How a little-known mission to Damascus carried a message of hope months

before Syrian Jews were finally allowed to leave.

Linda Argalgi Sadacka 

This is the final installment of our three-part series. In the first two parts, we explored life for Syrian Jews under decades of restriction and the extraordinary efforts that ultimately led to our community’s freedom. Yet one important chapter remained untold.

When I began researching this subject, I did not set out to write a three-part series. I started with a single story – one that had stayed with me for years and one that, the more I thought about it, the less I could understand how it had remained largely unknown for so long.

Over the years, countless accounts have been written about Syrian Jewry: stories of perseverance, faith, persecution, resilience, and ultimately redemption. Many of those stories have rightly become part of our communal memory. They are told and retold because they help to explain who we are and where we came from.

A Different Story

This story was different.

Until recently, I was not aware of a single published account documenting what I had heard.

The story first came to me years ago through my husband. Like many stories that circulate within close-knit communities, it seemed to exist in a strange space between memory and history. The people who had lived through it remembered it. The people connected to it spoke about it. Yet somehow it never appeared to have fully entered the historical record.

What intrigued me was not whether the story was true. I never doubted that. What intrigued me was its absence.

Because if the events occurred as they were remembered, this was not the sort of story that should simply disappear. This was not a private family anecdote or a forgotten footnote tucked away in some obscure archive. It was a story that connected Syrian Jewry, Crown Heights, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, zt”l, and a dramatic chapter in modern Jewish history. It was the kind of story one assumes everybody already knows.

Yet, the more people I spoke with, the more I realized that they did not.

The Story Expands

There was also something almost unbelievable about the story itself. It involved a group of Jewish emissaries traveling through the Middle East, arriving in Damascus dressed as Saudi Arabs, entering one of the most tightly controlled countries in the region, locating the Jewish community, and delivering a message of hope to Jews living under watchful eyes. It sounded less like a communal memory and more like something from a political thriller. Yet, the deeper I investigated, the more I discovered that the story was not only true. It was larger, more layered, and more historically significant than I had originally understood.

Eventually, curiosity turned into research. What began as a decades-old memory led to conversations with eyewitnesses, community members, and individuals connected to the events themselves. Piece by piece, details began to emerge. Some accounts overlapped. Others introduced new questions. Far from simplifying the story, each conversation seemed to make the story larger.

One of the people I spoke with was Rebbetzin Chaya Lipsker of The Shul in Bal Harbour, Florida. Although she had never heard this particular account before, her reaction was telling. Given everything she knew about the Lubavitcher Rebbe and his concern for Jews wherever they lived, she did not find the story implausible. Quite the opposite. We were scheduled to continue the conversation the following day and, hopefully, identify additional sources that might shed light on the events.

Before that could happen, life took an unexpected turn. My father, Shlomo ben Linda, a”h, passed away on the 10th of Sivan. Research was suddenly replaced by funeral arrangements, travel, and shiva. Like so many projects interrupted by life’s more important obligations, the story was placed aside while our family focused on mourning and remembrance.

The Crown Heights Connection

During shiva in Montreal, I spent time with Rebbetzin Raskin, a longtime family friend whose family is widely respected throughout the Chabad-Lubavitch world. We spoke about family, community, and life. The story itself never came up. Only after shiva had ended and I had returned home did I reach out to her regarding my research. Her response surprised me. As it happened, she was in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, at that very moment. Within a remarkably short period of time, she was able to connect me with individuals who had access to archival material relating to the events I had been investigating.

For me, the archives were never about proving the story had happened. I had heard the account years earlier from my husband and from others who remembered the events. I had no reason to doubt them. The archives served a different purpose. They allowed the story to move beyond memory and into the historical record. They gave structure, context, and corroboration to something that had lived for decades in the recollections of those who experienced it.

What happened next felt almost providential. After carrying the story for years, after months of research, and after setting it aside during one of the most difficult periods of my life, documentation suddenly appeared. Within a short time of reaching out to Rebbetzin Raskin, archival material from Crown Heights was in my hands. As I began reading through it, I realized something else. The story was bigger than I had originally believed – much bigger.

Damascus, 1992

To understand why, we must return to Damascus in 1992. At the time, Syrian Jews still lived under intense government scrutiny. The Mukhabarat, Syria’s feared intelligence service, maintained a constant presence, and Jewish life was conducted with a level of caution that is difficult for many of us to fully appreciate today. It was within that environment that an extraordinary scene unfolded.

