“Whoever fights smartest is the one who wins,” I countered

I had met with the Rosenbergs to discuss their son Yechezkel, not because he had a mental illness, but because he was part of the “Hilltop Youth” movement and his parents were concerned that he was going to get into some serious trouble. They were right to worry: I’d just extricated him from a violent arrest for pulling down a Hamas flag in an Arab village where my colleague and I happened to be visiting the kevarim of Calev Ben Yefuneh and Yehoshua Bin Nun.

Part III

I helped pull Yechezkel up, took him by the arm, and dusted him off. It seemed like he’d sprained his ankle in the tussle, as he could barely stand, but there was no time for hobbling. Before the soldiers who had tackled him had any time to start asking questions, we sped away.

Yechezkel was still silent as I helped him into Eliyahu’s car after his near escape from an arrest. His face was bruised, and I let him know he could expect a black eye in the morning.

As a social worker who’d spent a decade-plus working with at-risk youth, my friend Eliyahu didn’t bat an eyelash at all the drama, and simply asked Yechezkel where he needed a ride to.

Yechezkel mumbled, “Shiloh,” and Eliyahu took off. I was a bit surprised, but more than happy, that he’d chosen his parents’ home as the destination — maybe he finally realized that they were indeed there for him, even if they didn’t exactly agree to the direction he was headed.

We drove through the winding hills behind Ariel before hitting Highway 60, the main north-south road between Jerusalem and Shechem. We were far enough away from any city that you could see the entire Milky Way galaxy through the midnight sky.

The ride was silent for a little while before Eliyahu asked his passenger, “So, you guys friends?”

“We’re old family friends,” I answered. I didn’t want Yechezkel to feel like I was pressuring him in any way, and I also wanted to protect his confidentiality.

But Yechezkel subsequently waived that right as he told Eliyahu outright, “My parents thought I was crazy for leaving my yeshivah and going to the hilltops with my friends. They brought me to Dr. Freedman here, but to me it seemed like a big waste of time, so I didn’t really schmooze with him too much.”

“Gotcha,” Eliyahu said as he drove onward, clearly giving Yechezkel the space to talk more or less, depending on his preference.

“Doctor Freedman, do you rescue all of your patients like you rescued me?” Yechezkel asked as he finally broke the silence.

“He certainly tries to,” Eliyahu joked, and the three of us started laughing, which seemed to thaw the chill in the car.

Yechezkel clarified, “I mean, I didn’t know that you could swoop in like that and tell the army that I’m your patient so they should let me go and not arrest me. Does that usually work?”

“Only tried it once before, when I had a chareidi bochur who was protesting outside the draft office and was about to get trampled by a policeman on a horse. Baruch Hashem, it worked that time, too.”

“Cool,” Yechezkel said as he stared out the window and returned to silent mode.

The ride was quiet again until Eliyahu asked, “While I’m driving, anyone got a good derashah?”

I took the bait and brought up the sugya I was learning at the beginning of Bava Metzia, “You know the first daf, where it’s talking about when Reuven and Shimon find this piece of clothing and each one says it’s theirs? I love how the Tosafos and the mefarshim learn out kol d’alim gvar — whoever fights the hardest for it is the one who owns it. I just feel like any time I head deep into the Shomron, it’s mamash the same thing. We have this beautiful gift here of Eretz Yisrael and we says it’s ours and they say it’s theirs and whoever fights the hardest for it is the true owner.”

“Pssssh,” Eliyahu agreed. “Nice vort, Reb Yaakov. Nu, Yechezkel? Does it ring a bell?”

Yechezkel smiled in agreement.

“We have to do it in a seicheldig fashion, though,” I added. “As much as those Hamas flags are offensive near the kevarim of Calev and Yehoshua, it’s not worth getting our faces smashed into the ground to rip them down.”

Yechezkel nodded in silent agreement.

“We gotta find a way to help you to be a little less reckless and more effective, Yechezkel,” I continued. “You can still settle Eretz Yisrael without risking your neck for no productive reason.”

“But whoever fights hardest is the one who wins,” he said defensively. “Isn’t that your whole chiddush?”

“Whoever fights smartest is the one who wins,” I countered. “And depending on what you really want to accomplish, fighting the way you’re fighting isn’t the always the smartest way to win these battles.”

“You know,” I suggested, as if it were just an afterthought, “maybe I can introduce you to my friend Avi? He’s a great guy who’s started the largest organic goat farm in Israel and sells millions of his free-range chicken eggs on a yearly basis. And he lives outside the fences, but has an agreement with both the army and the Arabs, so that no one bothers him.”

“Sounds cool,” Yechezkel agreed as we passed the security gate at the entrance to his parent’s community of Shiloh. “He must be a pretty successful business guy.”

“He’s always looking for more help, if you’re open. And there’s a Breslov kollel on the next hilltop, if you’re interested,” I told him.

Yechezkel thanked Eliyahu for the ride, while I got out of the car and walked him up to his parents’ house. It was well after midnight, but I figured they’d be happy to see the two of us together.

Yechezkel knocked on the door and Mr. Rosenberg came out, made a split-second assessment of the situation and hugged his son without a word, before hugging me for bringing him home. In the meantime, Yechezkel’s mother had come downstairs and was putting up hot drinks for everyone, including Eliyahu — who had gotten out of his car and came in too, as it seemed we’d be there for a little while.

As the five of us sat around the table enjoying a late-night snack of tea and defrosted rugelach, there was a feeling all around that the next chapter would be smoother for everyone.

Identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients, their families, and all other parties.

Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman, whose new book Off the Couch has just been released in collaboration with Menucha Publishers, can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills around Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 846)