In Jerusalem’s Har Nof neighborhood, in an apartment filled with tens of thousands of seforim, an elderly man sits and writes halachic responsa. He rarely leaves his home, yet he wields a mighty influence on the entire country, and his word is law for communities across the globe. Among the masses, he may be seen as a cultural symbol of Sephardic pride, or as a spiritual leader of the Shas political party. But those who value Torah learning above all look to Rav Ovadiah Yosef as a premier halachic arbiter, and an indefatigable sage who has labored for decades to restore the rightful crown of Sephardic Jewry.
In a rare conversation, his son Rav David — a fascinating scholar in his own right — shares a wealth of riveting memories, and in a personal visit, acquaints us with the larger-than-life Torah leader he knows as Abba

“Do you want to come in with me to Abba?”

I’ve been waiting for the question all morning.

Of course I want to accompany my host, Chacham David Yosef, into his father’s inner sanctum. There are many clamoring for the opportunity; the elderly sage is one of the most influential figures in Israeli politics, and there are diplomats, Knesset members, and activists vying for a moment of his time, hoping to convince him of this or that. I am not among them. There are journalists pleading for appointments, for a few minutes of conversation with the celebrated rav, eager to report to their readers the chacham’s position on one burning issue or another. In truth, I do not consider myself one of them either. I’m not looking for a sound-byte or a sensationalist headline.

I wish to see the person behind the legend, the Jew who’s done little other than learn and write halachic responsa for close to nine decades. I wish to see “the king in his splendor.” Nothing more.

I rise in anticipation as Chacham David motions to me.

“Let’s go.”

On the Shores of the Tigris

It’s much more than a beit knesset, the impressive building in Jerusalem’s Har Nof neighborhood; Yechave Da’at is more like a headquarters, a spiritual nerve center for worldwide Sephardic Jewry. Inside this building, the “light of the East,” Chacham Ovadiah Yosef, taught and prayed for decades, issuing his rulings and advice.

Today, Rav Ovadiah prays at a private minyan in his home, and the synagogue and kollelim of Yechave Da’at are led by his beloved son, Chacham David Yosef. It is he who welcomes me into a stately office, walls of books rising all around.

An elegant man, dressed in the style of the Lithuanian yeshivah world, with a wide-brimmed hat and frock-coat, Chacham David takes me by surprise with his greeting, spoken in impeccable English. Then, on learning that I come from Montreal, he astounds me once again. This scion of great Halabi and Baghdadi families inquires about the Tosher Rebbe, sharing chassidishe maiasehs about the tzaddik, the type of stories that go with Melave Malka, gefilte fish, and candles burning.

Rav David Yosef is an interesting man.

And in a fascinating conversation, he welcomes me into his world, into the sublimity of being his father’s son, but also the pressure, the responsibility and frustration of seeing his sainted father, whose very life is Torah, quoted again and again on political issues, taken out of context by an incendiary media in ways that bring him no honor at all.

It’s a roller-coaster, the life of Rav David. He alternates between being protected by his father — his glory, his brilliance, his holiness — and being protective of his revered father — worrying about the politicians, pundits, and a public that is waiting to manipulate his words.

I begin our conversation asking Rav David to take me on the journey, to tell me how the little boy from Baghdad rose to become the halachic arbiter to hundreds of thousands of Sephardic Jews.

Rav David pours me a cold drink and takes me back to a humble house on the shores of the Tigris River, in Baghdad’s Jewish quarter. This was the home of his grandfather, Chacham Yaakov Ovadiah. Chacham Yaakov was a scholar and paytan, and he named his firstborn son for the two great lights of Iraqi Jewry, Rav Ovadiah (Abdullah) Somech and his disciple, Rav Yosef Chaim, the Ben Ish Chai. In 1924, when Ovadiah Yosef Ovadiah (his name was shortened later on) was three years old, the family immigrated to Eretz Yisrael, settling in Jerusalem’s Beis Yisrael neighborhood.