One day, several unfamiliar men appeared in the Jewish Quarter asking for directions to the synagogue. They were dressed in traditional Saudi Arabian attire, and according to those who remembered the encounter, the men had recently been in Saudi Arabia. Nothing about them seemed familiar, and their presence immediately attracted attention. To understand the reaction they received, one must understand the reality of Jewish life in Syria at the time. For decades, Syrian Jews had learned that vigilance was not optional. The wrong conversation, the wrong visitor, or the wrong question could attract unwanted attention. This was not paranoia; it was self-preservation.

Visitors in Disguise

The appearance of several unfamiliar men dressed as Saudi Arabs and asking questions about the synagogue naturally raised concerns. Who were they? Why were they there? What did they want? Were they genuine visitors, government informants, or something else entirely? In a community that had learned through experience to be careful, suspicion was the natural response. Eventually, the men found what they were looking for and entered the synagogue.

What happened next would be remembered for decades. Once inside, they removed their Saudi-style head coverings. Their peyot and kippot became visible. The strangers standing before them were, by all appearances, Jews. More than that, they immediately joined the prayers and demonstrated complete familiarity with the service. They carried religious books, greetings, and messages from thousands of miles away. They had come from Brooklyn, New York, on a mission connected to the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

The reaction inside the synagogue was immediate. Suspicion quickly gave way to astonishment, and astonishment to emotion. For Syrian Jews living under isolation and restriction, the moment was almost unimaginable. Here were Jews from the outside world who had somehow crossed continents, entered Syria, located their community, and arrived carrying a message from a Jewish leader who had not forgotten them.

An Ongoing Relationship

At first, I believed I was investigating a single event: a remarkable story about emissaries who entered Syria in disguise and appeared unexpectedly in a Damascus synagogue. Yet, the deeper I immersed myself in the material from Crown Heights, the more I realized that the visit itself was only one chapter of a much larger story. What emerged from the documents, testimonies, and recollections was not the record of an isolated mission. It was the record of an ongoing relationship.

Again and again, the same names surfaced throughout the material. Rabbi Avraham Hamra, zt”l, the longtime Chief Rabbi of Syria, appeared repeatedly, as did individuals who worked alongside him to sustain Jewish life under extraordinarily difficult circumstances. Messages moved between Damascus and Crown Heights. Visitors traveled back and forth. Religious books and materials were delivered. Reports regarding the condition of Syrian Jewry found their way to New York. The deeper I read, the harder it became to maintain my original assumption that I was researching a single dramatic episode. The visit to Damascus was not the beginning of the story. It was evidence of a story already in progress.

One of the valuable voices preserved in the historical record belongs to Saleh Luz, an eyewitness whose recollections help bring the story to life. Through his memories, the account becomes something more than dates and events. He remembered the visitors. He remembered the atmosphere within the community. He remembered the excitement, the surprise, and the emotional impact these encounters had on people who often felt distant from the larger Jewish world. Reading those accounts, one begins to understand why the arrival of the emissaries generated such a powerful reaction. Perhaps what mattered most was the realization that someone cared and had come looking for them.

A Message of Hope

The message itself was not new to me. I had heard it years earlier from my husband, who lived through those events and remembered the purpose behind the visit. According to his recollection, the emissaries did not come merely to distribute religious books or to deliver greetings from abroad. They came carrying something far more powerful: hope. The Lubavitcher Rebbe had communicated that Syrian Jews would soon experience their own redemption – not at some distant point in the future, but soon, by Passover.

To appreciate how astonishing that message sounded, one must place oneself in Damascus in 1992. Generations of Syrian Jews had lived under restrictions that many believed would never fully disappear. Families had learned to live with uncertainty. Hope existed, but it was tempered by experience. Nothing in the political climate suggested that dramatic change was imminent. Nothing suggested that a centuries-old chapter of Jewish history was approaching its conclusion. Nothing suggested that families who had spent years wondering whether they would ever leave would soon be packing their belongings and boarding airplanes. Yet the message was delivered, and the people hearing those words could not possibly have known how close they were to witnessing history.

For nearly 2,500 years, Jews had lived in Syria. Empires rose and fell around them. Kingdoms disappeared. Governments changed. Borders shifted. Yet, the Jews remained. Generation after generation, century after century, they maintained a continuous presence that stretched back to antiquity. Few could have imagined that they were living through the final chapter of that extraordinary story. Yet, history was already beginning to move. Within months, events began unfolding with astonishing speed. The gates that had remained closed for so long began to open, and families who had spent years wondering whether they would ever be allowed to leave suddenly found themselves confronting a reality they had scarcely dared to imagine.

