A Land that Sparks the Spirit 

Pulga 

Himachal Pradesh

As trite as it sounds, when you stand wrapped in tallis and tefillin and say, “Hodu l’Hashem kiru bi’Shemo” on the grounds of India — Hodu — the words resonate in a very different way than in a heimish neighborhood shul. Where else in the world can you see such a stark contrast between Hashem’s handiwork — the soaring mountain peaks and vast swathes of verdant forest — and the misery and squalor to which human civilization can descend?

Aleinu takes on heightened significance here, too: In this country where bronze figurines are still worshipped, you can literally see people bowing to a god that cannot offer salvation, while we, in contrast, bow and prostrate ourselves to the King of kings.

Maybe that’s why India has earned a reputation for sparking spiritual journeys among young Jews. Here, amid the craggy mountains, picturesque wooden huts, rushing rivers, and intimidating hiking trails, in a land of raw realities very distant from the constant buzz of high tech and modernity, many estranged Jewish children strip away the layers of distraction and denial separating them from their Father.

And that’s why Moshe Sagir and his wife Rumiya have made their home in Pulga — a tiny, remote village in India’s Parvati Valley that can’t even be reached by car. In this structure built into the mountain slope, they’ve created a haven for Israeli backpackers seeking to escape it all, and perhaps to find their true selves in the process.

Reb Moshe shows us around his house, which is part of a network of similar havens, all under the umbrella of Bayit Hayehudi-Ruach Acheret. There’s a miniscule kitchen with huge pots, and a dining room behind it. In keeping with local custom, the Sagirs don’t have any formal tables and chairs — instead, rugs and mattresses run along the length of the room, and the food is set in the center.

Two Israeli hikers have painted the eastern wall to look like Jerusalem. It’s part of the general approach here, we learn: If you can cook, you’re invited into the kitchen. If you play guitar, we have a kumzitz for you to join. Enjoy painting? Here’s a wall to decorate. The shluchim, the Sagir family, are the parents of this house. Loving parents who don’t apply too much pressure. They just offer warmth and lots of love.

But how and why did they set up house here? How does a nice Jewish family land up in this remote hole-in-the-wall in northern India? What could they possibly be looking for in the primitive village of Pulga?

The story of this Indian haven begins with a man named Rabbi Raphael Katz, whose personal history can fill an article of its own. His early years were very average and mainstream. He was a good boy, an alumnus of mainstream litvish yeshivos who excelled in his learning. But something inside him thirsted for more. Today, he can name that feeling. But at the time, all he had was a vague sense that there had to be a much deeper significance to all his learning and davening.

He found it in the Torah of Rav Nachman of Breslov, and even discovered that he was a descendent of the founder of chassidus, the holy Baal Shem Tov.

And his life changed.

At first, he kept it all very understated. He joined a famous outreach organization in an attempt to share his newfound light with other Jews. He saw some success, but sensed that there had to be a way to reach estranged Jews on a deeper level. And then an incident at one kiruv seminar really shook him.

The standard Israeli kiruv seminar follows a certain format. After days of total immersion in lectures, presentations, and spirited conversation, there’s a session where the participants stand up, one by one, and describe how they’ve been impacted by the seminar. It’s supposed to be the emotional pinnacle of the event. But at that particular seminar, a young high-tech professional stood up and began to say the most horrible things.

“Listen, people,” he began, “I want you to know that after this week, I will spend the rest of my life hating you.”

The rabbanim were stunned. “Until I met you,” he continued, “my life was more or less pretty good. Everything was cruising along. And then I came to this seminar. And after a week of presentations and lectures, you succeeded. You’ve pushed me into a corner and proven to me that I live a life of lies. I concede — you won. There is a G-d, Torah is true, the mitzvos are real, and everything I live for is fake.

“I have just one problem: There’s no way I can live according to Torah, and I have no intention of being chozer b’teshuvah. So from today on, every morning, I will get up and look at myself in the mirror, and because of you, I’ll know that I’ve woken up to another day of lies. That my entire existence is a lie. But I won’t have any way to change it.

“That’s why I hate you, and that’s why I curse the day I decided to attend your seminar,” he said bitterly. “You destroyed my life.”

The event continued. The moderator asked the next participant to take the mic, and he spoke positively and movingly of the lectures. But Rabbi Katz could not forget what he had heard.

“I sat there on the side and realized we had a problem,” he said. “If a Jew who had discovered the truth reacted this way, it means we’ve failed. We focused only on proving the truth of Judaism. But we weren’t able to convey the hidden light, the sweet taste and the delightful Olam Hazeh enjoyed by a Jew who lives in accordance with the Torah. For me, that felt like a resounding failure.”

As a Breslover, this failure hurt even more. “The Rebbe’s Torah teaches that HaKadosh Baruch Hu turns to each Jew wherever he is, whatever his spiritual level and specific circumstances,” he explains. “No matter where a Jew is situated, the Torah is perfectly suited to his soul.”

Rabbi Katz decided to develop a new approach to reach seeking Jews — one that eschewed philosophical discussions or sophisticated proofs, and instead spoke to the soul. In retrospect, the speech by that high-tech worker was one of the pivotal moments that led to the opening of Bayit Hayehudi-Ruach Acheret.