Young Ovadiah distinguished himself in Talmud Torah Bnei Tzion, and enrolled in the great yeshivah, Porat Yosef, before his bar mitzvah. Rav David laughingly tells me of a “din torah” that his classmates had with their maggid shiur, claiming that he spent the entire shiur addressing his star pupil, Ovadiah. In response, the rosh yeshivah, Rav Ezra Attiah, took Ovadiah as his private chavrusah, becoming his “rebbi muvhak.”

I ask Rav David about the veracity of another famous tale involving the rosh yeshivah, and he confirms it. One day, during the hunger years of the late 1930s, Ovadiah’s place in Porat Yosef was empty. His devoted rebbi inquired after him, and was shocked to learn that Chacham Yaakov had put his son to work in his grocery store. Concern for the boy’s future led Rav Ezra to the small store, and there sat Ovadiah, his Gemara open on the dusty counter.

Chacham Yaakov explained to his distinguished visitor that he had no choice; the needs of his growing family required him to seek other sources of livelihood and he required his son to mind the store while he worked elsewhere.

Rav Ezra lifted the hem of his rabbinic robe and walked behind the long counter. “I will be clerk from now on. Ovadiah belongs in yeshivah.”

Chacham Yaakov kissed the rosh yeshivah’s hand, begging forgiveness, and together, rebbi and talmid returned to Porat Yosef.

Ovadiah continued his steady climb towards greatness. In time, Rav Avraham Fatal, a leading Syrian mekubal and chavrusah of Rav Shalom Sharabi, approached Rav Ezra Attiah, asking him to recommend an outstanding young man for his daughter, Margalit.

On Erev Pesach, 1944, the young couple were wed. Rav Attiah appointed the young chassan a member of his own beis din.

They had nothing, not even cutlery or dishes with which to eat.

Some fifty years later, at a celebration marking their fiftieth wedding anniversary, Chacham Ovadiah looked at his wife. It was just a few months before her passing, and she was connected to an oxygen tank.

With visible emotion, he recalled the two hundred lira that she had painstakingly saved in order to purchase a closet for the children’s clothing. When she’d seen his distress, however, at not being able to afford to publish his first sefer, she gave him the money, all her savings — money he hadn’t known about. Quoting the words of the Tanna, Rabi Akiva, he said, “Sheli v’shelachem shelah hi” — it’s all hers.

She smiled through the tubes.

During the hunger and privation of the war years in the late 1940s, Rav Ovadiah was forced to accept a position as av beis din of Cairo. Egypt  was a spiritual desert at the time. There were no Torah scholars there and there was no communication with Palestine, so the young rav was forced to decide for himself, without the benefit of discussion with colleagues. That experience developed his confidence to rule decisively.

After the establishment of the State of Israel, the atmosphere in his host country became decidedly hostile. The Egyptian secret police were convinced that the rabbi from Israel, who spoke in Hebrew, was an agent of the Zionist enemy. In addition, the rav’s firm stance on matters of kashrus did nothing to endear him to the more traditional elements in the community. He fired an unreliable shochet and his life was threatened. After three years in Cairo, faced by antagonism from within and without, it was clear to Rav Ovadiah that he had to return home.

Restoring the Crown

The family returned to a Jerusalem stricken by the ravages of war. Rav Ovadiah may have been the pride of Porat Yosef, but when he visited the yeshivah after his stint in Cairo, he was refused acceptance to the kollel. “We have no more money, nothing, and besides, you’re too old for us,” said the director.

Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank, rav of Yerushalayim, presided over a kollel called Medrash Bnei Zion. He invited Rav Ovadiah to join a chaburah that boasted the likes of Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach and Rav Yisrael Yaakov Fisher. Rav Ovadiah was the first, and lone, Sephardic member in that elite group.

From there, the young dayan was appointed as a member of the Petach Tikvah beis din in 1956, and eventually as a member of the prestigious Jerusalem rabbinate, where he sat alongside Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashiv. In 1968, he was elected as chief rabbi of Tel-Aviv-Yaffo.

His seforim and written teshuvos took the world by storm. His first sefer, Chazon Ovadiah, was hailed as a groundbreaking work, and in 1956, he released the first two volumes of his major work, Yabia Omer. His breadth of knowledge was astounding, not just in the traditional Sephardic poskim but across the board; he was as familiar with the writings of Transylvanian rabbanim as with the gaonim of Poland.

