on tefillin. Before I could say another word, my son hopped out of the car, walked over, climbed into Anthony's car, and right there, in the middle of Pilanesberg Game Reserve, surrounded by lions and rain, my son helped another Jew put on tefillin for the first time in years.

You might think I was irritable or frustrated, stuck on the side of a muddy road for an hour and a half. But actually, I couldn't stop smiling.

Usually, when something goes wrong, we ask, "Why is this happening to me?" But the better question is, "What is this happening for?"

Why did we get a flat tire? Why twenty minutes after I said the words out loud? Why in the one spot with no phone service? Why did Mecayla and Divan drive by exactly ten minutes later? Why a Jewish couple who happened to know my mother? Why Anthony? Why did it even occur to me to ask him about tefillin?

We spend so much of our lives certain we've been stranded. Things don’t go to plan. A deal falls through, plans collapse, things go wrong. We feel like we've been abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

But really, we're exactly where we're supposed to be. It’s not always as obvious as my encounter, when it’s clear I got a flat tire because Anthony needed to put on tefillin, and Hashem needed a flat tire to arrange the meeting. But everything that happens in our lives is Divinely orchestrated and ordained. There’s always a purpose. We’re never stranded or abandoned. It might not be where we want to be, but it’s exactly where we’re meant to be. 

We changed the tire and made it back to the gate. The next morning, I saw we actually had three(!) flat tires, not just one. The others were slowly leaking air, so they didn’t flatten completely, allowing us to drive out of the park. One was enough to get us to stop and meet Anthony. The others held up enough to get us home safely!

Everything worked out, thank G-d. I gave Mecayla and Divan my Instagram because I never want to lose touch with the two strangers who became angels in the rain.

We thought a flat tire had ruined our afternoon, but it turns out the flat tire was the afternoon! How blessed we are!

P.S. My family has now officially banned me from wondering out loud about anything on our trips. Apparently, I'm a little too good at it.

Last week, I flew from Newark to Cape Town, South Africa, with two of my brothers and their families to celebrate two simchas: a wedding and a bar mitzvah.

Long flights always come with their challenges, and this one would be 15 hours(!), but we were well prepared and looked forward to a peaceful trip.

On a flight this long, it’s inevitable that we’ll have to do some of the daily prayers aboard. We’re always mindful that we are guests on the aircraft and try to be as unobtrusive as possible. We wait until meal service has ended, remain out of the crew's way as much as possible, and return to our seats quickly. We certainly never want to inconvenience anyone. 

We’ve done this on countless flights over many years without incident. This time, it was entirely different.

As soon as we started the evening prayers, one flight attendant (I’ll call him S) began shouting at us aggressively. “Move! Get out of the aisle!” He did this repeatedly, frightening our children and shocking us all.

Later that evening, my brother fell asleep and his legs drifted slightly in the aisle—something we’ve all done! But instead of waking him with a polite request, S. slapped his legs to wake him. 

A short time later, my 12-year-old niece was returning to her seat after using the restroom. As S. passed, he physically shoved her aside. Her mother witnessed the entire incident and was left stunned.

We lodged formal complaints with other members of the crew but nothing changed. 

The following morning, the same pattern repeated itself. Once again, S. shouted at members of our family as we prayed quietly. He then repeatedly ordered my nephew, who was standing quietly at his own seat in the middle of the Amidah, the most important prayer, to sit down.

At that point, I had had enough and asked him to stop yelling. Instead, he became even more agitated and aggressive, so I took out my phone and began recording the interaction, which only further angered him.

Thank G-d, we arrived in Cape Town safely and celebrated our family's joyous occasions together. And I sincerely hope we do not encounter S on our flight home!

But in mulling over this story, I wondered what it is that makes us so determined to gather in prayer even in places that aren’t welcoming or conducive. After all, we are fortunate to have shuls—dedicated prayer spaces—in so many places. Couldn’t we just pray before we left and again upon arrival? 

