It was eleven days before my mission to Israel when I walked into Park’s Tailoring on Clarks Lane near Reisterstown Road for the first time. I needed alterations on several pairs of pants, and Park’s Tailoring had showed up in the results of a Google search for “tailors near me.”
From the moment I
walked in, the proprietor, a senior Korean gentleman by the name of Mr. Kim
seemed less interested in my pants than he was in my yarmulke. He got right to
the point: It was terrible what Hamas did to Israel on October 7th,
he said. It’s terrible the way college kids here in America are blaming Israel
for what happened, and it’s terrible how Americans, in general, don’t recognize
the debt of gratitude we owe Israel for destroying an enemy whose next target would
be us.
Now barely into a
conversation with my new best friend, I shared with him that I was going to be
part of an upcoming mission to Israel. “That’s what I love about the Jewish
people,” he responded. “A Jew can be suffering anywhere in the world, and Jews
from the other side of the world are there to help. You are like one big
family.”
I wished I were as
confident about the “one big family” part as was Mr. Kim. I knew it certainly
felt that way to me. And I would soon
find out that that was also exactly how it felt to all of my fellow mission
goers. We were bursting out of ourselves, wanting so badly to do something for
our Israeli brethren. That was why I jumped at the opportunity to be part of a
Baltimore Zionist District mission to Israel.
But something was
bothering me…
Why? Because by
now I had spoken or WhatsApped (if that’s a verb) with a handful of other
American Jews who had also gone on an Israel mission or were going on one soon:
a doctor serving in an Israeli hospital emergency room, people working on
farms, preparing meals for soldiers, or inspecting military equipment
mechanical parts. All of them were making valuable, tangible contributions to
an economy that has suddenly found itself desperately shorthanded.
Our mission, by
contrast, was to “show solidarity.” We were going mainly to meet with Israelis
dealing with the aftermath of the attack, to listen to their stories. No doubt
we would do these things only with the utmost understanding and empathy. But I
wondered: Was this really what they needed? Would they care that we showed up
just to show that we care? Here, other American Jews bring tangible relief and
elbow grease, and all we come with is empathy? How well is that going to be
received by our one big family in Israel? There are families after all – best
of intentions notwithstanding – where siblings do not see eye to eye. Time
would tell…
* * *
The trip we were
waiting for had finally arrived. It was a whirlwind week of activities and
meetings at a host of venues, with a network of bus rides connecting the dots.
We met with
survivors of the massacre at the Nova festival and with survivors of the
massacre at Kibbutz Kfar Azza. We met with healthy soldiers who were going off
to war and with wounded soldiers who had been brought back. We met with a
member of the Knesset and with the father of a hostage. We met with the CEO of
the Maccabi World Union Jewish Sport Museum, which set up ad hoc living
quarters to accommodate 800 displaced kibbutz residents, and we met with
communal leaders who arranged for educational and social services for 150
displaced families in southern Ashkelon. We met with IDF personnel who guided
us through the horrific carnage of Kfar Azza and with IDF personnel who gave us
a heart-wrenching tour of the Shura military base that had been converted into
a morgue. We met with the coordinator of a Nova festival memorial expo, and we
met with a true-life superhero who saved the lives of 750(!) festival goers as
the massacre was actually taking place.
It was a week full of encounters with a multitude of Israelis. But I could not help but notice a common thread. All the people we met with were genuinely appreciative that we came. They wanted to talk to us. They wanted us to hear their stories. They connected with us. Everyone. No exceptions. I recall in particular the survivors of the Nova festival. They did not want to let us leave! G-d bless them, they would have talked to us all night long if we hadn’t had a schedule to stick to. Baruch Hashem, our one big family was intact.
As I reflected on
all this, there came to mind a Hebrew phrase, attributed to the 11th
century philosopher and poet, Rabbi Moshe ibn Ezra: “Dvarim hayotzim min halev nichnasim el halev –Words, or gestures,
that emanate from one’s heart enter into the heart of another.”