A Surgeon’s Story

For me, the significance of that message was never merely historical. Long before I saw a single archival document, I had a personal connection to the story, as my husband’s life was intertwined with this chapter of history.

Before coming to the United States, my husband was a surgeon in Syria. As discussions surrounding the future of Syrian Jewry intensified and the possibility of emigration slowly began to emerge, he was repeatedly told that whatever freedoms might eventually be granted to others would not apply to him. The explanation was always the same. The Syrian government had invested in his education. He had benefited from the state’s universities. A person in his position, he was told, owed a debt that could never truly be repaid. Others might leave, but not him.

His family refused to accept that answer. His mother, like so many determined Syrian Jewish mothers before her, persisted relentlessly. Day after day she returned to government offices. Requests were submitted. Appeals were made. Hope rose and fell. Promises appeared and disappeared. Like countless other Syrian Jewish families, they lived in a state of uncertainty, never knowing whether the next conversation would bring disappointment or opportunity. Then, unexpectedly, everything changed. The permission arrived. After years of being told that the door would remain closed, it suddenly opened.

The disbelief was so profound that my husband refused to take any chances. He boarded the very first flight permitted to leave Syria, departing before other members of his family and leaving behind everything familiar because no one knew whether the opportunity would ever come again. Years later, when he told me the story, what struck me most was the sense that even the people living through those events could scarcely comprehend what was happening. For years they had spoken about leaving; now they were packing. For years they had imagined freedom; now they were boarding airplanes. For years the future had seemed sealed shut; now possibilities were opening before them.

Redemption Repeated

For my husband, redemption was not an abstract concept discussed around a table. It was the first flight out of Syria. In America, his life would take a new direction. The surgeon from Syria would eventually become the pediatrician so many families know today. But that future began with a moment no one in his family could take for granted: permission granted, a seat on the first plane, and the understanding that history had shifted beneath their feet.

Looking back now, it is difficult not to think about the timing. Months earlier, emissaries had entered Damascus carrying a message that seemed almost impossible to believe. Now, events were unfolding with a speed that few could have imagined. For thousands of years, Jews have gathered around the seder table and retold the story of a people who believed they might never leave Egypt, a people trapped by circumstances they did not control and unable to see the future awaiting them. Then history changed. In 1992, Syrian Jews experienced something that must have felt strikingly familiar. For generations they had lived with restrictions, wondered whether things would ever be different, and adapted to realities they did not choose. Then, almost suddenly, the gates opened.

Today, little remains of the Jewish Damascus that existed in 1992 beyond its buildings and memories. The community that once filled it has dispersed across the globe. Its descendants live in Brooklyn, Deal, Miami, Montreal, Panama, Israel, and countless other places. They are no longer a hidden community living behind barriers. They are woven into the fabric of Jewish life. They are our rabbis, our teachers, our doctors, our business leaders, our philanthropists, our neighbors, and our friends.

The Pieces Come Together

For years, I found myself asking the same question. How could a story of this magnitude have remained largely untold? How could a story connecting Damascus and Crown Heights, Syrian Jewry and the Lubavitcher Rebbe, disappear almost entirely from public memory? Perhaps the answer is that history does not always announce itself. Sometimes it unfolds quietly. Sometimes it survives only in the memories of those who witnessed it. And sometimes it waits decades for the missing pieces to come together.

That, ultimately, is what makes this story so remarkable. Not only that emissaries entered Syria. Not only that they carried a message of hope. But that more than thirty years later, eyewitness testimony, family memories, and archival records all point to the same conclusion: the Jews of Syria were never forgotten. And when redemption finally came in 1992, many remembered a message that had arrived months earlier in a Damascus synagogue. Redemption was coming. By Passover. Against all expectations, it did.

In a recent episode of SIMHA’s monthly series, psychotherapist Lilian Rishty of NYC Therapy Group shed light on the unique pressures facing women in our community. While women are often celebrated for their incredible strength, the conversation revealed a heavy truth: this very resilience can sometimes mask deep emotional and mental burnout.

The Guilt of Self-Care

One of the biggest challenges women face is the deep guilt that comes with putting their own needs first. From a young age, women are often conditioned to be natural caretakers and peacemakers. Because of this, many unconsciously equate their self-worth with self-sacrifice, feeling like a “good” mother, wife, daughter, or friend means always giving until the tank is empty.

When women try to set boundaries or take time for themselves, they often feel selfish. But the reality is exactly the opposite: taking care of yourself is a prerequisite for taking care of anyone else. You truly cannot pour from an empty cup.