He doesn’t call his movement a kiruv organization. He prefers the term “healing.”

“We don’t categorize Jews as ‘close’ or ‘far,’ ” he explains. “All we know is that there’s a neshamah that needs to be healed. There isn’t a single Jew who doesn’t need the healing prescribed by our Rebbe, Rebbe Nachman. Every soul needs a bit of healing, including mine and yours.”

Rabbi Katz’s “healing empire” has been operating for 20 years, and it has built a track record of appealing to a wide spectrum of Jews who attend workshops or find shelter in safehouses: from the kibbutznik who never heard anything about Yiddishkeit to the yeshivah bochur who’s feeling confused to the struggling divorcee to the prominent balabos undergoing a severe midlife crisis.

“There’s a very simple test to determine whether our kiruv method has succeeded,” he explains. “Do those who came closer feel like we ‘destroyed their lives,’ or the opposite? I’m happy to report that thousands of shomrei Torah and mitzvos around the world declare loud and clear that we’ve helped them discover the light and joy in their lives.”

The success of his movement led Rabbi Katz to construct satellite Bayit Hayehudi homes in the most remote locations on the globe. And our desire to see that success story play out in real-time is what led us to the isolated and jaw-dropping beauty of India’s Parvati Valley, to the primitive village of Pulga.

Along the Hummus Trail

Don’t try to find Pulga on the map, even with a microscope.

As a rule, it’s not advisable to look for anything on a map of India. It’s a republic divided into 28 states, each one of them a few times the size of modern-day Israel, and each state is further divided into districts.

One of the northernmost states in this endless expanse, located almost at the Chinese-Nepalese border, is called Himachal Pradesh. In Sanskrit language, these words mean “land of the snow mountains.”

Nestled in this very raw expanse is the Parvati Valley. It’s shaped like a horseshoe, with three walls of tall mountains that meet the clouds, and a huge valley in the middle, with a rushing river flowing through it. The length of the valley is dotted with tiny villages.

Tourist guidebooks explain that “people come to the villages in the Parvati Mountains to enjoy the breathtaking scenery, the heady silence, and the raw nature. You will find yourselves walking a lot on foot, hiking many mountains and valleys, discovering charming nooks in remote towns and bathing in hot springs.”

But the Israelis who frequent this area in such large numbers that it’s become known as the “Hummus Trail” seek more than scenery or silence. Speak to the clusters of Hebrew-speaking hikers filling the Parvati Valley’s cafes, hostels, and trails, and you’ll find a strange mixture of bravado and vulnerability. Ostensibly, they’re here in India for a well-deserved break after their army service. But many are fighting terrible pain. Here amid the raw mountain vistas, they’re looking for an escape, and hoping to find inner peace.

We get our first taste of that quest when we join the crowd milling about on the balcony, waiting for breakfast to be served. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn around and recoil. He’s a walking stereotype: the Israeli backpacker whose body ripples with tattoos and whose ears and eyebrows display earrings in every possible spot.

“Excuse me,” he says, “aren’t you Growise from Mishpacha? Isn’t your friend over there Aharon Kliger? Is that possible?”

It hits me hard. This boy is one of ours, the product of an upstanding chareidi cheder and yeshivah ketanah. It takes just a few moments of conversation for me to identify his distinguished family tree. The greater the yichus, the greater the pain when one of the apples falls so far from the tree that it rolls all the way to the Himalayas. Tragically, his is not the only neshamah that has strayed this far.

When we sit down to talk to him and a few friends who look much like him —  many from similar backgrounds — it all becomes clearer. “Here in India,” one of them says, “people keep things short — they get straight to the point.”

Maybe it’s the pristine mountain air that strips away the layers of confusion and distraction, leaving an exposed core. Maybe it’s the distance from home. Whatever the cause, Rabbi Katz told us that over the years he’s been involved in kiruv, he has interviewed hundreds of spiritual seekers who made the decision to explore the riches of Torah and mitzvos. “When I asked, ‘What was the moment you decided to go out and look for the truth?’ a very high percentages of these seekers answered, ‘on the trip.’ ”

“The tiyul,” or the trip, is a code name for one of the more fraught times in the life of a young Israeli. After finishing their compulsory army service, many of these youngsters take long trips to exotic locations and challenging hiking destinations around the world. There, as far from home as can be, their Jewish spark begins to flicker.

“The more I researched this trend,” Reb Raphael told me, “the more stunning I found it. Based on Foreign Ministry figures, tens of thousands of Israelis are making trips to the Far East and South America every year. It’s an intense time for them, coming on the heels of their rigorous army service.

“On one hand, they’re looking to escape the past, and on the other hand, they’re wondering about their future. A large percentage experiment with dangerous substances and are exposed to physical and spiritual dangers. Many incur irreversible harm on this trip. But something about the environment seems to make them more receptive to the pursuit of real meaning.”

That gave Rabbi Katz an idea: “Instead of waiting for them to get back to Israel and hoping that they muster up the courage to find some sort of kiruv seminar or other source of Torah learning, I realized we had a golden opportunity to find them there, during the tiyul itself.”