But in Judaism, prayer is not exclusively tied to a physical space. G-d is accessible and waiting to hear from us wherever we go—whether that’s a shul, an amusement park, a boat, or an airplane. 

Yes, we should pray quietly, respectfully, and without seeking special treatment. But simply skipping prayers is never an option. So next time you’re traveling, or out for the day without access to a shul, don’t be intimidated or embarrassed to stop and pray wherever you are. And it is my hope that the airline will adequately convey that to S, so the next group of Jews on his flight aren’t subjected to the same treatment we were. 

Oh and I really hope S. is not our flight attendant on our way back!

So much of the work we do caring for wounded soldiers at Belev Echad is only possible thanks to our many generous donors. Every contribution counts, no matter the size.

Recently, we reached out to a donor who sent us $100 after the October 7th massacre. We shared some of the work we’ve done and some of our current needs, and asked if she’d be willing to donate again. 

When she didn’t respond, we sent a follow-up email.

This time, she replied quickly. “Please take me off your list. Do not contact me again. I cannot in good conscience continue to donate with the way the situation has deteriorated over there. The Netanyahu govt and IDF leadership is completely incongruent with my Judaism.”

We explained that Belev Echad helps all wounded soldiers. We never ask if they are left-wing or right-wing. We even help Druze and Arab soldiers. We avoid politics and focus on healing.

Nevertheless, she remained firm in her position, insisting that she cannot support soldiers acting at the behest of the current Israeli government, which is sending them to commit acts of treason.

I wondered, then, why she had donated after October 7th.

“That was different,” she explained. “When Israel is fighting a truly noble war, and stops the wanton harassment and sanctioning of Palestinian living in the West Bank, then I will donate again. I donated just after 10/7 for that reason. However, what’s going on now is not about security it is genocide and ethnic cleansing and I cannot support soldiers who have taken part in this.”

With that in mind, we gave it one last-ditch effort. “Would you consider supporting a soldier who was injured on October 7th, who needs a laptop for her studies?”

And she agreed! “If you can assure me that no portion of the money will go elsewhere, then yes!” 

Voila! Success! 

I kept thinking about this interaction long after it was over. First of all We never ever give up! But what actually happened here? How did we go from “Take me off your list and never email me again” to “Yes, I’ll contribute towards a laptop”?!

And I realized it’s all about meeting people where they’re at. At first, it seemed like we were at complete odds with no common ground. But after going back and forth a few times, it became clear that we actually share a lot: a deep concern for the individual soldiers. And with that mutual care and brotherly love, we can work together to improve lives. 

Our world is more divided than ever. Politics, religion, business disagreements, etc. And it’s so easy—and tempting—to completely dismiss someone with whom we disagree. Unfortunately, cutting off relationships over small differences has become all too common. 

But what if we pushed ourselves to engage further until we find that common ground? We may always disagree on certain things, but in almost all cases, there is a lot more connectedness and agreement than those few sticking points. 

The same goes for Torah and mitzvot. If someone isn’t ready to keep Shabbat fully, we don’t write them off—we encourage them to observe for a few hours and then add more as they feel ready. If they can’t commit to keeping kosher at all times in all places, we encourage them to start with what does feel doable and build up from there.

It’s all about meeting people where they’re at. It’s one of the most powerful tools we have in our arsenal.

Let's continue loving each other because at the end of the day we are all brothers!

I had just gotten home and was finally sitting down when my phone buzzed. A rabbi in New Jersey had forwarded me a picture of an Israeli passport with the text: "Found this passport on the streets of Manhattan. Does anybody know this person?"

I looked at the picture and almost fell off my chair. I knew exactly who it was! It was Dvir!

I immediately called the rabbi who had forwarded me the message. "I know this guy!" I said.

He laughed and replied, "I don't actually have the passport. I just forwarded it from another WhatsApp group."

The passport had already taken on a life of its own, bouncing from one WhatsApp group to another, hoping that eventually someone would recognize the owner.

