Rabbi Shlomo Bentolila, never gave up. Week after week he called every single person in the kehillah, exhorting them to come Shabbat morning. Soon his efforts began to pay off, and we had a regular minyan.

Iwas three months old when the Lubavitcher Rebbe sent my parents on shlichut to Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (called Zaire then, in 1991). Our Beit Chabad housed a mikveh in the basement; the shul, called Beit Yaakov, along with my father’s office and my mother’s Hebrew classroom, on the main floor; and on the top floor, our residence, which was open to all for meals on Shabbos or any day of the week.

My parents arrived to an established community of around 250 Jews who originated from Egypt, Turkey, and the Island of Rhodes in Greece. The lingua franca was French.

Friday nights in shul were quite special. I, the only little girl present, would put on my nicest clothes and go downstairs to hear the beautiful, rhythmic Moroccan melodies that were sung by the community.

Shabbat day was another story, at least in the beginning. Most in the community were secular and wanted to spend their day off in leisure. But my father, Rabbi Shlomo Bentolila, never gave up. Week after week he called every single person in the kehillah, exhorting them to come Shabbat morning. Soon his efforts began to pay off, and we had a regular minyan.