The Trap of the “Superwoman” Ideal

Our community and society often hold up an impossible standard: the woman who does it all perfectly, all at once. She is expected to be a nurturing caretaker, ambitious, put-together, and perfectly agreeable. This “superwoman” ideal sets women up for a constant cycle of perfectionism and a nagging feeling of failure.

When we push past our natural human limits to meet these standards, it leaves us facing heavy emotional hurdles:

Anxiety and Shame: When needing a break or having normal, human limits feels like a sign of weakness.

Imposter Syndrome: Doubting or minimizing our own accomplishments despite clear success.

The Need for Redefined Worth: Measuring our value purely by our constant output and productivity, rather than by who we are.

Understanding the “Mental Load”

Burnout in women isn’t just about being physically tired. It is frequently driven by the “mental load,” which is the invisible, exhausting mental labor required to manage a household and family. It’s the constant internal checklist: remembering doctor’s appointments, tracking groceries, managing the emotional temperature of the home, and planning three steps ahead.

This state of being constantly “on call” keeps the nervous system on high alert. Even when a woman is physically resting, her brain is often still scanning for what needs to be done next, making it incredibly hard to actually power down.

Why Women Face Higher Risks

Statistically, women are twice as likely as men to struggle with anxiety or depression. This isn’t a personal failing; it’s a layered reality involving biology, social roles, and psychology.

Hormonal shifts during pregnancy, postpartum, and menopause create real vulnerabilities to mood changes. Conditions like PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder) and PMADs (Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorders) are real, treatable medical conditions and are not things to be brushed off as just a normal part of life. Psychologically, women are also more likely to ruminate, turning inward with self-criticism and overanalyzing their perceived flaws.

You Don’t Have to Carry It Alone

If you are feeling anxious, burnt out, or disconnected, please don’t ignore it. You don’t have to carry this invisible weight alone. Reach out for support from friends, family, or religious mentors in the community. Additionally, professional counseling and therapy can provide real tools to shift old thought patterns and reclaim your peace. By talking about these struggles openly, we can build a community where women feel truly supported in prioritizing their health, completely guilt-free.

Reclaiming Your Identity and Voice

To combat these heavy pressures, small shifts in our daily habits can make a massive difference:

• Swap “Sorry” for “Thank You”: Instead of saying, “I’m sorry for complaining,” try, “Thank you for listening.” This small change shifts the dynamic from an apology to mutual respect.

• Set Firm Boundaries: When you need to say “no,” skip the urge to over-explain. A simple, kind, “I’m not available” is incredibly empowering.

• Shrink the Frame: When life feels overwhelming, stop looking at the giant picture. Just ask yourself: What do I need to do in the next ten minutes?

• Reconnect with Yourself: It’s easy for your identity to get buried under roles like mother, wife, or worker. Make time for hobbies or moments that feed your personal creativity, curiosity, or joy, purely for fun and not for productivity. Whether it’s a regular exercise routine, weekly Torah class, or simply enjoying a cup of coffee alone, give yourself permission to do things just for you.

Eddie Esses

The inclusion of Senator Sam Sutton’s buffer zone legislation in the New York State budget by Governor Kathy Hochul represents a landmark moment for Jewish New Yorkers, culminating months of sustained advocacy, coordination, and civic engagement. The legislation establishes a 50-foot buffer zone around synagogues, religious schools, and JCCs to help protect congregants students, and JCC participants from protests intended to harass or intimidate, and is being widely described by community leaders as the most consequential piece of legislation for Jewish New Yorkers in recent memory.

Background

The origins of the bill trace back to an immediate and urgent response following the November Park East Synagogue incident. Senator Sutton, Eddie Esses, and Joey Saban immediately convened a meeting in Sam’s office to confront the question of what meaningful protections could be put in place. Out of that initial discussion came the decision to draft and introduce what would become the buffer zone legislation.

From that point forward, the process was defined by seven months of intense behind-the-scenes work. Joey Saban and Senator Sutton engaged in a relentless schedule of meetings with Senate leadership, Assembly counterparts, staff, and stakeholders across government. Through the process there were many setbacks, shifting dynamics, and difficult negotiations. At various points, the legislation appeared stalled or uncertain, only to be revived again through persistent advocacy and renewed negotiations. 

A critical moment came when Governor Hochul chose to personally adopt the legislation as part of her executive budget proposal. The governor not only embraced the bill, but actively fought for its inclusion, elevating it within the broader budget negotiations. Senator Sutton was told directly by Governor Hochul that the issue was a “red line” priority for her, underscoring the level of commitment behind ensuring its passage. 

