English Blog

My friend Jacob is someone I know well. He is part of our community and we regularly touch base about different things.

I started to notice, however, that although Jacob is warm and friendly whenever I see him in person, when I text him he doesn’t respond, and when I WhatsApp him, there is only one check mark, indicating he doesn’t even see my messages and perhaps even blocked me!

But then, when he needs something from me, the strangest thing happens—he picks up the phone and calls or texts me! And I answer. But the other way around yields zero response.

I noticed and found it strange, but I didn’t dwell on it too much since I’m usually busy with a million things.

This week, I tried to call him again, and, as usual, it went to voicemail. When I listened to the message, however, I was surprised to hear a woman’s voice saying, “You have reached Jeanetta, please leave a message …” Bizarre!

I double-checked to make sure I had dialed Jacob, and I had.

Something was clearly amiss, so I did a deep dive and checked the number I had saved. It turned out, I had Jacob saved as two separate entries. One number was correct, the other was one digit off.

After some detangling, it became clear that when Jacob was the one reaching out to me, his number came up correctly. But each time I tried to text or call him, I was using the wrong entry, so of course he never responded. And at some point, Jeanetta got sick of me and must have blocked me on WhatsApp.

With that cleared up, I can now happily say: Jacob is no longer ghosting me!

But I learned an important lesson from the mix-up.

In life, it’s all too easy—natural, even—to view things from our perspective and be certain we are 100 percent right. In this case, I was convinced that I was in the right and that Jacob was in the wrong, but I was completely oblivious to the truth that I was, in fact, at fault. I was, essentially, ghosting myself!

We often make assumptions about others. We think they’re angry with us, ignoring us, looking down at us. But rarely is that the case. Often they’re simply busy, or distracted, or there has been some sort of miscommunication. Instead of jumping to judgment (like I did!), let’s try to be more mindful of giving the benefit of the doubt—with our friends, our spouses, children, parents, coworkers and even ourselves. Our relationships will be all the better for it.

This week, Israel has been plunged into unimaginable grief. Family after family has had their loved ones returned from the hell of Gaza, their lives forever shattered. 

I wept together with Yarden Bibas as he delivered a heart-wrenching eulogy for his beloved Shiri, Kfir, and Ariel, his words cutting deep into my soul.

I held my breath as we waited for the return of Ohad Yahalomi, who was murdered in captivity, returned in a coffin. Returned to his family—his 12-year-old son Eitan who was also taken but released after 52 agonizing days, and his wife and two daughters who were abducted on October 7th but miraculously escaped when their captor fell off his bike en route to Gaza. 

I cried for Tzachi Idan, who witnessed the brutal murder of his 18-year-old daughter while Hamas terrorists held him and his wife hostage inside their home for hours, live-streaming the ordeal on his wife’s Facebook—a cruel and twisted act that defies comprehension. Alas, he was returned in a coffin.

Shlomo Mansour, who survived the Farhud pogrom in Iraq as a child, was brutally murdered by Hamas terrorists during his abduction on October 7th. Itzik Elgarat was captured alive, only to be murdered in captivity.

The anguish is suffocating, the grief unbearable. 

Yet, it's precisely this pain that reveals our deepest strength. We feel the weight of each other's suffering because we care profoundly. We may never have met, but we are nevertheless family.

When one Jew is in pain, we all feel their pain. It's a unique quality that does not exist anywhere else. So a Jew in Miami, London, Paris, Cape Town or Sidney feels the pain of every single hostage and their families. Which other nation can say that all 16 million members cry so deeply for each other's pain?

We are like the hardy olive, which produces its best product—oil—when squeezed. Our love and connection comes to the forefront in times like these. 

This is why we will emerge victorious in this war. Why we are invincible. Our capacity to feel, to empathize, and to support one another is the armor that shields us from forces of hate and destruction.

In the face of unimaginable tragedy, we find solace in our unity, our resilience, and our unwavering commitment to one another. We will continue to stand together, to mourn together, and to rebuild together. For we are a people who refuse to let the forces of evil extinguish our light.

And it's this boundless love that will hurry us through the end of this current dark exile and bring us to the light, to Redemption, to Moshiach.

