1.
It was a tough holiday eve. Traveling under the shadow of alarms, but the flash that hit me was worth it all.
Our people. No, no.
Going back for a second, to the morning the war began. On Shabbat, the 'Remember' portion, I'm in Betar Illit. I hear the call, 'Remember what Amalek did to you,' and I think, like everyone else, about the Iranians, the Seventh of October, Hamas, Hezbollah, and all the rest of our enemies.
On the way back from the synagogue, I rang the alarm. I'm with a three-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy. There are buildings on both sides of the road, and I maintain a calm expression. I'm the role model. Don't panic, I memorize for myself and drag the little ones to one of the buildings.
It turns out that the stairwell is exposed on all sides to the street. But do I have a choice? Everything's fine, I say, "I doubt it," to the children next to me, and then the door opens. Two guys wearing waving woolen tassels signal to me: "Come on, come on." We enter, they signal for us to come towards the police station.
The door closes, it's pitch black. They forgot to leave a lamp on. After all, no one announced that a war would break out. The three-year-old bursts into tears, I wonder if she's scared by the 'booms' or the darkness. There are almost 20 people in the room, the crowding doesn't bother them, they help me calm the girl down.
And as is customary in the Jewish people, a conversation begins. Who are you, who are you… The Elbaz family, get to know me, I'm getting to know you. Chabad members, who host a Lithuanian. I think to myself about the commandment of hospitality, about Jews in towns of old who wandered from town to town with a horse and cart and at night looked for a place to lay their heads.
Good Jews have always welcomed guests into their homes. But today, how many people are privileged to fulfill the mitzvah? Inviting family members to a Shabbat party doesn't count, but bringing a wife and children into your nursery is a true mitzvah.
And they did it wholeheartedly.
2.
Passover Eve. We're on our way to Bnei Brak. Somewhere on the Geha Highway, the warning catches us. What do we do now? The rain is beating on the car windows, the blanket that's always ready for 'festive' events of this kind doesn't really appeal to me: both lying on the side of the road and getting wet in holiday clothes...
In a split-second decision, I cut in the direction of the gas station, find an alley on Givat Shmuel, decide which is the newest and most stable building on the one-way street, park the car, and we go up to the first floor. We look up, a roof with sky above it. It turns out that the building is low. We improvise a spot for ourselves in a bicycle corner, surrounded by concrete walls, hoping that they will do the job… but I’m really not sure.
Then I gather my courage and knock on the door. Let's try, make an effort. I didn't think anyone would show up after the alarm had already sounded. Really not.
The door opens, a Jew with a kippah signals to us, "Hurry up, hurry up" and directs us towards the police station's room. Not pleasant. They're on their way to get ready for the holiday, they're supposed to arrive in Bnei Brak for Seder night. That is, if they make it. If we make it. You know how many more alarms await us on the stretch of road between Givat Shmuel and Bnei Brak itself. But they didn't hesitate and let two strangers into their private room.
I think again about the commandment of hospitality. And how difficult it is.
So this is the Leizerowitz family. They said that in every alert, they make sure to leave the front door of the building open, to save panicked passersby from pressing the intercom. "We're used to it," they explain, saying that this is not the first time passersby have knocked on their door. I congratulate them with all my heart, knowing that thanks to them our holiday clothes will remain clean and free of mud... and I think again about our people.
Haredim, secularists, brothers!
Or as the late Begin said: "Our Eastern Jewish community was a heroic fighter, even in the underground. Feinstein was of European descent, Moshe Barzani was a Sephardic from Iraq. Ashkenazi, Iraqi, Jews! Brothers!""
Lithuanians, Chabadniks, national religious, Haredi, differences of views like a gaping abyss, but in one moment everyone embraces everyone, everyone opens the door to everyone. Laugh as much as you want at the phrase 'Together we will win,' and I say: Yes, together we will win! Difficult times take the heart out of our people! Turn us all into diamonds!
So thank you, two lovely families, for opening the door for me, and most importantly, for opening a window for me to understand how much we are one, unique, special, and united people.
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