I tried to call Dvir to let him know. No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Maybe he saw my name and thought, "Uh-oh ... the rabbi is fundraising again!" and decided to let it go to voicemail. Who knows.

But I knew that Dvir flies from Israel to New York for business every week, almost always returning home on Thursday evening. And it was now Thursday afternoon, which meant he was probably already on his way to the airport.

Since I couldn’t get hold of Dvir, I called Jack, the CFO of his company.

"Jack," I said, "I think I know where Dvir's passport is."

"What do you mean? His passport is missing?"

"He probably doesn't even know yet," I replied. "But trust me, you need to go and get it."

I gave Jack the phone number of the man who had found the passport. What happened next was pure and visible Divine Providence: The finder of the passport and Jack were just blocks away from each other in Manhattan!

Within minutes, they met, Jack grabbed the passport and raced to Dvir before he reached the airport, and handed it to him.

Dvir boarded his flight to Israel completely unaware of how close he had come to disaster, thank G-d and thanks to a highly networked group of rabbis on Whatsapp!

Whew!

Later, I realized that there’s a deeper lesson here.

For several hours, Dvir had a significant, life-disrupting problem. He would’ve been stuck, unable to get back to Israel.

And yet, he wasn't anxious. He didn’t panic.

Because he didn’t even know! While he calmly continued toward the airport, other people were already solving the problem for him.

And while we may not have lost our passports, the same goes for the rest of us. How much time do we spend overwhelmed by our worries? We worry about our health, our children, our finances, our future, the security situation in Israel, the state of the Jewish people worldwide, natural disasters … the list is unending.

But just because we don't see the solution doesn't mean there isn't one. Long before we become aware of the problem, Hashem has already begun arranging the solution.

Our job isn't to carry the weight of the entire world on our shoulders; it’s simply to do our best, say another prayer, take another step forward—and trust that Hashem is already holding the passport we think we've lost.

Last Shabbat, I got into a massive argument at the holiest site on earth — right at the foot of the Western Wall.

Because of a quirk in the Jewish calendar, Jews outside of Israel have been one Torah portion behind Israel for weeks. In Israel, Shavuot is celebrated for one day; outside of Israel, for two. But because Shavuot this year fell on Friday and Shabbat, that one extra day threw the Torah reading schedule out of sync for weeks.

The long-awaited "catch-up" Shabbat finally arrived. Outside of Israel, we would read a double portion, Chukat–Balak, while in Israel they would read only Balak. By the next week, we’d be back in sync.

There was just one problem: I was in Jerusalem that Shabbat, and halachically, I was still on “American time” and needed to hear Chukat–Balak.

My father was with me, visiting from South Africa. He had a yahrzeit and wanted to receive Maftir, so we walked down to the Kotel, where there are dozens of minyanim praying side by side at any given time.

We joined a minyan, and when it came time for the Torah reading, my father offered to read.

When I added, "I'd like to hear Chukat–Balak," everything changed.

The Israelis looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "We already read Chukat last week!"

"I know, but we Americans haven’t heard it yet," I countered. "I'll read it fast!"

"Why should everyone have to sit through it again? Tircha d'tzibbur!" they argued — the halachic principle that you don't unnecessarily burden a congregation. "Just read Balak. And make it quick."

"But those of us from outside Israel still need to hear Chukat!" I pleaded. "What does it bother you? Come on!"

And so, for several minutes, right there at the foot of the Western Wall — surrounded by soldiers, tourists, yeshiva students, families, and visitors from around the world — a passionate halachic battle raged over the burning question: Should we read one Torah portion or two?

Ultimately, I gave in and we read only Balak.

You might think I walked away upset, but actually I couldn't stop smiling.

Think about everything that's happening in the world right now. We have enemies threatening us from every direction. Iran could attack at any moment. Antisemitism is exploding across the globe. Politicians rise to power on platforms of hostility toward our people. The Jewish people have no shortage of real, existential things to fight about.

