Livenyomin Omar | Episode 2 with Rabbi Ohr Ziv | A COL Podcast

The guest: I didn’t have to keep mitzvos; nobody talked to me about mitzvos. I would come, enjoy myself, read Sichat HaShavua, and take it home. My mother still has those old issues of Sichat HaShavua, you know, the colorful ones. I have a collection. I’d take one home, read it, feel moved, come back again, read—and nothing changed. I’d go to soccer, eat with the family for a few minutes, and head off wherever I was going. That was my childhood. On the one hand, in practice, it was very, very secular, as they say. On the other hand, there was this one point that...

The interviewer: One anchor you had somehow created?

The guest: An anchor, though I didn’t even know it was an anchor. I didn’t say to myself, “This is keeping me grounded.” I enjoyed it, and I understood something important: it gave me a perspective of faith. Why did I do it? I just wanted to... I don’t know, be cool? Nobody knew about it, by the way. I didn’t tell anyone outside. But yes, I did feel something...

Something I don’t know how to explain. Can you explain it? It’s... something G-dly, and so on. But at the time, it just felt right to me. So I decided I was doing it—rain or no rain, snow or no snow, I was going to shul on Friday night. And that was it. That was more or less my childhood. You asked about my childhood.

The interviewer: Yes.

So let’s move on—you’re in the army, in Golani, as you said.

The guest: Yes.

The interviewer: And combat service [?], I assume, service... [?]

The guest: There’s a very, very interesting point here. I... I want to choose my words carefully, because this has implications. The army is a terrible place for someone looking for spirituality, okay? As you said—at least in a combat unit.

The guest: Before the army, I had eight months of preferred work—sorry, work before the army. The preferred work was afterward.

The guest: I got to know a young man named Germano, a Yemenite guy who worked with me as a waiter at the same café. And an opportunity came up to take a small step I’d wanted to take for a long time but had always been afraid of: putting on tefillin. That was where the change happened. We’ll talk more about the tefillin later. I’d heard that Germano put on tefillin, that it meant something to him, that he put them on before the evening shift. So I said to him, “Can you teach me how to put them on?” He said, “What do you mean, you don’t know how?” I said, “My bar mitzvah was the last time, five years ago. I don’t remember.” He said, “No problem, come on.” I said, “No, not here. Let’s go somewhere nobody will see.” There was some kind of room there—today they’d call it a safe room; back then it was a shelter. I said, “I want to do it there.” He said, “No problem, but it’s late now. Tomorrow.” I said, “Okay.” This had nothing to do with Chabad at all. “Tomorrow, okay.” Anyway, the next day I meet him, he brings the tefillin before our shift, and I put them on. From then until today, I haven’t stopped. I haven’t missed Shacharis either. But that was where something changed. Even then, I felt something very, very deep inside. It began to turn into a flame, as though something was burning within me. I can’t explain it to you.

The interviewer: And you used his tefillin every day?

The guest: I had tefillin from my bar mitzvah, which I later found out were actually invalid, and of the very lowest quality. But when I wanted to take out my tefillin, I had siyata diShmaya: someone told me, “Listen, bring me the tefillin.” I no longer remember who it was; I can’t picture him. I just remember that it happened. I said, “Why do they need to be checked?” He said, “Get them checked.” So I took them to be checked, and it had never even occurred to me that someone might say, “These were invalid from the outset.”

The interviewer: So you started putting on tefillin, and your parents saw these things—

The guest: To their credit, whether it was about Shabbos or anything else, they didn’t say a word to me.

The interviewer: “Or, listen, maybe you shouldn’t...”

The guest: You could easily have gotten the wrong idea about me then. It’s not as though anything had changed in my outward behavior. We’re on a Chabad podcast, so I can’t go into too much detail, but I’ll leave it to your imagination. No one could have suspected me, let’s put it that way, of heading toward anything called “religious,” let alone charedi. But to my parents’ credit—not a word, nothing. They went along with it. That would come up again later, yes, but we’ll talk about it. In any case, when I entered the army, I was already much more fired up. I wanted to daven Minchah and Maariv, and now Shacharis too. Why was I doing it? Because in the army everything is very, very cut-and-dried: tick, tick, tick, I’ll do it. There was no one there who gave it much thought. Here it was happening; the guys were going, so I’d go with them. On the one hand, it was good for me; on the other, I felt nothing. And I’m telling you, that was the hardest period I experienced in my Yiddishkeit spiritually—I mean in terms of enjoying it. I tell my friends at the Chabad House: Yiddishkeit is fun. I mean, it doesn’t have to be fun every moment, but there needs to be enjoyment. You need to enjoy your Yiddishkeit, not find it something distasteful. That doesn’t mean that if it isn’t fun right now, G-d forbid... But you have to strive for your Yiddishkeit to bring you joy, to bring you pleasure. You have to strive for that. Otherwise, yes, there’s the well-known sicha of the Rebbe about “Against your will you live,” and [unclear]—we won’t get into that. But there has to be some basic, personal avodas Hashem in which you enjoy your Yiddishkeit. There, I didn’t enjoy it. I survived three years in the army—literally survived. The process that had begun somewhere around age fifteen wasn’t always something I felt inside, but with tefillin—I remember that half a year before the army I’d already felt something warmer—the process stopped completely in the army. Still, I was careful. I never missed putting on tefillin, and I never missed Friday-night davening. Minchah, Maariv, Shacharis—not always; that depended on the situation. But those were the things I had taken upon myself. So that’s why I say: on the one hand, the army did a great deal to build my character in terms of responsibility and everything else. On the other hand, spiritually, I don’t... Anyway, that’s the point.

