As everyone knows, the holiday of Shavuot is described in our holiday prayer service as “zeman matan Toratenu – the day of the giving of our Torah.” Meaning, Shavuot is the day when we received the Torah, and this is what we celebrate on this special day.

There’s only one problem with this – we didn’t actually receive the Torah on Shavuot.

You read that correctly – it emerges from our sources that the Revelation at Sinai did not occur on this day.

This point was made centuries ago by one of the great commentaries to the Shulchan Aruch – the Magen Avraham (Rav Avraham Gombiner, d. 1682). The Magen Avraham notes two widely-accepted traditions that lead us to the conclusion that the Torah was given not on Shavuot – the day following the 49^th and final day of the omer period – but rather the day after that. 

First, the sages teach that in the year of the Exodus, the 15^th of Nissan – the day our ancestors left Egypt – fell on Thursday (the way it did this year, 5786/2026). This means that the first day of the omer period was the next day – Friday – such that the final day of the omer was Thursday.  If Shavuot – the day following the culmination of the omer counting – marked the day of Matan Torah, then this would mean that the Torah was given on a Friday. However, the Gemara (Shabbat 86b) establishes that the Torah was given on Shabbat. Necessarily, then, the Torah was given not on Shavuot, but on the day after Shavuot.

My point here is not to call for postponing Shavuot for a day. Rather, it is to sharpen our understanding of what “zeman matan Toratenu” means, and how this enhances our celebration of this Yom Tov and, more generally, the way we see ourselves and our identity as Jews.

Challenging King David’s Legitimacy

To introduce the answer to this question, let us briefly explore one of the cherished customs of Shavuot – the reading of Megilat Rut.

Several different theories have been proposed to explain this time-honored practice. Some explain that at the time of Matan Torah, we all underwent a “conversion” of sorts, like Rut, a Moavite woman who made the decision to join the Jewish Nation, as we – like Rut – committed ourselves to the Torah’s commands. Another explanation is that Megilat Rut tells a story of beautiful hesed (kindness), of how Rut joined a foreign nation in order to stay with and help her aged, destitute mother-in-law, and of how Boaz, a wealthy man, took care of Rut and ultimately married her. We read this story to remember the crucial role that hesed plays in the life of a Torah Jew.

But there is also another reason, one which goes to the heart of the purpose for which this story was written in the first place.

The sages tell us that the book of Rut was written by the prophet Shemuel, the leader who crowned David as king over Israel, thereby establishing the eternal Davidic dynasty. He recorded the story of Rut in response to the controversy that erupted when David was appointed king. Some scholars challenged not only David’s right to the throne – but the very legitimacy of his membership in the Jewish Nation. The Torah (Devarim 23:4) explicitly forbids marrying a convert from the nation of Moav – seemingly invalidating Boaz’s marriage to Rut. Hence, their son, Oved – who became the grandfather of King David – is the product of an illegitimate union, and thus David himself was, at first glance, similarly illegitimate and unfit to marry a Jewish girl, let alone to serve as king over Israel.

This challenge was rejected based on an interpretive tradition taught by Shemuel himself. This tradition explains that the term Moavi used by the Torah in reference to the prohibition against marrying Moavite converts refers specifically to male converts. The Torah does not forbid marrying a female convert from Moav – and so Boaz’s marriage to Rut was perfectly legitimate.

Shemuel wrote the story of Rut for this very purpose – to affirm the validity of this marriage. Boaz married Rut with the consent and approval of the community of Bet-Lehem, including the rabbinic leadership.  In order to put to rest any questions about David’s family background, Shemuel recorded the story of Rut which confirms the halachic validity of her marriage to Boaz.

This book that Shemuel wrote – known to us as Megilat Rut – contains 85 verses. This number marks the gematria (numerical value) of the word peh (“mouth”) – an allusion to the Torah she’be’al peh, the oral halachic tradition.  Rut’s status vis-à-vis marriage constitutes one of the starkest examples of the power of the Torah she’be’al peh, how the Sages are empowered to interpret and apply the text of the Torah. If all we had was the written text of the Humash, it would have been assumed that all Moavite converts – both male and female – are forbidden for marriage.  It was the Torah she’be’al peh, the system of scholarly analysis, debate and discourse – that allowed Rut to marry Boaz, and thus that allowed King David to emerge.

When we stood at Mount Sinai, Gd did not give us simply a text to follow. He also presented us with a system whereby the great scholars in every generation study and carefully scrutinize this text and the conclusions of their predecessors for the purpose of applying the Torah’s laws for their generation. Strikingly, Gd authorized the sages to reach and act upon conclusions even against the plain meaning of the text, if this is how they understand the words based on the principles of the system of Torah she’be’al peh. And perhaps nowhere was this authority showcased more dramatically than in the story of Rut, a woman from Moav who married a Jewish man with the scholars’ approval.

Moshe’s Extra Day

We can now understand why we celebrate the day before the Torah was given, rather than the day when it was given.

The Gemara relates that on Wednesday, two days before what was to be the day of Matan Torah, Gd instructed Moshe to prepare the people “today and tomorrow” (Shemot 19:10). Moshe interpreted Gd words to mean that the people should prepare for two days starting the next day, such that the Torah would be given not two days later, but three days later.

Astonishingly, Gd accepted Moshe’s interpretation of His words.

Gd had decided to give the Torah on Friday – but Moshe decided, based on his understanding, to delay the event until Shabbat – and Gd consented. He abided, as it were, by Moshe’s interpretation of His command, and gave the people an extra day to prepare.

