Part II of an ongoing series uncovering the hidden history of Syrian Jewish escape routes – and the individuals who quietly altered the course of a community’s future.

In a quiet home in Iskenderun, a lifeline emerged for thousands of Syrian Jews – leaving behind a legacy that still echoes today…

By Linda Argalgi Sadacka

The story of the Shamosh family’s rescue efforts did not begin with Syrian Jews fleeing persecution. In the early 1940s, as Europe descended into war and destruction, Jewish refugees began moving along fragile and uncertain routes toward the Land of Israel. Some crossed through Istanbul, traveling from Europe into Asia by way of the Bosphorus, while others continued south along the Mediterranean coastline until they reached Iskenderun. Iskenderun is located within Turkey’s border and is  the strategic port city resting at the northeastern edge of the sea, where Turkey, Syria, and the broader Arab world converge in a narrow and heavily watched corridor.

“My father saw people coming, even, then from Europe,” Aharon Shamosh recalls.

The refugees arrived in waves, carrying with them the exhaustion and instability of lives that had been abruptly uprooted. Families who had lost homes, livelihoods, and entire communities searched desperately for any viable path forward. Many were not traveling because they possessed a carefully structured plan, but because remaining where they were had become impossible. Over time, the movement of displaced Jews through the region gradually transformed Iskenderun into a quiet but essential stop along a larger humanitarian route stretching across collapsing borders and wartime uncertainty.

At first, helping those refugees did not feel like a historic act to the Shamosh family. It felt instinctive. People arrived frightened, displaced, and exhausted, and the response inside the Shamosh home was immediate and uncomplicated – the door opened. Only years later would the family fully understand that those early acts of assistance established the foundation for a far larger rescue operation that would eventually help thousands of Syrian Jews escape persecution and rebuild their lives elsewhere.

The knocks frequently came in the middle of the night. Sometimes they were urgent and frantic, while other times they were hesitant, as though even approaching the house carried danger. Inside the home, however, explanations were rarely necessary. “They didn’t have to say who they were,” Aharon Shamosh says. “We already knew.” Standing outside were families who had left behind homes in Aleppo, Damascus, and villages they would never see again. Mothers carried exhausted children who had cried themselves into silence, while fathers attempted to guide their families through journeys whose outcomes they themselves could not predict. The families arrived in darkness uncertain of almost everything except the hope that someone on the other side of the door would help them continue forward. In Iskenderun, that hope was rarely misplaced.

A House That Became a Passage

Long before the rescue of Syrian Jewry became publicly discussed or historically documented, there was already a quiet understanding circulating among those searching for a way out. If someone could reach Iskenderun and locate the Shamosh family home, help would be waiting there.

“There was no sign outside,” Aharon says. “Nothing official. But people knew.”

From the street, the house appeared totally ordinary. It carried none of the markers one might associate with political importance or historical significance. Yet, for thousands of Jews fleeing Syria over the years, it became the narrow space between danger and safety. It was not a permanent shelter, nor did it erase the uncertainty that still lay ahead, but it offered something essential to people whose options had nearly disappeared – the possibility of continuing the journey.

The Rabbi Who Stayed

In 1932, Rabbi Yaakov Shamosh was sent from Aleppo to serve the small Jewish community in Iskenderun.

“My father came as a rabbi, hazzan, and shohet,”  Aharon explains.

At the time, communities like Iskenderun depended heavily on rabbinic figures who often functioned not only as spiritual leaders, but also as trusted intermediaries between families, local authorities, and communal institutions. That position of trust would later prove invaluable as the political climate in Syria deteriorated and escape routes became increasingly dangerous.

Aharon was born in Iskenderun in 1936, on the second night of Hanukah, into a household that would gradually transform from a modest rabbinic home into a critical transit point for Jews attempting to flee Syria. What began as communal leadership evolved into something far greater, requiring discretion, courage, logistical coordination, and an unwavering sense of responsibility toward people who arrived with nowhere else to turn. The work was never framed inside the family as heroism or political activism. It was understood instead as obligation, the natural extension of responsibility toward fellow Jews trying to escape from increasingly dangerous conditions.

The Geography That Made Rescue Possible

Understanding the significance of the Shamosh home requires understanding the geography surrounding it. Iskenderun occupies a uniquely strategic position along the northeastern curve of the Mediterranean Sea, where the coastline bends sharply inward and mountain ranges begin separating Turkey from Syria. In this region, borders were never merely abstract political lines. They shaped daily life, identity, commerce, and survival itself.

To the south lay Syria, home to ancient Jewish communities in cities such as Aleppo and Damascus, where conditions for Jews were becoming increasingly restrictive and dangerous. To the north and west stood Turkey, with access to ports, rail lines, and Istanbul, offering one of the few possible corridors outward.

Before 1939, the region had been part of the Sanjak of Alexandretta under French administration as part of Mandate Syria. Following political negotiations, referendums, and territorial restructuring, the area was absorbed into Turkey and became what is now Hatay Province. That transition did more than redraw maps. It created a narrow and highly sensitive passageway that could still, under the right circumstances, allow movement across borders.

“My father was very close with the governor,” Aharon recalls.

In an environment where loyalties, jurisdictions, and identities remained fluid, personal relationships often mattered more than formal systems. Access mattered. Trust mattered. The ability to navigate shifting political realities quietly and carefully became essential for survival.