Then we were discharged from the army, and, baruch Hashem, as you know, we went abroad, to Thailand. That didn’t happen immediately either. We spent half a year doing preferred work and got seven friends together. You don’t see that much these days, at least—not many groups of seven friends set off together for an open-ended stretch of time.

The interviewer: Officially, I think it was supposed to be half a year?

The guest: In practice it was nine months. Plans changed along the way, but we set out for six months, really with a one-way ticket. The plan was six months, but—yes, I went with friends who were very close to me. Still, I’ll never forget that we landed somewhere as a group of about ten guys from the same place. What happens on trips like that? You meet people, you connect with people, and who knows—you want to go to one place and someone else wants to go somewhere entirely different. Your plans don’t line up at all. Fine. But here’s the beautiful thing—and this is a very, very important point. As I told you, I had taken something upon myself. When I arrived in Bangkok, Thailand—it was a Wednesday—we landed, and they have no culture at all, but that’s another matter. I was very, very determined and focused on my goal of having as much fun as possible. And the trip had everything, but not a single religious element. Nothing. At the time, six months after my discharge, I had long hair and everything. Anyone who saw me might have thought I was a German tourist, or I don’t know what, someone from Central Europe. There was absolutely nothing about my appearance that said I was Jewish. Friday afternoon came, and there was a place called “the Israeli Square.” I don’t know what it’s like today. Back then it was a non-kosher place run by Israelis in Thailand, and I went there looking for a solution. They said to me, “What solution are you looking for? Somewhere to daven on Friday night?” As if I’d fallen from the moon. “What’s with you and davening? Come on, have fun, let loose with the guys. Look around, listen, okay? Just enjoy yourself. What does davening have to do with anything right now?” I said, “Listen, guys, it’s not that I feel I need it. I took it upon myself, and I’m not stopping.” Well, word got around and things became clearer. A guy came over—I think he was the shift manager at the square—and said, “Listen, there’s only one place open here.” I said, “What is it?” He said, “The Chabad House.” I said, “No way. Find something else.”

The interviewer: What are you saying? Really? Do I need to explain why—because you were afraid?

The guest: No, I wasn’t afraid. I had no such picture in my mind. Listen, who’s afraid? Someone who isn’t secure in his place. I was very, very secure in mine. But no—the reason I said “No chance” was something else. My family was very, very—again—left-leaning. To us, a Chabad House at the time, never mind Sichas HaShavua, was like...

>> The interviewer: What was it equivalent to, the far right?

The guest: It was basically synonymous. I’ll put it in one sentence: Bibi, “Good for the Jews,” 1996. In my family, that was an unforgivable sin. And I wasn’t about to set foot in Chabad, either: they supported the very person I was strongly opposed to then. In my first election, I voted Meretz, so you understand where I was coming from. My views also changed in Golani—my political outlook, let’s call it that. How I saw the Palestinians, the Arabs, all of that. I met them, I fought them, and I also had the merit of taking a few of them out, boruch Hashem. So I came to understand that reality wasn’t... But Bibi, as far as I was concerned, was persona non grata. You couldn’t even mention his name. I said, “I want something else.” One of the guys said to me, “Listen, you’re in Thailand, in Bangkok. What did you think you’d find here? There aren’t minyanim here; this isn’t Israel. This is what there is.” I said, “Okay, this is what there is.” So I went to the Chabad House as a guest, dressed in white, you know, showing up for Friday-night davening. I remember walking in. It was a beautiful building, I have to say. Rabbi Nechemia’s place is much bigger today, boruch Hashem, but back then—wow, they even had internet there, which was quite a novelty. I came in for the minyan and sat by myself, you know, not with the guys, not with anyone. Just me. Fine, davening ends, Kabbalas Shabbos—half an hour or so—and I make my escape. I don’t say hello to anyone; I just run. I think to myself, “I’m getting out of here.” I go down the stairs—it was on the second floor—and there are all my friends at the entrance, all six of them. “What are you doing here?” “There’s a free meal. Are we not going to eat?” I said, “What do you mean?” “Come on, come on. Chabad’s offering one. It was written everywhere that if you want a free meal tonight, you can get one at Chabad.” I said, “Shall we go?” “Yeah, let’s go.” We went in, and then I entered the place where all these Jews were streaming in. There were 300 Israelis there altogether. It was crazy. Suddenly you look around and think, where did all these people come from? You meet Israelis here and there in Thailand, and then suddenly—boom—300 people. And there was Rabbi Nechemia, a sweet man, speaking nicely, clearly, pleasantly: “Thank you very much, shalom.” The meal took half an hour, no more. They served something—I don’t remember what. But there were Shabbos songs, the first ten familiar songs that they sing at lots of Chabad Houses; maybe they even came up with the idea. You know, the simplest songs—“David Melech Yisrael,” “Shir Hamaalos”—things everyone knows. It was trendy then, too, and we sang happily. That was it, half an hour. I’m about to leave, we’re all about to leave, out of those 300 Israelis—and I hadn’t been sitting in the front row, just somewhere in the middle. I get to the exit—sorry, I’m about to go out—and suddenly Rabbi Nechemia comes over. Now, he’s a rabbi, and I respect rabbis, yes. He turns to me and asks, “What’s your name?” I tell him, “Or. Or Ziv.” “A pleasure. Just so you know, if you’d like, I have an oneg Shabbos at my home. You’re welcome to stay.” I didn’t understand what he meant by “my home.” To me, a Chabad House was a Chabad House; I didn’t realize he meant his actual home. And I’m telling you—you’ll have to believe me—that was the first time in my life I’d heard the term “oneg Shabbos.”