Our hearts are shattered today as we mourn the brutal slaying of Shiri Bibas and her toddlers, Ariel and Kfir, as well as Oded Lifshitz. For 500 days we held out hope. We thought about them, cried for them, begged and pleaded for their return, prayed for their safety, and hoped beyond hope they would be returned to us alive and whole. Now, that hope has been decimated. Today the world mourns. 

Now we are broken. Broken and outraged. How are there monsters roaming this earth that would willingly murder a mother and her babies? How can they proudly parade their coffins through cheering crowds and the world watches silently? How can our hostages languish in the hellish Gaza tunnels for a year and a half and the world goes on?

The Bibas family became the symbol of Hamas terror. The faces we all knew and recognized. There is nothing more pure and innocent than a child. And those two red-headed little boys, and their terrified mother clinging to them desperately, are images that have haunted us for 500 days. 

To kidnap, torture, and hold hostage such precious, innocent mothers and babies who never harmed anyone is the most evil thing in the universe. 

The contrast between the barbarism of Hamas and the Gazans compared to Israel and Jews could not be more clear. On one side, you have evil monsters, on the other hand, you have the Bibas family who just wanted to live in peace. 

Make no mistake, Hamas is the Amalek of our generation.

We are about to enter the Jewish month of Adar when we celebrate Purim and read the megillah, telling the story of the holiday and the miracle that saved our nation. The villain of the Purim story is Haman, who set out to completely wipe out the Jewish nation. In a single day, he wanted to kill every Jewish man, woman, and child—a plan even Hitler didn’t imagine possible. But Haman’s power was unrestrained. He had the ability to approve and sign any decree on behalf of the king, and so he put forth his murderous plot. 

But Mordechai and Esther came up with a plan, and Mordechai encouraged the entire Jewish nation—especially the children—to come out in droves and pray to G-d. With Esther’s bravery and the nation’s prayers, G-d intervened and overturned the plot, leaving us with one of the most joyous holidays on the Jewish calendar—Purim. 

Haman was an Amalekite. And Hamas, and anyone who supports them, is too. 

I got a message today from someone in our community that reflects how we are all feeling: “How can I carry on with my life? I am watching the coffins of the Bibas family being transported into Israel and my heart is shattered. I am in tears. How could there be such cruelty in this world? I want to cancel all my plans for the next few weeks and just sit home and cry.”

Who among us is not feeling this way? So what do we do? How can we go on? 

First, we mourn. We cry. We support one another. We take on a mitzvah in memory of Oded Lifshitz and Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas. 

Then, we get up and continue our lives. We pledge to prioritize our children. To teach them Torah, tell them Jewish stories, bring them to shul. We hold them up to kiss the mezuzah and give them a coin to put into a tzedakah box. We sing Modeh Ani with them when they wake up and Shema before they go to sleep. We play with them, hold them, hug them, kiss them, and do it all with Kfir and Ariel in mind. We channel the love Shiri had for her boys, and her fierce determination to keep them safe and protect them until the very end. 

And we wait for the day when we can have our own Purim, when we will celebrate the fall of Hamas and the safety of our people. 

I flew to Johannesburg this past week—a 16-hour flight that tested my endurance in every way. I absolutely detest flying. I find being confined to a finite space for such a long period of time truly challenging. Plus the flight was delayed two hours in both directions this time!

But I was highly motivated by my destination—my niece’s wedding and a reunion with my parents and all nine of my siblings. A rarity indeed! In the last decade, we’ve only managed to come together like this twice.

Every step I took, every corner I turned, brought back a flood of memories. The streets, the shul, the houses—so much nostalgia at every turn. Being back, all together, in the city of our childhood, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of our upbringing … it made that 16-hour flight all worth it!

Johannesburg, with its vibrant energy and warm community, holds a special place in my heart. It’s the only place in the world other than Israel that has a special blessing from the Lubavitcher Rebbe that things will be good there until Moshiach arrives! The Chabad community, in particular, is thriving—a testament to the power of faith and resilience.

The whole trip was an opportunity for my siblings and me to reconnect on a deep level. We went out to eat, had Shabbat dinner together, danced the night away at the wedding, spent time with our parents, and visited childhood landmarks. We stayed up late into the night, sharing stories, laughing, crying, fighting, and reminiscing about old times …

We’re all grown up now, with separate lives, families, challenges, joys, and struggles. We all have our unique talents and skills, and we try to utilize them to the best of our abilities.