At one point, local officials were reportedly discussing what the newly absorbed region should be called. “They asked what name they should give it,” Aharon says. Rabbi Shamosh suggested a name rooted in the area’s ancient history, referencing the Hittites who once inhabited the region centuries earlier. The adapted version of that name, Hatay, remains in use today.

The detail may appear small, but it reveals something larger about Rabbi Shamosh’s standing within the region. The same man quietly helping Jews escape through his home was also trusted enough to participate in conversations shaping the identity of the province itself. As conditions worsened in Syria, that fragile geographic opening would become one of the only remaining pathways out.

The First Arrivals

At first, only a small number of people came. Then, the numbers grew steadily.

“They came to our home,” Aharon says. “Thousands. My father was in the center.”

There was no official infrastructure supporting the operation in the beginning. No formal organization, public network, or institutional framework existed inside those walls. What existed instead was a willingness to help, a trusted location, and a family prepared to assume enormous personal risk in order to keep people moving.

The arrivals frequently took place at night, when refugees would appear exhausted and physically worn down by travel, fear, and uncertainty. “They came dirty,” Aharon remembers. “After everything.” Mud-covered shoes. Dust-covered clothing. Children were sometimes asleep in their parents’ arms, while others remained wide awake, silently observing every movement around them. According to Aharon, explanations were often unnecessary because the emotional condition of the people entering the house communicated everything that needed to be understood.

“They didn’t need to speak,” he says. “You could see…”

Inside, the response remained immediate and practical. Families were brought in without delay, given food and water, allowed to wash, and provided clean clothing and a place to rest before the next phase of their journey began. There were no lengthy questions and no hesitation about whether they would be helped. The understanding inside the home was already clear long before the refugees crossed the threshold.

From Impromptu Shelter to Organized System

Over time, what began as spontaneous humanitarian assistance evolved into a far more coordinated process. Refugees arrived under different circumstances and with varying levels of documentation.

“Some had passports,” Aharon explains. “Others had no documents at all.”

During that period, certain forms of identification sometimes allowed movement even without formal passports, creating opportunities for carefully coordinated transit. In some cases, individuals who were not Iranian reportedly traveled using Iranian identification papers that enabled them to move more freely through parts of the region.

“With Iranian documents, they could move,” Aharon says.

From Syria, refugees would pass through Aleppo and continue toward Iskenderun. From there, they traveled northward through Turkey, often by bus or train, eventually reaching Istanbul. “Bus, train, whatever [means of transportation] we had,” Aharon recalls. The process required careful coordination involving rabbinic contacts, consulates, transportation arrangements, and eventually assistance connected to the Jewish Agency. From Istanbul, refugees typically continued onward through Cyprus before ultimately reaching Israel.

“Step by step,” Aharon says of the journey to freedom. “Careful.”

Although Aharon himself never kept formal records, later figures shared with him by the Jewish Agency estimated that more than 3,500 Jews passed through the Shamosh home during the years of rescue activity. The operation gradually evolved from a series of improvised acts of assistance into a functioning underground passage system built almost entirely upon trust, relationships, and extraordinary discretion.

A Family Effort

Aharon emphasizes repeatedly that the work was never carried by one individual alone.

“It was all of us,” he says.

The effort involved brothers, children, extended relatives, and especially Aharon’ mother, who repeatedly undertook long and exhausting journeys while simultaneously raising their five children.

“She went many times,” he says.

Those trips could involve twenty hour bus rides across difficult terrain and under uncertain conditions. Yet within the family, the work was not spoken about in heroic terms. It was viewed instead as obligation, responsibility, and necessity. Everyone inside the household understood that helping others escape had become part of daily life, even when the risks involved were substantial.

When Danger Becomes Routine

Helping Jews escape Syria carried serious risks, both politically and personally. Aharon does not minimize the danger, but he describes how repeated exposure to that reality gradually transformed fear into routine.

“Yes,” he says when asked whether the work was dangerous. “But when you do it every day, it becomes normal.”

Over time, actions that might have terrified others became integrated into the rhythms of ordinary life within the Shamosh household. The secrecy, the late night arrivals, the transportation coordination, and the constant uncertainty gradually became part of the environment in which they lived.

The Mission of 84

Among the many operations Aharon recalls, one mission remained especially significant. In a village near Qamishli were 84 Jews who needed to leave Syria.

“Eighty-four,” he repeats.

At first, only sixty-one members of the group agreed to leave. The remaining twenty- three hesitated.

“They were afraid,” Aharon says.

The question soon emerged whether the operation should proceed with those prepared to escape while abandoning the others to be left behind. Aharon rejected the idea immediately.

“No,” he says. “[It would be] all or nothing.”

He was later summoned to Istanbul, where Baruch Duvdevani, who had reportedly just met with Golda Meir, delivered a direct message: “Tell Aharon, ‘I want 84.’”

Aharon understood the meaning immediately.

“I said, give me one month. I [will] bring all 84.”

The Operation

According to Aharon, persuading the remaining families to leave did not involve force. “It was understanding,” he says. Word quietly spread throughout the village that conditions were worsening and that leaving might soon become impossible. Fear intensified, but some families who could not bring themselves to abandon the only homes they had ever known still hesitated.

Late one night, there was a knock at the door of community members’ homes. Men appeared outside dressed in a way that resembled members of the mukhabarat, Syria’s feared intelligence apparatus.