He opened Ohr HaTorah, a yeshivah that aimed to raise the level of Torah learning among Sephardim. It wasthe first of many institutions he established for the purpose.

The name of Chacham Ovadiah spread, and he was elected to the position of Rishon L’Tzion, Sephardic chief rabbi of Israel. In the decades since, he has established — along with his children — numerous yeshivos and kollelim, and he has set policy for Sephardic bnei Torah everywhere.

Today, he is the leading halachic arbiter for the Sephardic world. He has made it his life’s mission to defend and uphold the halachic rulings of Maran, the Beit Yosef. An oft-repeated slogan of his is the words of Chazal, “L’hachzir atara l’yoshna,” to restore the crown to its rightful place. Halachically, he uses the term to refer to primacy of the Beit Yosef’s rulings in Sephardic life. There is also another reference in the words, however: Chacham Ovadiah wants to restore pride to the masses of Sephardic Judaism, to return them to their rightful place in communal and social life. For Rav Ovadiah, this mission has several facets: halachic, cultural, and political as well.

The Shas political party itself is a realization of the dream: restoring Sephardic pride. In the early 1980s, Rav Ovadiah, with the backing of Rav Schach, declared that no longer would the Sephardic ben Torah accept paltry handouts from the chareidi parties, disproportionate to their numbers. “We have enough people, enough passion, and enough pride to form our own party and fund our own institutions,” was his message.

The extraordinary success of Shas surprised pundits and pollsters. It harnessed a new force that propelled it to victory: the pride of the masses of the Sephardic Jews, many of them traditional or irreligious. Unlike the secular Ashkenzaic Jew, Israel’s nonobservant Sephardim did not have antagonistic feelings toward religion. Virtually all identified with the Chacham and his message, were proud of their Judaism, and were happy to do their part to support yeshivos, shmiras Shabbos and to build mikvaos.

The El Hamaayan school system was created by Shas and in time, assumed responsibility for the religious education of tens of thousands of Israeli youngsters, all of whom look up to Chacham Ovadiah as “Maran,” the light of Israel.

Supported by this critical mass, Shas became a major player in Israeli politics, with the ability to break or form governments, and Rav Ovadiah, the undisputed leader of the party, became a figure more public than ever before. His position as spiritual leader of a political party catapulted him into a position of prominence that comes with a different set of struggles — not hunger and want, but pressure from all sides.

You Remind Me of Myself

Rav Ovadiah has several sons, all of whom hold public positions of prominence and influence. That said, there is a deep connection between Rav David and his father. Many have commented on the similarity in their manner of psak, and Rav David’s own halachic works have become classics in their own right. As a teenager, Rav David was a chavrusah of his father.

“I would come home from Yeshivas Hevron at ten o’clock, hurrying from Geulah to our home on Rechov Elkanah,” he described the scene to me. “Abba would be waiting and we would start to learn. We’d continue for hours, until I felt too tired to go on. Then he’d learn alone until the wee hours of the morning, just as he does today.

“On leil Shabbos, Abba felt that it was impossible to sleep due to the heightened kedushah, and he would learn until Shacharis. He would start off with all of us boys surrounding him, and one by one, we would all drop off and he would remain alone, engrossed in the sugya.”

As a teenager, Rav David learned how to type, and as such, he became indispensable to his father. “He would write teshuvos by hand and give them to me to type up for his seforim.” He laughs as he recalls the ironic results of his newly learned skill. “When I was seventeen, I gave a shiur in Katamon each evening. But I was so valuable to him that he would sometimes tell me to keep on typing and that he would deliver the shiur in my stead. The shiur was always well-attended, because the participants knew that at least twice a weak, they would merit hearing shiur from Abba, not me. I don’t know if, in history, there was ever a ‘memaleh makom’ [substitute] that was so much greater than the one he replaced!”