Civic Participation Leads to Major Impact

This moment highlights the extraordinary role our community’s increased civic participation has had in making major changes. In particular, it highlights the incredible impact of Senator Sutton’s election. This achievement demonstrates what becomes possible when a community organizes, votes, and places trust in one of its own to carry its voice into the halls of power. The passage of the buffer zone legislation is the direct result of that engagement, illustrating how sustained participation translated into tangible policy outcomes.

Key legislative partners deserve significant credit, as they helped navigate the bill through both chambers. Assemblymember Simcha Eichenstein served as Senator Sutton’s negotiating counterpart in the Assembly. He, along with the full Jewish delegation in the Assembly, helped guide the legislation through negotiations, strengthening the bill significantly. Assemblymember Micah Lasher, the original Assembly sponsor of the bill alongside Sutton, played a foundational role in shaping and advancing the legislation from its earliest stages. 

Activism on the ground played a key role as well. The consistent, vocal activism of Abie Hamra was critical. His online petition and sustained advocacy rallied the public in favor of the idea of buffer zones. After the bill was introduced, UJA Federation of NY coalesced support amongst elected officials and interfaith leaders across New York State and coordinated a major online campaign to increase support in both chambers of state government.  Ultimately, the passage of the buffer bill is both a policy victory and a broader civic lesson. It reflects what can be achieved when we as a community move beyond concern and into action by voting, organizing, and engaging directly in the political process. If this level of participation and engagement can yield such significant results, just imagine which even greater achievements are within reach. The message that emerges from this victory is clear: when the community shows up, organizes, and participates fully in civic life, it has the power to shape history and deliver meaningful change for generations to come.

Ellen Geller Kamaras

“Everyone depends on me, I never stop thinking about what needs to be done. It is exhausting, but I wouldn’t trade the time with my family.”

Do these words sound familiar? Then you are probably a member of the sandwich generation.

In the U.S., millions of women and men belong to this group.

According to Mental Health America, the forties is the peak age when Americans are the most likely to be sandwiched. Today nearly one in four U.S. adults are in the “sandwich generation.”

What is in this new demographic?

They are adults who are juggling the tasks of caring for their aging parents (65+) and raising dependent children while trying to maintain their own careers. Caught in the middle, they are sandwiched between the needs of two different generations, each with its distinct demands and challenges. According to the Pew Research Center, fifty-four percent of adults in their forties are currently taking care of a child and a 65+ parent.

Longer Lives Equals Longer Care

The sandwich demographic also includes people in their 50s, 60s, and even 70s.  Yes, you read right!   People in their late fifties, sixties, and early seventies are babysitting for their grandchildren as well as managing the care and finances of an elderly parent.

People are living longer.  According to the Social Security Administration, one out of every four 65-year-olds today will live past age 90.    In addition, our young adult children often need our help post-college.   Top Resume, a prominent professional resume-writing service, conducted a survey of 600 U.S. parents that revealed that nearly 40 percent of recent graduates lack full-time work, leaving families to cover housing, bills, and more. Yes, the sandwich generation takes care of adult children, too!

A new term was coined for someone around age 70, “the club sandwich or triple-decker sandwich generation.”   It’s used for people assisting an elderly parent while also helping adult children and young grandchildren. 

A Balancing Act

Parenting, caregiving, and maintaining one’s own household and career are the three major responsibilities that require simultaneous balancing by the sandwich generation.

This life stage can be quite overwhelming.  Let’s talk about the ways the sandwich generation can navigate and manage the demands and rewards of this dual-caregiving role.   The required tasks are not only practical and involve time management but may also take an emotional and financial toll on the caregiver.

Ensuring our older parents get the best care possible is our responsibility and our privilege as adult children.

Caregivers in the sandwich generation often feel like they are being pulled in many directions.   They report feeling stressed, guilty, pressured by time constraints, and strained financially.  It’s vital to protect your own health.  Remember to put your own oxygen mask on first!   To avoid caregiver burnout, ensure you carve out time for sufficient sleep, exercise, a social life, and your own health care.  

And let’s not forget your own career and job.  You may need to think creatively how to maintain your job and still offer care needed for older parents. This may mean asking for family leave or organizing a shorter workweek.  Review the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA) guidelines and speak to your Human Resources representative to determine the benefits your company offers to sandwich generation employees.   Common perks may include flexible work arrangements, caregiver leave, elder care resources, financial and legal support, back-up care, and employee assistance programs.