>> The interviewer: Oneg Shabbos?

The guest: Me, who’d been in the army, in Golani and everything. I hadn’t been with yeshiva guys, okay? I would make Kiddush. I’d make Kiddush in Golani as a nonreligious person, because I was still the guy who could do it. The others weren’t likely to, so the commander would say, “Who’s making Kiddush? Or Ziv is making Kiddush.” They still remind me of it: “Who’s making Kiddush? Or Ziv.” I was the regular Kiddush guy, and not religious at all, just so you get the picture. Anyway, “oneg Shabbos”—I hadn’t davened with him. What was an oneg Shabbos? I said, “One thing: see the guys over there? If I go with you, I’m finished.” So, “Thank you very much for the invitation, but thanks, no thanks,” as they say. I kept walking and left. Then something amazing happened. The plan was to leave Bangkok, but various things came up. Today I call it hashgachah pratis, and Hakadosh Boruch Hu really intervened here in an extraordinary way. What were the chances that, at the start of the trip, instead of heading out for the high season in the first week, leaving our base in Bangkok and continuing the trip somewhere else entirely—where there was no Chabad House at the time—we’d somehow end up back in Bangkok? Someone suddenly made a suggestion, we went somewhere near Bangkok, used up some time there, and came back to Bangkok on Friday morning. And the same story repeats itself: I come for davening, then go to eat. I’m about to leave after the meal for the second time, and Rabbi Nechemia comes over. This time he remembers my name. I still tell him about it today. That’s what won me over. How do you remember my name out of 300 people? Who am I? I didn’t stand out in any way; I looked like any other Israeli traveler. Yet he remembered my name. So right away, that gets your attention. Then he says, “I want you to know the invitation still stands. It’s still on.” I always say this jokingly: “I’m an Ashkenazi from Ra’anana,” right? Polite—excuse me for putting it that way; in Chabad we always joke about it. “I can’t say no to a rabbi a second time. It doesn’t feel right.” So I put it on my best friend, Shay Wiesel. Shay Wiesel, you should understand—if I still had some connection with tefillin and so on, he had nothing, absolutely nothing. He had this big Afro; there was nothing about him that suggested otherwise. Just to illustrate the point, he always wore a necklace with a picture of a dove on it. He wore it throughout his army service. He was a military photographer. That was the funny thing: here was this combat soldier who wanted to be a free spirit. It gives you an idea of where he was coming from. So I grabbed Shay and said, “If Shay agrees, I’m coming.” I didn’t care—I’d made it his decision. Shay said, “Fine.” I said, “What do you mean, fine? What have we decided?” “I feel awkward, and I’m hungry, but a word is a word.” We said, “A word is a word; we have to go.” I asked, “Do you know where his home is?” He said, “Our friends are already on their way.” So I asked the rabbi, “Where is it? Where?” He said, “Right here, right here. There’s a wall, and my home is just there.” I said, “Great. Five minutes—we’ll be back. We’ll come over.” By the time we got to the rabbi’s home, the place was already full. It was a room more or less like this one, packed. I think there were 70 people there. Packed. I could have sat up front if I’d wanted to, but Shay and I spread ourselves out on the threshold so we could make an easy escape. And that’s what we were going to do. We’d gone in and were about to head out, when suddenly, before we could leave, Rabbi Nechemia said, “Okay, we’re going around the room. Everyone has five options to choose from: choose a song, choose a niggun, get a good riddle, or tell a story.”