Any outsider would have described the Yosef family’s years on Rechov Elkanah as a terribly destitute period for the large family. But Rav David has beautiful memories of those years in the Tel Arza neighborhood. “It might have been the most peaceful time in Abba’s life, before he became chief rabbi,” he reflects. “Abba sat on the beis din with a very close-knit group of friends, each one a gaon olam. It was Rav Elyashiv, Rav Goldshmidt, and Rav Zolty, and they were constantly conferring with each other. Often, I would come home at night to see these illustrious figures huddled around the table, discussing whatever issue they were facing in beis din.

“We lived on the first floor of the building, and Rav Ben Zion Abba Shaul lived on the second. Abba and Rav Ben Zion were childhood friends from Porat Yosef, and they would frequently speak in learning. Many years later, when I was rav of Har Nof, there was a complex sheilah involving an apartment situated on top of a shul, and someone quoted a psak from Rav Ben Zion. So I went to discuss it with him personally, and he told me that the case in question was no problem. ‘But I faced a real problem,’ he told me, ‘back when we lived in that building in Tel Arza. Your father sat and learned just underneath our apartment, creating a beis medrash in his living room.’$$separate quotes$$”

As a member of the family, Rav David can attest to the virtual beis medrash that was his childhood living room. “There was simply no other pose for my father; the only image I can bring to mind is that of him sitting and learning. Ima took care of everything. He had no obligations other than learning, writing, teaching. As we grew older, there began to be family smachot and events at which his participation was necessary. Once, he excused himself from a family simchah, and the hosts implored him to remain just a little longer. ‘They are waiting for me at home,’ he explained.

“$$separate quotes$$‘Who’s waiting, Abba?’ I asked, intrigued.

“$$separate quotes$$‘They: the Rashba, Rambam, and Rav Akiva Eiger. How can I hold them up?’$$separate quotes$$”

One of the more popular pictures on sale in the photo stores of the Holy City depicts the Rishon L’Tzion in the back seat of a car. The lamp is on as he squints into a Gemara, his tinted glasses positioned on his forehead. It’s a picture that bespeaks total oblivion to his surroundings. I mention it to Rav David and he tells me that the famous tinted glasses also have a story.

“Years of privation and undernourishment, coupled with an exhaustive schedule, took their toll, and Abba developed a serious eye ailment. The doctors feared that he might lose his sight entirely. Abba heard their prognosis and immediately traveled to Tzfat, to the kever of the Beit Yosef. He cried torrents of tears, beseeching Maran, ‘I always worked to defend your decisions, your halachic positions.’ Gradually, his vision improved and he was able to return to his regular schedule of study. The dark glasses are the sole reminder of that perilous time.”

Today, despite Rav David’s obligations as rav of the Sephardic community in Har Nof and at the helm of the Yechave Da’at institutions, he still manages to find time for his first love: writing teshuvos. His seforim, Halachah Berurah, synthesize his halachic expertise and the yeshivish-style lomdus he developed in Hevron and Ponovezh. It’s said that his father read a teshuvah he authored and remarked, ‘You remind me of myself in earlier years.”

Rav David’s halachic approach and writing style are not his only links to his father. During his years as chief rabbi, Rav Ovadiah traveled extensively, serving as an ambassador of the Sephardic Torah world. Many of the Sephardic communities across the globe see themselves as his disciples. His printed works guide them, and it is Rav David who serves as the current liaison between them and their mentor.

The week of our conversation, Rav David has returned from a trip to South America with regards, sheilos, and requests for blessings from his father. In all Sephardic communities, it seems, the name of Chacham Ovadiah is revered.

Out of Context

Even while Chacham Ovadiah is royalty and his words are cherished by masses of sincere, devout Jews, his position as a public figure, thrust into the polarized world of Israeli politics, means that he is constantly being quoted this way or the other, and that hordes of people try to use his office or reputation for personal gain.

On this subject, Chacham David minces no words. “It’s interesting that the gedolim who suffer the most from manipulators, from people constantly quoting them and misquoting them, are my father, shlita, and Rav Elyashiv, shlita. This is because they have tremendous influence over political parties, so by extension, there are people with all sorts of agendas wishing to exert ‘control’ over them. The other senior poskim, like Rav Wosner, shlita, don’t have these issues, since they are able to learn in peace.”