The Bet Halevi (Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik of Brisk, Lithuania, 1820-1892) explains that Friday – the day nothing happened – is indeed the significant day which is worthy of celebration. This day, when Gd decided not to give the written Torah, marked the giving of the Torah she’be’al peh. It established the authority invested in the sages of Israel – beginning with Moshe Rabbenu – to interpret and apply the Torah, and Gd’s “submission” to their interpretation. Shavuot – the day when nothing happened! – is truly “zeman matan Toratenu” – the day the Torah was given to us as a matanah – a gift.  When a person gives a gift, he relinquishes control over the object. On the day when Gd deferred to Moshe by not giving the Torah, He relinquished control over it, to an extent. He made it clear that He was not merely presenting us a series of laws to follow – but inviting us to become His partners in clarifying and applying the laws.

We might call Shavuot the most eventful non-event in human history. The fact that nothing eventful happened is what made this day so momentous, as it marked the ultimate Matan Torah – the authorization granted to the sages to interpret and apply the Torah’s laws.

Feeling Gd’s Love

This profound truth – that the Almighty willingly deferred to Moshe’s interpretation and granted the sages of every generation the authority to interpret and apply His Torah – reveals the depth of Hashem’s love for His people.

Gd did not want a nation of mere compliant servants who would robotically follow a fixed set of instructions. He desired partners. By “submitting,” as it were, to the understanding of finite human beings, the Creator invited every generation of Jews into an active, living relationship with the Torah. The day nothing “happened” at Sinai is therefore the day everything truly happened: the Torah became ours – not as a distant, unchangeable document, but as a dynamic covenant that breathes through the ongoing partnership between Gd and the Jewish people.

While the power of interpretation is, of course, reserved for great scholars, there is a broader message here for each and every one of us. When we open a page of Gemara, when we ask a halachic question to our rabbi, when we watch the sages throughout history grapple with new realities while remaining faithful to the Torah’s principles – we are witnessing Hashem’s extraordinary love. He trusts us enough to let us participate in the unfolding of His will. He values our sincere effort, our intellectual honesty, and our moral sensitivity. Even when we are not scholars, our commitment to learning, our respect for Torah authority, and our willingness to live by the Torah as understood by the rabbis declare: “Hashem, I accept Your invitation to be Your partner.”

On Shavuot, as we stay up all night learning, as we read and celebrate “zeman matan Toratenu,” let us internalize this beautiful reality. The Torah was not only forced upon us from above; it was lovingly entrusted to us. May we merit to feel this divine love every day of our lives, and may we respond by drawing ever closer to Him through the study and observance of His Torah – written and oral – as true partners in the eternal covenant.

Tammy Sassoon

When we raise a child who struggles with anxiety, our instinct is to help them feel better as quickly as possible. We see their distress, and we want to soothe it, remove it, or protect them from whatever is causing it. That instinct comes from a loving place.  But there’s an important distinction that can make a huge difference in how our children learn to handle anxiety: the difference between compassion and pity.

At first glance, they can look similar. Both involve caring and responding to your child’s struggle. But the message underneath each one is very different and kids pick up on that message quickly (there is a microphone on our heart, so they pick up on our thoughts and feelings even if we don’t say a word).

Respond with Compassion

Compassion sends a message that, “I see that this is hard for you, and I believe you can handle it.”

Pity sends a message that, “This is too hard for you, and you can’t handle it.”

That shift changes everything.

When we respond with compassion, acknowledge our child’s feelings without getting pulled into those feelings. We’re grounded. We communicate safety not by removing the challenge, but by showing confidence in our child’s ability to face that challenge. For example, if a child is anxious about going to camp, compassion might sound like: “I know this feels uncomfortable. New or fast-paced environments can feel like a lot. I’m right here, and I know you can do this.” You’re not dismissing the anxiety, but you’re also not reinforcing the idea that it’s too much to handle or is dangerous.

Cancel the Pity

Pity, on the other hand, often sounds softer but actually feeds the anxiety. It might sound like: “Aww, this is so hard, you’ll tell me after camp if you were okay.” While it feels kind in the moment, the underlying message is that your child isn’t capable of handling discomfort. Over time, this builds dependence on avoidance rather than resilience. (Of course, we are only talking about situations that you know are safe for your child.)

Anxious children are constantly scanning us for cues about whether they are safe and can cope. If a parent responds with even a tinge of worry, urgency, or over-accommodation, the child’s brain interprets that as confirmation: “This really is scary. Even my parent thinks so.” But when a parent stays calm and compassionate, the message becomes: “This feels hard, but it’s not dangerous. I can get through it.”

Stay Emotionally Attuned

This doesn’t mean being cold or dismissive. Compassion is not about saying, “You’re fine, just go.” That kind of response can feel invalidating and disconnecting. True compassion means you’re emotionally attuned, you name your child’s struggle, and you stay present with them through it. The difference is that you don’t lower expectations because of the anxiety.

Compassion walks alongside your child, while pity carries them. And while being carried might feel good in the short term, it prevents them from building the muscles they need to walk on their own.

Handling Discomfort

Another key difference is how each approach handles discomfort. Compassion makes room for it. It says, “It’s okay to feel anxious, and you can still move forward.” Pity tries to eliminate discomfort altogether. But anxiety doesn’t shrink when we avoid it. It actually grows. Every time a child escapes a situation because of anxiety, their brain learns that avoidance is the solution. Compassion gently interrupts that cycle by supporting the child in facing the discomfort in manageable ways.

Your tone is also very important. You can say all the “right” things, but if your energy is anxious or uncertain, your child will feel that. Compassionate parenting requires you to regulate yourself first. When you stay calm, you lend your child your calm. When you believe they can handle it, they start to believe it, too. After all, it’s Hashem, our loving Father, who uniquely designs each hardship for our very best.

It’s also okay if your child still struggles, even when you respond with compassion. The goal isn’t to eliminate anxiety, but rather to change your child’s relationship with it. You’re helping them learn, over time, “I can feel uncomfortable and still be okay.” In the end, compassion empowers your child, while pity unintentionally keeps them stuck. One builds confidence; the other reinforces fear. And while it’s not always easy to remember that line, (especially when your child is upset), it’s one of the greatest ways to help them!