My oldest brother is a hand surgeon in Israel, highly devoted to his patients. My youngest brother is a Chabad rabbi in Houston, Texas. My sisters all live in South Africa and my other brothers live in Palm Beach, Florida and in Flatbush.

But despite our divergent paths, our individual struggles, and our unique experiences, when we’re together, we find common ground. After all, we all come from the same parents, we were all raised in the same house, and as kids we all played, fought, and we grew up together. And when we gather around like this for a family reunion, we realize that we all share the same blood. So we bond over our shared heritage, our Jewish roots, and our family ties.

This experience parallels the story of our People. We are a diverse and complex nation, comprising 16 million individuals with varying opinions, backgrounds, and practices. We span the spectrum from right-wing to left-wing, Reform to Orthodox, and everything in between. Some attend synagogue regularly and others do not. Some observe Shabbat, others do not. Yet, despite our differences, we are all part of the same family.

As recorded in this week's parshah, we are all descendants of a common ancestor, united by our shared experience at Mount Sinai. We received the Torah together, as one people, and we are still bound by that sacred covenant. We read how G-d descended upon the mountain, where we stood, united, like brothers and sisters, willing and eager to accept Him as our ruler.

That unity remains our strongest weapon. So let us pray and make every effort to remain united, because only then will we merit the Final Redemption and the ultimate reunion with our people, with Moshiach, and with our Holy Temple.

Monday morning started like any other, but at 5am my peaceful morning routine was disrupted by a shocking discovery. I opened my email inbox to find hundreds of thousands of emails pouring in—and I mean pouring! The notifications kept coming, overwhelming my phone, like a never-ending tidal wave.

It quickly became clear that our organization was under cyber attack. Our website (www.belevechad.nyc) had been targeted, and the attackers were exploiting our email subscription feature. Every time someone subscribes to our email list, we receive a notification, but in this case, the subscriptions were coming in by the thousands–per minute!

I was stuck. I couldn’t work, because I needed to access my emails which were buried under a constant flood of subscription notifications, and our IT department was sound asleep at 5am, so there was nobody to talk to on our end.

All I could do was watch as my inbox grew fuller and fuller and fuller.

At 7am, our IT team sprang into action, but it took time to pinpoint the source of the attack. When the flow was finally stemmed, it took me an hour just to delete all the hundreds of thousands of emails.

Eventually, we traced the IP address to Libya. It was a coordinated effort, and the attackers were relentless. The reason behind the attack? Our organization's support for the brave men and women of the IDF. 

We are proud to fully support the most moral and just army in the world—the ones who protect our freedom and our country. Apparently, this makes us a “bad organization” in the eyes of the attackers.

The experience was daunting, but we refused to back down. Our IT team worked tirelessly to block the attackers and restore our website to normal. It took a full day, but we emerged stronger and more determined than ever, and we fortified our system with stricter measures to prevent a repeat attack.  

The Baal Shem Tov taught that everything we encounter or experience contains a lesson for our service of G-d. But what could possibly be the lesson from waking up at 5am to a flood of nonsense messages in a coordinated attack by people wanting to slow down our good work?!

The hackers were trying to slow us down, so our response needs to be an acceleration. More positivity, more beauty, more encouragement, joy, peace, and gratitude. And, of course, more mitzvot. 

So go out today and invite someone to your Shabbat dinner. Message your favorite rabbi and let him know you’ll be in shul on Shabbat morning. Email a wounded soldier letting them know how much we love and appreciate them. Put on tefillin, take a selfie, and post it to your family or friend chat—you might inspire others to join you!

These are the kinds of messages we should be sending to counter all the nonsense and hatred in the world. You’ll not only be counteracting the spam, but creating a ripple effect of positivity that can inspire and uplift others, helping us reach the ultimate and final redemption and the coming of Moshiach.

The entire Jewish world is celebrating, seeing Arbel Yehoud, Gadi Mozes, Agam Berger, and five Thai hostages being released this week.

Together, we bit our nails and held our breath, horrified at the mobs surging around them. Together, we cried tears of relief as they made it back onto Israeli soil. And together we laughed and cried and hugged each other as they ran into their loved ones’ arms, reunited after 482 endless days.