He refers to a recent example. “Recently the Carmel region was hit by terrible fires, Rachmana litzlan, that did great damage, taking human life and destroying large parts of the country. It was a nightmare. Of course a gadol b’Yisrael needs to address a calamity like that, and it’s obvious that my father will quote the words of the Gemara, which are explicit. ‘Fires come from the sin of chillul Shabbos,’ Chazal state. That’s what my father said.

“Now I know that Rav Aryeh Deri went to visit my father at that time and asked him what he should say on the radio, since he was appearing on a special program devoted to the disaster. ‘Tell them what the Gemara says,’ my father replied. Rav Aryeh said that he couldn’t, since it would smack of divisiveness to blame the secularists for the catastrophe in this manner. ‘Chilonim? Who is discussing them?’ my father responded in surprise. ‘I was referring to our people. Our shmiras Shabbos isn’t good enough. We must improve; that’s the message.’

“But the secular media, ever-vigilant for something in the remarks of the Ravthat can be taken out of context and create headlines, jumps when he quotes such a gemara. Do they ask him to explain? Of course not. Do they even care? They run to print that Chacham Ovadiah blames the chilonim.”

While the secular media might hunt for sensationalist headlines whatever the case, it seems that Rav Ovadiah’s highly publicized shiurim make it much easier for them to find phrases to manipulate. Once a week, on Motzaei Shabbos, crowds fill the small beit knesset adjoining the rav’s home for his weekly public address. The shiur is carried by satellite to communities across Israel and across the globe. In some of the towns in Israel’s south, with heavy Sephardic populations, large screens go up in the town square to broadcast the shiur. The style of the shiur hasn’t changed in the fifty-plus years it’s been delivered: a compendium of halachos; folksy, simple meshalim; and words of mussar and chizuk. The Sephardic Torah world has evolved, but this shiur is meant for any and all Jews, the unlearned as well as the scholarly.

This is also the opportunity for the media to jump in. Any reference to Arabs, politics, or chilonim is pay-dirt for them and quickly disseminated by the secular news sites. Considering the risk that comes along with the publicity, I ask Rav David why the aged rav allows himself to be recorded and televised.

Rav David puts my question into historical perspective, emphasizing the primacy of his father’s mission. “He has been saying shiurim in public for over seventy years, bli ayin hara. Do you think he’s going to change now, shut the door and stop speaking? He says what he believes to be emet — truth. What they do to his words is unfortunate, but there is little we can do. He’s been doing this since before there were tape-recorders, before video cameras, and certainly before the era we live in now, where as he says something, it’s being transmitted to every corner of the globe.”

Rav David rises and withdraws several seforim from among the many lining the walls. “You know what? It’s even like that in halachah; he’s misquoted all the time.”

He leans forward and relates, “I noticed someone in our beit knesset on the second day of Yom Tov, when it was still the chag for the bnei chutz l’Aretz, but not for us. The fellow was clearly still keeping the Yom Tov, yet I knew his situation and it was obvious to me that he should not have been observing the chag. ‘Why are you keeping Yom Tov?’ I asked him. ‘Maran, your father, instructed me to,’ he replied.

“I was stunned, since I knew my father’s position on the matter. On investigation, I learned that someone else had posed the question to my father on behalf of this gentleman. ‘Listen to me,’ I said, ‘hurry and put on tefillin, since it’s not Yom Tov for you.’ He obeyed. The next day, I took him in to my father, who ruled according to his shittah — that the fellow should only be keeping one day.”

There are several lessons to be learned from this anecdote; Rav David chooses to emphasize one that affects his own schedule. “People don’t realize that you have to know how to ask a sheilah too. Soon, I will be going in to my father with a question that came from South America, and I will prepare for it.”

And I watch how Chacham David, himself a respected posek, sits and pores over every possible source so that he is equipped to consult with his father. He works with the happy diligence of a chef preparing an elaborate dish — slowly, methodically, with precision and focus.

Then he stands up and dons his hat.