DAVE GORDON

In early April, a federal appeals court in New York reinstated a $655.5 million judgment against the PLO and Palestinian Authority, bringing a small group of American terror victims to the brink of the justice they have pursued for over two decades.

The case was brought by American citizens harmed in a wave of attacks in Jerusalem in the early 2000s. The decision revives one of the largest such awards ever awarded by a U.S. court over violence in Israel.

Supreme Court Reopens the Door

It comes on the heels of a June 2025 U.S. Supreme Court ruling that reopened the door for such lawsuits against the Palestinian groups.

The lawsuit was filed in 2004 on behalf of ten American families whose loved ones were murdered or maimed in bombings and shootings in Jerusalem, during the Second Intifada. In 2015, a federal jury found the PLO and the Palestinian Authority responsible under the U.S. Anti‑Terrorism Act, and ordered them to pay $655.5 million in damages.

That verdict was later thrown out by the 2nd U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, which held that the Palestinian defendants were beyond the reach of U.S. courts. Everything changed after the Supreme Court upheld the Promoting Security and Justice for Victims of Terrorism Act, a 2019 statute crafted to allow Americans injured in overseas terror attacks to bring claims against the PLO and Palestinian Authority under defined circumstances.

Pay for Slay

A central question in the case involved the Palestinian Authority’s controversial “pay for slay” program – monthly stipends and benefits paid to imprisoned terrorists and the families of those killed while carrying out attacks, including assaults that targeted American citizens.

Judges found that these payments, and other activities tied to U.S. interests, could help establish the jurisdictional connection needed for American courts to hear the case. After the Supreme Court’s decision, the appeals court concluded that the original 2015 judgment should stand. Rather than sending the parties back for another trial, the panel reversed its prior dismissal, and ordered that the earlier jury award be restored, saying this outcome aligned with the “plain import” of the high court’s decision.

The Plaintiffs

The families behind the case include relatives of those killed in the 2002 bombing at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem cafeteria; the family of a passenger who died in the 2003 bombing of Jerusalem’s bus No. 19; and several Americans wounded in attacks on Jaffa Road. Violence from the Second Intifada period claimed 33 lives and injured hundreds more. The lawsuit evolved into a test of how far Congress and the courts are willing to go in extending U.S. civil jurisdiction over international terrorism.

After the initial verdict was set aside, the plaintiffs – led by attorneys Nitsana Darshan‑Leitner (Director of Israel Law Center/Shurat HaDin) and Kent Yalowitz (partner at Arnold & Porter) – spent years pressing appeals and lobbying for legislation to allow their case to survive.

Shurat HaDin

Shurat HaDin–Israel Law Center is an Israeli nonprofit that uses civil litigation to pursue terror groups, state sponsors, and financial institutions accused of funding attacks. It has helped win significant judgments on behalf of terror victims’ families in courts worldwide.

Darshan-Leitner said the ruling marked a historic turning point in the fight against global terrorism.

“For more than 22 years, the victims and families in Sokolow v. PLO walked a long and unforgiving road, refusing to let time erode their demand for justice and closure. This ruling and reinstated verdict stands as proof that the pursuit of accountability for terror is not measured in months or even years—but in resolve,” Darshan-Leitner told Community Magazine.

“The Palestinian defendants waged a ‘war of attrition,’ filing delaying motion after motion, appeal after appeal. Yet the families’ perseverance and determination carried this case across decades, through setbacks and appeals, because they never surrendered their right to closure. In the end, justice endured, the truth endured, because the victims endured.”

Long Road to Justice

One plaintiff, Dr. Alan Bauer, an American biologist seriously wounded in a 2002 Jerusalem attack, told Ynet he “never imagined that the road to justice would be so long and winding. But we refused to give up.

“We promised ourselves we would see this case through to the very end. We were determined to hold accountable those who carried out acts of terror against us and to finally make them answer for their guilt and their crimes.”

Part I: Life Under Restriction in Syria (1948–1992)

Linda Sadacka

This is the first in a three-part series exploring the experiences of Syrian Jews who remained in Syria through the latter half of the 20^th century. It focuses on the decades between the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948 and the early 1990s, when leaving the country was tightly restricted and, for most, not a realistic option.

The Jewish presence in Syria extends back centuries, with established and deeply rooted communities in Damascus and Aleppo, two cities that served not only as geographic centers but as anchors of religious, commercial, and communal life. These were not marginal communities. They were communities of stature, shaped by generations of scholarship, leadership, and rich Jewish life.

Aleppo, known historically as Aram Tzova, was home to one of the most prominent Jewish communities in the region. It was closely associated with the legacy of Rabbeinu Moshe ben Maimon, the Rambam, whose halachic influence shaped Jewish life across the world, and whose teachings were deeply embedded in the traditions followed by the community. The Aleppo Codex – regarded by the Rambam and others as the most authentic written text of the Tanach –  was long preserved there, and stood as a symbol of textual precision and communal responsibility.

Damascus, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, was similarly home to a longstanding and respected Jewish presence. Among its most distinguished figures was Rabbi Chaim Vital, the primary disciple of the Arizal, whose teachings in Kabbalah became foundational in the development of Jewish thought. His connection to Damascus reinforced the city’s place not only as a center of daily life, but as a link in the transmission of a deep spiritual tradition.

By the middle of the 20^th century, these communities, though their numbers reduced, remained structured and intact. Families lived in close proximity, traditions were maintained with consistency, and communal institutions continued to function with continuity.

An Atmosphere of Suspicion

The turning point came in 1948.

Following the establishment of the State of Israel, the status of Jews across the Arab world shifted, and Syria was no exception. Restrictions were introduced that affected movement, property, and participation in broader society. Jewish-owned assets were subject to oversight. Travel became limited. Economic opportunities narrowed. These measures were not isolated; they formed part of a broader recalibration of how Jews were positioned within the state.