And what happened next is what he calls in Breslov lingo, “gilgulim of Hashgachah, menios and he’aros [literally, incarnations of Divine Providence, obstacles, and illuminations].” In simple terms, he’s referring to the draining process of raising money and establishing an ambitious, wide-reaching organization.

He decided to populate the tourist hotspots in India and South America with centers called Bayit Hayehudi-Ruach Acheret, which, as it sounds, is a house inhabited by a warm Jewish family, where every Jew — no matter what — can feel at home. When I ask who pays for this all, he raises his eyes Heavenward. “Hashem sends all kinds of good Jews, someone else each time. Maybe in the merit of your article He will send a few more. We daven and speak to Him every day. And He sends.”

For anyone who doesn’t understand Breslov-speak: Indeed, funding is a serious problem. But that’s not a reason to stop an amazing effort to save lives. Let the bank keep scolding us; Jewish souls need healing.

The formula seems to be working. Here we are, in a home in northern India that pulses with precious neshamos. We’re eating breakfast — which in a place sans bakeries is a bigger challenge than it sounds. The locals here have developed a type of bread that is reminiscent in texture and appearance of the Israeli laffa, and our hosts serve it with vegetables and dips. Someone brings me a chair — clearly, I’m too finicky to sit cross-legged on a mat like the others — and the youngsters surrounding us begin to open up their hearts.

And we learn how the Sagirs bring, in a very delicate and subtle way, the light of Hashem to the guests who fill their home.

The Rebbe Sensed It

If we expected deep theological arguments, yarmulke and tzitzis “mivtzoim” and the like — we’re in for a big surprise. The method here is very different, and very subtle. Without making light of any other method, the results speak for themselves. “You cannot draw a Jew close if you don’t truly love him,” says Reb Moshe (“Stop calling me Reb,” he insists, “please, just Moshe”).

His proficiency in the Torah of Rav Nachman of Breslov has equipped him with a story for every situation. “You surely remember the story of the indik, the turkey,” he tells Aharon Kliger, who is a Breslover chassid himself.

Even I, a born-and-bred Gerrer chassid, know the story: the tale of a prince who suddenly went mad and was convinced that he was not a person, but a turkey. No explanations or tricks by doctors or healers could dissuade him. And so he sat himself down under the royal table and began to peck at the seeds and crumbs, just like a turkey.

The palace was up in arms. And then a very wise sage came. Instead of speaking to the child, he simply sat down under the table with him and began to peck at the seeds. After a few hours, the child turned to the sage sitting next to him and asked, “What are you doing here?” The sage explained, “I’m also a turkey.” And the two turkeys played together, until suddenly, the wise man took a plate of normal food and began to eat it.

The boy was horrified. “Hey, aren’t you a turkey?!” he asked. The wise man replied, “Sure I am, but does it hurt to eat a bit of chicken?” The story goes on for much longer, but slowly, the wise man taught the child that the fact that he’s a “turkey” doesn’t mean he can’t sit on a normal chair and act like a human being.

“Of all the creatures in the world, the Rebbe chose to speak about a turkey, a hodu — Hebrew for ‘India,’” Moshe says with a wide grin. “Think about it! The Rebbe was never in India, but I think he sensed what was going to happen in this place to so many Jewish neshamos. Lots of ‘princes’ come here, and they are sure they are ‘Hodus,’ Indians. They need someone to sit next to them and slowly, slowly teach them how to act like the royal nation they truly are.

“And that’s what we’re doing at Bayit Hayehudi-Ruach Acheret. We try to be inclusive and loving, and to awaken the curiosity and the interest of these searching Jews. And when that interest is ‘triggered,’ as they would put it, then conversations develop about the meaning of life and of Jewish identity. We continue to speak their language, and we convey the great light of Torah and mitzvos into their Hindu vessels. That’s the thing that wins them over.”

Indian Chaos

New Delhi

Basking in the serenity of this little house, I’m not surprised that so many seeking Jews are drawn to it. Not only is it worlds away from the modern hubs of 21st-century Israel, it’s also an oasis of peace and quiet after the deafening chaos of India’s capital, New Delhi.

Our own Indian journey had started in New Delhi, and as we soaked up the calm on the Sagirs’ balcony, the roar, grime, and stench of the city were still a vivid memory.

Officially, it’s an eight-hour flight from Tel Aviv to India. But when you land and exit the airport, you find yourself on a different planet.

The first thing that hits you is a tsunami of heat and smoke. It’s like walking into a sauna filled with smoke instead of steam. Next is the deafening cacophony. Honking, and more honking. Old cars and new speeding ahead with no consideration for any traffic laws.

Try to imagine the longest traffic jam you’ve ever stood in. Now double the number of cars and erase any markers between lanes. And between each car, stick in rows of motorbikes, each one carrying a whole family of four or five people. Now, jack up the speed of this chaos to 50 miles per hour, add the honking and screaming, and you’ll get a bit of an idea of what a normal road in India looks like.

Now whisper together with me: Please Hashem, not a migraine.

Forty minutes later, the traffic eases a bit. The car makes a left, straight into the Middle Ages.

