"All I’ve been given in This World is nothing compared to the faith I learned from a rock"

Moussa Chacham-Tzedek, a wealthy Persian businessman who’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness, had a secret he wanted to share before he died, and it was related to a mission entrusted to him after he’d already saved his brother from the Revolutionary Guard: smuggling a group of teenage boys out of Iran. As he continued his story, I sensed that he was about to reveal a part of his life that haunted him until now. PART III

Amu Moussa’s tears began to fall as he spoke about the one pair of tefillin the group had, smuggled out by a boy named David.

The tefillin belonged to David’s uncle, who was killed when the mob murdered dozens of Jewish men at a beit knesset in Tehran.

“I am telling you my story because I am afraid it will be lost,” Amu Moussa said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve watched two generations of my family grow up and have yet to tell them about it.”

I nodded respectfully and let him continue.

“Our plan was to make it to the border through the mountains, and at each stop, we were forced to give over a bit more of our money to drivers that took us as far as they could. I’m not sure if we ran out of cash, or if the roads simply stopped, but we wound up trudging through the mountain paths. We walked through the southeastern region of the country for weeks, sometimes eating what we could barter for, other times eating what we found on the trees or on the ground. From my brother Farzin, I knew of the plan to meet the smugglers who would run us across the border to Pakistan on a particular night. It was hard work leading the boys, and I felt like a ruthless slave driver at times, but we had to move quickly to make it to our destination north of the Mashkil river.”

I imagined a version of Amu Moussa 40 years younger, carrying the bags of his younger cousins and the neighborhood boys as they trekked through increasingly hostile and treacherous territory, determined to help them persevere as supplies ran low and morale ran even lower.

“We were constantly hiding from the Persian army patrols on the lookout for illegal border crossings. They were mostly worried about drug smugglers and separatist militants, but they didn’t want Jewish kids escaping the country either. One time we were forced to crawl on our hands and our knees amid hundreds of sheep to avoid a helicopter that hovered nearby. The boys were terrified.”

“But you were their Moshe Rabbeinu, leading them to freedom,” I said.

A fleeting grin penetrated through his stoic exterior, but it was soon replaced by a profound sadness as he continued. “We finally made it to the mountain where we would meet the smugglers to cross us into Pakistan. The boys were ecstatic — they couldn’t believe we’d actually made it this far. During the day we rested in a cave and each of us took our turn with the tefillin, praying to safely make it over the mountain in the middle of the night and avoid detection. When nightfall came, we prayed Arvit and then began our hike. There was only a short window of time when we would arrive at the specific location and the Pakistani driver would meet us. He had orders to wait for five minutes and no more.”

Amu Moussa picked up a smooth, ancient rock from the table and caressed it in his hands.

“We reached a peak on the other side of the mountain and saw a cattle truck flash its lights in the darkness. The clock began ticking and the boys began to sprint down the mountain. It was still a half a kilometer away and we were tired, hungry, and terrified, but we ran as fast as we could. And then David fell. He fell hard and I heard the snap of the bones around his knees as he hit the ground. I told the other boys to run, as they couldn’t miss the truck. I knew I was risking my own life, but Hashem wouldn’t let me leave David.”

He held the gray rock in his right hand. It was size of a tennis ball. This was a man who had everything This World could offer, but it was obvious that this stone was something of supreme value, and related to his story.

“I ripped off my shirt and tore it into two pieces. One piece I shoved into David’s mouth to prevent him from screaming. The other piece I tied around his leg, forcing the bone back into his flesh with a stick to hold it in place. I watched as the boys ran down the mountainside to the truck and disappeared into the darkness. David’s muffled screams came through the shredded garment as I picked him up and threw him over my shoulder. I started to move down the hill when David yelled through the cloth, ‘My uncle’s tefillin! Don’t forget my uncle’s tefillin!’ With his weight on my spine, I went back and bent down to pick up the small bag. Hoisted him back up, and began moving toward the truck as fast as I could.”

Amu Moussa squeezed the rock as he passed it between his hands, his face distant and filled with tears.

“He screamed as his broken leg bounced across my back with each step, but I knew our driver wouldn’t wait, no matter what the boys told him. Smugglers on the Pakistani border were wary of the army from both sides and didn’t want to risk their lives over a few Jews, no matter how much we would pay them. We were 200 meters up the mountain, and I heard the engine start. I watched the headlights flickering, but we were still a hundred meters away. David was screaming for them to wait but the force of the night wind drowned out our calls. The truck began turning and we were 50 meters away. We were 30 meters away when the truck starting driving. I bent down to pick up a rock from the ground. Hashem put this rock in my hand and I hurled it at the truck. What a neis. Hashem took it from my hand and smashed it into the side door. The driver stopped, got out of the vehicle, looked around, and saw us through 15 meters of pitch-black midnight. He yelled for me to hurry and aided me in shoving David in the back of the truck.”

Amu Moussa put the rock on the table and pushed it toward me. He motioned for me to pick it up, the prized possession of a man worth close to $80 million.

As I held it in my hand, Amu Moussa gazed out the window at the lemon trees in his courtyard below and told me, “All I’ve been given in This World is nothing compared to the faith I learned from a rock. A rock Hashem used to lift me up from Persia.”

But this was a happy story, a tale of faith, trust, and obvious Hashgachah — something Amu Moussa would surely have been proud to share with his family, a legacy for the next generation. Then why was I the first one to hear it? And why did he look so broken?

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 898)