“They were not,” Aharon says. “But it didn’t matter.”

The fear alone proved enough. Families moved quickly. Children were gathered. Doors opened. Decisions that had once felt impossible suddenly became urgent. According to Aharon, even the children understood enough to recognize that remaining behind was no longer an option.

“They didn’t understand everything,” he says. “But they knew they could not stay.”

Ultimately, all eighty-four members of the group left together.

The Journey Out

The journey was physically demanding and emotionally exhausting. Families traveled north from villages deep inside Syria, sometimes by foot and sometimes by vehicle, making their way toward the Turkish border across dry inland terrain that gradually shifted into the mountainous coastal geography surrounding Iskenderun.

The trip to the border alone could take ten or eleven hours. From Iskenderun, refugees then continued through southern Turkey by bus or train toward Istanbul, a journey that often lasted close to twenty hours.

Istanbul represented more than another stop along the route. It served as a transitional space between worlds, where refugees could finally begin preparing for the next stage of their lives. There they were received, cleaned, assisted, and organized for onward travel through Cyprus and eventually into Israel. Each phase of the journey carried them farther away from the lives they had known and closer to uncertain but possible futures.

Of the 84 individuals who departed together, 83 ultimately arrived safely. One elderly man in his nineties did not survive the journey.

The Memory That Stayed

Certain moments remained permanently etched in Aharon’s memory, particularly one involving a mother and her three children who had been turned back while attempting to cross the border. Between Syria and Turkey stretched isolated areas filled with abandoned structures, empty terrain, and long stretches of silence where people could disappear without anyone knowing. It was there, in that uncertain space between countries, that Aharon eventually found the woman hiding with her children.

“Hiding,” he recalls. “Holding her children.”

According to Aharon, the woman was crying quietly when he reached her. The children remained close beside her, exhausted and frightened after the failed crossing attempt. When she finally saw him, he immediately tried to reassure her that she would not be abandoned there alone.

“I told her, ‘It’s okay. I’m here.’”.

Even decades later, the memory still affects Aharon. He pauses while describing the encounter and reflects on how narrow the margin truly was.

“If I had been late by one hour, she’d have been gone.”

The woman’s name was Gracia Jamal. At the time, her son was only three years old. Today, that young boy has children of his own, part of a generation that exists because someone continued searching long after others might have stopped.

The Recognition That Came Later

The Shamosh family never accepted payment for their work.

“I do this for Heaven,” Aharon recalls his father saying.

Over the years, however, recognition gradually came from Israeli leaders and institutions. Following the rescue of the group of eighty-four, Aharon met Golda Meir.

“When I came to her,” he says, “she hugged me.”

Years later, Shimon Peres honored the family for their efforts. More recently, President Isaac Herzog received Aharon and even showed him the small synagogue located inside the presidential residence.

“They respected us,” he says.

For Aharon, that recognition carried deep meaning, not because of prestige, but because it acknowledged sacrifices made quietly over decades without expectation of reward or public attention.

What Remains

Today, entire families exist because someone opened a door in the middle of the night and chose to help strangers continue forward.

“People come to me,” Aharon says. “They tell me, you don’t remember us. But we remember you.”

He says this matter-of-factly, without dramatics or a show of self-importance. Yet, the implications are enormous. The communities that later flourished in Israel, Brooklyn, Deal, and elsewhere did not emerge in isolation. They were built upon countless unseen decisions, risks, and acts of responsibility carried out quietly by people who expected neither recognition nor reward.

From the coastal edge of Iskenderun to the communities where Syrian Jewish families rebuilt their lives, the journey never truly ended. It continued through generations, carried forward by those who once stood outside a stranger’s home hoping someone would answer the door. A community is ultimately defined not only by what it builds, but by what it chooses to preserve and carry forward. In the case of the Shamosh family, that legacy began with a simple but transformative act repeated thousands of times over many years: when the knock came, they opened the door.

Summer 2026 is stacked with gadgets that do the most – so you don’t have to. Whether you’re chasing cool, convenience, or just a smoother everyday, these gizmos are here to upgrade your routine.

Roborock RockMow X1 LiDAR

Roborock – best known for its top-tier robot vacuums – is stepping into the yard with the RockMow X1 LiDAR, a smart lawn mower designed to take the hassle out of keeping your grass in check. Using advanced LiDAR sensing, it builds a 3D map of your yard for precise, real-time navigation. It can detect and avoid obstacles like tools, toys, or pets, while features like all-wheel drive and adaptive suspension help it handle uneven terrain and slopes.

Ambient Dreamie Smart Alarm Clock
The next wave of alarm clocks is all about making mornings feel less abrupt – and the Dreamie from Ambient fits right into that trend. More than just a clock, it combines a soft bedside lamp with customizable wake-up features like gradual “sunrise” lighting and built-in white noise for winding down at night.

iOttie Arkx Portable Air Pump
Compact, practical, and built for those “just in case” moments, the Arkx Portable Air Pump from iOttie is designed as a multi-use car companion. It can inflate tires, sports equipment, and other inflatables, while also doubling as a portable power bank with a 5,200 mAh battery – enough to give your phone a quick boost when needed.

