“Reading Rabbi Emanuel Feldman’s column is akin to enjoying a luscious dessert following a delicious seudah”

Sticking It Out but Struggling [Inbox / Issue 1080]

I’m writing in response to the kollel wife who wrote in to Inbox regarding the high costs of hosting meals in Israel for family and friends. Her letter triggered some emotions that I’ve been holding in for a while.

There’s a well-known stereotype that young American couples who start off in Israel are here on Daddy’s credit card. While that may be true in many cases, for most couples, it isn’t.

While we were dating, my husband mentioned that he wanted to start off in Israel. Not for a honeymoon, but because he felt pulled by the authenticity and purity of living in Hashem’s home. I agreed, not wanting to get in the way of his dreams.

We both come from middle-class families, and while our parents help out, the support we receive doesn’t fully cover the rent of even the most basic old apartment. (It wouldn’t have covered a basement in Lakewood, either.)

So we live frugally. Very frugally. And my family has no idea, because they’re on a different continent.

When we first arrived, I once mentioned to my mother how tight money is for us. Her answer was, “So come back to Lakewood where you can have your husband learn while living comfortably. The kollellim pay a lot, and the office jobs are paying enormous salaries.”

My mother knows it’s true because my sisters are in the same position as I am, working the same jobs (albeit without putting in night hours, while receiving more than double pay for the same work, and getting the same parental support). But their biggest dilemmas seem to be how to spend the week after Pesach — to stay in the Grand Beach or St. Regis, while I debate if I absolutely need to purchase cheese, or can do without.

After that conversation I never mentioned finances to my mother again. I saw how much living here meant to my husband, and I knew my mother was right. If I’d move back, I would have a lot more money. (I know this not just from my sisters, but from my friends as well.)

It’s hard for me when I’m home for bein hazmanim and I see women in the same stage as me (married under five years with less than three kids) returning from an event where the gedolim lauded them for their tremendous mesirus nefesh, and the glow on their faces is matched by the glow from their eternity bands. It makes me wonder why my mesirus nefesh always seems to go unnoticed…

I’m not trying to complain, but to raise awareness for parents of children living in Israel. Of course you owe us zero, and nothing is taken for granted, but if you can’t support us financially, please support us emotionally. You have no idea how much FOMO I have every time you send a photo of all the sisters eating out together, or a family Chanukah or Purim party. I miss you so much and need you, but I know my place right now is in Yerushalayim at my husband’s side.

Name Withheld

Ramat Eshkol

Wrong Cause of Death [Guestlines / Issue 1080]

I read with great amusement Rabbi Plotnik’s essay about the tragic fate of the yeshivah dormitory fish. What a powerful parable! Except, of course, for the tiny detail that the entire moral of the story was exactly backward.

The fish didn’t die because he “got used to filth” and could no longer survive in clean water. He died because you poisoned him. Chlorine kills fish. Always has, always will. Your fish didn’t perish from an “addiction to schmutz”; he perished because you (with good intentions) poured in something you assumed was pure and beneficial, but was in fact toxic.

That’s not a lesson about the soul clinging to sin. It’s a lesson about the danger of mistaking “extra frumkeit,” “chumros,” or the self-congratulating [apparent] clean water of spiritual makeovers for the real thing. Sometimes what you think is teshuvah and uplift is actually chlorine in the bowl. The fish didn’t need more dazzling purity — he needed dechlorinated water, something balanced and life-sustaining.

So yes, by all means, draw a mussar haskel. But let it be the right one: Beware lest the very practices you imagine will make you holier are in fact slowly killing the organism of Jewish life. If you miss that, you’ve learned the wrong lesson — and you’ll keep congratulating yourself on pouring in “clean water” while the fish keep floating belly-up.

Your Fellow Chaver From “6020”

We Matter [He Saw What We Could Be / Issue 1080]

I’m writing this from the perspective of a recent talmid of Yeshivas Bais Yisroel. I had the zechus to be in the yeshivah for four years, the last of which I was in the Rosh Yeshivah’s shiur. At the time, I knew I was in a special environment, but only now — after having been back in America for a few years — do I truly appreciate how fortunate we were.

