A Call for Dignity

After several years in kollel, Rav Moshe was pulled into chinuch. Shaare Torah was the first Orthodox school in Flatbush’s Syrian community, and it started with a ninth grade class. The next year, they hired Rav Moshe to teach tenth grade.

Once the classroom door closed behind him, the man of silence found words, mesmerizing a generation of Sephardic teenagers. There his sense of humor came forth — he could be quirky and creative and warm.

In that classroom, they learned that a talmid chacham was a prince.

He didn’t need to urge discipline, because his very presence was a call for dignity and respect. He didn’t need to tell them what Torah is, because they saw the shine in his eyes. He didn’t need to speak of middos, because that was just how he lived.

He was never overtaken by the petty politics that can sometimes creep into large mosdos. At one point in his teaching career, an activist with some influence within the school undermined some of the staff members. One of the younger rebbeim asked Rav Moshe how he was going to deal with this individual.

Reb Moshe smiled. “I will treat him like a king,” he said. That was his mission statement: respect and dignity, always, with all people.

His children recall being in the car with him when there was loud honking. A fearful-looking man driving a beat-up pickup truck felt that Reb Moshe had cut him off, and he began to follow the Kuessouses’ car, honking and shouting through his open window. Reb Moshe continued on his way, pulling in to the supermarket parking lot as planned, and the second car followed close by, parking in the next spot.

Unintimidated, Reb Moshe got out of his car and his children watched, wide-eyed with worry, as their father calmly opened the door. The second driver jumped out of his car, eyes wild and arms waving as he issued a flood of expletives.

Reb Moshe approached him, tranquil and poised as usual. “There are children in the car, we don’t talk that way,” he said in his rebbi voice to the other man, who shrunk back and quickly left.

The shul in which the family often davened was next door to their Deal home, just across the backyard. But even as the Kuessous children would return home by cutting across the backyard, their father would walk around the block, taking the long route rather than crossing the backyard: He would always enter through the front door of the house.

In his final months, he was so weak one Shabbos that he had to leave shul before Mussaf, He made his way slowly, painstakingly, back home. He was being helped by a friend, who led him through the backyard — but as they reached the rear entrance of the house, Rav Moshe stopped, then pulled himself up the driveway to the front of the house, unable — unwilling — to forfeit an ounce of dignity.

The quiet strength was visible in other ways, even if it wasn’t a subject of discussion. He would stand in the kitchen after a fast day, waiting for water to boil, and his wife would ask him to come eat. “I’ll make you a coffee when the water’s ready. In the meantime come join everyone else at the table and break your fast,” she would urge him. He would thank her and say, “Yes, I’m coming right away, sure.”

As the children grew older, they started to realize that their father was waging a perpetual war, not ready to let his body dictate where he should be, or when. He would wait a bit longer to break his fast, a smile playing on his lips as he stood there, pretending to be busy with his coffee.

Elevated Dreams

True to the vision of the Deal Kollel’s founders, Rabbi and Mrs. Kuessous built a family that would show the grandeur and beauty of a Torah home, giving so many others elevated dreams.

It was a large family, bli ayin hara, the Kuessous family showing that with love and determination, parents could fill the needs of 13 children.

Then came the twins, numbers 14 and15. Two sweet, beautiful, little girls, Nechama and Batya.

Two sweet, beautiful, little girls with Down syndrome.

It wasn’t the simplest time. But this nisayon too, he approached as a “lamdan,” studying, examining, probing the opportunity he and his wife had been given.

The community rallied around the beloved family, and among the high school girls who volunteered to help out was 15-year-old Jenine Cohen, who spent hours in the Kuessous home.

Jenine, who, inspired by what she saw in the Kuessous home, would go on to found the Special Children’s Center and marry music superstar Yaakov Shwekey, remembers those months.

“Rabbi Kuessous, Mrs. Kuessous, they had this way of impacting you that went beyond words. They didn’t preach, but you just felt elevated around them. Until I was exposed to Rabbi Kuessous, I knew of two sorts of tzaddikim: the dynamic ones, the great teachers, and the self-effacing, reticent ones. He showed me a third type — a tzaddik who was quiet and humble, but who radiated such power and dynamism.”