ZOVO Portable Ice Cooling Fan
When summer heat hits hard, a basic fan sometimes isn’t enough. ZOVO’s portable cooling fan aims to go a step further with a high-efficiency motor and a compact, foldable design that’s easy to carry on the go. A special “cooling” mode is designed to deliver a more refreshing airflow compared to standard handheld fans, while the 6,000 mAh battery can last up to 30 hours, depending on usage.

Kitchenif Ice Cream Maker

Making your own frozen treats at home feels especially rewarding in peak summer, and the Kitchenif Ice Cream Maker leans into that DIY appeal. You can mix up ice cream, frozen yogurt, sorbet, or slush using your own ingredients – ideal if you want to experiment with flavors or adjust sugar levels. It’s a simple, low-tech way to stay cool while getting a little creative in the kitchen.

Vantro Portable Fridge

For road trips, beach days, or even small-space living, the Vantro Portable Fridge offers a compact way to keep things cool. With a 10-liter capacity, it can hold around eight standard 12-ounce cans or a handful of larger bottles. It can be powered through a standard wall outlet or a 12V car adapter.

FROGG TOGGS Chilly Pad Cooling Towel
Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most effective. The FROGG TOGGS Chilly Pad Cooling Towel uses evaporative cooling – just soak it in water, wring it out, and wear it around your neck or shoulders for a lasting cooling effect. With no batteries or charging required, it’s a reliable go-to for everything from workouts to beach days.

SolarFlower Blending creativity with a bit of STEM learning, the SolarFlower kit is a hands-on project that results in a colorful, motorized display piece. Built from over 100 parts, the flower uses a small solar panel to power a motor that drives its moving petals through a system of gears. It’s designed as both an educational activity – demonstrating how solar energy can be converted into motion – and a decorative item you can place on a desk or windowsill.

An interview with Dr. Eli Mandelbaum, Psy.D Director of Clinical Coordination at SIMHA

A relationship is best understood as a living organism. It requires consistent energy and intentional maintenance to thrive. Just as a flower cannot flourish indefinitely without consistent watering and careful pruning, a partnership cannot flourish without a deliberate investment of time and attention to enhance connection.

As the season transitions into summer, the ecosystem of many relationships undergoes a significant shift. For many families, this period involves relocating to summer homes, adjusting to disrupted childcare routines, and navigating changes in physical environments. While summer is traditionally a time for relaxation, these transitions can introduce unique pressures that test a couple’s bond.

The Challenge of the Summer Ecosystem

Throughout the year, couples generally operate within a defined space and schedule. In the summer, that structure often dissolves. Families may find themselves staying with parents in cramped guest rooms or managing a split schedule where one partner remains in the city for the work week while the other stays at a summer home.

When dropped into a context filled with extended family and social obligations, it is easy for a couple to lose focus on one another. These scenarios often lead to missed opportunities, which are moments where connection could have occurred but was instead bypassed due to the noise of communal living or the logistics of summer camps. If one partner feels unsupported while navigating complex in-law dynamics or feels isolated due to a change in routine, the underlying security of the relationship can begin to fray.

Attachment and Security

At the heart of every resilient relationship is a secure connection. Similar to the way a child feels safe to explore a playground only when they know a caregiver is reliably present, adult partners function best when they feel a sense of security. Knowing that a partner is in your corner provides the confidence needed to navigate external stressors, such as critical comments from relatives or the exhaustion of solo parenting during the week. When that security is absent, minor conflicts (like a disagreement over dinner plans) can feel like major threats. Maintaining a secure base during the summer months requires a conscious effort to prioritize the partnership above the surrounding distractions.

Strategies for Relational Resilience

* Maintaining a Team Mentality: The primary partnership must remain the central priority. In environments where external influences, such as well-meaning but overbearing parents, can create friction, staying aligned as a unit is vital. This does not require being against extended family, but rather being consistently there for one’s spouse. Ensuring a partner feels supported in a crowded room is a key component of emotional safety.

* Developing Relational Muscle Memory: Just as athletes practice plays until they become second nature, couples benefit from practicing healthy communication during quiet moments. Building these habits early ensures that when the stress of a chaotic weekend or a difficult travel day hits, the couple has the muscle memory required to remain connected rather than reactive.

* Intentional Reconnection: Meaningful connection rarely happens by accident during the summer; it must be manufactured. Whether it is a twenty-minute walk after the kids are asleep, a quiet conversation before the day begins, or a scheduled date night away from the extended family, these small investments serve as the essential maintenance that keeps the relationship running smoothly.

* Practicing Radical Empathy: Transitions often trigger different stress responses depending on one’s role. In many summer arrangements, one spouse may be home with the children all week, managing the mental load and physical exhaustion of solo parenting in a temporary environment. Meanwhile, the other spouse may be enduring a grueling commute and long hours at work, returning to a vacation home that feels like a second job. Radical empathy involves validating these distinct pressures. The spouse returning from work must recognize the drain of constant childcare, while the spouse at home must acknowledge the strain of the professional grind and the commute. By validating each other’s specific burdens, couples prevent resentment and foster mutual understanding.

Ultimately, the goal of navigating these seasonal shifts is to ensure that the relationship remains a source of strength rather than a source of stress. By approaching the summer with a shared strategy and a commitment to mutual support, couples can transform a potentially taxing season into a time of deep reconnection. Moving through these transitions with intentionality allows the partnership to emerge more resilient, ensuring a solid foundation for the year ahead.

