I pushed my way through and yelled, “Baruch Hashem you found him!”

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. His parents were concerned that he was going to get into more serious trouble than getting beat up by the Border Police for putting up caravans on the hills of the Shomron. And they were right to worry. Part II

I had discussed an idea with Mr. Rosenberg to perhaps have his son meet with Avi, a more practical and less-intense settler figure who has a hilltop farm and is a mentor to many boys like Yechezkel.

Sometimes for adolescents who are a bit lost, these “uncle” figures are way better than therapists. The extra versatility and the lack of associated stigma can facilitate a positive relationship and help to get these kids back on a safe and productive path toward adulthood.

But Yechezkel was busy conquering the land, one hilltop at a time, and between frequent arrests, detentions, and new efforts to build caravan communities, there wasn’t any time to make it happen. That, and the fact that he simply wasn’t interested in any suggestions from his parents, made for a bad combination when it came to trying to set up an introductory meeting.

The weeks became months, I was busy with other clients and public health issues, and Mr. Rosenberg pretty much dropped out of contact.

One evening during this stretch, I was thrilled to get a message from my friend Eliyahu, a social worker and colleague in the area who’s spent a decade-plus working with at-risk youth. He called to tell me that that Kever Calev ben Yefunah and Kever Yehoshua bin Nun — both located in the Samarian village of Kifl Chares (called Timnat Cheres in Sefer Yehoshua), were open for the public that night.

“Come on, Yaakov, you love going to kivrei tzaddikim and you’ve never been,” Eliyahu told me. “I’ll pick you up, and if we get there by 10 p.m. when the army opens it up, we’ll even be home by 1 a.m. for you to get enough sleep in before your early morning.”

I shuddered at the idea of getting four hours of sleep, but Eliyahu was right, this did sound like a special opportunity.

I put together a bottle of water and a sefer Tehillim and put on some warm clothes. As a native Israeli and a fiery neshamah, Eliyahu had been a multi-decade regular by kivrei tzaddikim hidden away in Arab villages.

By the time we arrived and parked our car, the party had already started. Na Nach Trucks were blasting Yiddishe techno music and a few soldiers nearby were also adorned in white kippahs — gifts for their hard work. A number of prominent settler leaders were speaking with a group of politicians from Shas by the entrance to the village.

The army had done their hishtadlus and soldiers lined the route in through the village, the Arab houses on the street shuttered as part of securing the area. As Eli and I walked through the village, the smell was noxious — it was clear that the locals had left their trash out to rot in efforts to ruin the collective simchah. But not even the Hamas flags waving on the streetlamps in the night wind could stop us from dancing with the yeshivah bochurim who’d come from such varied places as Mir, Porat Yosef, and dozens of other batei medrash in order to visit our ancestral heroes.

The kever of Calev — who, along with Yehoshua, were the only two Spies to give an encouraging report and try to convince Bnei Yisrael that with Hashem fighting their battles they could conquer Eretz Yisrael — was a small, white-domed building covered in Arabic graffiti. A bit of friendly pushing and shoving brought Eliyahu and me straight in and while the smell was an intense mix of trash from the Arabs and sweat from my fellow Yidden, it was a beautiful place to be squished in tight. There were chareidim, chardalim, chassidim, big and little kippot serugot, and even a secular Russian-Jewish politician who was flanked by two security guards as we all davened together.

As we exited the kever, I was surprised to see a familiar face — Yechezkel Rosenberg — pushing and shoving to get in. I winked at him discreetly and received a surprised smile in return as we passed each other.

Eliyahu and I moved on toward the kever of Yehoshua bin Nun and found the surrounding area packed with a thousand men dancing, as a famous Mizrachi pop singer belted out his hits from the roof of a Na Nach truck parked to the side. Chabadnikim handed out cookies and cholent to the soldiers, while a chassidishe rebbe walked toward the kever alongside a prominent Sephardi mekubal, both of them preparing their tefillos and surrounded by official and unofficial chassidim trying to get brachos.

Again Eliyahu and I waited our turn, and I was zocheh to squeeze my way into the kever next to a pair of Yemenite brothers who were talking about how they needed a brachah for their sister’s daughter that she should have a refuah sheleimah. If you’re an avid van of Lag B’omer in Meron, you’d definitely connect.

Eliyahu and I recited our tefillos and bakashos, and then walked back through the throngs of our brothers on the streets of the Arab village. As we neared the exit, I saw a familiar face among a group of young bochurim with wild peyos and huge knit yarmulkes, ripping Hamas flags down from the light posts. Eliyahu and I found the scene mildly entertaining, but the situation quickly became more unpleasant as a soldier on duty began to yell.

The bochurim began to yell back and before long, there were ten soldiers chasing after the kids who had definitely done something illegal and dispersed easily into the crowd. Eliyahu was looking on and even wished the youth a yasher koach, but I was watching closely as two soldiers a dozen yards ahead of me grabbed one of the bochurim and smushed his face into the ground. I threw Eliyahu my bag and ran forward as a crowd gathered, yelling at the soldiers to let the kid up — which only seemed to make things worse.

I pushed my way through and yelled, “Baruch Hashem you found him!”

The soldier who was busy pushing everyone away as his colleague stood with a knee in Yechezkel’s back looked at me with amusement and shoved me backward.

I made it clear that while I wasn’t looking for a fight, I wouldn’t be easily deterred.

“Please get your hands off of my patient,” I said calmly, identifying myself as a local physician, and reiterated that I’d been looking for this boy.

“You know this kid?”

“Ask him,” I replied.

This prompted the two soldiers to confer and to release their restraint on Yechezkel just enough to allow him to look up at me.

“He says he’s your doctor, what, he’s your shrink or something?” they asked Yechezkel, who gazed up at me about as shocked as he could have been given the circumstances.

“Is he? Is he your doctor?” they asked him again.

I flashed my identification once more and said, “I take complete responsibility for my patient. Let him go and I’ll bring him home.”

And to my surprise, the soldier kneeling on Yechezkel stood up and shoved him toward me before grunting, “Get him out of here, we have work to do.”

To be continued…

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 845)