And what did a group of Jews choose to argue about, at the holiest place on earth, at one of the most turbulent moments in modern history?

Whether to read one parshah or two on Shabbat morning.

How beautiful is that?!

The world defines people by what consumes them. What occupies their conversations. What keeps them awake at night. And the Jewish people certainly care about the great issues of our generation. But underneath it all, after thousands of years, what still ignites our deepest passion is Torah.

We argue because we care. Our disagreements aren't signs of weakness. They're signs of love. You don't fight passionately over something you're indifferent to. A nation that argues about Torah is a nation that is still invested and in love.

And that gave me tremendous hope.

Because as long as Jews are still arguing about Torah, Torah is still shaping the Jews.

Empires have risen and fallen. Our enemies have come and gone. Babylon, Rome, and a hundred others who swore we wouldn't survive are footnotes in history books — while we're still standing at that Wall, debating the same Torah our grandparents debated, and their grandparents before them.

And that's the greatest miracle of all.

P.S. I still think we should have read Chukat!

On Wednesday morning, I opened the door to get out of my Uber and immediately closed it because a car was driving by. Annoyed, the other driver rolled down his window, and screamed: "Only the Jews act this way!"

For a moment, I felt the sting of an age-old hatred that has followed our people for thousands of years.

Then my mind returned to the night before, Tuesday night, in Israel, at our Belev Echad House.

Ambulances pulled up outside. Shuttles arrived from the hospital. Soldiers were helped out of wheelchairs, some needing help just to walk through the door.

Within an hour, close to one hundred wounded IDF soldiers filled the room, all injured fighting in Lebanon these past months.

Some had lost arms. Some had lost legs. Some had lost their eyesight. Some carried brain injuries no one could see.

This is what Jew hatred does. 

And yet the room wasn't heavy with grief. It was full of life.

Music. Laughter. Raffles. Friends teasing each other like nothing had ever happened to them. Smiles that had clearly fought through unbearable pain just to reach the surface.

There, with each other, for a few hours, they weren't patients or casualties. They were family.

No one stared. No one pitied. No one needed to explain anything,  because everyone in that room already understood.

Watching them, I understood something too: we have every reason to break. And somehow, we keep choosing to build. To smile. To take care of one another.

The man who screamed at me yesterday? Maybe he had a bad day. Or maybe he truly hates Jews. Who knows?

But I wish he could have seen what I saw the night before: a room full of young people who gave everything so that others could live in safety. Young men and women who do not think of themselves, but fight for freedom, for Israel, for Jews everywhere, and for all humanity! 

We have never been defined by those who hate us. And our answer to darkness has never been revenge. It has always been the Torah and its mitzvot!

Despite the pain, we dance. Despite the wounds, we laugh. Despite the hatred, we love.

We have just entered three weeks of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple. This period commemorates many tragedies in our history and many times others sought to destroy us. But we are still here, doing mitzvot and studying Torah. 

Despite every attempt to break us — the Jewish people will prevail. Am Yisrael Chai!

Walking back to my desk after a meeting this week, I noticed that my computer screen was blue and displaying the message: “Working on updates — 90% complete. Don't turn off your PC. This will take a while.”

It was a little unexpected, but not alarming. I took a picture and sent it to our tech person just to make sure, and he quickly sent back a reassuring text: “Looks normal, probably just a system update.”

Fair enough.

I sat down to wait. 

Then I noticed something highly alarming! The cursor was very clearly moving across the screen on its own.

My stomach dropped.

I grabbed my phone, recorded a video, and sent it off. Within seconds, my tech guy called me, his tone completely changed. “Something is very wrong! I’m logging in to your computer right now.” 

He connected remotely, watched for a few moments, and then shouted: “Someone is inside your computer!” 

This was not a virus or trojan. Somewhere in the world, a human hacker was sitting behind a keyboard, navigating my computer in real time while I sat just a few feet away.

My tech person was able to see everything the hacker was doing. He was opening files, accessing accounts, and then he began initiating a wire transfer for tens of thousands of dollars. 