The guest: I was sure I’d stay just out of curiosity. I thought, let’s listen to one or two people; surely everyone will choose a song, and then we’ll escape. I was surprised: lots of them—maybe ninety percent, perhaps even more—told a story of hashgachah pratis. These were stories told by guys like you, talking about Hakadosh Boruch Hu when you wouldn’t expect it—where they’d encountered Him on their travels and all that.

Let’s get into it—it started getting late. It was a quarter to two when we went in, and we could have left at three-thirty in the morning. We were there with Rabbi Nachman, and in the end we weren’t drunk—there was no “l’chaim.” We joke about Rabbi Nachman: no “l’chaim,” just “ay, ay, ay.” We sang, we danced, all of that. And then something amazing happened: Rabbi Nachman said to us, “Tell me, would you want to come learn Chassidus tomorrow morning, before davening?” I asked him, “What time is that? What time is davening?” Meaning, what time is Shacharis? He said, “Shacharis is at ten in the morning, and Chassidus is even earlier.” It’s funny now, but the thing is, in Thailand you don’t get up at those hours. Really, the Israelis in Thailand don’t get up before twelve, certainly not on Shabbos.

Anyway, I said to him, “I don’t know about you, but I’m setting an alarm.” Sorry, yes, that was the reality. He said, “I’m coming with you.” So I set an alarm, what can you do, and we got up and went to the first Chassidus class of my life.

Interviewer: And how many guys were there?

Guest: Not many.

Interviewer: Really not many?

Guest: From what I remember—but what I do remember, and this is the main thing, and it’s what I said back then at Yad Eliyahu, if you remember—I learned something about Judaism that connected so many dots that hadn’t connected for me until then: mitzvah comes from the word tzavsa, meaning togetherness and connection. Now, take a religious person, and all the more so someone who doesn’t observe Torah and mitzvos: to him, a mitzvah is an obligation, an order, something you do out of kabbolas ol, or whatever. Why? What gives you the right to decide for me? You know the perspective you’re coming from. There, I learned the opposite: the only way I can connect with Him, the only way, is the way He gives me. It’s my privilege to connect with Him.

The opposite. Suddenly, it made sense; putting on tefillin took on meaning. A small thing—I connected myself with Judaism, with G-dliness. I don’t know, I felt it. It wasn’t like today, when we drink “l’chaim” so readily, you know. I felt it at that moment. I said, “Here I am doing something”—it has meaning. Tzavsa, a mitzvah of togetherness and connection. I connected at that moment, in both senses of the word. And then the whole trip changed. I could go on about it forever, but I’m sure we don’t have that much time. Maybe we’ll tell more, yes.

L’chaim.

Interviewer: L’chaim, l’chaim. Now, from there, I understand you connected—I mean, you’d already turned it into a sort of...

Guest: What’s interesting—I’m skipping ahead, because the whole trip changed dramatically—but it turned into...

Interviewer: A tour of Chabad Houses?

Guest: Australia, New Zealand, name it, wherever you like—that’s what it was back then.

Interviewer: Yes.

Guest: What’s really interesting is that on my last Shabbos—it was Shavuos, Yom Tov, I don’t remember exactly, but it was definitely Shavuos, because it was my birthday.

Interviewer: Yes, I remember.

Guest: Ah, the sixth of Sivan, the sixth of Sivan. That’s another interesting point: my parents, even though they weren’t religious, seemingly, were so particular about this that my birthday was recorded only by the Hebrew date. By the way, mine wasn’t on the Hebrew [unclear]. Now, that... that really messed things up for me, excuse the expression. Yes, it affected me.

Because when a child celebrates on the Hebrew date, and that’s Shavuos, you don’t get to celebrate with your friends at school. It’s not like saying, “I was born on May 28.” Each time you get birthday wishes... It’s interesting that they did it that way. At the time I didn’t understand what they wanted. I didn’t celebrate Shavuos either, so what was the connection? It wasn’t part of my life. I never connected that day with my birth.

What happened there was very, very interesting. I got to the last day before we were due to fly, and it fell on Shavuos. I’d come full circle with Rabbi Nachman, almost a month after we’d traveled through so many places, since those two or three consecutive weeks with him. We closed the circle nearly a full month later at his place. And on that last day, on Shabbos, it was Shavuos, and it was my turn to make a commitment—to choose one of five possibilities. I chose a good resolution without knowing what I was doing at that moment. But after everything that had happened over Shavuos, I said, “I’m taking on keeping Shabbos.” Wow. No kashrus, no kippah, nothing—Shabbos. Now, you know, wow, look at the time, look at everything involved. You understand what that means.

Just to give you an idea: during that time, my mother had moved to Givatayim. I left when my mother lived in Ra’anana, and I came back to a reality in which she lived in Givatayim, a different city. Chabad in Ra’anana was very well developed at the time; at least there I might have been able to continue... But Chabad in Givatayim? I had no idea. I was going to a place that seemed like a wasteland, a “red” city [unclear]. But I’d taken it on, as I told you from the beginning. I’d taken it on, and that was that.