By Eddie Esses and Sari Setton

The upcoming November election cycle in New York represents a pivotal moment for our community: one defined not only by political contests, but by the continued rise of Sephardic representation and influence at the highest levels of state government. At the center of this movement stand Sam Sutton, up for re-election to the NY State Senate, and Joey Saban, now running for NY State Assembly after serving as Senator Sutton’s Chief of Staff.

Together, they have built one of the most effective, outspoken, and impactful legislative operations in New York. And the results speak for themselves.

A Record of Results: Senator Sam Sutton

For over 20 years, Sam Sutton served as the co-founder and President of the Sephardic Community Federation (SCF), delivering tens of millions of dollars in government funding to our community and advocating across government for our community’s biggest priorities. Last year, he took his public service to the next level with his successful bid for a seat in the NY State Senate.

In a short time thus far in office, Senator Sutton has delivered tangible, meaningful results for our community on a scale rarely seen. Most notably, he secured $20 million in security funding for religious institutions, ensuring that our schools, synagogues, and community institutions are protected in an increasingly dangerous environment. Additionally, he has brought millions more in direct funding to our community’s institutions – resources that strengthen education, social services, and communal infrastructure.

Legislatively, Sen. Sutton has proven equally effective. He successfully passed multiple bills through the Senate in a very short time frame, demonstrating both policy leadership and the ability to navigate Albany’s complex political landscape. He played a key role in defeating the City Council’s COPA bill, taking a firm stand against anti-business policies that would have harmed our community and our businesses.

Looking forward, his diligence continues with the major Buffer Zone bill, a critical initiative he introduced to create buffer zones around houses of worship to protect worshipers from intimidation and harassment. The bill is now being incorporated into the State Budget, an extraordinary achievement that underscores his growing influence in Albany.

 The Force Behind the Scenes: Joey Saban

While Senator Sutton has led from the front, much of this success has been powered behind the scenes by Joey Saban. As Chief of Staff, Saban has been instrumental in turning vision into reality – coordinating legislative strategy, managing negotiations, and ensuring that priorities become policy.

From securing historic funding to advancing complex legislation, Saban’s role cannot be overstated. His deep understanding of both the community and the political system has made him a driving force in these accomplishments. Now, as he steps forward to run again for State Assembly, he brings with him not only experience, but a proven track record of getting big things done.

By example, Saban initiated and coordinated the press conference with the governor after the anti-Semitic Swastika incident at Magen David, which led to securing the $20M in security funding for religious institutions. He’s also been the driving force behind the Buffer Zone Bill, coordinating the language of the bill and the full strategy behind passing it.

Looking Ahead: The Election That Matters

While primary elections will take place in June, both Sutton and Saban enter this phase without challengers – a testament to the strength of their campaigns and the broad support they have already built.

That means the real contest lies ahead in the general election this November.

We know that elections are not won in a single day – they are built over months of grassroots effort. Every community member has an opportunity to play a role, whether by volunteering time or making a contribution. Thanks to New York’s public matching system, even small donations are amplified 9-to-1, turning modest support into a powerful force.

A Defining Moment for Our Community

What Sutton and Saban have accomplished together goes far beyond legislation and funding. They have transformed our community’s civic engagement, elevating our voice, our presence, and our influence in ways that would have seemed unimaginable just a few years ago.

They have shown that our community can organize, lead, and win – not just for ourselves, but as a major force within New York politics. The path forward is clear. The leadership is proven. And the moment is ours to seize.

QUESTION: 

Dear Rabbi Ali,

Thank you for your monthly articles. They have helped me very much. Baruch Hashem, my marriage is very good, but I would appreciate some advice on how to handle certain situations.

Once in a while (maybe once or twice a week), my wife asks me to do something, and I’m happy to help. The issue is that if it’s not done her way or exactly how she wants, she sometimes becomes agitated and snappy. She might say things like, “Why did you mess it up  again?” or “Hurry up,” in an angry tone. I’m not sure whether I should just let it go or say something. I don’t want to cause a fight, but it does bother me. Or perhaps I’m making something out of nothing. I would really appreciate your guidance.

R’ Ali’s Response: 

You raised several important points. First, I want to commend you for working on your marriage and striving to grow. This is truly admirable. You mention that your marriage is already very good. You want to make it even better. This is a mindset others can learn from. Too often, people reach a level of comfort in their marriage and remain there. While that isn’t necessarily bad, it can be unfortunate when there is potential for something even greater.

Regarding your question – whether to let it go or to say something – I believe this stems from a common but mistaken belief that staying silent preserves peace, while speaking up creates conflict. In reality, the opposite is often true. When we suppress our feelings to avoid “conflict,” we may instead build resentment, and resentment can be damaging to a relationship if left unaddressed.

It’s important to move beyond the idea that expressing ourselves calmly and respectfully will lead to a fight. Many people feel this way because they’ve seen that when they speak up, their spouse becomes upset. However, in this case, it seems she may become upset, regardless. You might as well speak up, communicating in a way that allows for understanding and growth.

To be clear, you should feel comfortable expressing how you feel. For example, if she says, “Hurry up,” you might respond, “I understand you’d like this done quickly, but it’s hard for me to help when I feel pressured. I’m happy to help, just without that pressure.”

In  the case of “you messed it up again,” it may be better to wait for a calm moment and say something like, “I know you don’t mean any harm, and I’m glad to help, however when I hear that I ‘messed up again,’ it hurts.”