After the Six Day War in 1967, these conditions intensified. Suspicion toward the Jewish community deepened, and restrictions that had once been administrative evolved into systemic persecution. By the time Hafez al-Assad came to power in 1970, these measures were no longer temporary responses to regional conflict. They had become embedded policy within a centralized and controlled system of governance.

Assad’s Syria functioned through strong state authority and a far-reaching intelligence network. For the Jewish community, this created a reality in which daily life could continue, but always within defined and understood limits. Synagogues remained open, religious observance continued, families maintained tradition and routine – but within a tense atmosphere of suspicion and hostility.

By the 1970s and 1980s, the Jewish population had become increasingly concentrated in Damascus, with a smaller and declining presence in Aleppo. Jewish neighborhoods in Damascus functioned with internal cohesion. Families lived near one another. Stores, schools, and synagogues operated within a relatively contained environment.

In the home, life maintained continuity. Shabbat preparations began well before sunset on Friday afternoon, with the kitchen becoming the center of activity. Kibbeh was shaped carefully by hand, filled and sealed with practiced precision. Lahma b’gine was layered and set to cook slowly. Hamud simmered, its flavor familiar and expected. These were not occasional dishes. They were constants, repeated week after week, unchanged across time.

A child moved through the room, asking a question, receiving an answer. Another set the table. The home moved with quiet coordination, each action part of a sequence that required no instruction.

Life functioned normally – but with palpable tension in the air.

Life Under Surveillance

When the phone rang, there was a pause before it was answered – not out of immediate fear, but out of awareness. Conversations were not assumed to be private. Even routine exchanges could be overheard, repeated, or interpreted beyond their intent.

The Mukhabarat, Syria’s intelligence service, maintained oversight of the Jewish community. Individuals were known. Movement was tracked. Contact with outsiders was monitored. This presence did not need to be visible at all times. It was understood.

So people adjusted accordingly. They did not assume privacy. They operated within an awareness of boundaries.

When someone finally picked up the phone, the voice on the other end remained measured. Responses were controlled and brief. Certain topics were avoided, and certain details were not shared.

Children learned this without being told. They observed tone. They recognized when a sentence ended too early. They understood when a subject shifted without explanation. Eventually, this awareness became instinctive. Surveillance was part of daily life.

Education in Syria was available, though within certain limits. Advancement in certain fields required approvals that were not easily obtained. Professional paths were shaped by what the system allowed.

Economic activity, too, was subjected to a controlled framework. Business decisions required caution. Movement tied to commerce required awareness.

Religious life continued, as well, but with distinction between private and public space. In the synagogue, practice was maintained, and religious identity could be fully expressed inside the home, but outside, discretion was needed. Visible signs of religious identity were not always worn openly. Behavior was adjusted based on surroundings. What was natural within the community was not always expressed beyond it.

This was not framed as a contradiction, or as hypocrisy. It was understood as an unfortunate necessity.

If conflict arose, there was no expectation that it would be resolved through an impartial system. Legal structures did not operate independently of the broader political framework. And so the Jews needed to carefully consider at all times where they went and what they said. People learned these boundaries without formal instruction, through observation – a conversation that ended too soon, a subject that was not continued, a presence that changed after a visit. Sometimes this understanding came through partial accounts of individuals who had been questioned, detained, or prevented from moving forward. The details were not always shared. But the pattern was clear.

There was family. There was routine. There was continuity. But these elements existed within strict boundaries that were consistently enforced and widely understood.

Trapped Inside the Borders

Beyond Syria’s borders lay another reality. To the south was Israel, to the west, Lebanon, and to the north, Turkey. Each border represented proximity without access. For most Syrian Jews, these were not routes – they were inviolable boundaries. The idea of leaving existed in theory, but not in practice. Geography suggested possibility, but policy defined reality. Over time, the awareness of how close those borders were, and how inaccessible they remained, became part of the quiet understanding that shaped daily life.

Movement beyond Syria was the most tightly controlled element of life. Travel required official authorization which was rarely granted. Requests for travel documents went unanswered, applications were submitted and remained pending indefinitely, and meetings with officials resulted in delays without resolution. And when authorization was given, it often came with conditions designed to ensure return, such as a requirement to leave close family members behind. This made departure more than a personal decision – it became a calculation that involved others: parents, siblings, children.

Border crossings were monitored, and all movement near exit points drew attention.

Attempts to leave without permission carried serious consequences. Individuals who attempted to bypass restrictions could be detained. In some cases, the repercussions were more severe. The details of these repercussions were not openly discussed, because they did not need to be. The outcomes were understood.

In April 1992, the policy shifted – the Syrian government announced that Jews would be permitted to travel abroad. Many chose to leave.

In the next installment, this series turns outward – from life within Syria to the paths beyond it, through the account of Mr. Harun Shamosh Imir, whose efforts helped facilitate the departure of more than 3,000 Syrian Jews through Turkey, navigating a system where movement was controlled, borders were closed, and leaving required careful coordination, hard-to-obtain access, and the ability to move through routes that led far off the beaten track.Linda Sadacka is a writer, political strategist, and influential community voice focused on Jewish affairs and public policy.

Pnina Souid

All of the Mitzvah Man volunteers are committed to doing hesed. One volunteer in particular is especially  involved with helping needy families. Often, she will send the Mitzvah Man a text when she thinks he can be of help. Working together, they have helped many needy families.

Sarah’s Laundry Woes

Recently, this volunteer texted about  a needy woman, we’ll call Sarah, in desperate need of a dryer. With three active children at home there was a lot of laundry! Sarah usually walked with all three kids in tow to the laundromat three times a week. This was, of course, both exhausting and time consuming. It became especially difficult in the winter, when the weather was literally  freezing.