Their joy is our joy. Their tears are our tears. Jews all over the world—even those who have never been to Israel—are one people with one heart. We hurt for one another in times of pain; we celebrate for one another in times of joy. Never in recent history have we been more connected than over the past year and a half.

Watching the footage out of Gaza today, the contrast couldn’t be any clearer. Along with the masked and heavily armed terrorists, mobs of blood-thirsty citizens swarmed the hand-off, driving home just how much danger the hostages were in every moment they spent in that hell hole.

We cannot imagine the hell they’ve been through, held underground, malnourished, abused by Hamas monsters in the most deplorable ways. Our hearts overflow at their release, but we know they have a long, long road ahead of them.

None of us can come close to understanding the tremendous fear and pain they’ve been through, but perhaps in some small way we can see a parallel in the soul’s trajectory through this world.

Every day, right before we say the Shema, we beseech, “Our merciful Father, please have mercy upon us, light up our eyes with your Torah.” What do we mean?

You see, before we are born into this world, our soul lives in heaven, enjoying divine bliss. A lifetime of pleasure in this world is nothing compared to even a single second of pleasure that our souls enjoy in heaven, we are told.

And then, one day, G-d comes to our soul and tells it it's time to descend into this world where it will inhabit a physical body. The soul cries and begs not to go, but G-d says, “You have no choice; that is what’s needed.”

The soul then spends the next 120 years trapped in a physical body. For the soul, it’s a dark and bitter exile. It years to return home, back to its Father in Heaven. Every day in this world is a day of captivity for the soul.

But the good news is, we can play a part in its release.

What the soul years for more than anything else is to cleave to G-d. So every time we do a mitzvah, we are contributing to its redemption. Every time we put on tefillin, give tzedakah, say a blessing, opt for a kosher meal, show kindness, pray, go to shul, or do any other mitzvah, we are helping redeem our hostage—the soul.

And so we pray daily: Almighty G-d, have mercy upon our souls! We have become so accustomed to this physical world we inhabit that we no longer realize how dark it is. Have mercy upon our souls and light up our eyes with your Torah.

As we watch the all-encompassing joy of the families of the hostages who are finally reunited, we can know that that is the joy we will all feel with the coming of Moshiach.

No words can accurately portray the absolute joy we all feel seeing our hostages finally released after 471 days in captivity.

After holding our collective breath to see if the transfer would actually pan out, the relief and exhilaration is simply indescribable.

Which pen can capture the feeling of seeing Emily and her mother hugging? How can we ever describe the emotions of Romi screaming with tears of joy in her mom’s arms? Which words can properly encapsulate Doron’s tears as she fell into her mother’s embrace?

We’ve never met these women, but we’re obsessed with every detail. This is when our nation shines. It doesn't matter if you’re right wing or left wing or centrist—we’re all family. We all care deeply for one another. We want to devour every detail. We want to know everything we can about our hostages because, truly, they are our brothers and sisters.

From all over the globe—Thailand, Tel Aviv, Japan, Johannesburg, Australia—we share the worry and the joy. Their pain is our pain; their joy is our joy. We are “Am echad b’lev echad,” one nation with one heart. It’s our secret weapon, our super strength. It’s what makes us invincible.

Despite our externalities, we are one deeply connected people.

I received a text from someone I know:

“Hey rabbi, good afternoon. I made a promise that when the hostages are released I will not touch my phone for the duration of Shabbat. My question is as follows: I was expecting all of the hostages to be released right away or within a week—not over six weeks, and that’s if everything goes to plan. So, technically, do I have to keep every week from now until the end of the six weeks, or is just this week fine?”

What a beautiful message! This guy doesn’t know the hostages or their families. He never met them in his life. And turning off his phone for all of Shabbat is extremely difficult. And yet, he is willing to keep the promise he made for their release! This is what Jews do.

And Hamas? Well, they’re busy telling the world that they won the war, but who really won?  Hamas represents the forces of evil and darkness in the world. Their vision is one of darkness, hatred, and intolerance.

Israel, on the other hand, represents light and kindness and truth. Their vision is one of light, love, and compassion. So who actually won this conflict? The answer is clear: Israel may have suffered significant losses, but its spirit remains unbroken. Its people continue to shine with a light and hope that cannot be extinguished.