These are examples of healthy communication. The key is to be gentle, thoughtful, and kind. Avoid bringing these things up in moments of frustration or anger. That will only escalate the situation. A strong relationship depends on open and respectful communication. She may initially feel defensive, but over time, she will likely come to understand your perspective and may even improve how she expresses herself.

Finally, regarding your concern about whether you are “making something out of nothing” – if something consistently bothers you, and being bothered by this type of thing is considered normal, most likely it is worth addressing. Sometimes it can be difficult to determine what is “normal,” and in such cases, seeking the perspective of a wise and objective third party can be helpful.

One of the many cherished customs observed at Sephardic weddings is the singing of “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov…” at the huppah.  These famous words are found in Parashat Balak (Bamidbar 24:5), which we read this month, and were, ironically, spoken by one of the earliest and most notorious Jew-haters of all time – Bilam, a gentile prophet who sought to annihilate the Jewish Nation by placing a curse on them. 

Bilam was summoned by Balak, the king of Moav, a nation whose neighbor – the Emorites – attacked Beneh Yisrael who responded by resoundingly defeating them and seizing their land.  Balak feared – irrationally – that Beneh Yisrael would invade Moav, too (despite the fact that Beneh Yisrael had no intention of doing so, and gave Balak no indication that this was their plan).  He therefore hired Bilam to place a curse on them and destroy them.  Bilam, an avowed and passionate Jew-hater, happily accepted the invitation, which also came with the promise of a generous financial reward.  The plan, however, backfired, as each time Bilam sought to curse Beneh Yisrael with his prophetic powers, Gd placed in his mouth beautiful blessings – including “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael – How good are you tents, Yaakov; your dwelling places, Yisrael.”

If we were asked to explain the reason for the custom to sing this verse at weddings, we would likely respond, very simply, that it speaks of the unique splendor of the Jewish home, and so we wish the new couple that they will succeed in building a beautiful home that would reflect the quality which Bilam praised.

This is certainly correct, but, if we probe a bit deeper, we will uncover an additional dimension to the relevance of “Mah tovu…” to the wedding ceremony.

An Ancient Wall

We begin with what at first appears as a trivial detail of the Bilam story – a detail so trivial, in fact, that we might have wondered why the Torah bothers mentioning it at all.

As Bilam made his way toward Moav, Gd sent an angel to discourage Bilam from going on this mission.  The angel made itself visible only to Bilam’s donkey – but not to Bilam himself – and on three occasions, it obstructed the road.  The second time, the donkey veered to the side to avoid the angel, crushing Bilam’s leg against the wall at the roadside (22:25).

Notably, the Torah refers to this wall with the definitive article “ha-“ (“the”) – “el hakir,” as though this was some kind of special wall that we would know about.  What distinctive, famous wall was there along the road from Aram Naharayim, in Mesopotamia, and Moav? 

Adding to the enigma is a comment by Rashi to the previous verse telling us that the fence along the sides of the road which Bilam traveled was made from stones.  Why did Rashi find this worth mentioning?  Would it have mattered to us if it had been made from brick or wood?

The answer is found in a passage in the Midrash Tanhuma, which traces the background to this story back to the times of our patriarchs.

Yaakov Avinu spent 20 years in the home of his uncle, Lavan, marrying his two daughters and building a large family and a large fortune.  When Yaakov finally decided it was time to leave, and set off toward the Land of Israel in the middle of the night, Lavan pursued him and his family.  Lavan’s intentions become clear in light of a vision he beheld the night before he caught up to Yaakov, in which Gd warned him not to cause him any harm (Beresheet 31:24).  It is clear that Lavan wanted to kill Yaakov and his family.  Ultimately, however, Yaakov and Lavan made a truce, and they formed a pile of stones as a symbol of their pact.  They declared that if either of them would pass this pile of stones to harm the other, he would be in violation of this truce.

Fascinatingly, the Midrash teaches that this pile of stones was the wall alongside which Bilam traveled, and against which his leg was crushed.  Bilam, the Midrash states, violated the oath by crossing this this wall, this boundary, to annihilate Yaakov’s descendants – because Bilam was actually none other than Lavan himself. 

This point is further developed by the Arizal, who writes that Bilam was a gilgul – reincarnation – of Lavan’s soul.  This explains the numerous similarities between them.  Both Lavan and Bilam deceitfully appeared righteous but were in truth evil.  Both sought to annihilate Am Yisrael – Lavan, by killing Yaakov and his family, thereby preventing the creation of Am Yisrael; and Bilam, by placing a curse upon them.  Both men received a nocturnal prophecy from Gd instructing them not to carry out their plan.  And both men originate from a place called Aram.  Not surprisingly, they shared these features, because they possessed the same soul.  Hence, Bilam violated his own promise by crossing the pile of stones to attempt to destroy Beneh Yisrael, for which he was punished, as the donkey moved against the wall as Lavan rode on its back.

This is why the Torah tells us about “hakir” – this special wall, and why Rashi found it necessary to explain that it was built from stones.  This point is crucial for the story, placing Bilam’s journey in a broader historical context, and presenting it as the continuation of Bilam’s attempts during his former life – as Lavan – to destroy Yaakov and prevent the emergence of the Jewish Nation.