“Turn off the computer! Now!” he yelled. 

I tried, but nothing happened. The hacker had locked me out of my own machine.

“Pull the plug!”

So I literally yanked the power cord out of the wall.

But it was too late.

In those final seconds before the screen went dark, the transfer had already gone through.

Within minutes I was on the phone with the bank, reporting wire fraud and praying the funds could be recovered.

What followed was a whirlwind of phone calls, emergency meetings, and paperwork. 

As Belev Echad has grown, we've become a larger target, and so we brought in cybersecurity professionals to completely rebuild and secure our network.

Later that day, a technician arrived and began investigating.

What he discovered was chilling.

The hacker had installed a hidden screen-sharing program that gave him complete access to my computer. Not only could he see everything, he could control everything.

Even more disturbing, he’d preemptively logged into my email account and blocked all emails, alerts, and notifications from my bank. 

So, as money moved out of accounts, I was oblivious. 

Then came the realization that sent a chill down my spine: For who knows how long, he had been watching me through my own camera. A stranger had a front-row seat to my office, my work, and my daily life!

As I came to terms with that, I realized that there’s a powerful lesson here. We all act differently when we know someone is watching, but really, the camera is always on. Hashem watches everything we do and say - every decision we make and every conversation we have. Because we don’t see him, it’s easy to forget he’s watching. But we should be going through our day and living our lives as if we’re always on display. 

The hacker taught me another lesson, too. He was patient and methodical. Instead of immediately stealing money, he took the time to set things up properly, silencing alerts, and slowly chipping away at our safeguards. 

The same thing can happen spiritually. Hashem constantly sends us alerts. An invitation to a minyan, a reminder to put on tefillin, an inspiring Torah class, an opportunity to help another Jew. 

But life is noisy. Distractions, excuses, and habits can filter out those alerts before we even notice them.

So be careful before you get into the habit of brushing off minyan or tefillin or the opportunity to do tzedakah. Those alerts are there for a reason - don’t miss out because you weren’t paying attention.

A few days ago, my wife sent out one of her regular emails; a standard update about the work we do.

A woman, I’ll call her Sarah, wrote back quickly: “Please stop emailing me. You and your scammer husband. Unsubscribe!”

I was confused. This wasn’t a stranger. I knew Sarah. We both did. We had helped her along on her Jewish journey a few years prior. She came to my Torah classes. She came to our shul. She came to our home for Shabbat. 

She had many questions and I answered them all with genuine patience, respect, and care. 

Then, about a year and a half ago, she disappeared.

As far as I’m aware, nothing happened to alienate her. We had no conversation or disagreement. She simply stopped coming, as she is entitled to do!

But now, out of the blue, she was responding angrily to us and calling me a scammer! I couldn’t get the words out of my head. 

A scammer? I never sold her anything, solicited a donation, or took a penny from her. So what exactly was the scam?

I puzzled over it for a while, and then I realized that wasn’t really the point. The point is that people don’t always see us as we see ourselves, and don’t always experience interactions the way we do. Sometimes they write entire stories about us in their minds. 

You can give someone your time, your energy, your heart, your hospitality, your friendship, but years later they may remember the relationship completely differently than you do.

And that's extremely painful.

This morning, I stood at the Ohel of the Lubavitcher Rebbe alongside tens of thousands of Jews marking the Rebbe's 32nd yahrtzeit.

What was I thinking of as I waited in line for my turn to pray and say a few words at the graveside? I was thinking about Sarah.

If there is one lesson the Rebbe taught the world, it is this: Love another Jew.

Not because they agree with you, appreciate you, or speak kindly about you. But simply because they are a Jew.

The Rebbe's love wasn't conditional and ours shouldn’t be either. 

The Rebbe taught us to look past the behavior and see the soul, the Divine spark. Sometimes it’s hidden behind frustration and anger, or even insults, but it’s there. 

So, strange as it may sound, I have no anger toward Sarah. 