Sarah was told that she could get a small dryer for her apartment that the landlord would approve of. However, she could not afford this. She turned her troubles to Hashem, and began to pray that He would help her to get a small dryer. She was told specifically about an appliance called a gas top load dryer. [This is a high-efficiency clothes dryer that uses natural gas or propane to generate heat for drying, typically paired with a top load washer. Together they could fit into her apartment.] Might the Mitzvah Man Organization be able to please provide one for Sarah?

The Mitzvah Man had never heard of such an appliance, and did not know where to find one. He apologized to the volunteer, saying that this was beyond his expertise. Still, his heart went out to Sarah. He did want to help her, but had no idea where to look, and he was busy, as always, with other cases as well..

Twenty-four hours after receiving the text from the volunteer, he received the following email:

To the Rescue!

Hi Michael, I own an appliance store on Coney Island Avenue and am going out of business. There is only one item that I can’t seem to get rid of. It is a gas top load dryer. Do you know anyone who can use it? We will install it for them.

What an amazing example of hashgacha pratit! This man was offering exactly what Sarah needed!  The Mitzvah Man immediately texted the volunteer to tell her about the email and that the gas top load dryer would be delivered and installed free of charge..

Later that evening the Mitzvah Man stopped at a store to buy nuts. While waiting online, he received a text from the volunteer.

Woman already received the gas top load dryer. After it was installed, she dried her first load of laundry and she is crying tears of gratefulness and happiness. She is so thankful for all the help and for Hashem answering her prayers.

The Mitzvah Man felt happy and grateful, too! He felt his heart overflowing with excitement and wanted to share the beautiful story. When he got to the counter, he told the story to the woman who rang up his peanuts, and he showed her the text.

He explained that the organization he runs helped this woman get a top load gas dryer for her small apartment. She is emotional from happiness.

The woman at the counter asked what the name was of the organization.  He told her that she probably had never heard of it. When pressed, he answered that  it is the Mitzvah Man Organization. Her eyes opened wide. She responded, “You made my daughter’s wedding two years ago!”

The Mitzvah Man looked up to the Heavens with a word of thanks. How wonderous it was that Hashem  connected the volunteer with Sarah, connected Sarah with the Mitzvah Man, connected the appliance man with the Mitzvah Man, and then connected him with the woman whose daughter’s wedding the Mitzvah Man Organization helped to make two years ago. The Mitzvah Man thought, “What a beautiful display of Divine Providence!”

Rabbi Yehuda Finchas

Sammy woke up on Shabbat morning, excruciating pain shooting through his jaw. He arrived at my door barely able to speak, his face contorted, clutching his cheek. “Rabbi,” he whispered, “the pain medication isn’t helping. I don’t know what to do – can I have my tooth pulled even though it’s Shabbat?”

Later that week, Dr. Isaac Levi, a Jewish dentist, posed a related question: “If a Jewish patient asks me to extract a tooth on Shabbat, would I be allowed to help?” I can walk to the dental surgery and all my assistants are non-Jewish, but I would still be the one performing the extraction, which will inevitably cause bleeding.”

The Potential Halachic Issues

Extracting a tooth on Shabbat raises several halachic concerns discussed by the poskim:

Chovel (Wounding): Causing bleeding is forbidden on Shabbat. Since tooth extraction almost always causes bleeding, this is a central issue.

Kotzer (Harvesting): Some poskim have compared removing a tooth to uprooting a plant from the ground. However, most authorities reject this comparison, arguing that kotzer applies only to items that grow from the earth – not to teeth.

Gozez (Shearing): Others suggest it may resemble cutting skin tabs, hair or nails (the melacha of gozez), which is also forbidden. Yet, many poskim disagree since gozez applies only to things that grow back, like hair or wool – not teeth.

Refuah: Engaging in medical treatment is rabbinically restricted on Shabbat.

Mesaye’a (Assisting in Prohibited Acts): If the patient opens his mouth, does he transgress Shabbat by assisting the dentist?

Despite these concerns, Maran the Beit Yosef (Orach Chaim 328, citing Orchot Chaim) writes that one who suffers tooth pain may instruct a non-Jew to extract it. This ruling is codified by the Rema (Orach Chaim 328:3). The Magen Avraham classified tooth extraction as a melacha, but the Biur Halacha argues it is only rabbinic, since the bleeding is not desired (psik reisha d’lo nicha lei), and Hacham Ovadia Yosef, zt”l, clarifies in Leviat hen (83) that the act is not considered melachah tzricha legufa and it is therefore derabanan.

Hacham Ovadia’s Analysis

Hacham Ovadia Yosef, in Chazon Ovadia (Shabbat Vol. 3, p. 337), provides a comprehensive halachic analysis that rests on several foundational principles:

Melachah She’eina Tzericha Legufa: The extraction is not done for the bleeding, but rather, to relieve pain. As such, it is not a constructive act in the classic Torah sense, and is classified  a melachah derabbanan (rabbinic prohibition).

Psik Reisha D’lo Nicha Lei: While bleeding is inevitable, it is neither intended nor desired. This further establishes its rabbinic rather than biblical status.

Mesaye’a Ein Bo Mamash: Minimal patient assistance (such as keeping the mouth open or turning the head) is not halachically significant in this situation. The patient is not transgressing Shabbat by cooperating with the dentist.

Conclusion

Tooth extraction on Shabbat is generally classified as a melachah she’eina tzericha legufa, accompanied by psik reisha d’lo nicha lei. It is therefore only a rabbinic prohibition. For someone in serious pain, halacha permits requesting a non-Jewish practitioner to perform the extraction, and the patient’s cooperation is not halachically problematic.

In Sammy’s case, if his pain was severe, halacha would allow him to ask a non-Jewish dentist to perform the extraction on Shabbat. As for Dr. Levi, who is Jewish, performing the extraction in such a case would be prohibited. If, however, there is any risk of infection spreading or other complications that could endanger life, the situation escalates to pikuach nefesh, and full treatment becomes not only permitted but is obligatory – even to be performed by a Jewish dentist, overriding biblical prohibitions if necessary.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.