The challenge for us now is to take this love and live with it in our daily lives, using it to strengthen and fortify ourselves until we are able to bring Moshiach and the Ultimate Redemption—may it happen right here and right now!

I was heading back to New York after spending a few magical days in Israel, visiting our Belev Echad team and having back-to-back meetings with all our staff there.

My flight was scheduled to depart at 1 am, landing in Newark at 5 am, and I figured I’d be able to get home before traffic built up.

I was in Jerusalem with my daughter that night, and suddenly we found ourselves in an extensive traffic jam. There was a protest going on, and we simply couldn’t move. The longer we sat, the more certain I became that I would miss my flight. Fortunately, the police showed up and directed us all to make a U-turn on the highway, and I made it to Ben Gurion in time. 

Exhausted after my whirlwind few days, I was deep asleep mid-flight when an announcement roused me. “If there are any doctors on board, please see a stewardess.” I know my brother is a doctor, but there’s nothing I can do in these situations, so I let myself fall back asleep.

About an hour later, all the lights came on and the pilot announced that due to a medical emergency on board, we would be heading back and landing in Europe.

A quick look at the flight map revealed that we were at least an hour across the Atlantic Ocean, and now we would be turning around and heading back. Oy gevalt!

I asked the stewardess where we would be landing, but they didn’t know yet. An hour later, the pilot announced we’d be landing at Charles-de-Gaulle in Paris.

After asking for further clarification, I was told that an elderly woman had fallen mid-flight, hit her head and passed out. Even after she regained consciousness, the flight attendants were concerned and felt she needed urgent medical attention, so they made the decision to turn around and head back to Europe.

We were on the ground in Paris for about an hour. An ambulance arrived to transport the woman and her family to a local hospital, and after that we continued on our way back to Newark.

What should have been an 11-hour flight turned into a 15-hour ordeal, and we landed at Newark around 9 am ( I definitely didn’t miss traffic!).

But here’s the thing: There were hundreds of passengers on the flight. Hundreds of people were terribly inconvenienced. Including me. I hate flying and try not to spend an extra minute in the air. Can't stand it. But despite the inconvenience, not a single passenger complained or protested or blew a temper. Incredible!

Why? People are so testy when traveling, why did everyone on our flight take it in stride? Because there was a medical emergency with another passenger, and we all care. Deep down we all love one another. We have compassion. We know that it could be us or one of our loved ones. Everyone on that flight knew that we were all in it together and there was nothing we could do but have patience and wish her the best!

What a lesson this was for me—and for all of us. We are all on one big massive plane together. It's called “the world.” And every action we take or don’t take affects everyone else.

Just like one woman’s head injury on an ELAL flight affected every single passenger who had to spend an extra four hours on the plane (and let’s be real, we all hate flying!), so does one Jew’s mitzvah in London affect every other Jew on the planet.

When a Jew in Japan, or Johannesburg, or New York, or Los Angeles does a mitzvah—or G-d forbid a sin—it sends ripples of waves across the universe, impacting all of us.

This woman hurt herself by accident and affected everyone on the plane—imagine how much more impact we have when we do an intentional mitzvah!

So think about what you can do: ask someone to put on tefillin, pray with a minyan, eat a kosher meal, extend kindness and grace to those around you. You have immense power to influence the trajectory of the entire world, bringing ever closer Moshiach and the Final Redemption.

I’m currently in Israel for a couple of days, having back-to-back meetings with the Belev Echad team. 

This morning, I walked to the Kotel to pray at the holiest extant Jewish site. On the way, I noticed many Jews taking the shortcut through the Arab marketplace and I was surprised. When I was a yeshiva student, close to 30 years ago, we always went the longer way, avoiding the marketplace, for safety reasons. The only exception was Friday nights, when the marketplace was closed and hundreds of Jews would all walk through together. 

I wondered if things have changed in the past 30 years and it has become safer. So I went up to two border police guards standing right by the entrance and asked them directly. 

“Is it safe to walk through here?”

“As long as you are walking, you are safe,” one of the guards told me. 

I found her answer to be deeply profound. “As long as you walk without demonstrating fear, focused and with a clear head, you will be safe,” is essentially what she was saying. 