Of course, I will honor her request and remove her from our mailing list. That's the easy part.

The harder task is the one the Rebbe taught us: to continue loving someone even after they have hurt or misunderstood you. To see their goodness even when they don’t see yours. To look at someone who has judged us unfairly and still say (and truly mean), “I want only good things for you.”

I don't know what happened in Sarah's life that made her stop coming, nor do I know what has colored her perceptions of me. And I may never know. 

But I do know that if she called tomorrow and needed help, I would help her. And if she showed up at my door for Shabbat, there would be a seat waiting for her.

But because that's what the Rebbe taught us.

A few weeks ago, someone named Farhad Mohammadi signed up for our email list.

Although our website is public and anyone can sign up, one of our staff members became concerned when she saw the name. 

Given everything happening in the world today, her imagination went into overdrive: Is a spy trying to spy on us? Maybe a terrorist is trying to learn the layout of our center and feeding Iran information? 

A few days later, something happened that raised even more concern.

The same Farhad Mohammadi signed up for one of our Torah classes.

Now the alarms really started going off. “Rabbi, this is the same Iranian guy. We should probably have extra security tonight. Who knows what could happen?” 

So I did what anyone would do.

I Googled him, but no luck. It’s quite a common name apparently!

So that night, I walked into the Torah class curious—and definitely a little concerned—to see who would show up. 

And within moments, all my assumptions and preconceived notions evaporated. 

Yes, he was Iranian. Very Iranian. But he was also Jewish. 

And suddenly, I realized our mistake: We saw he was Iranian and that’s all we saw. We stopped too soon.

Because, yes, his family is Iranian, and his background and culture are Iranian. But he is also a warm, sincere, thoughtful Jew, seeking connection and hungry for Torah study. 

Unfortunately, that’s what the world teaches us. To look at the exterior. To focus on names, race, color, nationality. 

The Torah, on the other hand, teaches us to look at souls. Chassidus teaches that every Jew possesses a Divine soul—a chelek Eloka mima'al mamash, an actual spark of G-dliness.

And while meeting Farhad brought this lesson to the fore, it applies to all of us. Everyone we meet has layers. A name, accent, profession, political leaning. Most of us never look beyond the outer layers. 

We get so caught up in who is right-leaning and who is left-leaning politically, who is pleasant and who is grumpy, who is wealthy and who is poor. But Chassidus teaches us to keep digging. Look deeper, further, peel back the layers and uncover the core. 

Because at the core, every Jew is the apple of Hashem’s eye—created in His image and more loved than anything else in the world. 

So let’s challenge ourselves to stop defining people by the first thing we notice about them and train ourselves to see what G-d sees. 

Because if you look only at the surface, you may see an Iranian. But if you look deeply enough, you will discover a warm Jew.

Last week I attended the protests against Mayor Mamdani at Gracie Mansion. I brought my tefillin because when Jews gather, no matter the occasion and regardless of their political leanings, there’s an opportunity for souls to connect and mitzvot to be done.

To get into the demonstration, I had to pass through security. The line was long and chaotic, so I set up shop and started putting on tefillin with anyone who stopped and expressed interest.

Nearby, members of Neturei Karta and other groups were counter-protesting loudly - anti-Israel and pro-Mamdani. Security was tight, emotions were running high, and police were everywhere, making sure things didn’t get out of control.

When it was my turn to pass through security, the guard looked at me carefully, taking in my obviously chassidic look: black hat, jacket, beard, tefillin bag.

He was puzzled, unsure whether or not to let me through.

He pointed toward the Neturei Karta and asked, “Are you with them? Or are you here for the demonstration?”

My mouth hung open and I realized that to him, we all look the same. He doesn’t know the difference between Chabad and Neturei Karta. He doesn’t know that my father and brother both served in the Israeli army. He doesn’t know that I’ve spent much of my life advocating for Israel and that I am the founder of Belev Echad, an organization that exists solely to support wounded IDF soldiers!