When I told people I had a shaychus to the Rosh Yeshivah, they looked at me in surprise: “But isn’t he such an adam gadol?” or “I’m in a shiur with 80 people — I don’t think the rebbi even knows me.” He cared about each and every one of us in his shiur. He wore his heart on his sleeve. When we messed up or didn’t take our learning seriously, it hurt him deeply — he took it personally. If we didn’t understand something, it bothered him.

Not everyone liked his style, but when he gave a compliment, you knew he meant it. He beamed with pride in his talmidim. When he yelled that “Torah is zis (sweet),” we believed him — because he lived it and loved it. He was authentic before authenticity was popular. His shiurim and his divrei hisorerus were on fire, and you could feel it in the air.

Although he was a true adam gadol, he also had a sense of humor. He would cut out funny newspaper articles and hang them up outside for us to laugh at. He taught us that there’s a time and place for everything  — sometimes, you have to laugh.

There was a real sense of brotherhood in the yeshivah. The Rosh Yeshivah’s goal was for Bais to be a family where we cared about each other. He believed every word he said. He was a role model, and we are living in a different world now without him.

A friend of mine recently reminded me of a story that truly encapsulates who the Rosh Yeshivah was. During my time in his shiur, we were learning a Gemara in Kiddushin with a phrase that ended at the bottom of one page and continued on the next. The Rosh Yeshivah spent weeks learning the meforshim on this Gemara, so this phrase was drilled into us to the point where we could recite it backward. We didn’t turn the page each time; when we recited the phrase, we’d simply finish the end by heart. But not the Rosh Yeshivah. Each time he learned the Gemara, he’d start, turn the page, and finish the last three words. Then he’d turn the page back to amud aleph to continue his explanation.

He did this multiple times each day, for weeks.

The Rosh Yeshivah cherished every word of his learning, giving each word the kavod it deserved, never slacking or choosing the easy route. These subtleties in his everyday learning are engraved in the hearts and minds of those who were zocheh to witness it. He showed us what real love for Torah is, what real yegiyah is, and what true limud haTorah means.

His message changed my entire perspective on life: Everything we do to add kedushah to the world has an impact. Every word of Torah we learn, every act of chesed, every tefillah — it all makes a difference for us and for Klal Yisrael. And we actually have to believe it.

Y.K.

Passaic, NJ

Soul Food [Second Thoughts / Issue 1080]

Reading Rabbi Emanuel Feldman’s column is akin to enjoying a luscious dessert following a delicious seudah. In a recent issue, he satirizes exotic resorts that offer a mix of luxurious Olam Hazeh hedonism with Olam Haba spirituality to satisfy — l’mehadrin — the schizophrenic cravings of many Orthodox Jews, deeming it “the ancient struggle between body and soul.”

But while pointing out that “to be a successful Jew is to engage in a delicate balance, a lifelong effort to experience the Infinite while being encased in flesh and blood,” Rabbi Feldman cautions that “one may be Orthodox and still not be religious.”

He offers all this wisdom with a light touch and a smidgen of wit. If brevity, as it was famously said, is the soul of wit, Rabbi Feldman’s succinct, delectable dessert of a column is a welcome soupçon of soul food at this time of year.

Michael Kaufman

Jerusalem

Stunning Blend [Face the Music / Issue 1080]

As  the mother of an Anglo family living in Yerushalayim I’ve really enjoyed the recent serial by Blimi Rabinowitz.

I was saddened that Tamar was pigeonholed as the superficial, trendy daughter, with her neediness juxtaposed against Marissa’s quest for truth and simplicity in her own life journey. Because of her own background and black-and-white thinking, Marissa couldn’t appreciate the successful development of a wonderful, sophisticated and multifaceted Big City teen, albeit struggling with her own identity in the difficult teenage social world she lives in.

The angle I felt was missing is that these teens (as I know them) can be and often are multidimensional. They shop like the best of them, but also have outstanding middos, do chesed, and have tremendous yiras Shamayim. They are worldly and savvy, and also so deeply frum in a way that is truly humbling and inspiring to watch.