But her answer goes far deeper than that, and applies much more broadly than simply walking through the Arab Shuk.  

As Jews, as long as we are walking, progressing, with a clear goal and a destination, we are safe. We will remain focused, without veering off the path. 

It’s when we stop and get distracted that we are instantly at risk. 

We are about to mark the fast of the 10th of Tevet, the day the Babylonians laid siege to Jerusalem. Even though it falls on Friday this year, we still fast, and although often called a “minor fast,” it is actually one of the strictest—the only one aside from Yom Kippur that we would fast on Shabbat—because it marks the beginning of the destruction of the Holy Temple. 

In order to rebuild the Temple and usher in the ultimate and final Redemption, we need to keep walking, focused on our mission, with our goal and destination at the forefront of our minds at all times. 

The mission doesn’t change. It is and always has been to spread goodness and kindness throughout the world, to study Torah and do Hashem’s mitzvot, to reach out to our fellow Jews and help them connect with their heritage. History has shown that when we’re actively working towards that mission, our enemies can’t harm us. 

Despite millennia of persecution, we are still here. Why? Because we’re focused on the goal—the goal that is coming ever closer. May we celebrate the 10th of Tevet in Jerusalem this year, with Moshiach and our brothers and sisters who are being held hostage in Gaza. Amen.

Throughout Chanukah, students from my son’s yeshivah in Pomona came to the Upper East Side to help us make sure every Jew had a taste of Chanukah and a menorah to light.

They stood outside for hours, night after night, going out of their comfort zone to engage passersby, offering donuts and menorah kits. In the rain and in the cold, they came consistently, 25 young teenagers spread across the neighborhood every night of the holiday. 

Chanukah is all about spreading light and warmth, illuminating the world around us with the infinite light of Judaism. That’s why we make a point to light the menorah in a window or doorway—to beam our light out into the darkness.

I know from my own experience—I’ve been doing it all my life!—and now from watching my two sons going out as well, just how difficult it can be to ask strangers on the street, “Are you Jewish?”

Sometimes you stand there for hours without a single person showing any interest or even acknowledging your presence. Sometimes you know they are Jewish and when they ignore you it definitely stings. 

It’s easy to feel discouraged, but it’s important to remember that often we have an effect on people even if they don’t engage with us. Sometimes you find out about it later, but usually you don’t. This year, I was fortunate to get a letter from Peter* on the last day of Chanukah, who shared his experience: 

Dear Rabbi Vigler,

I live around the corner from Chabad on E. 92nd Street, and tonight on the way to Key Food a young man (a boy, really) stopped me to ask if I was Jewish and probably wanted me to put on tefillin.   

But I was in a hurry so I rushed past him. But then the Muslim guy I happened to be walking with yelled out, “He's Jewish!” as if to call me out and embarrass me with my own people.

I'm not religious and haven't been to shul since my daughter's bat mitzvah almost two decades ago. But I did go to Israel twice last year because I felt I couldn't go anywhere else with a clear conscience. That didn't really work either.

I also avoided Chabad on the way back. But I thought about how to reconcile what is usually for me a minor ritual inconvenience with the acts of deep faith, conviction and sacrifice I witnessed personally in Israel and which we've all read about for the last year. What meaning could I find in this perfunctory, religious avoidance incident on the Upper East Side?

In any case, when I got home, I felt bad about how I treated someone who I later realized was doing important work. But I also felt much, much worse about what Jews in Israel have had to endure for the past 16 months. So I wrote out checks to my two favorite charities: the Libi Fund for IDF soldiers and the Fund for Bereaved Widows and Orphans. Those were my first mitzvot of the New Year and I wouldn't have done it without a reminder from Chabad.

So please apologize and thank this young man for me. Next time, I won't be so rude or impatient and will let him do his job.

Sincerely,

Peter

I shared his letter with the boys, and told them: “This is the awakening of a Jewish neshama (soul)! You did this! You stood outside for hours and hours, trying your best but feeling like you didn’t accomplish much. And without even knowing it, you sparked the soul of a Jew who walked by without even acknowledging or interacting with you. Just by being there, by trying, by making yourselves known, you awakened a spark which then went on to do more mitzvot. That’s what it’s all about.” 

*Name changed to protect privacy. 