Rabbi Kuessous had a magnificent handwriting, and he would write thank-you notes to the girls who came through his house. “He would express hakaras hatov in a way that inspired you to keep going. His compliments weren’t dry — they could carry you for a thousand miles,” remembers Jenine Shwekey.

The notes, though, weren’t only reserved for these altruistic teenagers.

At one point his son was suspended from yeshivah: Rev Moshe said nothing, but the next morning, before heading out to Brooklyn, he penned a note.

To my dear son,

I received a phone call from your principal with the unfortunate news of your suspension tomorrow…. I had thought that you had worked things out…. I was pleased to hear from the principal that things were improving. You must have a problem controlling yourself. I see it’s not easy for you. 

Although I not pleased with your behavior, I am encouraged that there has been progress. You should look at this as it really is. In the words of the Mesilas Yesharim, “Everything in life is a test!” I hope you can take this day as a day of self-examination. I hope you see it as a chance to bounce back, as the pasuk says, “Ki nafalti kamti, I fell, so now I get up.”

I know you are capable — you have been doing so nicely until now. Mommy and me are really proud of you. Don’t let this get in the way of your progress. Let’s put it behind you. I want you to grow from this. Put in your mind that, no matter what, derech eretz must remain “ikkar,” never go against proper middos! We know you can do it!

I didn’t want to face you because I knew you were embarrassed, so I wrote you this letter. Please call me tomorrow on my cell and tell me what you think, ok?

Love you always,

Daddy

Along with the note was a 20-dollar bill, a significant amount of money by the family’s standards.

Rabbi Kuessous didn’t use a million words to articulate his love for his children, but he had the gift of timing: He knew precisely what to say and when to say it, so that they felt encircled by his love, always.

Yaakov Shwekey would become like a son-in-law to the family, and when his musical career started to take off, Rabbi Kuessous would speak of the power of music and the potential to reach neshamos.

One Shabbos, he called Yaakov in to his study and showed him the words of the Vilna Gaon about the potent love which HaKadosh Boruch Hu has for every Jew, “More than a father loves his son.”

“Go out, travel, reach audiences, and tell them how much Hashem loves them,” the rabbi said. The words would become a song, (“HaKadosh Boruch Hu,” Libi Bamizrach, 2010), two of the rabbi’s sentences living on in their own way.

In notes of his father’s chidushei Torah found after the petirah, one of the Kuessous boys found a speech his father had prepared for his oldest child’s sheva brachos.

It was an emotional time, not long after the birth of the twins, days after the wedding of the Kuessouses’ firstborn. The sheva brachos was being hosted by the Deal Kollel — the band of brothers with whom Rav Moshe had grown and developed — and it was attended by members of a community that had stood by the family during a challenging few months.

In his notes, Rav Moshe outlines some words of gratitude to the kehillah, then makes a short note to himself.

“Pull yourself together.”

He understood that when he expressed his hakaras hatov, he would probably cry — and losing control wasn’t an option for him, so he noted the danger zone, prepared himself, and wrote instructions.

It’s All the Same

Then came that last chapter, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hide what was inside him anymore.

There’s a joke which Rabbi Kuessous read in one of Rabbi Frand’s books, and loved to repeat.

It’s about a man, desperate to be an actor, who is finally given a minor role in a play. His part involved standing on stage, and when a cannon would go off, he was to square his shoulders and shout, “Hark, I hear a cannon roar!”

For weeks, he practiced the words again and again: This would be his acting debut and he would shine. ‘Hark, I hear a cannon roar!”

Finally, it was opening night, and the actor proudly arrived at the theater, ready to shine. The scene arrived, and as he stood on stage, the cannon exploded, on cue.

Frightened, he opened his mouth and burst out, “What in the world was that?”

We are all on stage, waiting for the cue to play our role. But when it arrives, sometimes it turns out that ready as we were in theory, we had never adapted to reality.