When I landed—on Thursday, sorry, on Sunday... Remember? Right, I may be mixing it up a little, but it was Shabbos, Sunday or Monday, I don’t remember. Anyway, I landed in Israel, and my mother and brother picked me up at the airport. So I shared the good news with them. My mother stopped the car, looked at me, and said, “What, have you gone crazy? Have you lost your mind? Is that what happened to you abroad?” Listen, if I hadn’t gone through Rabbi Nachman, and Rabbi Nachman hadn’t given me the Rebbe’s approach—“A little light dispels a great deal of darkness,” not fighting the darkness with sticks and so on—there would have been an earth-shattering blowup, because I know how to stand my ground too.

Interviewer: But didn’t you expect her to be stunned when she heard it?

Guest: Listen, I was coming back after seven, eight, nine months abroad. She hadn’t seen me for eight months. At first there was tremendous excitement, and in a second it disappeared.

Interviewer: Wow. What, did she think she was losing her son?

Guest: That’s how she felt. That’s it—that statement says it all. You have to understand, on that trip there was no WhatsApp and no smartphones, nothing. So she hadn’t seen me. Even if she’d wanted to, she hadn’t received any pictures, by email or any other way. We sent a postcard once—don’t ask. Anyway, she didn’t expect this. She understood I was going through something there, because I’d told her I’d gone to a Chabad House and all that.

Then that next Friday night came. The day before, I remember looking for the shul closest to home. I wasn’t looking for a Chabad House; I said, “Givatayim—let’s find a shul.” First I went out of the house and walked a few dozen meters, maybe 200, I don’t know. Suddenly I saw a storefront on my right—a Chabad House. Now, compared with Thailand, it was a total shock. I had culture shock, I don’t know what to call it. It simply wasn’t what I knew from abroad, where everything was lovely, well organized, huge. And suddenly I came to a place that was literally a little storefront.

Fortunately, boruch Hashem, Hakadosh Boruch Hu made sure everything was exactly right: Rabbi Beckerman was there. I owe him a tremendous debt of gratitude; to this day I consider him my rabbi, for advice, friendship, everything. He welcomed me with open arms. And all at once, my reaction to the outward appearance disappeared; it no longer mattered to me. The davening was less moving at first, admittedly, but we learned Chassidus. It was all wrapped up in that, all wrapped up in that. There was a farbrengen after davening, of course, and that’s something I’ve kept up to this day. I learned it from him: don’t give up the farbrengen after davening, no matter what. On Shabbos Mevarchim, all the more so—but always, whether it’s Shabbos, Tisha B’Av, I don’t know. Don’t give it up, don’t give it up.

Anyway, that’s what happened, and from there I entered this world of Chabad here in the Holy Land. After that I went to the yeshiva in Ramat Aviv, because it was nearby. There was also a dear, lively fellow there who brought me to the yeshiva. And the first thing I did when I entered the yeshiva was run away.

Interviewer: Why?

Guest: Because I said, “This isn’t what I’m looking for. Who are all these guys dressed in black?”

Interviewer: What did you think you were?

Guest: I don’t know. Listen, whenever I’d learned at Chabad, everyone had been more or less like me. Suddenly I was in this setting. I had a friend in the yeshiva who’d been with me in Thailand for a large part of the trip, and I met him there. That broke me. He didn’t even get up to say hello. I arrived, and we were in the middle of davening, and I thought, “Really? What...?” I ran away from there. It took me, I don’t remember, maybe two or three years to go back to the yeshiva.

Then I studied at the Chabad House, and everything I learned there was good. But the reason I went into yeshiva afterward was that I had also started academic studies, and I needed a counterweight in the other direction. So I went in—and the second time was already excellent, baruch Hashem. I was there for two and a half years, I think, two years and something like that. And baruch Hashem, that’s where things took a turn: I met my wife.

Interviewer: You met your wife while you were studying in yeshiva?

Guest: Yes.

Guest: Yes, yes. And think about me coming to my mother and telling her—we had three dates, and by the fourth we were already engaged. Eight days, because she was abroad, on shlichus abroad. My mother couldn’t take it in. I said, “Meet her.” She met her, and the moment she really got to know my wife, all her concerns disappeared. It was amazing.

But here’s a point—something I owed her, as I was saying. On my first Shabbos in Givatayim, I came home at night. Now, my mother didn’t keep Shabbos, and I said to myself, “What do I do? How will I eat?” I consulted Rabbi Nachman and simply ate the things I could eat. I didn’t say, “I won’t eat that.” I just found ways around it: I wasn’t so hungry, didn’t feel like it, that sort of thing. I ate cold salads and things like that—whatever I could eat. I left lights on over Shabbos until the neighbors knocked on the door: “What is this? We live in a religious building!” That’s how it was.