If we thought we’d gotten a sense of India, driving for 20 seconds along Paharganj Main Bazaar disillusioned us very quickly. From the car window, we make out a jumble of long, convoluted streets, twice as crowded as Geulah on Erev Yom Tov. There are stalls in every little corner. People, children, dogs, clouds of flies, and of course, the so-called “sacred cows” that graze calmly in the middle of the street.

We find ourselves entranced by two unfamiliar types of vehicles: the tuk-tuk and the rickshaw, both similar to golf carts. The tuk-tuk is automated while the rickshaw is manual, powered by the pedaling of a wrinkled Indian who is sweating profusely. The other thing that hits us is the stench, a fiery mixture of incense and sewage that seeps into the lungs and the brain. The first thing that’s affected is our appetites. Next is our sanity.

But amid the tidal wave of foreignness, we make out signs in familiar lettering. Is that Hebrew, here in India? Yes, it is: There are Hebrew signs advertising bags, currency change, train tickets, help arranging visas….

If you stop an average Indian peddler and ask him about the State of Israel, he’ll be sure it’s a superpower with a population of at least a billion people. Young Israelis are the most prominent tourists here. The locals here are less aware of the tech start-ups, cherry tomatoes, and drip irrigation that Israel is famous for. But they are intimately familiar with Israeli haggling skills and chutzpah. Almost every third seller in the local market knows how to pronounce a few important words such as “ack [ach] sheli, my brother,” “sababa,” and of course, “shalom.”

As we take in these Sabra sounds and sights accenting the Indian cityscape, a realization begins to dawn. We’ve always thought of India as a faraway country completely and totally removed from the Jewish homeland. But it turns out there’s an Israeli story happening in India — and it’s a big, important saga, not a fringe phenomenon.

Top and Bottom of the Mountain

At the New Dehli Chabad House, we find an armed policeman standing at the door. Since the infamous terror attack in Mumbai, they don’t take any chances here. After a quick check, he lets us in and we suddenly experience one of the wonders of creation: air conditioning. Finally, we can breathe.

In the lobby, under a large picture of the Lubavitcher Rebbe and a Mashiach sign, there are dozens of young people lounging around. A young Chabadnik with a Yechi yarmulke is urging people to put on tefillin, if they want. But as we walk around, we realize that this is primarily a departure point.

Few Israelis tour New Delhi itself. They land here, get their initial shock, inhale it into their lungs — then they do a mental cough and continue on to the mountainous regions in the north or south, depending on the season.

The shluchim here in New Delhi deal with lots of bureaucracy and technicalities. Today their “customers” are a young man who got a strange bite and now has a swollen foot, a young woman who lost her passport, a third whose wallet was pickpocketed, and a fourth who missed his flight.

Once night falls, the sun recedes and the temperature drops somewhat. We take the opportunity to visit the open-air market. During the evening hours, the produce stalls are replaced by vendors offering street food. But the conditions — the smell of decay, the dogs wandering freely, and the barefoot children — don’t do much for the appetite.

Here in the market, we get a glimpse of some of the most squalid areas of the human population. India’s citizens have historically been divided into a rigid “caste” system. Though it’s technically illegal today, the system continues to shape societal mores: metaphorically speaking, there are those born on the mountain and those born in the valley.

At the top of the mountain is the highest caste, the Brahmans. They’re the priestly class, responsible for guarding the local temples. The population is obligated to accord them respect and to support them with gifts and grants, and they live in designated high-class areas.

Below them are the members of the Kshatriyas, who are the rulers, administrators, and warriors. They also have special privileges. Under them are the Vaishyas, who work as artisans, merchants, tradesmen, and farmers, and the lowest caste are the Sudras, the laborers. They are not allowed to study holy writings.

There is an even lower level, the Dalit, and they are considered untouchable or contaminated. Until recently, a shadow cast by a Dalit was thought to have the power to render a noble impure — and incur a terrible punishment for the Dalit.

The disparities here are unbelievable. On one side of the city are wealthy neighborhoods, where entry is only allowed only to those with special permits. During our visit, the media was covering the eye-popping $600 million wedding celebrations thrown by New Delhi billionaire Mukesh Ambani for his son.

On the other side of the same city, there are scenes that would draw tears from even a heart of stone: Mothers with babies dying in their arms, pleading and wailing as they point their hands to their mouths, begging for bread. Some of those mothers are said to intentionally maim their children so that they can more effectively arouse the compassion of passersby.

The indigence and squalor that we find here are difficult to process. As soon as someone with a western appearance begins to walk through the market, the locals swarm around, begging for money. Children with pitiful expressions plead to buy them some food so they won’t starve. If you acquiesce, they will set aside the food and put on the same show a minute later for the next tourist. That’s their line of work — to cry and lie.

There are lots of idols here. But the rupee is worshipped the most of all. Everyone in this humid, noisy city seems bound by complete and desperate servitude to money.

It’s with a sense of relief that we return to the Chabad House for the night, knowing that early the next morning, we’ll be leaving New Delhi.

Heading North

Bhuntar

Dawn is approaching, and the city is finally quiet. Suitcases in hand, we leave the Chabad House. Warm rain is drizzling over the homeless residents of New Delhi, who lie sprawled on wooden wagons, sleeping alongside dogs and cows.