Practical Strategies and Techniques

First, plan ahead:  Inquire about your parents’ health and long-term insurance coverage. Check their legal documents including wills, health care proxies, and power of attorney (POA). Determine if they have money set aside for retirement.  Consulting with an elder care case manager and attorney will educate you on how to best assist your parents.   If one spouse gets sick suddenly, if there is not a power of attorney in place, the other spouse may not be able to handle the other’s financial and legal affairs.

Helping a 65+ parent can be extra challenging when the parent sees help as a threat to their independence.  Adult children often encounter resistance when they talk to their parents about powers of attorney, health care proxies, and adding beneficiaries to their bank accounts.  Start with a soft touch. The conversation will go better if the adult child frames their intent as protecting their parents’ choices rather than taking over their lives.  Explain that a POA or health care proxy gives them more control if they can’t speak for themselves or they cannot handle something temporarily.   Otherwise, the courts or a total stranger might make decisions on their behalf.

Communicate and coordinate with your siblings and spouses:  Teamwork is a must. Do not go it alone or try to do everything by yourself.   You will burn out quickly.  Based on your schedules and locations, determine who can take care of what, such as taking care of finances and insurance.   Siblings can prevent burning out by taking turns driving elderly parents to medical appointments or hosting them in their homes for the holidays or Shabbatot.

My rabbi’s wife, Shternie, has six siblings. All seven siblings are on a family WhatsApp chat to discuss and share the tasks related to their mother’s care. Shternie checks her daily work and personal calendars every morning, reviewing her appointments and availability to pitch in with the grandchildren.

Caregiving is tougher when some or all of the adult children live far away from their aging parents.

Getting your spouse on board to help with your own dependent children is key.  You may have to hire a sitter, or other family members may be available to pitch in.

It is not uncommon for family scenarios to get complicated, and for the spouse who was “the healthy one” to become the one who needs extra care. Often it is critical for husbands or wives to step up to the plate to take care of duties their spouse has been responsible for, and their children need to step in, as well. In order for the sandwich generation members to be free to help, sometimes outsourcing some basic tasks may be in order – such as using babysitters or teens who can pick up kids from school while their parents are involved with aging or ill parents.

Use Outside and Community Resources:  You can’t do everything yourself.  There are adult day programs, senior centers, and transportation services available to assist you.   You may have to hire a home health aide or your parents’ insurance coverage may cover it.   Sephardic Bikur Holim (SBH) and the Sephardic Community Center (SCC) offer excellent services for our senior population. 

When my mother-in-law was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, she was enrolled in an adult day care program in a nursing home. She was picked up and returned home by van and was in a nurturing and stimulating environment from 9am to 4pm.   She lived with her daughter Debbie, who was her primary caregiver.  Debbie joined an SCC support group for caregivers and benefited greatly from it.

Time management: Consider using e a shared digital calendar and sync up family apps likeTimeTree to track appointments, school events, and care shifts. 

Establish boundaries and priorities:  Practice self-care and acknowledge that you cannot meet everyone’s needs personally.  Please ask for help from family or friends or get paid or community services.

Involve your children appropriately and reap the rewards:   Explain your role as caregiver of your children’s grandparent and encourage your kids to participate in age-appropriate ways.  Your young children can entertain an aging grandparent by playing a game with them or can occupy them by playing a musical instrument. Or they can brighten their day by just drawing a picture for them.

My childhood friend Bonnie took care of both her parents.  “I always had the mitzvah of kibud av v’eim at the forefront. My adult children and grandchildren understood that Grandma and Grandpa came first. From a chinuch angle, it was priceless and they learned about the obligation and mitzvah of taking care of parents. My parents modeled it for me.”

Another close girlfriend shared that she is sandwiched among three generations, which presents both challenges and blessings.  She is retired and can spend significant time maintaining strong connections with her 99-year-old mother, her children, and her grandchildren.

Her mother is totally dependent on a wonderful caregiver who is indispensable.  My friend visits her mother daily except on Shabbat and has special bonding times with her grandchildren, doing art or gardening.  She and her husband also touch base with each adult child weekly without being intrusive.

From personal experience, I can say that the value of giving back to our parents and grandparents cannot be measured.

Ellen Geller Kamaras, CPA/MBA, is an International Coach Federation (ICF) Associate Certified Coach.  Her coaching specialties include life, career, and dating coaching. She can be contacted at ellen.kamaras@gmail.com (www.lifecoachellen.com). 