But what’s beautiful is that less than two months later, I was at the Carmel Market with friends when my mother called me. She said, “Listen, I want to buy Shabbos candles.” She said, “Buy me some candles too, since you’re already at the market, if you can. I want them.” I hadn’t said anything to her, spoken to her about it, or even hinted at it. She simply saw that I was happy, understood that Shabbos was the point of connection, and wanted to connect too. As simple as that. Then, on her own initiative, through Yossi Levy from Givatayim, she arranged to have the entire kitchen made kosher according to Chabad standards.

Guest: And everything was, how do you say it, done properly from the outset—because of me, as I said—and baruch Hashem, everything was fine. Even after I got married and had a little family, we would come to them for Shabbos, and everything was fine. As far as the food was concerned, we could eat there freely.

Just a small point: a little light dispels a lot of darkness. You can see it firsthand. I saw it in my own life.

Interviewer: When you married your wife, did you know that at some point you’d be going on shlichus? Was that on your minds?

Guest: Not at all. My wife did, but I didn’t. I was very, very clear about what I wanted. I studied criminology.

Interviewer: Yes.

Guest: The study of crime, for anyone who doesn’t know. Yes, I studied behavioral sciences—it’s a kind of psychology, an undergraduate degree. I said I wanted to work with criminals, in an organization like the Shin Bet. I sent in my résumé and got called in. I had a combat fitness rating, combat experience as a commander, the whole thing.

I was invited to the Shin Bet for the initial recruitment screening. As far as I was concerned, that was it. Now, during our first year we lived in Nachlaot, Jerusalem, and I needed to support the family. Because my degree wasn’t all that [unclear], and it wasn’t something that brought in much money, I got a job at an after-school program for at-risk children—children whom social services were involved with, just short of removing them from their homes. They spent most of the day away from home, until evening.

That’s where they placed me. Now, I already had a beard and everything, and the place was very, very, very nonreligious in its outlook—left-wing. But they liked me—I don’t know why they liked me so much—and gave me responsibility.

It got to the point where, once, they called me in to discuss something. The director came and said, “Listen, I’m not getting complaints, I’m hearing rumors.” I said to her, “What?”

That children were going home and [unclear], and they wanted to wash their hands ritually. Children were going home and asking their mothers and fathers, “Why doesn’t Dad go to Shabbos prayers?”

Guest: “Now, I’m not prepared for this. You didn’t come here to make little children religious,” and all that. So I told her I had never spoken to them that way, not at all. What was she talking about? Fortunately, there was a woman working with me, an aide, and she said, “Listen, absolutely not.” So the director spoke with all the parents and asked, “What’s happening? Are you happy?” All the parents said we had changed the atmosphere at home. How did that happen? Explain.

I’ll tell you how it happened. One mother said, “My daughter sees him washing his hands ritually. She sees him davening, she sees him enjoying his time alone, and she wants to do it too.” Suddenly two families came to me who had started making Kiddush. I felt very, very good there. I wasn’t on cloud nine, but I felt—I wasn’t a shliach, yet without intending to, I saw that it worked.

Then something very interesting happened: my wife very much wanted to go on shlichus. I said to her, “You know what, let’s...” We thought about flying to Thailand, to Rabbi Nechemia. We went—it was the first year they went to help with Pesach preparations. We hadn’t realized what it would involve. It was a very, very challenging week and a half, but also very rewarding. I said, “You know what? Come on, let’s go back to Israel, and I’ll make an effort.” She said, “What does that mean?” I said, “It’s hard. I don’t know. I have no idea.”

I spoke with Rabbi Berkman: What do we do? How do I become a shliach? He told me, “Listen, call a man named Yossi Kriarchi [?]”—a very dear man from Rechovot.

So I was speaking with him—while I was in the middle of talking to him, he called me, answered, and said, “Oh, who are you? What do you want? All right, listen, I’ll send you a fax. Fill this thing out and send it back to me. I need to consider it.” Then he would check who was looking, what he was, who...

“And we’ll move forward.” I said, all right, and he hung up. Wait a second—he hadn’t told me how long it would take. What did “we’ll move forward” mean? Two days? A week? A year? When would anything move forward? I was a little anxious. Then he called me back and said, “Listen, this is hashgachah pratis.” I said, “What, are you from Jerusalem?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “It’s hard for me...” “Rabbi Tamir from Katamon has just contacted me. He’s looking for a shliach, and also an activities director. Maybe... you know...” I said, “What hashgachah pratis—someone from Jerusalem!” “Listen, he sounds like a nice fellow,” I said. “Let’s send over all the documents and forms.”

Interviewer: And you met?