A few months ago, I received a call from Jessica*, asking if I could officiate her son’s bar mitzvah. Jessica regularly attends our events and is an integral part of our community. My wife and I have known her for many years, even before she had a family of her own, and we eagerly accepted. I soon found myself immersed in a truly unforgettable experience.

The ceremony took place on Shabbat afternoon, as the young boy was called up to the Torah for his inaugural aliyah. He did a superb job donning his tallit and reading the blessings that he practiced and put so much effort into. As I looked around the room, I noticed something remarkable—the boy’s father, too, had never had the opportunity to have an aliyah before. My heart swelled with excitement as I realized I now had the privilege of performing a dual bar mitzvah ceremony—not only for the young boy but also for his father.

And that was not all! As I delved deeper into the family’s story, I discovered that their history was marked by the harsh realities of living in the Soviet Union, where Judaism was forcibly suppressed. They lived in Russia for many years, where Stalin devoted enormous resources to eradicating all remnants of Judaism, and the grandfather had therefore also never had a bar mitzvah.

But Stalin didn’t win. This family’s Jewish heritage remained aflicker all those years, just waiting to be fanned back into a roaring fire.

As I stood there watching three generations of one family celebrating their bar mitzvahs, I couldn't help but think of the powerful metaphor of the seed. Our sages teach us that a Jew is like a seed. Just as a seed can lie dormant, only to sprout forth when conditions are ripe, so can the spark of Judaism remain hidden, waiting for the right moment to ignite. And ignite it did, as we celebrated with the entire community, the shul filled with love, laughter, tears, and the sweet scent of tradition.

The next day, I had the privilege of helping the father and son don tefillin for the first time, watching the ancient Jewish tradition being passed down again through the generations.

It struck me this week that this family’s journey of resilience and faith is not unlike the Maccabees’ determination to fight for and reclaim their heritage. Despite the darkness of Soviet oppression and the very real threat and fear that Jews who lived there faced for generations, the Jewish spark remained intact.

As we celebrate Chanukah, we are reminded that even in the darkest of times, the light of Judaism can never be fully extinguished. May we continue to kindle that light, spreading its warmth and radiance to all those around us.

This week, I received a truly invaluable gift—a bottle of the Rebbe’s mashkeh. Not just any old bottle of vodka, this one is sacred—a symbol of blessing and connection to the Rebbe. 

Having never had the opportunity to meet or receive anything from the Rebbe myself, this was my first opportunity to drink the Rebbe’s mashkeh and I am still overflowing with excitement and gratitude. 

This particular bottle was gifted to one of the Rebbe’s nurses in the 1990s. And because it comes from the Rebbe, it is associated with tremendous blessing.

How did I come into possession of such a rare and cherished item? 

We recently brought a wounded Israeli soldier to NYC for medical treatment. While attending Shabbat services at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun, he met a Chabad supporter. When the soldier shared with this person how deeply connected he felt to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, this Chabad supporter was moved to gift him a bottle of the Rebbe’s mashkeh.

How did the philanthropist have the bottle?

As it turns out, he received two bottles earlier this year from Chabad emissary Rabbi Mendel Shemtov as a token of appreciation for investing in his work. Rabbi Shemtov intended to send him one bottle but accidentally sent two. And when the philanthropist called to let him know, Rabbi Shemtov said, “Keep it! I’m sure it will come to good use.”

Upon meeting the soldier and seeing how deeply he feels for the Rebbe and the tremendous sacrifices he has made for Am Yisrael, the philanthropist felt moved to give him one of the precious bottles. 

So this week, at our farewell party for this brave soldier who has become close to many in our community, we all had a tiny sip of the Rebbe’s mashkeh, spreading his holy blessings through the room. 

What’s remarkable about the Rebbe’s mashkeh is its unique properties. It can be diluted over and over again, allowing its blessings to be shared with countless people, and by diluting it with my own mashkeh, I was able to obtain my own mini bottle to use and share in the future. 

Receiving this gift has been a reminder of the Rebbe's ongoing presence and influence in our lives. Even though he is no longer physically with us, his legacy and blessings continue to flow through his emissaries, his teachings, and even his mashkeh.