QUESTION:  

Dear Rabbi Ali,

I hope I don’t sound like a mean person, but there is something that bothers me, which turns into a fight very often. I work very hard to support my family. When I come home, the house is messy and most of the time food is not ready. I ask my wife to have things somewhat ready. This almost always turns into a fight. Is there a way to get my message across?

R’ Ali’s Response:  

I’d like to highlight one point before I begin to put things into perspective. You mention that you don’t want to sound mean. Many people are hesitant to reach out because they feel petty or embarrassed by their behavior. We need to understand that we are all human and have our own personal struggles. These struggles are nothing to be ashamed of and certainly are not a reason to hold back from reaching out. Although it’s rarely too late to reach out, many times people only reach out very late in the game, making things harder to repair.

You wrote that this issue turns into a fight when you mention something. I’m aware that “communication is the key” (or maybe not),  but there are times when communication can damage a relationship. If you see something is not working, stop doing it. Until you figure out a better way to approach the situation, do not approach the situation.

It would be ideal to actually discuss this point with your wife. “It seems as though we do not see eye to eye on this point. Let’s not discuss it until we figure out what to do.” Your question was, “Is there any way to get my message across?” I think you got your message across. Your wife is well aware of your feelings on this matter. Clearly, there’s something that’s missing here.

A great man once said, “Everyone knows everything.” Meaning, people think that their spouse doesn’t know what they want or how badly they want it. They think that all they need is someone to explain it to them and they will comply. This is a big mistake, for the most part. The question that people have when I tell them this idea is, why won’t they just do it!? 

There are many reasons why they can’t do something that would make you happy. It could be that it’s very hard for them to do certain things. Those things may be easy for you, but hard for them.

Another reason could be that they want to push back due to the way you are approaching the topic. It may be in an aggressive way, which causes them to be resistant. There’s another reason that is common and that is gender differences. Men will look at cooking and cleaning as very simple and something that takes minimal preparation. This could be due to some men comparing their labor to that of their wives. (This applies to how women think about men, as well.)

Speaking to a third party can help you sort out the reason why your wife is resistant. Thereby you can approach the situation in a better, more productive manner. In general, I like to tell people that if you want things done differently, do it yourself. If you don’t like to come home to a messy house, get cleaning help, ask the kids to chip in, or you yourself can chip in. Of course, this is just a general rule and should be applied carefully. 

Pnina Souid

For elderly people who used to be physically fit and capable, being wheelchair-bound or losing their ability to climb stairs can also be a hit to their self-esteem. The Mitzvah Man Organization provides hesed in many areas, and supplying stairlifts for needy individuals is one important area. Providing stairlifts helps recipients’ physical and emotional wellbeing.

How It Works

The Mitzvah Man Organization  receives donations of used stairlifts, refurbishes them to “new condition” and sends them to needy wheelchair-bound individuals or those who have other mobility problems that hinder their ability to climb the stairs in their homes or the stairs leading to their homes. A stairlift is a lifesaver, providing recipients with a feeling of independence that is so important to their self-esteem and their quality of life.

After the second-hand stairlifts have been refurbished, they are provided exclusively to those who cannot afford to buy one for themselves. A new stairlift can cost $7,000 or more. Two years ago, 87 used stairlifts were distributed and last year 83. This year,  43 used stairlifts have been delivered to needy, very grateful recipients.

A Story for the Books

Last week, an elderly gentleman called the Mitzvah Man, saying that he could no longer climb the stairs in his home and he could not afford to buy a stairlift. He asked if the Mitzvah Man Organization had any to stairlifts to donate. The Mitzvah Man explained that second hand stairlifts are available to individuals, and are adapted to suit each situation.

The Mitzvah Man had to think on his feet when the man added, “I am not Jewish. Do you help non-Jews?”

The Mitzvah Man knew that there was a stairlift that was not spoken for. No Jew had requested this item recently. He took a breath and responded, “Of course we help non-Jews. We do have one stairlift available, and it would be our pleasure to bring it over and install it.”

A few days later, the man called to thank the Mitzvah Man for making such a positive change in his life.

A month later, the Mitzvah man got calls from two people – one from a rabbi and the other from an elderly woman in the community – both asking for stairlifts. He was forced to tell them that he did not have any available but he I would put them on a waiting list.

Full Circle

A few weeks later, a friend of the non-Jewish man called the Mitzvah Man office. He was so impressed with the difference the stairlift had made in his friend’s life! He and another friend, neither of them Jewish, both had used stairlifts to donate to the Mitzvah Man Organization. Both men had lost family members who had needed stairlifts, and they were available for donation to the Mitzvah Man Organization. Might anyone need them?