We were welling up
with emotion before we arrived in Israel, and it could not be contained once we
got there. From touring Kfar Azza to meeting with survivors, emotions ran the
gamut from disgust to anger to empathy to grief. For the most part, it surely must have
appeared subtle, but at times it just came pouring out.
We had an
emotional encounter with a wounded soldier at Tel HaShomer Hospital. While
fighting in Gaza, he took a bullet through the back of his shoulder and out the
front near his armpit. He would have bled to death if not for a fellow soldier
who accompanied him on the emergency flight to Tel HaShomer, all the while
pressing hard into the wounds to stem the loss of blood. This young man, who
could not have been older than his early twenties, had no use of that entire
arm. He could not even move his fingertips. We were all deeply moved, and I
observed two of the women from our mission quietly weeping. He looked at us and
said (in Hebrew), “If I could, I would go back to Gaza right now to fight for
you people!”
And we had an
emotional encounter with Tzvika Mor, father of Eitan Mor, one of the hostages
still being held by Hamas. While most families of the hostages were calling for
a ceasefire in the hopes that it would bring their loved ones home, Tzvika
remained resolutely opposed. No matter if a ceasefire might benefit him
personally. Rather, he knew that, for the good of the Jewish nation, Hamas must
be destroyed. I could not hold back the tears when Tzvika spoke these powerful
words, “The fact that I must deal with my son’s situation – that is my personal
Akeidat Yitzchak!”
During the Q&A that followed, I raised my hand. I did not have a question, but I had a comment. I related to Tzvika my visceral reaction to his Akeidat Yitzchak comment. I said that while I am in total agreement that a ceasefire would be a mistake for Israel, I am also aware that if – G-d forbid, G-d forbid! – I were in Tzvika’s shoes, I know that I would fall right in line with the rest of the families begging the government for a ceasefire. “I am in awe of you!” I declared, once again struggling to hold back the tears.
At the conclusion
of the event, I met Tzvika up close. He gave me a warm embrace and thanked me
sincerely for coming. I remember
thinking – this entire trip would have been worth it just for that moment with
Tzvika. “Dvarim hayotzim min halev
nichnasim el halev – Words, or gestures, that emanate from one’s heart
enter into the heart of another.”
* * *
It was 10 days
before my mission to Israel when I walked into Park’s Tailoring for the second
time. This time I was there to pick up the pants I had dropped off the day
before. The bill came to $80. After verifying that the alterations were to my
liking, I handed Mr. Kim four $20 bills.
He took them, but then he stopped short.
“When did you say
you were going to Israel?” he asked.
“A week from
Sunday,” I replied.
Mr. Kim reached
into his pocket and pulled out a $20 bill of his own. He added it to the $80 I
had given him and then placed the combined $100 back in my hand. “Take this
with you to Israel,” he said, “and give it to people who need it.”
Totally unprepared
for this, I was speechless at first, but my feelings very quickly turned to
embarrassment for having accepted the money back into my hand. “I can’t take
this!” I protested. “This feels wrong! No, I can’t accept this!” We argued back
and forth. Finally, I decided to offer a compromise.
“I’ll tell you
what I’ll do,” I said, as I laid his $20 bill back down on the counter. “I’ll
accept the tailoring you did for me for free, but I am not taking your $20.
Instead, I will add in another $20 bill of my own, and I promise I will give
the full $100 to people in Israel.”
With that, Mr. Kim
picked up his $20 bill from the counter. He then reached across the counter and
shoved it inside my shirt pocket. “Stop it!” he yelled. “This is my mitzvah!
And you’re not going to take it away from me!”
I walked around to
the other side of the counter. I gave Mr. Kim a warm embrace, and I thanked him
profusely. This would mark the first of several occasions over the next two
weeks where my eyes would well with tears. I did not realize it at the time, but
more meaningful to me than the money, Mr. Kim had given me a most timely
lesson. He showed me, by way of example,
that I need not worry. My mission to my one big family in Israel would, surely,
be very well received.