Rabbi Kuessous had struggled to understand after the twins were born, and then reached the level of clarity in emunah: He was determined to be ready when the cannon would roar next.

He was at the peak of his chinuch career, having been promoted to menahel at Shaare Torah, a revered figure in the Syrian community, with hundreds of talmidim consulting with him. Along with the shiurim within yeshivah, he was giving shiurim over Shabbos in Deal as well. He’d been feeling unwell, and some routine testing had led to the most dreaded conclusion of all.

He got the diagnosis in school. He finished the teaching day, then headed home to Deal. The house was already filled with people when he walked through the door, but he didn’t stop to greet them. He told his wife he needed a few minutes and left the house. A friend spotted him in shul, sitting by himself, lost in thought. He came home again for the second time a while later and smiled at his family. “Why is everyone crying? The Eibeshter is very big,” he said.

He would lose weight and get thin and be in so much pain. In time, all he’d have left would be his incredible inner strength.-

A few months after the diagnosis, there was more bad news. The cancer had metastasized. The doctor came in to share the information. There was someone visiting, and the doctor asked for privacy with the patient. The doctor spoke with him, then left the room as the visitor returned, continuing the chinuch conversation they’d been having.

His son headed toward the door, and Reb Moshe immediately understood his son was going to call the rebbetzin. Reb Moshe stopped him with his eyes. “Be smart with your words,” he said.

The emotional wellbeing of his family would become a priority over the remaining months.

One night, a friend called the hospital when the rabbi was in intense pain. “You don’t sound so good,” the friend remarked, and Rabbi Kuessous snapped to attention. “Really? Is there something in my voice that indicates I’m in pain?” he asked, distraught at the thought that his family might hear it too. “If you heard it, please don’t tell my wife.”

In terrible pain, he ended up in the emergency room at a sub-standard hospital early one morning. The facility was dirty and overcrowded, and he sat waiting in a hallway for hours. Hospital rules are that once a patient is signed in, they cannot take any pain medications until they are seen by a doctor, so he was in agony as he waited for most of the day. Late in the afternoon, a nurse walked by and he asked, not unpleasantly, “Maybe we can get some help here? We’re here since seven o’clock this morning, waiting to be seen!”

The nurse nodded and walked away and a look of pure distress crossed the rabbi’s face. “I blew it,” he told his son, “it has no shaychus to her, the Ribbono shel Olam is in charge, and I spoke to her as if she’s the source of my pain. I blew it!”

Another time, near the end, a nurse came to administer pain medication to Reb Moshe. The nurse started to list off the various details and warnings, and Rav Moshe, in too much pain to even lift up his head, couldn’t respond. Thinking he hadn’t heard her, she started the little speech from the beginning and Reb Moshe’s son interrupted, “Please, just give my father his medication, he’s in pain.”

Rabbi Kuessous found the strength to look up and peer into the eyes of his son. He couldn’t speak, but he’d sent the message: He expected courtesy, respect and perfect middos, whatever else was going on.

His son-in-law accompanied him from Deal to Manhattan one afternoon, every bump along the highway sending Rabbi Kuessous into spasms of pain. They reached the hospital, and Reb Moshe handed a few bills to his son-in-law. “The boys from Hatzolah haven’t eaten dinner, and they shouldn’t have to wait until they get back to Deal. Please make sure they go buy themselves something to eat.”

During that period, a respected older rav and mentor came to visit Rav Moshe. “You should ask the hospital to set up the screen for you and watch Charlie Chaplin,” he advised the patient, “it’s easy laughter and will give you some relief from the pain.”

Rav Moshe nodded politely and said nothing.

And his son remembers watching the scene and thinking, If you can suggest that to my father, you have no idea who he is anymore… he’s so beyond that, living in such a different reality!

And Rav Moshe continued to soar.

He was at a gathering of special-needs parents during that period, and he spoke, quietly, purposefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this in front of my wife and children, perhaps it’s insensitive, but I assume you’ll understand what I’m saying. A sick man must speak truth, and the truth is that these last few months have been among the meaningful months of my life, because I feel a real dveykus to Hashem. I am in His Hands, living by His will, and I’ve never been more aware of it: That’s a very happy place to be.”