These words were music to the Mitzvah Man’s ears. He thanked the man sincerely and said that he would be happy to have a volunteer pick them up.

Immediately after hanging up, the Mitzvah Man thanked Hashem. He had performed the mitzvah of kiddush Hashem, and in return, Hashem coordinated the donation of two badly needed stairlifts. Only Hashem could have coordinated this. Clearly, Hashem approved of this way of bringing kiddush Hashem to the world.

The moral of the story is: Do a kiddush Hashem, whether it is for a non-Jew or a Jew. It will bring beracha for everyone!

Rabbi Yehuda Finchas

Ikey looked down sheepishly, “Rabbi, I know we don’t listen to music during Bein Hametzarim – the ‘Three Weeks’ between the 17^th of Tamuz and Tisha B’Av. But I’ve been feeling anxious. Music usually helps me calm down. Since I stopped listening to music, I feel worse. Am I allowed to listen, or do I need to push through?” Sandra has the blues after her third child. She’s not sleeping well, which makes things worse. “Rabbi, is there any leniency?” she asked. “Without music, I can barely function.” This question sits at the intersection of halacha and mental health – and the Sephardic poskim have addressed it.

The Nature of the Prohibition

Hacham Ovadia Yosef, zt”l, in Responsa Yechave Da’at (1:45, 6:34), explains that following the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, Chazal instituted restrictions on music. The Gemara (Sotah 48a) describes a world in which song was diminished, rooted in the verse from Eicha (5:14), and the Rambam (Hilchot Ta’aniyot 5:14) codifies that one should refrain from instrumental music as an expression of mourning. The Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 560:3) adopts this approach.

Hacham Ovadia concludes that even for those who are lenient and listen to music during the rest of the year, during the days of Sefirat HaOmer and Bein Hametzarim, the minhag is that even forms of music that are permitted during the year are avoided as part of the national mourning.

Music As Healing

Hacham Ben Zion Abba Shaul, zt”l, establishes a carefully defined approach depending on the severity of the illness. When a person is suffering from depression, he permits listening to music until Rosh Chodesh Av. And where one is classified as a choleh atzabim – a person with a significant mental or nervous disorder – he permits listening even after  Rosh Chodesh Av, and in extreme situations even on Tisha B’Av itself, since refraining could pose a real danger (Or L’Tzion Vol. 3, Ch. 25, Sec. 2).

This is no longer about enhancing mood. It is about refuah – healing.  Similarly, other authorities write explicitly that Chazal never prohibited music used for healing. Hacham Yitzchak Yosef, shlit”a, (Yalkut Yosef Shavuot, p. 422) reinforces this approach. For a bedridden patient who would benefit from hearing music for recovery, he rules directly: “Healing the body is a great mitzvah, and there is no prohibition in a case of illness.” He cites Rabbi Nissim Karelitz and Rabbi Chaim Pinchas Scheinberg, who both permitted music for the sick or depressed during these restricted periods, adding that it should be done in private, such as with earphones.

The original decree was directed at simha – joy that leads to levity and distraction.
But where music serves to prevent psychological harm, it is no longer an expression of simha – it is a tool of refuah. As the verse states, “Ruach ish yechalkel machalehu”– a person’s spirit sustains him in illness (Mishlei 18:14). Strengthening that spirit is itself part of the healing process.

The Rambam provides general grounding for all of this in his Shemonah Perakim (Ch. 5). When overcome by mara shechora – melancholy – a person should relieve it through music and pleasant surroundings. The purpose is to promote health. Health enables the soul to pursue knowledge of Hashem. As he writes in his Regimen of Health, constant anxiety damages the body, and the physician’s first task is to remove sources of emotional distress.

A Delicate Balance

For Ikey and Sandra, the halachic path is clear. If they listen to music simply to enhance their mood, it is not permitted. But if their struggle reaches the level of genuine distress – anxiety or depression – then the halacha does not demand that they suffer. In such a case, music is not a violation of mourning, but a necessary means of preserving their health.

Mental health conditions may permit music, and in severe cases even on Tisha B’Av itself. Each individual must have their condition assessed and consult with a qualified posek, accordingly.

Rabbi Yehuda Finchas is a worldwide expert, lecturer, and author on Medical Halacha. He heads the Torat Habayit Medical Halacha Institute. He is the author of Brain Death in Halacha and the Tower of Babel Syndrome and Nutrition and Hydration in Halacha. To contact Rabbi Finchas, email rabbi@torathabayit.com.