English Blog

My Dear Sara

Thursday, January 22, 2026 - 4:04 PM

My Dear Sara,

I remember the moment you were born as if it were yesterday. In the midst of a snowstorm, exactly twelve years ago, you were simply a gift from G-d—a sacred gift placed into our arms, and planted into our hearts forever. From that first breath, your mother and I have been in awe, watching you grow and shine.

Witnessing your life unfold has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

As I look at you, wondering where my baby went, I feel the weight and wonder of time—how it moves, transforms, shapes.

And this week, something incredible happened: In one breathtaking moment, you crossed a threshold. One day you were our little girl, and the next, you stood before us as a young woman. A bat mitzvah. An adult. Responsible, capable, and accountable.

Something sacred has shifted within you. Your choices are now your own; your values are now yours to formulate and carry.

It’s a big responsibility, but it is not a burden. In fact, it is an honor.

You are now a woman, connected via an unbroken chain to thousands of women before you—your mother, aunts, sisters, grandmothers—stretching all the way back to our mothers: Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah. Women of faith and courage, sacrifice and strength. And now, you stand among them. You carry their strength. Their wisdom. Their prayers. Their dreams.

And I know with absolute certainty that you will carry them forward not just with responsibility, but with joy. You have incredible talent and unique gifts given to you by G-d to make this world a better place, to build a home for G-d, and I know you will succeed!

At its core, a bat mitzvah is not a party or a dress or a speech.

It is a handoff.

A holy transfer of responsibility from parent to child; from guiding every step to trusting her steps.

There will be choices ahead, some easy, some hard, and they will be yours. And while I will always be here to guide you, to protect you, to love you, and to stand beside you, I trust you to make the right decisions.

I trust your heart.

I trust your soul.

I trust the woman you are becoming.

May you walk this path with courage and compassion, with faith and kindness, with light and confidence. May your life continue to be a blessing—to yourself, to your family, to your people, and to this world.

With all my love, always,

Your father

The World Asks: What Will Happen Next? A Jew Asks: What Will I Do Next?

Thursday, January 15, 2026 - 3:01 PM

It feels like the whole world has been holding its breath this week.

Will the United States and Israel attack Iran? Will they not? Is it happening tonight, tomorrow, or not at all?

I joined an Israeli WhatsApp group with thousands of people on it—and I need to leave, fast. Every minute brings another “update”: Americans are leaving their base in Qatar. Israel is ready. Iran has closed its airspace. Trump is putting them to sleep—but really, he’s attacking.

The flurry of speculation is relentless.

The reality is, no one knows exactly what’s going on in Iran right now. What began with brave protesters standing up to one of the most brutal regimes on earth quickly spurred a violent crackdown and internet blackouts. One thing, however, is heartbreakingly clear: people are being killed.

And the world is watching, nervously, helplessly, to see what will happen next.

Israelis, meanwhile, do what Israelis have always done in impossible moments: Memes. Jokes. Sarcasm. Dark humor. Not because they aren’t afraid, but because this is how they’ve learned to cope with fear and uncertainty.

Emergency services are on standby, hospitals are preparing for the worst, flights are canceled … uncanceled … then canceled again.

And the headlines spin faster than we can keep up.

Trump decides to attack. Then not to. Then yes. Then no.

With so much uncertainty, we have to turn to the one thing we know to be true at all times and in all places:

Hashem is in control.
Not Iran.
Not America.
Not presidents, generals, or armies.
And certainly not us.

Any control we feel is merely an illusion. And that means that the chaos and fear gripping much of the world right now is actually just the collapse of the illusion of control.

The only thing that is certain is Hashem.

And when you truly believe that—when you internalize it—you realize something liberating: panic is optional.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore reality or minimize the danger. It means that while the world focuses on “What will happen next?” we ask a different question: “What will I do next?”

And the answer to that is the same as it’s always been: Lay tefillin. Study Torah. Join a daily minyan. Keep Shabbat. Eat kosher. Light Shabbat candles. More kindness. More courage. More faith.

We do what Jews have always done in moments like this. Bring more light into the world. More kindness. More courage. More faith.

When the world feels dark, our job isn’t to doomscroll and predict what will happen, but simply to illuminate the darkness.

So take a breath, sit back, and trust Hashem. Because amid all the uncertainty, there is one thing we feel confident about: the current turmoil is surely a sign of the imminent coming of Moshiach! May it happen speedily.

My Walk In The Arab Shuk

Thursday, January 8, 2026 - 2:11 PM

I flew to Israel this past week for Belev Echad. From the moment I landed until the moment I left, it was meeting after meeting after meeting. Exhausting, intense, but ultimately successful, thank G-d, and worth every ounce of effort.

One afternoon, I found myself in Jerusalem with just enough time to pray Mincha at the Kotel.

To get there, I walked through the Arab shuk.

The shuk was crowded and alive—vendors hawking their wares, merchandise spilling into the narrow walkways, noise pressing in from every side. Normally, when I walk through the shuk on my way to the Kotel, it’s Friday night, when the shuk is closed and filled with other Jews heading to the Kotel. Or I go early in the morning, before it even opens.

But this time, it was mid-afternoon. I could’ve gone the longer way, but I was short on time and chose the shortest route.

As I walked, I began to feel on edge. My fists clenched, my eyes and ears were on high alert, keeping track of every person and every movement in front and behind me.

It wasn’t conscious; it was instinctive.

Would a terrorist jump out at any moment and stab me? All I could think about was the danger.

And it wasn’t paranoia. There have been attacks in the Arab shuk. There are terrorists. I even walked past a plaque for my fellow South African Eli Kay, who was murdered there by a terrorist four years ago.

I was walking with Raz, our Belev Echad director in Israel, who was armed. I asked him to keep his weapon visible and accessible.

But then I saw something that stopped me in my tracks.

Right in front of me, children were walking, playing, laughing. Jewish kids. Israeli kids. With no hovering parents in sight. Young girls walking calmly, confidently, on their own. Unbothered and unafraid.

We were walking in the same place, in the same danger, but we were having entirely different experiences.

And then it dawned on me: This is how you walk when you know the land belongs to you. With quiet confidence and ownership.

They weren’t fearless because there was no danger; they were fearless because fear does not define them.

This land does not belong to us because we carry stronger weapons or shout the loudest. It belongs to us because it is ours—historically, spiritually, eternally.

Israel belongs to us—every inch of it. And when you walk with that truth, fear loses its grip.

Not because the threats disappear, but because your identity is stronger than the intimidation.

It’s that identity that we need to strengthen. When we are proud and openly Jewish, not scared to show our identity to those who wish to harm us, that is when we become strong and confident, and the fear dissipates like a wisp of cloud.