Here is a letter I received, verbatim, with the exception of minor editorial changes.
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Rabbi Menachem Mann, good evening.
The story I want to tell you may sound bizarre and perhaps unbelievable to you. That's exactly why I'm writing you my full name and personal phone number here, in case you want to chat and verify information.
Although I have no intention here of praising myself or anything like that, I think it's worth highlighting a few details regarding my personality and status, because they are so important and concrete to the story.
I grew up and was educated in Ashkenazi institutions all my life, from Talmud Torah to the network of kollelim where I am now. Although we are a Sephardic family with all the intentions and uniqueness, my father, Shlita, is a graduate of the Holy Porat Yosef Yeshiva, and we all suckle from childhood onward the teachings of the sages of the East, headed by Maran Rabbeinu Maor Yisrael ztuk"l - but none of this prevented my father from sending me and my older brother to Ashkenazi educational institutions.
Not because of an ideal or anything like that, simply because the initial Talmud Torah belonged to independent education, and since we studied well and were considered dedicated and educated children from a good home and our grades were accordingly, we were sent by the Talmud Torah staff to the best small yeshiva of those days (and perhaps still is, unfortunately I am not up to date).
Even in the small yeshiva, we were among the most prominent in terms of talent and scholarship (I speak in the plural, even though there is a difference of years between me and my brother, from what I hear). The yeshiva staff, proud of my brother's achievements, sent him to the prestigious 'Hebron' yeshiva on Givat Mordechai, and years later they sent me to an equally important yeshiva (well, maybe a little less so) in a nearby neighborhood in the capital.
I invested all my strength and talents in Torah and the fear of God and earned myself a real name in the yeshiva, both among the young men and especially with the Ramim team.
To listen to the ear, I tell you that I was one of the closest associates of my teachers and the rabbi of the Rosh Yeshiva Shlita, and I still am now, along with the members of my extended family, who will live with me.
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Business started to pick up when my middle son reached the appropriate age at which he should enroll in Talmud Torah.
Here I must pause for a moment and tell you some facts. My place of residence is where I studied and is the area where I am recognized by the neighborhood rabbis as a full-fledged berachah and a little more than that. I study Torah and rabbinical expiation all day long, and in the evenings I even have some kind of small 'job' at one of the yeshivahs in the neighborhood.
Another important detail, I am married to an Ashkenazi woman. Not on purpose, by chance. That's how it turned out.
This data explains the 'respectable' advice I received from an important neighborhood friend, who genuinely wanted to help me register. With all his wisdom, he took the trouble to explain to me that in my current situation (yes, what can I do, I'm a dark-skinned guy, with a slightly darker last name), I have no chance in the world of being accepted into any self-respecting institution (did you notice? The conversation has already turned to my honor and myself, who remembers that the pure and gentle child is the one who should register?), and not only that, but even a registration form is not certain to be given to me to fill out when they see my face.
His original advice was to reveal the 'quality cards' early on.
Don't panic now, just listen.
The esteemed Abraach instructed me, with no equivocal 'advice', to try to bypass the system and simply confuse the devil (not just metaphorically) and send my wife (the Ashkenazi) alone, so that at least she would fill out a form. Then God will have mercy and we will try to press where it belongs.
My wife justified 'dressing up' for the occasion, as was customary (I'm ashamed to tell you what the costume entailed), and went out with a prayer in her mouth and tears in her eyes to enroll the child in Talmud Torah.
The trick didn't work.
It turns out we're not the first to try this method. The head of the school politely instructed her to "bring the whole package," as he put it, and only then will the child be able to register. Yes, only register.
When the "package" appeared, the smile had already disappeared from his face.
With cynicism mixed with frequent glances at the clock, it was made clear to us that there was no room and no chance, and it was much better to register somewhere else "and he wouldn't even be angry.".
When I tried to ask to fill out a form, I was handed two pages as white and clear as snow. Of course, a photocopy of the ID card, including the appendix, was not made, a waste of ink.
That's it. That's my whole story. There's no 'happy hand' in it, there's only the truth about the Magog and Ashkenaz exile in which we find ourselves, and that they won't tell us stories.
I, too, a Jew who grew up and was educated in their institutions, would not want to be the father of a child whose last name does not end in "Bitch" or "Ski.".
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Allow me not to add a word.
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