There are two ways to get from New Delhi to the mountainous region of the north. One is popular with tourists — an overnight bus ride. The other is a one-and-a-half-hour airplane flight.

Each one of these routes has its own challenges. The bus trip is cheap, but it entails 16 hours (!) of cramped seating on winding, bumpy roads. The flight is shorter, but the weather during monsoon season is fickle. In one minute, the skies can cloud over and the flight can get cancelled. But we decide that the advantages outweigh the risks.

The moment we see the plane, though, my heart begins to thump. It’s a tiny Piper with fewer than 30 seats. For the next hour and a half, our lips don’t stop murmuring Tehillim and Tefillas Haderech. Every so often the plane makes a sharp dip or turn, sending my anxiety spiking.

Still, we find some moments of composure to appreciate the scenery. The endless expanses of filthy tin huts have been replaced by breathtaking mountain ranges. We see rushing waterfalls, icecaps, and everything else that Switzerland has to offer — just a lot less manicured, and much wilder.

The Piper lands in a one-room airport in a town called Bhuntar. As soon as the door opens, we rush to disembark. The change in weather leaves no doubt that we’re further north. It’s much cooler, and there’s a pleasant breeze.

The population looks the same: Policemen with mustaches and grim, dark stares. Yellow in place of white in the eyes. A strong desire for rupees. But now we can finally understand what people mean when they talk about Indian tranquility — or as it’s termed in Sanskrit, “shanti.”

It’s 8 in the morning. Aside for dogs and cows, the local population is fast asleep. The stores are still closed. Our driver is waiting with a car, and he takes us on a breathtaking two-hour trip past more towns and villages.

The road is terrifying. Down the abyss on one side is the Beas River, swollen by the monsoon rains and roaring mightily as it throws foam into the air. A group of dark creatures suddenly bursts out from between the trees. As they come closer, we realize that it’s a pack of monkeys wandering freely through the villages.

Once every few kilometers, there’s a cow sprawled on the road. The locals, as we know, treat it with the respect due to a deity. Our driver, despite the religious figurine sitting in front of his car, turns out to be a bit less “frum.” He allows himself to honk and disturb the sacred creature’s rest.

Two hours later, the car stops, and we take the last leg of our journey to find real shanti — in the healing empire of the Breslovers.

What We Need Most

Kasol

Tomorrow night is Shabbos and in Pulga the preparations have begun. No one has any idea how many guests will come; there’s no concept of RSVP in this village. Sometimes there’s less than a minyan of Shabbos guests, and sometimes more than 100. The Sagirs go with the flow — this is not a very formal place — and they’re determined to provide their guests with a full Shabbos experience.

“Come,” says Reb Moshe. “We’re going to get some chicken, and if we’re lucky, we’ll find some kosher fish, too.” No one dares think of beef in the sacred cow kingdom, where most residents are vegetarians.

Pulga’s supply of kosher groceries is decidedly less impressive than its scenery. To prepare proper Shabbos meals, we’ll have to make a trip — to the nearby village of Kasol, where there’s a Chabad house with more resources.

Reb Moshe doesn’t make the trip alone; some of his newfound friends join the trek. As we listen in on the conversation, we get a feel for what makes Bayit Hayehudi so well-suited to these drifting young Israelis. What Reb Moshe nurtures here is not the dramatic change of an earthquake or tsunami, but a slow, subtle process that develops beneath the surface.

“You journalists like to build a story around that one dramatic moment — a near-death experience, a car accident, an extraordinary miracle — when the baal teshuvah discovers the light. But that’s not our goal or method at Bayit Hayehudi,” Rabbi Katz warned us before we left. “Every father and every mother — every person, actually — knows that real transformation doesn’t happen instantaneously.”

The method here, and in many such homes around the world and in Israel, is to give the soul what it needs most.  And what do we need most? We need lots of things, Rabbi Katz concedes. But the things we need most are acceptance and understanding. Every human being craves to be accepted for who we are. Change can only come when we have that security of being embraced unconditionally, with all our flaws and imperfections.

At Bayit Hayehudi, there are no demands to put on tefillin or light Shabbos candles. There are warm hands on the shoulder, big smiles for tortured souls fleeing internal demons, understanding and empathy for young men and women who’ve been betrayed by those they trusted.

Watching Moshe conversing with his young friends is seeing that theory in action. His wife, who’s a certified social worker, serves as his counterpart, spreading the same vibe among the young women. Together they spread warmth and acceptance, and don’t make any demands. They know it might take a very long time until that pat on the shoulder brings a person to life.

“We’re dealing with neshamos,” he explains. “We need to give it time. Remember, these people have a yetzer that fights back. That’s what bechirah, free choice, is all about. We can’t give ultimatums or force anything. Our job is to plant seeds.”

Moshe has one devar Torah that is very sharp and that moves me. It’s his chief weapon in this mission. He always keeps little seforim in his bag, with the Torah of his Rebbe. He never pushes them onto people. But whoever would like to sample a bit of the Rebbe Nachman’s medicine is welcome to help himself to a sefer.