Personally, I am blown away by my capable, savvy, with-it daughter and her friends, who blend a love for all things trendy and beautiful with a deep internal connection to Yiddishkeit and doing what’s right in the eyes of Hashem.  And while my personal barometer of “enough” in gashmiyus is different than hers (I did “teen” out of town over 30 years ago), she charts her own path in the world she’s growing up in in a stunning blend I wish Marissa would have been able to see and appreciate.

A proud mom of a “Tamar”

Ariella Farkash, LCSW

Holding on to the Memories [Dispatch / Issue 1079]

I really appreciated your article “Almost Too Late,” encouraging people to have their children meet the remaining Holocaust survivors. I am the proud daughter of Hungarian survivors.  My father was born in a small village in Hungary known as Derecske.  The Nazis, yemach shemam, cleared out the countryside first and he was taken with his mother, an almanah, and some married siblings, on the infamous cattle train to Auschwitz.  My father came face to face with Mengele twice, and b’chasdei Hashem lived to write about it in his diary. He had many siblings, but only he and four of his brothers survived, each with their own miraculous story.

My mother was born in Budapest, at the war’s end (she and my father are almost a generation apart) and miraculously lived through the chaos thanks to Raoul Wallenburg, who arranged papers claiming Swedish citizenship and housed them in a building flying the Swedish flag.  Her own birth father was killed on a transport march somewhere in Romania and he never met his daughter, his first child.  My grandmother remarried shortly after the war to a man whose wife and children were murdered, Hashem yikom damam.

My parents met in a way that only Hashem could orchestrate and began life anew with hope for the future, as all the survivors did. Their story was imbibed in my consciousness, and one I carried around with me as if wearing a sweater, even on a warm day. I wouldn’t call it a burden or even cumbersome; it was just always there, a reminder that I was a little different than my American peers and their families.

Sure, we heard stories in school and camp, and I hungrily devoured the books that exploded our Jewish book world in the late ’80s and early ’90s, embracing the connection to my past. But as I grew up, married, and raised a family, this history was put on the back burner.

At some point, and as my own children grew older, I was hit anew by the extent of the devastation of the Shoah — entire communities completely wiped out, family lines severed, and an entire era butchered by evil.

Then came October 7, a cruel reminder that the evil still lurks, waiting for opportunity.  But as horrified as I continue to be by the ongoing fallout of the massacre and the current war, my mind still takes me back to Churban Europa.  I felt this keenly on Tishah B’Av this past year, when so many of the videos and clips shown were about October 7. I felt sad, thinking that perhaps the Holocaust memories are fading like the sepia photographs in Bubby’s old album, accumulating dust on the shelf. And then I read this essay, and the essays by Shmuel Botnick and Rebbetzin Yocheved Goldberg, and in a way, I felt like Rabi Akiva’s colleagues, who said “Nichamtani.” As long as there are people out there who are sharing these stories in a very public way, the memory of our kedoshim, Hashem yikom damam, still lives on, and therein lies the nechamah.

As we navigate the travesty of October 7, we must firmly hold on to the memories of our precious Holocaust survivors, certainly to those who are still with us, and those who are not. I know I will do so by honoring my father, Yaakov Mordechai ben Yitzchok Tzvi a”h,  and yblc”t, my mother, for it is their stories that give us the hope of building a future.

Judy Landman

Glimmer of Hope [Open Mic / Issue 1079]

The article about parental alienation and the power we each have to effect change through self-growth struck a deep chord. I am in a similar situation, although in my case it’s my husband that’s been alienated from me by a therapist I don’t know. My marriage is on the verge of divorce as a result of the corrupt ideas that have been pumped into him for more than a year.

The article gave me a lot of chizuk and validation. Even though I’ve been feeling powerless in my ability to save our marriage, I have worked on myself tremendously. In a small space of time, I’ve grown in so many areas, and I’m continuing to work hard, to be a wife if he b’ezras Hashem comes back, or for a future relationship.

Name Withheld

We Need to Share the Pain [Year in Review / Issue 1079]

Thank you for the interview with Mrs. Ditza Or, mother of Avinatan ben Ditza Tirtza, who was kidnapped two years ago, Hashem yerachem.

