Rabbi Paysach Freedman cuts red tape and opens doors for Anglos in Israel

Photos: Eli Cobin

I

f there is a geographical center to Jerusalem’s sprawling English-speaking yeshivah and kollel life, it’s probably Givat Moshe, a neighborhood abustle with avreichim and yeshivos — a short journey to Belz one way, up the road from the Mir empire another, and just over the junction from the American strongholds of Ramat Eshkol and Maalot Dafna. Better known by its municipal map allocation as Gush Shmonim (“Bloc 80”), a more fitting moniker would be Kollel Mile.

And that’s why crossing the threshold of Rabbi Paysach Freedman’s office from the heimish world beyond feels a bit like a disconnect. The mahogany desk, wall-mounted flat-screen, and Rabbi Freedman’s own monogrammed shirt-cuffs are not quite C-suite. But they’re definitely more boardroom than Bar Ilan, the main thoroughfare down the road.

Yet that executive feel is key to understanding the man behind the neat desk and what he’s achieved. Over the past five years, Paysach Freedman has turned Chaim V’Chessed, an American-style advocacy organization to help thousands of English speakers navigate Israel’s labyrinthine bureaucracy, into the primary address for communal troubleshooting. Along the way, he’s emerged as a key figure whose organizational clout has opened doors to local and national politicians for the large yet often-underrepresented English-speaking community.

In a country blessed with an abundance of askanim — a label he shies from — Rabbi Freedman has brought an American sense of scale to the business of advocacy. The 8,000 monthly calls fielded by the organization’s 19 representatives are split between information provision, emergency assistance, and government affairs. And with representatives on the ground in Jerusalem’s hospitals, Chaim V’Chessed’s medical team advocates for patients where it matters, from accessing doctors to quite literally procuring an extra pillow.

But it’s a year of COVID that has brought Paysach Freedman into the big leagues. Sitting at a desk dominated by two large flat-screens, wearing his call-center-style headset, the Baltimore native has played a role in some of the English-speaking community’s COVID victories. He lobbied for the protocol enabling yeshivah and seminary students into the country, has reunited olim separated by travel restrictions, and has helped foreigners benefit from Israel’s vaccination program. It’s been an uphill struggle.

“Families who’ve lived here for years have been blocked from coming back into the country, or torn apart on different sides of flight bans,” he says. “Peoples’ visas have expired and they’ve lost health insurance. Corona has made ‘hovering’ in Israel without citizenship extremely difficult.”

As Rabbi Freedman briskly processes calls about the country’s ongoing travel ban and answers staff requests about medical cases, there’s something intriguing about the way he juggles so many balls. With his natural talent, honed by years of communal activism, this is a man who’s hit his stride.

And listening to Paysach Freedman, there’s a sense of something greater in the works: The reason that he’s become indispensable over the past year is because he’s cracked the code of exercising influence in Israel. After months interfacing with the Knesset and government ministries solving COVID-related crises (“Name a government official,” he quips, “and let’s see if I can get his number within five minutes,”) Rabbi Freedman’s pre-COVID convictions about the need for a higher community profile have only grown stronger.

“The English-speaking community is 100,000-strong. We have our own needs, but we’re used to keeping quiet and being taken for granted by politicians,” he says. “It’s time for us to stand up and be counted.”