As our little group traverses the dirt path leading out of Pulga, I take the little sefer Chayei Moharan from Moshe’s bag.

Moshe opens the sefer, points to segment 543, and says, “Here.”

Rebbe Nachman’s famous student Reb Nosson wrote these words, and when you read them against a backdrop of purple Himalayas, surrounded by tattooed, bareheaded Israelis, they take on special resonance:

“The Rebbe spoke to us a few times, and he admonished us to bring souls closer to Hashem, and to attempt to speak a lot with people so as to awaken them and bring them closer to Hashem.”

How did Rebbe Nachman intend for them to draw those lost souls back? It’s right there, in the next line: “And his will was even to conduct… idle conversations about worldly matters,” because “perhaps from this will sprout words that will arouse them to come closer to Hashem. And even if is merely a random motion, that will infuse in them a fleeting thought of teshuvah or hisorerus for that moment, it is also very good… when it happens some time later that he will speak to them again, perhaps he will merit to truly awaken them to Hashem and to bring them closer to His service, and there is nothing greater than that.”

Jewish Souls in the Street

We’ve reached the end of the dirt road leading out of Pulga. Now we can continue the rest of our journey by car. We begin the familiar routine  — haggling over a price, then settling into a car to take us over the winding, bumpy roads to Kasol. In contrast to Pulga, there’s a proper street here that crosses through the village. Cars drive back and forth. Stores are open. People are haggling. And Jewish neshamos are all over the place.

Every few minutes, a motorcycle stops and its rider removes his helmet, offering a smile and friendly, “Hey, tzaddikim, how are you?” The smiles can’t hide these people’s pain. If someone has to escape all the way to this part of the globe, he’s obviously been kicked really hard — in cheder, yeshivah, at home — or all three.

At the Chabad House, a huge Mashiach flag welcomes us. The babble of Hebrew and the proliferation of backpacks feels almost like a flight back home. The minute these kids recognize Moshe, they literally leap toward him excitedly. Most of them have experienced a soul-shaking conversation with the Breslov shaliach of Pulga, and they’re drawn to him like butterflies to light.

But not everyone is seeking the type of spirituality offered by the dedicated shluchim. When we stand up to daven Minchah, there’s a decidedly tense feel in the room. There are a few people here who paid good money for airline tickets precisely to escape the world of Ashrei Yoshvei Veisecha and now, to their surprise, they find the familiar words have followed them even to the Parvati Valley.

Moshe cautions us to step aside and allow these hostile visitors to leave. Right now, they’re not ready for a conversation about Minchah.  “But don’t worry,” he says. “They’ll be back. I promise you.”

Armed with chicken for Shabbos, we start the trek home. The landmarks are familiar by now: rickety cars, broken roads, colorful wooden houses, and that soaring, awe-inspiring scenery that makes you feel so small and humble.

Tomorrow evening, we will watch the transcendent peace of Shabbos overtake the famed shanti of India.

Rise Up and Sing

Pulga

It’s Friday afternoon, and Shabbos will be arriving in Pulga in just a few hours.

In Bayit Hayehudi’s small kitchen, dozens of people are working to bring in Shabbos. The Sagir family is all on deck, from oldest to youngest, alongside dozens of young people. They’re preparing homemade pita on the stovetop along with some vegetarian staples. There’s a large pot of soup loaded with vegetables, lots of rice, and the precious chicken.

Moshe also has his own preparations to make. We join him on his walk to the mikveh. It’s about a half hour of climbing along the rushing river. Instead of supermarkets advertising two-for-one sales and kiosks selling arbes, there’s wild scenery and birdsong.

Moshe is experienced by now. He looks among the boulders for a spot where at least 40 se’ah of water have pooled and where there is no danger of drowning. Touching the water with my hand, I wince. It’s icy. But Moshe isn’t deterred. Before I know it, he emerges with his peyos dripping, and throws a towel across his shoulders.

We arrive home to find a sizable minyan in the dining room. On the balcony is a crowd double that size; these are people who are just not able to daven. They may want to, but their scarred souls, and their traumas, hold them back from tefillah.

Through the small window, we can see rows of dancing flames. Some of the young women have dedicated their Shabbos candles to the merit of those murdered or taken hostage on October 7. Here in this faraway land, you can feel their presence very strongly.

I’ve often sung Carlebach’s Lecha Dodi. But never like this. Tonight, every word in the song takes on more intensity. Against the stark scenery, surrounded by seekers, the words are sharper, their significance compounded.

“Mikdash melech ir meluchah,” cry these lost souls with their assortment of colorful kippahs, bandanas, and headscarves. “Rav lach sheves b’emek habachah.”

They’re speaking of a valley of tears, but really they’re speaking of us all. Don’t we all carry some detritus that needs to be shaken off? We all crave that opportunity to rise up, awaken, and sing.

Now they all turn to the direction of Jerusalem. The city so many of them have been trying to escape twinkles in their minds’ eye as they plead, “Bo’i kallah, bo’i.”

One Jew, a bit older, with a colorful bandana on his head, watches the singing with a mixture of bemusement and awe. “I was never in a shul,” he apologizes. Not that he has anything against it, chalilah, it’s just that he never viewed organized prayer as something that might interest him.