“Do you want to come in with me to Abba?” comes the question.

And together, we drive to the 45 Rechov Hakablan.

Inside the Inner Sanctum

We enter. As much as I think I know what to expect, I am overwhelmed.

None of the regal rabbinic vestments, not even the trademark glasses: just a small, radiant elderly man in a black sweater, bent over a pile of open seforim. He doesn’t look up as we enter, his brow furrowed in concentration and his hand moving across a page, writing without pause.

What an operation!

To his left sits his longtime scribe, an accomplished talmid chacham named Reb Eliyahu Sheetrit. His job is to accept the teshuvos that the Rav writes, immediately type them up, and hand them back to the Rav. I watch in fascination as he accepts a paper and types it up at once. He places the printed sheet before the Rav, who reads it over, nodding approvingly. It’s ready for print.

To the Rav’s right sits another attendant. If the Rav wants a sefer, it’s this attendant’s job to locate it and bring it. There are more than thirty thousand seforim in the apartment, so it’s no small feat.

When I enter, there is an Imrei Binah in front of the Rav, and just underneath it, a Teshuvos Maharam Shick. Everywhere, there are papers.

Rav David Yosef approaches and his father looks up, greeting him warmly, “Shalom aleichem.” Since Rav David has just returned from abroad, his father asks him how he fared. Rav David briefly updates his father and then launches into his sheilah. The Rav listens and responds immediately, “Muttar.” No explanation. Rav David is prepared, however. “But what about—” The Ravwaves his hand, “It’s different. Here it’s muttar, there it’s not.”

I stand there and watch, awed.

Suddenly Rav David looks up and beckons me over, indicating the chair next to the Rav.

The Ravbegins to bless me, psukim pouring from his lips and onto my bowed head like a healing balm. And then he slaps my cheek. No one has warned me about this, and before I can process what happened, the Ravdelivers a ringing slap to my other cheek.

The people in the room smile. Later, I am told that this means I have found favor in the Rav’s eyes, that it’s a sign of affection.

I ask Rav David what the significance is. He shrugs and laughs. “I don’t know either; I once asked Abba, but he didn’t tell me. But you should know that you’re in good company. People much older and more distinguished than you have gotten ‘makot.’$$separate quotes$$”

Before I leave, I ask members of the Rav’s household about his schedule. The Ravdoesn’t sleep, they tell me. He has no bed, just a recliner, so that he can keep on learning until he dozes off and immediately resume when he arises.

From nine o’clock in the morning until two in the afternoon, he sits in his study, writing, his two faithful attendants at his side. Then he goes to rest, always with a stack of seforim. In the afternoon, he returns to his room and, besides breaking for dinner and tefillos, he sits there until the middle of the night. Then he again sleeps for a few hours, until Shacharis, which is at seven o’clock. Rav Moshe Yosef, the Rav’s youngest son, lives in his father’s apartment and it is his wife, Rabbanit Yehudit, who devotedly prepares the Rav’s meals.

Shacharis is at seven o’clock, and open to the pubic, they tell me. Afterward, people are welcome to line up for brachos. Then, at eight o’clock, Shas chairman Eli Yishai enters, to receive guidance for the day ahead.

What Are You Learning?

In the hours we’ve spent together, Rav David has broken many stereotypes: there’s his personal familiarity with America’s chassidic communities; his down-to-earth response to the Israeli media. Now, as we return to his office, he sets me straight about the seeming attraction that mekubalim have in the Sephardic community.

“That was never our way,” he asserts. “Abba discourages the learning of Kabbalah before one has mastered Shas and the poskim. Often, people, especially recent returnees to Torah life, feel pulled to things above and beyond them, not proportionate to their level. It can be a problem. But it’s not fair to label it as an issue in the Sephardic community.

“Any place where people have a rav, a real connection with a talmid chacham, then their Yahadut is healthy. One of the most beautiful communities we have is the American-Syrian community, a kehillah that keeps growing and reaching new heights in learning, avodah, and chesed. This is because they have rabbanim and have always made those rabbanim the center of their life, following their example.”