Sam Sutton

Established in 2008, M&S Softball has never just been a league. It’s been a proving ground, a stage, and for many, a second home. Now entering its 18th season, the league finds itself at a defining moment – not by chance, but by design.

The truth is, leagues like this don’t survive by standing still. They evolve. They adapt. They find ways to honor what was while building what’s next. And right now, what’s next has arrived.

Over the past few seasons, the league began quietly shifting. As some of the longtime veterans started to wind down – careers entering their later innings or coming to a close – the opportunity was clear. This wasn’t about replacing them. It was about reinforcing the future. Slowly, intentionally, a new wave of players began to enter the league. Now, that wave has become a movement.

Leadership That Still Sets the Standard

For all the excitement around the new wave, the foundation of this league remains firmly in place. The captains are the cornerstone of the M&S Softball League. This isn’t a group learning on the fly. This is a room filled with experience, championships, and years of understanding what it takes to win in M&S (see sidebar). Together, this group doesn’t just run teams. They set the tone.

Best Is Yet to Come

This season’s player pool is filled – loaded, really – with young talent. Not just bodies to fill rosters, but real players. Pitchers who can command the zone. Infielders with range and instincts. Outfielders who cover ground and change games defensively. The level of athleticism, energy, and upside across the board is as strong as it’s ever been.

But what makes this moment even more unique isn’t just the youth – it’s where they come from. Many of these new players aren’t strangers to M&S. They grew up around it. They watched it. They heard the stories. And now, they’re stepping onto the same field. Sons of former players. Brothers of current stars. Names that already carry meaning within the league. M&S isn’t just continuing – it’s circling back.

A Full Generation Later

We’re now seeing the children of the very players who built this league step into the spotlight. And with that comes something you can’t teach – pride, pressure, and a deep understanding of what it means to be here.

One of the more intriguing storylines comes from a familiar name. A league veteran and Hall of Famer now has his son entering the mix. Momo steps into the league this year, carrying both the name and the expectations that come with it.

The same can be said for Elliott Dweck, son of league legend Isaac Norwood-Dweck. Known already for a slick glove, Elliott enters with a defensive reputation and a last name that holds serious weight.

Then there’s the next chapter of the Chehebar name. Solly Chehebar – better known as Big Solly – was part of this league from the very beginning. Now, his son steps in, with big shoes to fill and a legacy to live up to.

And in a move that speaks volumes about where the league is headed, reigning MVP Mo Shama has stepped aside, choosing to watch from the outside as the youth movement takes over. In his place, his nephew Abo Shama enters the league – a highly regarded defensive player from the local circuit, ready for his shot.

Up and Coming Stars

But it’s not just about legacy. There’s another group coming in – players with no ties to the past, no names to carry – just game. And in many ways, they may be the most dangerous.

Irving Setton enters as a 20-year-old infielder with pop, already turning heads after making noise in the BKS over the past few years. He’s also the brother of Leo Setton – an impact player from day one in this league – so the expectations are already there. Now, Irving gets his opportunity to make his own mark.

Joseph Abady carries a name that already echoes in M&S postseason history. His brother, Victor “Cream” Abady, built his reputation on big moments when it mattered most. Now Joseph steps in, with that same last name – and all that comes with it.

David Hakim brings a calm, composed presence – but his game tells a different story. Alongside his brother Noah, he adds another layer to this growing youth core.

Danny Levy, just 18, now joins the league alongside his brother Momo Levy, who has already made his mark in the outfield. The bloodline is there – but now it’s Danny’s turn.

And then there’s Joseph “J Money” Dweck, a slick-fielding third baseman who brings confidence and flair to the hot corner. Smooth with the glove and steady under pressure, he’s the type of player who can lock down the left side and make the tough play look routine.

The outfield continues to get stronger with Josh Abisror, a physical presence with real upside. And he won’t be alone – his uncle, Tovi Abisror, a former league champion, returns to the field. One looking to rise, the other already knowing what it takes.

Victor Hoffman makes his long-awaited debut. A colorful personality with real talent, the infielder brings both energy and edge to the dirt.

Bruce Novick arrives as one of the top prospects out of the Yeshiva league circuits. A true center fielder with instincts, range, and feel – he’s the real deal.

Three’s a Charm

And then there’s what might be the biggest storyline of them all – the arrival of a trio of rookie starting pitchers.

Zack Kairy leads the way, an award-winning young ace known for his ability to pound the zone and throw strikes consistently. Now, he takes the mound in a league where every inning matters.

Marc Sayegh, the flamethrower out of Brooklyn, brings both velocity and roots that run deeper than most. Having pitched in the first-ever M&S Kids League, he now returns fully developed and ready to make his mark.

And MD Applegrad, one of the most highly regarded arms from the LBA, comes in with experience, confidence, and something to prove. A champion elsewhere – but now chasing to be one here.

Three different styles. Three different paths. One shared goal – to make their mark on M&S.
And as if that wasn’t enough, another wave arrives with proven credentials.

Mo Dowek, Chatz Katz, and Shloimy Zlotnick – established LBA stars – make their M&S debuts, bringing with them a level of play that demands attention.

Right behind them is another group already opening eyes – Marvin Azrak, Adam Azar, and Yaakov Goodman – players who may be new to M&S, but are quickly making it clear they belong.

The Foundation Remains

And through it all, the foundation remains. The veterans are still here. They’re not being replaced. They’re passing something down.

And the league itself hasn’t changed. The standard is still the standard. Every game is still played with purpose. Every matchup still matters. With full live broadcasts, consistent media coverage, and a growing audience, the spotlight has never been brighter.

For the new players, this isn’t just another league. This is M&S. There’s history here. There’s expectation. There’s pressure. And now, there’s a new generation ready to take it on. The next chapter isn’t coming. It’s already here. Play ball!

THE CAPTIANS

At the forefront is Uri Adler, the reigning champion, who returns looking to defend his title and prove last season was no fluke.