He’s a third-generation kibbutznik and in his world, “Shabbat” was never more than a distant rumor. He’s here in Pulga to rescue his daughter, who got “trapped” by religious fanatics during her backpacking trip to India. She’s the only reason he’s at a Shabbat meal.

But his words only tell half the story. Looking at his face, you see an unspoken concession that some Divine force has placed him here tonight. As the song concludes, he rises and grabs Moshe by the hand. He swallows a lump in his throat and whispers, “You have no idea what you are doing here.”

This, Moshe explains, is how the process starts. He’s seen thousands of people whose lives have been transformed by one Shabbos.

I Need a Hug

The Angels of Peace accompany us to the Sagirs’ two dining rooms and porch, all bursting with young travelers shaking hands or kissing fingertips as they offer a “gut Shabbos” or “Shabbat Shalom.”

When Moshe holds the becher and proclaims, “Veratzah banu,” it’s hard not to feel the words. Yes, Hashem chose these children as well. As much as they’ll try to run away, Hashem wants them as His own.

Instead of a vort on the parshah, Moshe tells a story. It’s a tale, predictably, about a lost princess, one of the keys provided by his Rebbe long ago to open hearts. He then segues into personal stories of people who found light — and stories of people who are struggling in the shadows.

At the end of the room sits a rather serious group. Unlike most of the guests here, they haven’t come to the Shabbos meal in Pulga to socialize and have a good time. Some of them are even wearing real kippahs. They are rigid, scarred IDF soldiers who’ve come here straight from hard combat.

“I had to leave,” one of them says. “I was on the verge of going crazy.”

As they share their experiences, you feel like you’re observing a support group for Holocaust survivors. They trade descriptions of the horrors they witnessed and names of friends they lost. But they’re not criers, and they refuse to show any fragility. Instead, these toughened warriors conquer their terror on the hiking trails, straining every muscle in an effort to banish the haunting scenes and the sounds imprinted on their minds.

Now it’s Shabbos, and they’ve pressed pause on their desperate effort to out-hike their memories. They sit on the cushions and join the zemiros. Moshe pauses for a moment and says a devar Torah. Suddenly, the dams burst. Doubts, questions, accusations, suppressed pain — it all erupts.

One young man with a mournful look in his eyes waves his right hand. His palm and fingers are festooned with a haphazard mix of sketches and letters — almost like a five-year-old experimenting with paint for the first time.

“What does that say?” Moshe asks with nary a drop of cynicism. He’s here to love. And like a loving father who sees a messy scribble by his son, he tries to understand what it says.

The young man extends his hand and reads five names — one on each finger. Yehudah, Guy, and so on. Each tattooed finger is a veritable Yizkor sign for a friend he lost on October 7.

As he bares his soul, this witty macho-man high on chemicals devolves into a pure-eyed child. He’s so afraid. He doesn’t believe he can ever return to Israel. “I’m just going to wander around India until I die,” he wails.

Along with the fear, he’s holding so much anger. At the army, the state, the politicians, his teachers and employers, and of course his father and mother. And if I can be a psychologist for a moment, he’s also angry at himself. At the trajectory his life took. This is not how he expected things to turn out, not at all.

He had really hoped, he confesses, to stay away from Jews or anything Jewish during this trip. But the aroma of Shabbos food, the songs his father sang, beckoned from the Sagir family’s Bayit Hayehudi. And so he finds himself returning here, Shabbos after Shabbos. He doesn’t actually sing the zemiros, of course. But he listens with his whole heart.

Usually he puts up a strong, masculine facade, but tonight, he tells Moshe, he’s feeling down. He needs a lift. “Give me a hug,” he says simply.

Moshe leans over and gives him a hug. A tight one.

Will it bring this tortured boy back to the fold? “That’s not the point,” Moshe says. “There’s a nefesh here, someone’s child, who is shattered. When I hug him, I don’t think about the future. I just want to hold on to him in the present.”

A man with gray stubble and a shuttered face is speaking about his wartime experiences, and I lean closer to hear his story. He was stationed in the Shura army base, part of the team that identified the victims of Hamas’s butchery on October 7. He speaks about his friend working alongside him, who would occasionally put his hand in his pocket and touch something.

“I asked him what he had there, and he took out a baby’s pacifier. I thought he had gone mad. And he told me that it was a pacifier of his baby back at home. ‘Whenever I feel like I’m going to lose it,’ he told me, ‘I hold onto this pacifier and remind myself that I have to stay strong, stay sane, for her. She needs her father.’ ”

It’s late. The Himalayas are shrouded in darkness. The idols and their worshippers have long retired for the night. And here, in one luminous house, Jewish neshamos are coming to the fore. Moshe and his family are giving this all they’ve got. Wherever you look you can see tears, and the seeds of emunah that will eventually sprout into strong, graceful trees.

Secrets Beneath the Serenity

Three days earlier, just before we set out on this trip, Reb Moshe made one modest request. “If it’s not a big deal for you, see if you can bring us some chocolate bars and a bit of black coffee.”