The interview highlighted her deep emunah in Hashem’s master plan, which is a lesson for us all; her searing, heart-breaking pain that defies words; and her appreciation of Am Yisrael’s tefillos.

Chazal teach that one of the 48 traits by which Torah is acquired is nosei b’ol im chaveiro (Avos 6:6).

While the pain of the hostages’ families is simply unfathomable, and a gezeirah from Shamayim that defies comprehension, it’s incumbent upon all of Am Yisrael to continue davening for their yeshuah, for the freeing of those who remain alive in captivity, and for the zechus of a Jewish burial for the kedoshim.

Hashem came to Moshe Rabbeinu in a sneh — a thornbush — and not another type of tree to teach us the lesson of “imo anochi b’tzarah” (Rashi, Shemos 3:2). When one Jew suffers, we must all share in their pain, daven for their salvation, and be together with them as much as possible, like one man with one heart (Rashi, Shemos 19:2).

I found it most interesting that in the same issue, one of the shanah tovah cards highlighted in the Special Delivery feature (kudos to Emmy Leah Zitter for a fascinating read), showed three Jews leaving shul. As Emmy Leah wrote, “the three men... all dressed differently: one wears a shtreimel and beketshe, one a top hat and frock coat, one a kasketel and rekel. Three Jews, one shul — a lesson in achdus on a 100-year-old postcard.”

As Rabbi Zev Leff teaches, the year tav-shin-pei-vav has the same letters that spell shutaf, partnership. Rabbi Leff explains that when we partner with each other, Hashem will partner with us, His children, middah k’neged middah, and then send the most-longed-for partner, Mashiach Tzidkainu.

Hopefully, by the time this letter is read, Avinatan ben Ditza Tirtza will be home and have a refuas hanefesh v’haguf, along with the other hostages.

Michal Horowitz

Woodmere, NY

Who Is Old? [Second Thoughts / Issue 1079]

As one who has attained senior citizenhood, Rabbi Feldman’s ruminations about the words, “Cast us not off when we grow old,” struck a responsive chord for me. The words, however, might not mean what they appear to mean.

In his commentary on Tehillim 71:9, the verse upon which this stitch of prayer is based, Rashi interprets the term “old age” as a reference to repeat sinful behavior. Understood in this manner, the sense of the plea to our Maker is: “Although we have become accustomed to our sinful ways, do not abandon us.” It is noteworthy that Rashi, the champion of pshat (the plain meaning of the Scripture), deviates from pshat in his interpretation of this verse. It would seem that in Rashi’s worldview, the deleterious effects of bad habits are more concerning than the infirmities of physical old age. From this perspective, perhaps teenagers should be reciting this prayer with more fervor than octogenarians!

Israel Schneider

Wickliffe, OH

Who Needs Who? [Inbox \ Issue 1077]

I’d like to respond to the letter writer who advised relatives in difficult financial straits to simply reach out to their wealthier relatives and ask for help.  I believe you may have misunderstood the essence of the discussion.

You suggested that struggling relatives “need” their wealthy family’s help and simply lack the nerve to ask — as if they should line up like any other meshulach. That is a mistaken view. The poor do not “need” their relatives; Hashem provides for them and places them in their circumstances. The truth is the opposite: It is the wealthy who need the poor. Hashem entrusted them with resources meant for specific destinations, and if they fail to fulfill that mission, they are the ones lacking.

The burden is not on the receiving party, but on the giving party. The wealthy must be reminded of their obligations. They, in effect, should be “knocking on our doors” — with sensitivity and thoughtfulness — and giving in ways that preserve dignity. At times, this may even mean making the recipient feel he is doing them a favor, which, in halachah, he truly is. A benefactor might, for example, say, “I invested a small amount in your name, and it grew, so you’ll be receiving dividends.” Halachah provides many such dignified frameworks.

That is why I will not engage with the “solution” you proposed — because it addresses the wrong side entirely. This was never about struggling relatives figuring out how to receive, but about the wealthy remembering how to give.

Name Withheld

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1082)