Edmund Beyda, a champion in his own right, is back as well. A proven leader who knows how to build and manage a roster, Beyda brings intensity, structure, and a steady presence every time he takes the field.

Michael “Sabon” Salomon is one of the most accomplished players in league history and an active Hall of Famer.

Michael “Melech” Solomon continues to be one of the league’s true staples. A former champion and respected presence behind the plate, his leadership and consistency have made him a cornerstone of M&S for years.

Maurice Haber is woven into the fabric of this league. A champion, a competitor, and someone who has been here since the early days.

Hank Dweck returns to the captain’s chair with something still missing from his resume – a championship in M&S. Despite success in other leagues and a long list of accolades, that one title has remained just out of reach. The question now is simple: has he lost a step, or is this the year he finally gets it done?

Isaac Cohen isthe lone rookie captain. While new to the role, he’s far from unfamiliar with the league. A student of the game who’s been tapped into the softball world for years, Cohen now gets his opportunity to lead – bringing a fresh perspective into a room full of experience.

DAVE GORDON

Sirens, school cancellations, and crowded bomb shelters have become the “new norm” of life in Israel. Yet, Israelis have responded with resilience, strength, and communal bonding.

Community Magazine interviewed a cross‑section of Israelis about their lives and their resilience during this period. Israelis are all navigating the backdrop of alerts of possible sirens, often followed by actual sirens, indicating a missile has been fired towards their area. Their reflections exhibit what has changed since Iran and its proxies attacked: the way communities unite to support each other, the sense of purpose, and pride. Yes, families need to stay close to shelters. Certainly, everyone lives with a level of tension and uncertainty. There has been a financial toll on individuals and families. And in this small country everyone feels the losses.

How are Israelis coping, supporting one another, making sense of their fears, and still accessing faith when the future has rarely felt more uncertain?  Let’s hear from them.

Journalist Shanna Fuld, of Tel Aviv, originally from Queens, NY,  whose apartment was destroyed last June by an Iranian missile

How has your daily routine changed since the war?

In Israel, time is measured between sirens and alerts. When I am going to do anything, I think about what would need to be done before the siren happens. I have evacuated my apartment in the evening for about a month, so that I could sleep in an apartment that has a mamad (reinforced safe room).

You only have so much energy because you’re not sleeping great, and you might be subconsciously worried about being killed in a missile attack. With work, a couple of my gigs are canceled so I’m not getting paid, because I can’t fly and I can’t go to stuff.

What do people outside of Israel not understand?

People don’t understand enough of the frustration of how this disrupts people’s lives… what it takes to rebuild after your apartment has been hit. I was so blessed that my friend posted my situation in a WhatsApp group, and a bunch of women from Tel Aviv, whom I did not know, pulled together bags of their clothing for me and brought it to me at my hotel [where evacuees were resettled].

One person put together a makeup bag, basic cosmetics, including a toothbrush, toothpaste, and face moisturizer. That was the best thing anybody gave me. Community plays an aspect.

I didn’t ask for it, but people from my synagogue sent me donations. And you know what? It was so needed because my compensation package from the government came to me more than three months after the attack, and I couldn’t work for a couple of months because I was spending my days in government offices.

I needed a security deposit for a new apartment, new furniture, and food.

Everybody’s very acutely aware that you probably won’t die from a Hamas missile. You can shelter in the stairwell. But you can’t shelter in the stairwell for an Iran missile, because those are more powerful.

Asif Izak, native Israeli, -is chairman of Or Ofir Foundation, which fosters leadership, strengthens community ties, and builds bridges between Israel and the Jewish world, he is also Head of the Hof Carmel Regional Council

What have these past few months been like for your family?

Two of my children enlisted in the IDF over the past year, and we also have a younger daughter at home. The concern is constant, but alongside it there is also a great deal of strength that comes from family and community. We live in Kibbutz Hahotrim, within a community that demonstrates every day that mutual responsibility is not a slogan – it is a lived reality. This is true within our home, and it is equally true across Hof HaCarmel and throughout Israel.

Have there been evacuations in your area?

In Hof HaCarmel, we were not required to evacuate, but very quickly we found ourselves absorbing around 3,000 evacuees – from both the North and the Gaza border region. This represented about a 10 percent increase in our population in a very short time. We opened our communities, established two new schools for them, and supported them over many months. This was a very tangible expression of mutual responsibility – not just as an idea, but in daily action.

What gives you hope?

I have seen, firsthand, a powerful resurgence of solidarity and mutual responsibility across the country. Out of hardship, people are coming closer together, supporting one another, and strengthening their sense of belonging. These events also remind us how essential the State of Israel is – a place where the Jewish people can live in security, and take responsibility for their own future.

Award-winning Israeli journalist Aviva Engel, originally from Montreal

How has your daily routine changed since the war began?

I live about 30 minutes from Haifa, in Zichron Yaakov – in northern Israel, though fortunately not far enough north to be directly affected by the unrelenting rocket fire from Lebanon. While Purim was marked in a subdued, almost Covid-like way due to restrictions on large gatherings, Passover was remarkably quiet, thanks to the ceasefire.

The beginning of the war was particularly trying, with frequent sirens that required us to stay close to shelters at all times. Simple activities, like long walks, hiking, going to the beach, or even playing outdoor sports, were no longer possible. Thankfully, I work from home and have access to a shelter.

As for daily life, malls, grocery stores, and restaurants equipped with shelters have remained open.

Have you or people close to you suffered personal losses?

Since October 7, a relative’s partner was killed while serving in the IDF, and a friend’s child lost both legs on an IDF mission. We are continually inspired by their courage and heroism, and carry their sacrifices with us in our daily lives.

What does “normal life” mean?

There is an expression in Hebrew, lizrom – to go with the flow. Life right now is anything but normal, and I try to embrace that mindset as much as possible, recognizing how quickly circumstances can change.