Only once we landed here at Bayit Hayehudi did we realize that in fact, we were carrying a black gold of sorts. There’s lots of rice throughout India, and there are plenty of mud powders that masquerade as coffee. But you can’t imagine how moving it can be to watch a group of 23-year-olds savoring an Israeli Pesek Zman or Mekupelet chocolate bar with almost religious fervor. Somehow those snacks evoked all their bittersweet longing for home.

Like everything else we encountered on this trip to Pulga, the appeal of those sweet chocolate bars is deeper than it appears. On the face of it, Bayit Hayehudi feels like a serene kiruv center, but hiding beneath the calm atmosphere are ugly, painful secrets.

In the remote mountain village of Pulga, so far from Western civilization and so distant from any centers of Yiddishkeit, we met far too many bochurim who grew up “among us.” In our conversations with them, we heard shattering stories. Many have undergone terrible trauma and abuse — often at the hands of authority figures they trusted.

In more than one sense, this place is an emotional first aid center. Lots of the youngsters who pass through India aren’t in the best of mental health. They experiment with various substances, sometimes to disastrous effect. And when they’re in trouble, the burden of their care often falls on the local shluchim, who add mental health training to the considerable kit of skills, techniques, and capabilities they bring to their job.

Before our trip, when Reb Raphael Katz used the term “mesirus nefesh” to describe the work of his shluchim, we found it a bit pretentious. But after two days in Pulga, we’re pretty sure he’s understated the sacrifice this job entails.

“Remember the story about the treasure under the bridge?” Rabbi Katz asked us a moment before we parted. He was referring to the tale of a Jew who dreamed about a treasure buried under the famous Charles Bridge in Prague. The Jew made the arduous journey to the bridge — only to hear that  the guard had also dreamed about a treasure; only this one was hidden back home under the oven of that very Jew.

“Sometimes, we need to travel to remote parts of the world to understand what kind of power we hold in our own hands. In Pulga, you’ll see what one devoted family can do for their searching brothers and sisters — how they can brave uncivil conditions and live so far from family and friends, just to plant a bit of light in another Jew’s heart.

“But we all hold that power, and we don’t even have to travel to utilize it. Really, every Jew has to open a ‘Bayit Hayehudi-Ruach Acheret’ in his own home. Because our children deserve to be loved and accepted exactly the way they are.”

Chain of Transformation

One week after landing in Israel, as we’re digesting the unforgettable scenes of our trip to India, we meet another wonderful Yid, Reb Tzvi Aisenstock. He served as a Bayit Hayehudi shaliach last year, and his sincerity and intensity are apparent even in casual conversation.

He’s a chassidic Yid in every sense. But after conversing for a few minutes, Reb Tzvi takes out a photo from his pocket depicting a very different Tzvi, just over two decades ago.

He grew up in a good home, but something broke inside him at one point. Without going into too many details, he strayed somewhat from the path, and found himself wandering on a mountain somewhere in the Far East. Then he fell into the warmth and accepting atmosphere of one of the Bayit Hayehudi homes. Initially, he tried resisting the spiritual pull, but the ruach acheret, the other spirit, was stronger.

Not only did he do teshuvah, he also became a shaliach.

But that’s not the end of the story.

The shaliach who transformed his world was Reb David Yaavetz, who discovered Yiddishkeit in… Bayit Hayehudi. Reb David was a kibbutznik who never even considered a life of Torah observance. But then, just before he set out on a trip to India, he encountered Reb Raphael Katz, who asked him to bring a few packages to the emissaries there.

Reb David, a kind, genial fellow, agreed to do the delivery. He arrived, put down the packages, and then “just stepped inside” for a few minutes. Ultimately, he became a baal teshuvah and a Bayit Hayehudi shaliach.

There’s a third Bayit Hayehudi success story in Reb Tzvi Aisenstock’s personal history. His wife, a wonderful chassidic woman, went through a similar process. “You might say that we’re children of this house,” she puts it. The small seforim that the shluchim gave them during their time in India penetrated their minds and hearts, and after their return to Israel, the Aisenstocks decided to actively seek out and embrace the light of Torah.

A few years later, with several children in tow, they decided to spread the light to other seekers, and traveled to India, where they ran a Bayit Hayehudi home.

During one monsoon season, Reb Tzvi received word of a car of Israeli hikers that had overturned. All the passengers were killed, but in this country where the dead are burnt and tossed in the river, no one could assure them a proper burial. Reb Tzvi set out a mission impossible, scouring the ravine at the roadside for the missing travelers, retrieving their remains, and arranging for them to be returned to Israel where they merited kever Yisrael.

But not all his stories are tragic; there are many happy endings, too. Just a few weeks ago, two neshamos that almost assimilated totally into the land of idol worship established a proper Jewish home — all because they landed at a Shabbos meal in Bayit Hayehudi, heard Kiddush, and returned to their roots.

“Although to be honest, lots of times we don’t get to see the ending — just the beginning of a long process,” Reb Tzvi points out. “I sometimes meet people who have turned their lives around completely. And they say it all began years earlier, when another Yid opened the door to a home for them and gave them some kosher food along with some tidbits for the soul.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1033)