Taking on a more personal note, I ask Rav David about his father’s relationship with his own children and grandchildren. What sort of saba is he?

“It’s interesting,” he reflects. “Until Ima passed away, he didn’t really display much emotion in these areas. In recent years, he’s gotten much more involved with the children. On Shabbos, everyone comes up to say good Shabbos and he converses warmly with each one, on their level. Of course,” Rav David laughs, “the conversation revolves about what they learned that week, but he really connects with them. He has a supply of candies in his pocket that he gives the little children.”

This warmer, more personal side of Rav Ovadiah may not be the persona that the public associates with the uncompromising leader. But as Rav David shares another tidbit, he shows me that Rav Ovadiah is a man of heartfelt emotion.

“We are all baalei kriyah — his father was, he is, I am, and so, baruch Hashem, is my son. When my father reads parshiyos in the Torah that are particularly poignant, he begins to cry. Not only at the time of Kriyas HaTorah, but even as he prepares, he will weep as he says the words ‘Yosef einenu,’ Yosef is no more. He breaks down as he reads the story of the eigel, or Yosef’s revelation to his brothers.”

Rav David shares a childhood memory. “Friday night, after the seudah, my father would learn Tanach with all my sisters. The girls would gather around and he would read them stories from the Navi. Once, he started to read David HaMelech’s eulogy for Yonatan. He got choked up, but tried to collect himself and continue. He couldn’t. He closed the sefer and said, ‘I can’t read this on Shabbos.’$$separate quotes$$”

****

As I leave Har Nof, the radio announcer is discussing an upcoming vote in the Knesset. The reporter informs us that Shas representatives say they are waiting for direction from Chacham Ovadiah. In the studio, the experts disagree about what the rabbi will say, and an argument breaks out.

And the person himself? The very man they are discussing, the lone figure at the top? He is likely unaware of the uproar surrounding him, has neither time nor interest in the shows and headlines that will analyze the ensuing tumult. In the morning, just after Shacharis, the Shas delegation will stand before him and he will advise them, issuing rulings the way he issues psak, with confidence.

But until then? He will be sitting at the massive table, traveling a world far from the intrigues of modern Israel, walking with Beit Yosef, with the Chasam Sofer and Pri Megadim, his people.

Until one hundred and twenty years.…

A TREE WITH MANY BRANCHES

Chacham Ovadiah Yosef has merited sons and sons-in-law who are all accomplished talmidei chachamim and who service a wide range of communities.

His oldest son-in-law is Rav Ezra Bar-Shalom, an expert in Choshen Mishpat and a chaver of the Beis Din HaGadol in Tel Aviv. His oldest son is Rav Yaakov Yosef, the rav of Jerusalem’s Givat Moshe neighborhood and the nasi of numerous kollelim. He is close to the Chabad Chassidus.

Rav Avraham Yosef is the Sephardic chief rabbi of Holon. An expert in shechitah and kashrus, he established Badatz Beit Yosef. Rav Yitzchak Yosef is the rosh yeshivah of Chazon Ovadiah and the author of the Yalkut Yosef series of his father’s piskei halachah.

Rav Ovadiah’s twin daughters are married to Rav Mordechai Toledano and Rav Yaakov Chikutai. Rav Toledano is a known gaon, av beis din on the Jerusalem beis din and Rav Yaakov Chikutai is famed for his ahavas Yisrael and ability to address any and every Jew. He serves as rav of the Maccabim-Reut settlement as well as the chief rabbi of Israel’s Labor Federation and police force.

Rav David Yosef is the author of Halachah Berurah and Torat HaMoadim. He is viewed as an emissary of his father, and, as the head of Yechave Da’at institutions, he spends several months each year abroad. Rav Ovadiah’s youngest daughter is married to Rav Aharon Butbul, the rosh yeshivah of Levias Chein and a close talmid of his father-in-law. His youngest son, Rav Moshe Yosef, is a head of the Beit Yosef beis din and has held the kashrus division up to his father’s high standards. He is exceptionally devoted to his father, and he and his family live together with Chacham Ovadiah, watching him vigilantly.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 341)