There was a phrase he often repeated to his visiting children. “It’s all the same,” he would whisper with his limited strength. There is but one realm, that of Hashem’s will.

“Chasdei Hashem,” he would repeat when the pain was its worst, “Hashem is so good, allowing me complete kapparat avonot while I’m still here.”

One afternoon, an emergency room nurse made her way down the crowded hallway and offered a trite, “How are we doing today?” to the rabbi and his devoted wife.

“We are doing very well,” said Rabbi Kuessous, emphasizing each word.

A few minutes later, the nurse made her way back to where they were seated, clearly irritated.

“Earlier, you said you were doing very well. That can’t be true. It just cannot be true, look at you.”

Rabbi Kuessous nodded. “It’s entirely true. We are doing very well.”

She walked away, shaking her head, knowing he meant what he’d said, and that this was something she could not understand. At Seudah Shlishis that week, he looked around the hospital room and uncharacteristically spoke about the exchange. “They see good and bad, and we see only Hashem’s will. To us, it’s all good.”

He would not let the pain overtake him. He didn’t complain and he certainly didn’t cry.

Except once. Just once did his children see tears coursing down his face.

It was when one of his sons delivered a chaburah in yeshivah, and sent a recording to his father. Rav Moshe listened to the chaburah on the way to the hospital, and then he cried.

The end came so quickly.

He was in the hospital, then he had a bad night and another, and early one morning, in the predawn hours, the family was called.

24 Adar, 2011. The closest friends were there as well.

Rav Shlomo Diamond, the rosh kollel in the Deal Kollel, the one who’d brought the Kuessouses to the town, came in. “It was a good idea to come to Deal after all, no?” the rosh kollel gently asked, and Rav Moshe smiled in response — a shared moment between two close friends who’d partnered on so many holy ventures.

Rabbi Dovid Ozeri said “Ana” with him (Vidui, in Sephardic lexicon), and Rav Moshe stopped after each word, as if immersing himself in its essence, purifying himself on the final day. Rabbi Ozeri, worried that they would lose Rav Moshe before the vidui was complete, prodded the patient along, but Rav Moshe wouldn’t be rushed. Bagadnu, bagadnu, bagadnu he repeated each word again and again, so that his teshuvah was perfect. The next day, at the levayah, Rav Ozeri would cry, “Rav Moshe didn’t just teach us how to live, but how to die!”

His brother, Rabbi Amram (Armo) was there, and Rabbi Kuessous had two words for the man who was filling his role at Shaare Torah, “role model, role model, role model,” he repeated: It was his chinuch mission statement, the way he felt a rebbi could be most effective. Live in a way that makes talmidim want to be like you.

Yaakov and Jenine Shwekey were there, and there was song. “Chamol.” “Racheim.” “Mameh Rochel.”

Into that elevated little island, a sterile room filled with dveykus and light, children came, one after another.

Reb Moshe could barely speak, but with his eyes, he blessed them, parted from them, injected them with chizuk.

He turned to his wife, and then faced them all, summoning up his last bit of strength to give one final message.

There was the slight smile, and then he cried out, “Ein od milvado. Hashem is good. Hashem is good.” Then, one last time, almost a roar. “Hashem is good!”

The Secret

The funeral was emblematic of the man: powerful, but with little noise.

Even for a famously close-knit community, the crowd was unexpected, former students and families from all walks of life crowding the Syrian shul in Flatbush, the pain of bereaved children on so many faces.

But unaccountably, the sound system didn’t really work, so just as he’d lived with few words, Rabbi Kuessous left the same way. But were words really necessary?

Everyone there knew his secret. Those last few months, he’d been too weak to hide it.

And its power had touched them all.

The man of power and silence was gone, just 59 years old, but with his passing, he’d left a legacy, a path, the battle cry of the strongest of all.

Hashem is good. Hashem is good. Hashem is good.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 754)