Guest: We met, we met, baruch Hashem. There was very, very good chemistry. At that first meeting he already told me he wanted me. And two funny things happened there. I told him, “I’m willing, on two conditions. First, a salary—money to live on. No, no, the non-spiritual side isn’t my world.” He laughed, and to his credit he didn’t say no. We’d see how it went, as they say. The second thing I told him was, “I’m not willing to replace anyone or hurt anyone’s livelihood.” Now, there was a dear man there, and there was a question that needed to be considered. To his credit, he said, “All right, fair enough.” In time, that man whom I would have replaced actually left of his own accord after a few months. And that’s how I began my shlichus in Katamon. That was how it happened...

Interviewer: As the activities director, under Rabbi Tamir Kastiel?

Guest: Yes. We were in the same place, in a shelter, in a neighborhood [?] in Jerusalem.

Interviewer: What was the population like?

Guest: That’s precisely one of the things that made me understand deeply the saying, “There is no poverty in a place of wealth...” We were in a shelter, and that didn’t suit the character of the neighborhood. There are eight professors on one street there. How do I know? Because back when Nir Barkat was mayor, they wrote him a letter of protest: why was the Chabad sign so conspicuous, in red? Eight professors signed it.

Interviewer: Yes.

Guest: So I realized that I was somehow offside in this whole situation. It couldn’t be that I wasn’t reaching them. Baruch Hashem, we had people davening and everything, but we weren’t reaching the local residents—you know, the sort of people who lived in the Moshava. True, we were small. And “the Moshava,” the Greek Colony, is shorthand for many neighborhoods like it: people who are very well-off, from a very bourgeois background, and so on.

But I really connected with that population in the end—with the people outside, the ones who didn’t come to shul. It was very hard to get them to come down into a shelter.

Interviewer: The place itself isn’t exactly inviting, either.

Guest: It isn’t inviting. But over time, baruch Hashem, we developed a good relationship, and that petition was dropped without anything happening. Today we’re friends.

Interviewer: Interesting. So then, you really...

Interviewer: Now you understand that those people who don’t look favorably on this...

Guest: No, not at all.

Interviewer: They’re friends of yours, you mean?

Guest: I’ve managed to bring a great many people together—not out in the open, how do you put it? Just the opposite: behind the scenes. In many cases, instead of an argument, there’s a connection. Again, these are things that happen behind the scenes. Now, I know I pay a price for it, including within Chabad, by the way. Your question is a legitimate one. But ultimately, you won’t catch me attacking anyone in a tweet or a post or...

Interviewer: Never? Because if you had, they’d have caught you long ago.

Guest: Quite the opposite. I simply try, as much as possible, to show appreciation for those people who study Chassidus, because that makes many other people want to study Chassidus too. But it’s not only that. The thing itself matters: when they speak the Rebbe’s words, when they behave as the Rebbe wants... And look, I don’t always behave as the Rebbe wants either, right? What can you do? We have free choice. Sometimes we fall, sometimes we do well; that’s all part of it. But at least we want to aim for that.

So if I sat around doing nothing, then probably, you know, maybe we wouldn’t be talking now, because it wouldn’t be interesting, because these people wouldn’t be coming. But I take that on; I pay a price, and that’s okay. On the other hand, even with people who... You know, I’ll tell you something I meant to tell you. When I went to court as a friend of Natan Urich [?]...

Interviewer: Yes, my rabbi.

Guest: Natan Urich [?]. Of course, I asked my own rabbi, and I also asked several Chabad rabbis before taking that step, because it has implications.

Interviewer: And they gave you their blessing?

Guest: I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

Interviewer: But not for publication, of course?

Guest: Not for publication—meaning, not in their names, and so on.

Interviewer: Yes.

Guest: I asked; I consulted them. What surprised me most was this: I arrived at the courthouse, and most of the court reporters don’t particularly identify with my side, or Natan’s. Yet they treated me with a great deal of respect. They knew who I was, and, on the contrary, they made a point of saying: “You’re coming here with him, when people are tearing him apart, and they may be tearing you apart in the media any minute now. The fact that you’ve come with him shows how genuine this is, that it isn’t all about what you can gain.” Because, on the face of it, what do I stand to gain, and what do I stand to lose? And truly, it didn’t make me look good at all. But I was there with him in that situation. It never really mattered to me; I had no doubt. I asked because I needed to ask. I don’t make decisions just for myself—after all, I’m probably seen as representing a thing or two. But as far as my relationship with him was concerned, of course I needed to be there. That was clear to me: simply to support him all the way. Yes, I believe in him too, and that’s fine, but I pay a price.

What surprised me was that the very people who were there tearing him apart said this to me afterward—not just one or two of them. By the way, I now have several friends I’ve kept in touch with as a result of those court hearings. They’re people whose names it wouldn’t be right for me to mention—for their sake, and probably for mine too, I’m joking. But they respect that. You know, I’ll bring it down to one example. I have a relationship with a donor, a fairly substantial donor who gives tens of thousands of shekels, and he tells me: “Listen, Rabbi, I don’t understand this. What are you doing at the courthouse? I’ll donate because I believe in what you do and I care about you and everything, but I’ll tell you the truth: this is very hard for me.”