When Evil Backfires

This connection between Lavan and Bilam sheds light on the pronouncement of “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov…”

In one of the more emotional segments of the Haggadah that we read at the seder on Pesach, we chant that in every generation, enemies rise to annihilate us, “vehaKadosh Baruch Hu matzilenu miyadam – But the Almighty rescues us from their hand.”

Some commentators noted the deeper meaning of the word “miyadam” (“from their hand”) in this passage.  It means that Gd rescues us with the hands of our enemies.  The very efforts that they make to destroy us end up bringing us our salvation, and helping us endure, thrive and prosper.

There is perhaps no greater example of this backfiring of Jew-hatred than Lavan.  Lavan wanted to prevent our nation from being established – but he was actually the one who built it!  His two daughters, and the two maidservants whom he gave his daughters, produced the 12 tribes of Israel.  Nobody did more for the growth of the Jewish Nation than the person who hated the Jewish Nation more than anyone!

This irony forms the backdrop of Bilam’s exclamation, “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov.”  At that moment, when Gd compelled Bilam to bless rather than curse, to look favorably and lovingly upon Beneh Yisrael, he saw the thousands of homes, the endless rows of tents, the beautiful, happy Jewish families, and recognized that he – in his previous life – created all this.  He saw these tents and exclaimed, “Look at what I built!  Look at this incredible nation which I brought into existence!” 

This proclamation might be the most embarrassing admission of failure in all human history.  Bilam conceded that he not only failed to stop the emergence of Am Yisrael – but he is the one who facilitated its emergence!  He proclaimed “Mah Tovu” to confess that his scheme backfired spectacularly, that he ended up building the nation that he tried to ensure would never exist.

The Greatest Response to Jew-Hatred

Once we understand this, we understand just what a powerful moment it is when “Mah tovu” is sung at a Jewish wedding.

At this moment, we think of Haman, of Ferdinand and Isabella, of Hitler, of Hamas, Hezbollah and the Iranian regime, of all those who have tried to eradicate us throughout the millennia, and all those who spread malicious lies about the Jewish State and the Jewish People – and we recall Bilam’s thunderous concession of defeat.  As a bride and groom stand together to begin building a new Jewish home, we bring to mind Bilam’s failure, and the continued failure of all those who have sought or seek our destruction.  We look to the beaming, exuberant couple as our greatest response to the hostility shown to us, as the greatest revenge we can possible take against those who have persecuted us, and so we invoke the blessing of Bilam, which captures more poignantly than anything else the futility of the efforts to destroy the Jewish Nation.

In the face of the alarming rise of Jew-hatred in our time, this centuries’-old Sephardic custom teaches us what our response should be – building more beautiful Jewish homes, more “tents” and “dwelling places” that are worthy of Bilam’s effusive praise and admiration.  If our adversaries are taking to the streets and to social media to spew hatred and to support the terrorists seeking Israel’s annihilation, let us respond by redoubling our efforts to make shidduchim, to bring Jewish singles together, to create more Jewish families.  And let us recommit ourselves to enhance our homes – with greater shalom bayit (domestic peace), with greater respect for and selfless devotion to one another, with more Torah, with more sanctity, and with more happy, beautiful Jewish children.

As our enemies increase their efforts to destroy, we must increase our efforts to build.

May we continue to see the downfall of “Bilam” in all his manifestations, and may Hashem bless us with more weddings, more children, and more happiness, amen.

Pnina Souid

The Mitzvah Man Organization is there for anyone who needs help.  Sometimes those who reach out for help are extraordinary. Sometimes the volunteers are extraordinary. And sometimes the situations encountered are extraordinary. This story, which happened a few years ago, is a triple-header.

Thursdays the Mitzvah Man sends out a text asking for volunteers to bring flowers to Holocaust survivors and to stay for a short visit to brighten their day. One Thursday, a regular volunteer named Sally, a young woman in her twenties, answered the call. She received the name and address of a woman named Mrs. Markowitz.

A Woman of Valor

Sally arrived with flowers in hand and rang the bell at Mrs. Markowitz’s door. Sally had learned that Mrs. Markowitz was a remarkable woman. She lost her entire family in Auschwitz, including parents, ten siblings, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Despite the challenges encountered in Auschwitz (or maybe because of them) Mrs. Markowitz proposed a pact for the 42 women with her. She suggested that they all agree to keep Shabbat for the duration of their time in Auschwitz as a merit to survive the war. And if they did survive, they would continue to keep Shabbat thereafter. All 42 women agreed. Six months later they were liberated. Each one of them was profoundly thankful for surviving the war and for the pact they made.

Mrs. Markowitz, a”h, was 93 years old when Sally arrived at her door.  She lived alone. Her children lived out-of-state and her husband was no longer alive.

Sally began to worry when no one answered the door. Eventually, Sally heard a sort of shuffling noise, so she waited.  After 20 minutes, which seemed like hours, Mrs. Markowitz opened the door. She apologized for the delay, and explained that she had fallen the day before, and had been on the floor all night! Somehow, she had made her way to the door and unlatched it. Sally helped Mrs. Markowitz up and got her a drink of water and then immediately texted the Mitzvah Man.

He was praying Mincha at Landau’s when the message arrived.

He told Sally to call Hatzalah right away. She responded that she had already thought to do so, but when she informed Mrs. Markowitz of her intention, Mrs. Markowitz became hysterical and started screaming. She told Sally that she must not call Hatzalah under any circumstances! She had had enough of this life, and was ready to die. Sally determined that Mrs. Markowitz did seem stable, but even so, she was afraid to leave her. Despite being scared, Sally was determined to stay to help Mrs. Markowitz.