Kindness has a ripple effect, seen so evidently in this case. The Rebbe sent shluchim out to build communities for Jews all over the world. Grateful for the Rebbe’s vision and his shliach’s implementation, the philanthropist donated to support the shliach’s work. The shliach thanked the donor by gifting him not one but two bottles of the Rebbe’s vodka. The wounded soldier did the ultimate kindness—putting his life on the line (with terrible consequences) to protect all of us and our homeland. In gratitude, the philanthropist passed his gift on to the wounded soldier and everyone in our community who attended his goodbye party. Now I have a bottle of my own, in my home, to share with guests on special occasions. 

Look how many people benefit when we pay it forward, sharing blessings and kindness with those around us.

As I reflect on this experience, I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to connect with the Rebbe's blessings in such a tangible way. May we all continue to be inspired by the Rebbe's love, wisdom, and generosity, and may we strive to share those blessings with others—paying it forward, one step at a time.

Today was one of the most fulfilling days of my life. Today I am on a spiritual high. It's a day where I simply thank Hashem for giving me the opportunity to have founded Belev Echad with my wife Shevy.

Today we saved a soldier's life.

I cannot mention his name, because he serves in an elite unit. For this article, I’ll call him “M.” M is a decorated career soldier, 42 years old with a loving wife and 4 beautiful children. M cannot name the unit or divulge any details about the missions they have undertaken. It is all highly secretive. He has served in the line of duty for 24 years. 

On October 7th, M was severely wounded in an ambush in Kfar Aza. When he exited his vehicle to save a friend who had been shot by the terrorists, he too was shot—in the spine. The bullet exploded inside him, spreading over one hundred pieces of shrapnel through his body.

Certain these were his last moments, he lay on the ground, whispered Shema Yisrael, and lost consciousness.

He regained consciousness about 30 minutes later and realized he was still alive, but his fellow soldiers couldn’t see him. When he lifted his head to signal them, a Hamas sniper shot at him. The bullet grazed his skull. He then lifted his hand to try and signal to his unit, and the sniper shot him in the arm and fingers.

By some miracle, M survived. He was taken to the hospital and spent time in intensive care, his life hanging in the balance for a while. He underwent multiple surgeries over several months, but although the doctors were able to stabilize him, he remained in excruciating pain.

I have never seen one of our soldiers in so much pain, with no reprieve, and my heart ached for him.

Something was severely wrong. He could not even sit for more than a couple of minutes. The doctors in Israel were at a loss, unable to do an MRI because the magnets might move the shrapnel studded in his body which would endanger his life. 

Every moment, M felt like he was being electrocuted. Over and over and over again.

Thank G-d, our Belev Echad team has formed a beautiful relationship with the incredible Dr. Omri Ayalon and his team, who run the center for amputees at NYU. Dr. Ayalon is a true tzaddik and an incredible human being!

So we flew M to New York for a consultation. The team at NYU examined him and spent the next few weeks formulating a plan. M had to fly back to Israel and then again to New York where everything was set up for him. The logistics of flying him back and forth were tremendous, and his level of pain every time he had to step outdoors, or in a car or plane, was excruciating. But throughout it all, M was a source of inspiration.

It would be understandable if a person in constant agony was angry all the time. But everyone who met M saw only a gentle human being—an incredible Jew, humble and unassuming, uncomfortable being on the receiving end.

The first step was the most difficult, according to the doctors—a complicated procedure performed via injection to identify the source of M’s pain. They felt confident that they had found the correct source, thank G-d, and the surgery was then scheduled.

What did they find? A small 2-inch piece of shrapnel was embedded right on a nerve, causing all the pain. And today, they were finally able to remove it, giving M his life back!

Hashem sent us these incredible doctors as his messengers to relieve M’s pain. M is like a different person already!

Thank you to all our incredible volunteers in New York who stepped up to take M to appointments, to host him for his visit and to have him for meals. Thank you to an anonymous family for donating the enormous cost to make this happen. Thank you New York! 

Thank you, Hashem, for giving us the most advanced facilities in this incredible country. Thank you to Dr. Ayalon and the incredible team at NYU who devoted themselves tirelessly to M’s case. We could not have done this without you.

When I saw the piece of shrapnel that came out of M’s back, I realized this is our nation’s true victory over those terrorists who took so much from us.

Thank you Hashem for giving M his life back, and for giving us the opportunity to help.