To him, I am simply a chassidic Jew in a black hat who could belong on either side of the conflict.

Before I could answer, his boss - who knows me from events we’ve organized for Belev Echad - walked over and said, “Oh, this rabbi is fine. Let him in.”

I proceeded to the demonstration, but the whole interaction stayed on my mind for the rest of the week.

We spend so much energy defining ourselves by what separates us from one another.

This Jew is more observant; that Jew is less so.

This Jew is left-wing; that Jew is right-wing.

This Jew wears a wig; that Jew wears a scarf.

This Jew wears a black hat; that Jew wears a baseball cap.

But the rest of the world doesn't distinguish. Certainly our enemies don’t!

And while that can be a frightening thought, it can also be comforting. It means that a Jew is a Jew is a Jew. The labels are superficial; underneath we have a shared soul, shared destiny, shared purpose. We all stood at Mount Sinai together, every single Jewish soul that has ever or will ever exist, united “like one individual with a single heart.”

It’s so easy to get bogged down by the external minutiae and forget that at our core, we are a single unit. I’m grateful to that security guard who accidentally gave me a vital reminder!

As I walked away from that checkpoint, carrying my tefillin, I thought to myself: Maybe the greatest protest we can stage today is against Jewish division.

We can disagree, debate, argue passionately, and serve G-d differently. But we should never forget that before anything else, we are family, and the best answer we can give when asked, “Which side are you on?” is “I’m on the side of the Jewish people.”

Two weeks ago, I woke up, opened my eyes, and felt like the entire room was spinning. The ceiling was moving, the floor was shifting, and the walls felt like they were collapsing around me.

I closed my eyes and opened them again, but the spinning continued. Nausea flooded through me.

 I woke my wife. “Shevy,” I whispered. “The room is spinning.”

I assumed it would pass quickly. Maybe I was dehydrated or perhaps I’d gotten up too quickly. I lay back down and waited for it to stop.

It only got worse.

For the next two weeks, I was plagued by dizziness. I could hardly walk or get out of bed. Even standing felt impossible. I davened lying down and put on tefillin in bed.

I never thought about how much of my day-to-day life depends on balance until that balance completely evaporated, leaving me unable to function in any way, shape, or form.

Eventually, an ENT doctor diagnosed me with vertigo—a tiny disturbance in the inner ear that can wreak havoc on one’s world.

I had plenty of time to think as I lay in bed all those long days, and I kept coming back to what the Baal Shem Tov teaches: everything we experience and observe in life provides a spiritual lesson for us to ponder and absorb.

So I began to wonder … what if the real vertigo isn't in the ear?

We live in a generation where people worship fame, wealth, status, power, and influence. We admire people simply because they are rich and famous. Meanwhile, the truly admirable people go unnoticed.

The mother who makes sure she raises her children with love and patience even though she’s overworked and exhausted gets zero applause. The simple Jew who gets up early every morning to go to shul before work does so without fanfare. Those who manage to remain kind despite immense struggles go without acknowledgement.

These people are all around us and we barely see them.

But Heaven does.

The Talmud tells a story of a rabbi’s son who experienced clinical death but was revived. When he awoke, his father asked, “What did you see?”

“I saw an upside-down world,” the son answered. “Those who were honored here were insignificant there, and those who were ignored here—they were exalted.”

“My son, you did not see an upside-down world,” the father explained. “You saw the world clearly, as it really is.”

I pondered this as I lay in my bed, the world spinning around me: What we consider reality is actually the distortion. We are the dizzy ones. Our generation has lost its spiritual equilibrium. We’ve become so intoxicated by money, image, ego, and public approval that we no longer know what truly matters.

But Torah stays steady and reminds us what is real. Shabbat. Kosher. Tefillin. Davening. Studying Torah. Honesty. Integrity. Kindness. Faith.

Lying there in bed, day after day, I felt as if G-d was whispering something to me:

“The world around you is dizzy. Don’t let yourself become dizzy with it.”