A Doctor Fulfills His Calling

The Mitzvah Man’s tried to focus. He pictured Mrs. Markowitz on the floor all night and his heart started to race. He wondered what could have happened and what could be done. He knew Mrs. Markowitz needed medical help pronto. The Mitzvah Man looked around and saw that the man seated behind him was Dr. Albert Matalon.

He realized that Dr. Matalon was a busy doctor, but he explained that there was an emergency he needed to attend to, and asked the good doctor to join him. Dr. Matalon agreed immediately.

They arrived in the apartment, and Dr. Matalon assessed Mrs. Markowitz’s situation. He softly rubbed Mrs. Markowitz’s hand and spoke to her gently.

“You are having mini strokes,” he told her. “We need to call Hatzalah.”

“No!” she responded emphatically.  “Let me have strokes! I am through with my life! I’ve been through so much! I want to see Hashem!”

Dr. Matalon explained, “You have life left in you. I will call Hatzalah and tell them to take you to the hospital in Manhattan that I am affiliated with.”

Mrs. Markowitz looked at Dr. Matalon and sighed. “I will go only if you will be my doctor.”

Dr. Matalon agreed on the spot. Mrs. Markowitz went to the hospital, was treated and recovered. She lived another six years, and passed away at 99.

The Mitzvah Man reflected on the hashgacha pratit involved in this story – starting with Mrs. Markowiz being matched up with a patient and dedicated volunteer, continuing with the doctor who “happened” to be sitting near the Mitzvah Man at Mincha, and concluding with Mrs. Markowitz’s recovery, Baruch Hashem.

Mrs. Markowitz saved lives by initiating the keeping Shabbat pact with the 42 women in her group in Auschwitz. Years later Hashem sent her special messengers to save her life.

Rabbi Yehuda Finchas

A kitchen accident left Sarah with a deep cut on her index finger, requiring five stitches and a thick bandage that wrapped around the entire finger. As the doctor secured the final layer of gauze, Sarah suddenly remembered netilat yadayim: “Doctor,” she asked anxiously, “can I get this bandage wet?” The doctor shook his head firmly. “Keep it completely dry for at least five days.” Sarah phoned me asking: “Is the bandage considered a barrier (chatzitzah)”?

Michael broke his hand while playing basketball, and it was now encased in a heavy plaster cast from his knuckles to his forearm. He wondered: Could he wash just one hand? Do I make a berachah – or am I now exempt entirely?

Chatzitzah in Netilat Yadayim

Netilat yadayim requires that water reach the areas halachically mandated to be washed without a chatzitzah – a barrier preventing water from contacting the skin. This includes dirt, tight rings, or in our case, a bandage.

The Status of a Bandage

The Rishon Lezion, Hacham David Yosef, in Halacha Berurah (Siman 161:9), explains that the determining factor is whether the dressing is considered permanent or temporary: If the dressing is loosely attached and removed periodically – such as a simple adhesive strip over a minor scrape – it is considered a chatzitzah and must be removed before washing.

If the bandage is securely affixed and is not meant to be removed due to medical necessity – to protect a healing wound or prevent infection – it is not considered a chatzitzah. In this case, the individual may wash with the bandage in place.

Fingers Versus Palm

The Shulhan Aruch (Orach Chaim 161:1) requires washing from the fingertips to the wrist, but Maran emphasizes that the essential requirement is washing the fingers. Therefore, if the bandage is on the palm or back of the hand, one need only wash the fingers themselves, as the presence of a dressing elsewhere does not invalidate the washing.

When the Entire Hand is Covered

So, Michael can do netilat yadayim on his fingers, as they are protruding from the cast – as ruled by Hacham Ovadia Yosef, zt”l, in Halichot Olam (vol. 1, p. 326). However, if his entire hand is injured and fully covered by a cast or medical dressing and cannot be washed at all, Hacham Ovadia (p. 322) rules that the person should wash the other, uninjured hand in the normal way and make the berachah as usual.

Multiple Layers of Bandaging

What about Sarah’s situation, where the doctor not only applied a bandage directly to the wound but also wrapped it with additional gauze or an elastic bandage to keep it secure?

The Halacha Berurah teaches that the outer layers used solely to secure the inner medical dressing are considered part of the healing bandage. Thus, the entire unit is judged as one fixed medical need, and is not a chatzitzah. There is no requirement to remove any part of it before washing, and one may recite the berachah without concern.

Healed Wounds and Scabs

If the removal of the scab causes pain, the scab is not considered a chatzitzah – even if the person would normally prefer to remove it. The key distinction lies in whether the person is makpid (particular) and whether it can be reasonably removed. Painful or harmful removal exempts the individual from removing it, and the netilat yadayim remains valid(Halacha Berurah §12).

Conclusion

Sarah does not need to remove her bandage. By washing the rest of her hand carefully, she fulfils the mitzvah properly – with a berachah. Michael should wash his fingers. Someone whose hand was entirely in a cast is exempt from washing that hand, but they still do netilat yadayim on their healthy hand, with a berachah.

It is important to note that these halachot apply specifically to chatzitzah in the context of netilat yadayim. In other halachot involving potential chatzitzah, one should consult their rabbi for guidance.

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.