"I was born to be a shepherd like Yaakov Avinu and not a talmid chacham like Yaakov Avinu”

His name was Meshichiel, which is actually the name of a malach, and it’s mentioned in a sefer of the Chida and other sifrei Kabbalah. I’d just never met anyone with that name before.

His five older brothers also had amazing, faith-driven names: Shimshon Hagibor, Tzemach Geulah, Kochaviel, Eliraz Tzefania, and Goel Meir David, and their little sister Shivi was actually Shiviti Hashem Lenegdi Tamid. But growing up where they did, no one paid too much attention to the family’s names, waist-long peyos, or enormous knitted kippot made of hand-dyed wool shorn from their own sheep.

Meshichiel’s family has a multi-generational story of sacrifice that began with his great-grandfather’s flight from Hungary to Eretz Yisrael back in the 1940s. Elter Zeide Kalman had joined the Stern Gang and the Lechi, where he played a role in bombing at least three British caravans.

“You have to understand,” Meshichiel’s oldest brother Shimshon Hagibor told me. “This is a family of warriors. That’s why I need you to intervene with my little brother.”

Elter Zeide Kalman lived in Jerusalem before moving his family to a Shomron hilltop as one of the founders of the settlement movement in the 1970s. When he passed away of a heart attack in his fifties, his son Zeide Yosef took over the family mission by building one of the first homes in Gush Katif.

Then, when the settlements of northern Sinai were to be razed and the land handed over to Egypt, Zeide Yosef moved his family further south in order to strengthen the threatened towns, while his son Avremi — Meshichiel’s father — was one of the last students forcefully evacuated from yeshivah in Yamit in 1982. The family moved back to Gush Katif, but disaster struck again, when Zeide Yosef was killed by a roadside bomb.

Meanwhile, Avremi married and continued on in Gush Katif, where he and his wife built a family and tended to their fields with newly-developed irrigation and insect-free techniques — but he was killed by a sniper while on overnight security duty in his Gaza community. Meshichiel was less than four at the time.

“But my father’s memory lives on,” said Shimshon Hagibor. “After we were kicked out of Gush Katif, we went forward to build Eretz Yisrael, each in our own way. And I believe it’s because of all these tragedies that my little brother takes it so hard every time the army knocks down his home.”

What Shimshon Hagibor meant was that they’d built outposts on uninhabited land in the Hevron Hills. Meshichiel was the lone soldier at Tefillat Avraham, a hill outside of Kiryat Arba named after his father Hy”d. It was there that he tended to his flock of sheep and lived with his wife and son and sometimes a few dedicated bochurim who came to help out.

Shimshon Hagibor showed me the site where his brother had originally pitched his tent when he first settled Tefillat Avraham.

“I told him this wasn’t going to be easy, that the army would take it down before he could blink.” He spoke from experience. “But Meshichiel wasn’t one to listen. He’s still not. Maybe he won’t listen to you either, but it’s worth a try.”

Over the horizon came the sound of the flock, followed by a young fellow with thick peyos, a huge knit kippah and a staff that was more appropriate for a shepherd of 2,000 years ago than a 22-year-old of today.

“Shiki!” Shimshon Hagibor called out to him. “I brought a friend to meet you and to be inspired by our work.”

I was certainly inspired, but it wasn’t what I had been brought for. After many losses in the family, Meshichiel had been in a tough spot for the past year as the army repeatedly razed his little home. He’d rebuilt the structure four times and had beaten an administrative order barring him from his home, but it all seemed to have taken a toll on him and his brother was worried: Meshichiel had, to his mind, become withdrawn and anti-social. And he hadn’t visited the neighboring hilltops to be with the family in the longest time.  Shimshon had found me and asked me to speak with his brother. I agreed, on condition that my only payment would be a bottle of wine from the family’s private vineyards.

Meshichiel grabbed his brother with a hug fit to wrap around a buffalo. He then took my outstretched hand in his and pulled me forward for my own bear hug and kiss on each cheek.

“Ahalan, big brother!” he exclaimed, obviously happy with his unexpected guest. “It’s good to see you and better that you’ve brought a new friend for a cup of coffee.”

He disappeared into his home — 23 metal poles and a few large camping tarps — and reappeared with a few broken mugs, a sack of Turkish coffee, and a teapot filled with boiling water.

As he poured and mixed us his chamar medinah, he apologized for the missing handles on my mug. “You have to understand, chaver, the last time they bulldozed my house, they  didn’t even take our dishes outside. Everything was crushed.”

He was still smiling, though — and didn’t seem at all overwrought or depressed. Still, Shimshon Hagibor slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Last week was a hard week, little brother. But you’re still strong. You’re doing good?”

“Of course I’m good.”Meshichiel paused as we gazed over the horizon to the other hilltop settlements and Arab villages. It was cold out here and the handle-less coffee mug warmed my hands that would have otherwise been purple by now.

“So, what do you do, Brother Yaakov?” Meshichiel asked.

“I learn morning seder and then I go to my office where I work as a psychiatrist,” I answered.

“Ha!” he laughed. “They once sent me to a psychologist and told me I had ADHD. I told them I was born to be a shepherd like Yaakov Avinu and not a talmid chacham like Yaakov Avinu.”

And then he glared at his brother in a manner that was somehow both menacing and respectful. “So he brought a psychiatrist to see if I’m crazy?” Meshichiel said as he jumped off of the rock he’d been sitting on and landed on his feet, still clutching his staff while simultaneously balancing his broken coffee mug.

“No, Shiki,” Shimshon Hagibor responded pleadingly. “I just know there has been so much stress and I want to know that you’re okay. You’ve all but disappeared and we miss you.”

“What do you want from me? They destroy my house and I rebuild it!” It was hard to argue with that, especially for someone like his older brother who had chosen a similar life.

“But you don’t come to the family minyan, and we barely see you anymore,” Shimshon Hagibor said defensively.

“That’s because my wife is pregnant with twins,” Meshichiel revealed.

“Besha’ah tovah!” Shimshon Hagibor hugged his brother. “But what does that have to do with you avoiding us?”

“She has terrible morning sickness and can’t walk too far without getting nauseous in the afternoon either. And because they keep knocking down my house, I don’t want to leave her home alone for too long.”

“So you’re not depressed or traumatized or anxious?” Shimshon Hagibor breathed a sigh of relief.

“Chas v’shalom! The world might stand against us, but it will only make us stronger.”

The two brothers embraced each other and said together, “It is the way of Avraham Avinu and the way of Avraham Avinu.”

I joined in the hug. This visit was worth far more than a bottle of homemade wine.

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 can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills outside of Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 800)