Up on the porch of our rental, I see the mountains. A thousand tiny abodes growing out of the hills like glittering flowers. A brilliant haze.

The air swirls dust and sand. It’s a different kind of land. A tiny land in the Middle East that our forefathers fought for, yearned for. It’s clear why they, the couples, anyone, comes from afar, even if I know they’re not all shteiging. So some of them are just here for the year, to stroll down the hills with their wives and beautiful babies, everything glittery. Why do I care?

I don’t know why I continue to wonder. Our children aren’t yet old enough to ask probing questions, how to reconcile worlds isn’t something we have to do anytime soon. And an idealist doesn’t ask questions.

And then, it’s our last Shabbos. Sheva brachos are over, we’re making Shabbos alone.

I rummage around in the apartment we’re subletting from a young couple who have gone to America for the summer.

I bentsh licht in their candlesticks. The kids go play, I go get a siddur from the bookcase, and see it, suddenly. Empty shelves, the gaps and spaces. There’s so little this couple has. A siddur, a Tehillim, an odd assortment of seforim. On the bottom shelf are the Gemaras. Not the full set that a chassan typically gets; an eclectic collection, big and small, presumably just the ones the man of the house is learning. How old is he, 24? Maybe 26.

In one of the Gemaras, I see some note paper. I don’t know if I should, but I pull it out.

It’s a bundle of papers; tiny, beautiful penmanship. Pages upon pages of the young man’s writing. I skim the text — it’s his explanations and thoughts on what he’s learning.

Intermittently there’s the name of the rav who gave the shiur, some pages of mekoros, but mostly it’s his own writing, page after tightly-packed page.

Orange light filters in through the window, onto the paper, and there’s something there. You can feel how seriously this yungerman takes his learning.

Slowly I put the pages back. Put the Gemara back. There’s more note paper sticking out of other Gemaras. I take out another bundle and stare at the tiny script until the sun disappears and I’m blinking tears.

There’s a lot going on outside, so many things, so much peer pressure, a glitzy world just beyond the little homes.

But inside them, inside this one, there’s a young man who fills his bookshelf with light. Someone with two babies who toils in Torah far from home. Even in 2021, even after everything.

I’m not a cynic. Life’s just had a whirl at my idealism. But I know then that the real deal exists. In this small apartment in a development colossus, here with the marble floors and brand-new furnishings and a little bit of sacrifice, when you look up close. Over here, a talmid chacham is growing.

And I know that there are more. In hundreds of other 50-square-meter apartments, deep inside, Torah really is at the core.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 742)