Every quiet moment with loved ones feels like a gift, as do the children playing in the nearby schoolyard.

Rabbi Raphael Shore, originally from Canada, author and executive chairman of OpenDor Media

How has this war affected your family?

Being at home more has created a kind of closeness that daily life doesn’t always allow. At the same time, something unexpected has happened in the neighborhoods. People are meeting each other in bomb shelters, sometimes neighbors they barely knew before, and those moments, ironically, have created real connection.

None of this takes away from the stress. People are tired. Sleep is disrupted. But alongside that, there is something strengthening that’s happening, both within families and across communities.

How has this affected your children?

I see it most clearly through my daughter and her family. They have five kids under the age of thirteen.

The kids have been out of school for about a month, and suddenly the full responsibility shifts to the parents. It’s like running a full-time camp. You have to constantly create activities, keep the kids engaged, and make sure they’re not sitting around getting anxious. Sometimes they come over to our house and we do arts and crafts, to give everyone a bit of relief.

It takes a lot of creativity and a lot of extra energy. But what stands out is that families are really stepping up. There’s a strong effort to keep things as normal and as positive as possible for the kids.

Have you or your family experienced any personal loss?

I have a nephew who spent much of the past two years in Gaza. He lost more than twenty soldiers under his command. These are not distant events. They are deeply personal, and very hard.

What helps people keep going is a strong sense of purpose, and the feeling that we are not alone in this. There is a deep sense of family, not just within our own homes, but across the country.

It doesn’t take away the pain, nothing does. But it does help people carry it.

Our son is just finishing his army service this summer, but he’s been in a state of war from the very beginning. Even now, when he’s on base near Tel Aviv, they’re hearing explosions overhead regularly. It’s a constant reminder of what’s going on, and it’s not easy.

How has this affected your faith and hope?

Faith here is very strong, even if it doesn’t always look the way people expect.

There’s a perception outside of Israel that it’s a largely secular society, and in terms of formal religious practice that may be true for many. But the level of emunah, of belief and deeper awareness, is much more widespread than people realize.

In a time like this, that becomes very visible. People feel that we are living through something beyond the ordinary. You see it in the stories that come up almost daily, situations that could have ended in far greater tragedy and didn’t. Just yesterday, for example, a missile struck a building with a massive explosive that, had it detonated fully, could have leveled an entire block. It didn’t. Moments like that leave a strong impression.

Entrepreneur and author of Hinenu (Here We Are), David Shlachter, made aliya from California and resides in Tel Aviv

What has life been like for you and family?

Before the war, our daily life in Tel Aviv felt almost unusually smooth. Our kids’ school is two blocks away. We don’t have a car, and they bike everywhere. When the war started, that disappeared immediately. School shut down, work essentially stopped, and movement shrank to a very small radius around our building. Even something simple like going for a run or out to eat comes with the expectation that you may need to drop everything and get to a bomb shelter within minutes.

What has it been like in the shelters?

Two other families moved into our apartment because they didn’t have adequate bomb shelters, so at times we’ve had 15 to 18 people living together, including nine kids. There’s very little privacy, and no real separation between day and night, work and rest. That creates friction, but it also creates a kind of shared resilience. Practically, we’ve had to be flexible – sharing space, coordinating meals, helping with each other’s kids. Emotionally, it’s about staying steady for the children and for each other. There’s something stabilizing about not going through it alone.

How has this affected the kids?

The kids feel the disruption immediately. It’s obvious that they should be in school, that they need structure and normal interaction, and that absence is hard to replace. At the same time, they adapt in ways that are surprising. They’ve created their own routines – games, activities, and ways of passing time. Even the bomb shelter sometimes becomes a place where they play. What stands out is how quickly they normalize the situation.

Our nanny was called up to reserve duty in a search-and-rescue unit, and that shift was immediate. She went from being part of our daily life to being on the front lines responding to missile strikes. The emotional experience is a mix of concern and gratitude – knowing people close to you are in harm’s way, but recognizing that they’re the reason the rest of us have some degree of safety.

David Lange, originally from Australia, editor of news site IsraellyCool, whose stepson fell in battle in Lebanon

Since the Iran war began, how has your daily routine changed?

There was no change to my work routine, because I work from home.

But there were definitely changes to my travel routines. When we get a missile alert, we have one and a half minutes from siren to shelter. You don’t want to be caught in the middle of driving somewhere, because you might end up on the side of the road just ducking down.

Once I got stuck outside, I was near a shopping center so I pulled into the car park, ran out, and went into their shelter.

These days I don’t go for long shopping trips, because, obviously, I didn’t want to be stuck.

What kind of community support did you receive after your stepson was killed?

That’s one of the shining lights. When people found out, there were multiple communities in our city that were ready to do everything we needed. People provided meals and cleaned the house. Right before Pesach, there was no official shiva. But my wife and her ex-husband had an open house, similar to shiva where people come and pay their respects and talk, which I think is a very cathartic experience.

Hundreds of people came, including Israeli President Isaac Herzog, and a sheikh from a Druze village.  It really showed the unity of Israeli society. And it was just so comforting.

Has this affected your faith or hope? It doesn’t make us lose hope or faith. In fact, having the hope and faith helps us cope with the conflict, and anti-Semitism, which we’re seeing around the world.

Resilience in Israel is not a slogan or a moment of triumph – it is a daily practice, quiet and cumulative. It lives in the split-second decisions made between sirens, in the crowded shelters where strangers become neighbors, in the parents who steady their voices for their children, and in the communities that refuse to let anyone face loss alone. Resilience does not erase fear or grief. It strengthens people. In a country where uncertainty hums beneath the surface of ordinary life, resilience is found not in the absence of danger, but in the insistence on living fully despite it – holding fast to one another, to purpose, and to a deeper faith that even in the darkest moments, they are not alone, and that something larger is carrying them forward.