After October 7, unlikely yet remarkable human connections have emerged out of shared purpose and resilience

In the wake of the tragic events of October 7, unlikely yet remarkable human connections have emerged out of shared purpose and resilience. Through their collaboration, they developed new perspectives and understanding of the other’s world, and achieved something greater than themselves, as they learned to see beyond differences, bridging divides that once seemed insurmountable. Here are their stories.

When Meir Tubul’s son was killed in Gaza in December 2023, Meir became angry at G-d, shaking his fist at the Almighty and refusing to do any of His mitzvos. But an embrace from Mendy Henig, a Biala chassid who took upon himself to do something important for bereaved families, brought back the spark of hope.

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fter Seargent Major Asaf Pinchas Hy”d, died in combat last winter, his father Meir Tubul — a typical Sabra with a tough personality and a sweet, kind nature — didn’t need anyone telling him anything.

“After my son’s death, I got tired of hearing certain phrases. For example, that G-d takes the ‘best ones,’ ” he says. “It’s pretty ironic. If He takes the best, what are those of us left here on earth? The worst?”

He pauses.

“Another thing I don’t like is when people tell me that Avraham Avinu was willing to sacrifice his son. First of all, I’m not Avraham Avinu. But also, no one asked me.”

Meir, 67, and his wife, Esther, who live in Kiryat Motzkin, a city near Haifa in northern Israel, are typical mesorati (traditional) Jews. Meir, the grandson of a dayan on the Baba Sali’s beit din, is the semiretired Israel logistics director for Philip Morris, the tobacco company. Asaf Pinchas, the youngest of their seven children and a member of Battalion 77, died in combat in southern Gaza on December 27, 2023. After his death, the Tubuls weren’t interesting in being involved in anything.

“During the first three months, we received invitations to every type of event you can imagine,” Meir says. “As bereaved parents, we were even offered free trips to Cyprus to relax. But do you think my wife or I wanted to go somewhere just to eat and sleep?”

Then, in late June, the Tubuls saw an advertisement for a shabbaton for families of soldiers who fell in the war. For reasons Meir still doesn’t fully understand, they considered such an invitation for the first time since tragedy struck. They rationalized that they could bring the rest of their children, the topics seemed interesting, and they were intrigued by the speaker list, which included the chief rabbi, a journalist, and a bereaved mother.

“In other words, it wasn’t overly religious. If it would have been, I wouldn’t have gone,” says Meir, who was also experiencing an internal spiritual struggle. Before his son’s death, he was a man of faith. He donned tefillin daily, prayed, and went to shul — but losing his son in Gaza made him angry with Hashem.

“I know He exists, but today it’s hard for me to have emunah,” Meir shares.

The Tubuls signed up for the event billed as “Shabbat Koach,” but Meir had no expectations; he thought it would be good for his wife.

“I was certain it wouldn’t change anything for me,” he says.

Then the Tubuls arrived at Jerusalem’s Ramada Hotel, and Meir was blown away. From the get-go, he says, you could tell the whole Shabbos was arranged by someone who really cared. Meir speaks from experience — he himself has arranged several events — and he was curious about the person behind this one. He kept hearing about “Mendy this” and “Mendy that,” and during the Kosel Tunnels tour, Meir sought out this Mendy — Rabbi Mendy Kenig — to thank him and tell him how impressed he was.

Then, in this first encounter, Meir’s inner spiritual turmoil drove him to ask Mendy, “Tell me the truth. Why do you do all this? What’s in it for you?”