Interviewer: What do you say to someone like that?

Guest: I said to him, “Tell me, why do you donate to me? Is there a shortage of Chabad Houses, initiatives, projects? Come on, you don’t even live here. It’s not as though you’re a member of the community who feels obligated to donate. So why do you?” He said, “Honestly, I like you for who you are.” And then he said one thing, one word: “Because you’re a mensch.” I said, “It’s because I’m a mensch that I’m there.” Do you know what he answered? He said, “I have no argument left. You’re right, I was wrong, and I ask your forgiveness.” I don’t know whether that changed his views, and that’s okay. But to this day, when we talk, he brings up that incident. In fact, when he discusses it, he finds good things to say about my going there.

Interviewer: Amazing—the whole perspective, the way you present it.

Interviewer: Tell me, how did your relationship with the prime minister himself begin? And if I may say so, with all due respect, that’s not something to take for granted.

Guest: I... I can’t say I didn’t expect the question. Without going into all the reasons—and I hardly... That’s not what this is about. I’ll try to make sure nothing I say detracts from the point. I’ll tell you one episode, okay? One episode. And it applies to Sharon too, and to Shay Golden, someone I’m very close to and love dearly, and to many other friends, men and women—Yotam and so on. Before I’m their rabbi, I’m their friend. And I really am their friend. I genuinely care about them; I’m genuinely there for them in every matter. I’m not just their halachic adviser, telling them what’s right and wrong, black and white, or “Now you should wear a kippah.” It isn’t limited to that. It’s every aspect of life: the rush of everyday life, relationships at home, business decisions, everything. Because I try to be their friend before I’m their rabbi.

Now, how does that relate to your question? I’ll give you one episode. Netanyahu lost the election; he was in the opposition, and afterward he won. There was a period, of course, before the government was sworn in. Once, I’ve told this story, I was in a discussion with Sharon Gal, and Sharon suddenly said, “Let’s get the incoming prime minister on the line.” We made a video call, and he joined us. The conversation flowed so naturally, you know.

Interviewer: I’m not looking for these guys just because they’re at the top, okay?

Guest: That’s not what I’m after. I’m not looking to make a name for myself through other people. No—quite the opposite. They know that, and I do too. And that applies to everyone, by the way, not just prominent public figures. Even a person who died on Friday whom nobody knows—he...

Interviewer: On a personal level, where you are today, do you have some aspiration, some dream you want to fulfill? Is there something you’re working toward? Tell me. I don’t want a banal answer, though even if it is a banal answer...

Guest: I don’t see where else there is to advance, in terms of personal achievement. I suppose that if I’d gone into business, there would probably be all sorts of other things for me to achieve. And this work, every single day, brings new challenges and new opportunities, and a renewed desire to move forward and have an impact. Fine, everyone says that. But to me, the answer comes down to one thing: we haven’t reached the goal yet. We’re still not at the goal—the Geulah, the complete redemption through Moshiach Tzidkeinu, which the Rebbe wanted and told us is within reach.

So I don’t want to say that I’m here to bring it about—who am I to say that? The Rebbe can say it; I can’t. But we haven’t reached that point, so when you ask what I aspire to, that’s my aspiration. And if it happens without any connection to me, Or Ziv, I don’t care. If there’s one last thing I can do to help, I’m willing to volunteer, but the main thing is that it happen. Whether it’s through me or through someone who never intended anything of the kind, I don’t care.

But there’s one thing I can say with certainty, without any doubt: it will be in the merit of the Rebbe’s shluchim. I have no doubt about that, especially the shluchim in the Holy Land. I see it abroad too, of course, but in the Holy Land, with all the difficulties, with all the... You said it yourself: there’s this feeling here that “it’s always easy to be someone dressed like that.” In the end, they work under the hardest conditions and do the most wonderful things, and they’re bringing the Geulah. And as I explained earlier, that can happen at the Chabad House in Be’er Sheva, or in Tel Chai in Netanya, or in Eilat—it doesn’t matter. If they do the work as precisely and correctly as possible, the people around them will understand and connect with that idea.

By the way, if it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. Because, after all, I didn’t come from these circles. If they hadn’t... I said this once in Yad Eliyahu, and it isn’t just the Chabad Houses—it’s all the women and the Chabad chassidim. If they hadn’t smiled at me... You know, some people feel alienated, and then they start to come closer. If they hadn’t smiled at me and welcomed me warmly wherever I went, I wouldn’t be sitting with you today. I would have gone into that other world, because in the end, people want warmth. And who gives that warmth to each and every person more than the shluchim and the women? I feel it, and I’m sure everyone feels it. And with Hashem’s help, that’s what will bring the Geulah.

Interviewer: Amen and amen. Thank you so much for this wonderful conversation. And thank you all for watching and listening. Goodbye—we’ll be here, with Hashem’s help, in another week with the next episode.

Guest: Goodbye. L’chaim, l’chaim.