Shabbat in London: A Musical Journey Through Les Mis,fiddler & Jewish Resilience

As I sat in the South Hampstead synagogue last Friday night, the melodies of Lecha Dodi echoed through the room — and my mind drifted back to Fiddler on the Roof, which I’d seen just before leaving Tel Aviv. I saw Tevye again: arms lifted high, body swaying, shouting “Tradition!” to the heavens. Dancing on shaky boards with a soul rooted in faith. Balancing tradition and change, faith and fear. Starting over and over again, with a smile — even when neighbors, or the world itself, make you question your truth, your identity, your place in the story.

I came to London with Peace of Mind, the organization founded by Dr. Danny Brom at the Metiv Israel Psychotrauma Center in Jerusalem. This program serves as a vital bridge connecting IDF veterans who have faced the harshest realities of combat with Jewish communities around the world. The mission is clear: to guide these courageous soldiers as they transition back to civilian life. But it’s more than just a program — it’s a lifeline.

We arrived with a group of Israeli veterans — young men who’ve seen the worst of war. Men who’ve lost their best friends, faced trauma and difficult times — but who also carry laughter, depth, and a will to live. For one week, the Jewish community of South Hampstead hosted us — not just with hospitality, but with open arms, concern and much love.

Pub Songs and Healing

One evening, after an intense day of therapy, I joined the unit and we found ourselves in a quiet English pub. The kind where people speak in hushed tones and sip their pints quietly. One soldier started singing. Another clapped along. Then someone pulled a local into a dance. The atmosphere flipped. Smiles spread across faces. Glasses were raised. Phones came out to film the moment. What began as a quiet night turned into a celebration. The pub lit up with music, laughter, and life.

Here were men who had stared death in the face — now leading a room full of strangers in song. Holding each other tight, dancing together, singing “Country Roads, Take Me Home,” filling up the room with joy. That’s what the Israeli spirit looks like. The power of soldiers who carry not only weapons, but music, memory, and light in their hearts.

HaTikvah on Shabbat Morning

Shabbat morning, during Tefillat LeShlom HaMedinah — the Prayer for the State of Israel — the rabbi called the veterans to the front to sing alongside him and the community. We stood shoulder to shoulder — English Jews and Israeli soldiers, different ages, accents, and stories — but one heart.

And then came HaTikvah.
We sang, voices trembling but proud, as tears fell. Because despite the loss, fear, and loneliness — we are still here. Still singing. Still dreaming. I don’t know exactly what “holy” means, but being in that room was one of the holiest moments I’ve ever felt.

A Rabbi Not Afraid of Questions

After the service, the rabbi thanked the soldiers — not with fanfare, but with heartfelt words. Then he turned to the youth and invited them to submit questions before Pesach. “Not just about the Haggadah,” he said, “but about life, faith, doubt — anything on your heart. The essence of the Seder night is to ask.” So simple. So profound.

This, to me, is real religious leadership.
Not afraid of questions — but rooted in them.   I was raised on that kind of Judaism.
One that sees not knowing as a step toward wisdom. That welcomes sacred doubt.

It brought me back to childhood.
To Shabbat mornings in Jerusalem.

I remembered singing beside my father, feeling part of something ancient and beautiful. But also — turning around, and seeing my mother. Brilliant. Spiritual. Hidden behind a thick mechitza. Far from the voices. Far from the center.

Even as a child, I didn’t understand:

Why couldn’t the curtain be in the middle?
Why were women hidden while men stood at the center? Why did we celebrate a 13-year-old boy’s aliyah, encouraging him to speak in front of the whole community — but barely acknowledge a girl becoming a woman?

That quiet injustice stayed with me.
It planted a subtle ache. A lingering question:
If this is Judaism, where does someone like my mother fit? Where do I?

And then, just after the rabbi’s announcements, came another surprise: The rebbetzin stood up — and taught Torah.

She spoke with depth, clarity, and calm strength. Not to a separate group of women in a back room — but to everyone. The whole community. Soldiers, elders, teens, rabbis. And the room listened.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t controversial.
It was normal. Interesting. Meaningful. A woman — a scholar — sharing Torah with dignity and grace. In that moment, something in me softened.

I thought of my mother, years ago, behind that curtain. A woman full of wisdom who was rarely seen, and even more rarely heard.

Because in South Hampstead, I witnessed something different.
A Judaism rooted in Orthodoxy — yet softened by honesty, lifted by humility, and shaped by the quiet courage to hold fast to halacha — Jewish law — while caring more for how people feel than how things appear.

A Judaism that asks not only what is right, but also:
Do you feel seen?
Do you feel valued?
Do you feel like you belong?

A Conversation with Future Leaders

Later that morning, I sat with the youth — thoughtful teenagers who understood the world much more than I expected. They spoke of fear: fear of being Jewish in public, of standing for Israel in schools, of feeling unsafe. But also: they spoke with strength. Pride. Clarity. They were intelligent and humble. They asked us tough and sensitive questions about the war. It was clear: these are strong individuals from a strong community.

And I thought: this is what hope looks like.
Not in headlines — but in a generation brave enough to ask, and to stand tall.

I told them:
Don’t hide your identity.
Don’t whisper when you’re going to Israel.
Don’t change your name in the Uber.
Stand tall. Walk proudly. You carry something ancient and beautiful.
And even when the world doesn’t understand — especially then — be proud.

This country gave the world so much.

Rabbi Sacks Z”L showed that deep faith and moral clarity can emerge from someone who didn’t grow up in the yeshiva world  — and still lead a generation.
J.K. Rowling proved that a single mother with nothing but a story could move hearts and shape minds around the world.
Winston Churchill stood alone in history’s darkest hour — and showed that true leadership means never backing down.
Douglas Murray became a friend and ally, showing the world what truth and loyalty look like.
Eylon Levy gave us a voice — defending Israel across global media, and reminding my unit, and so many others, that we weren’t alone.

And I told the youth:
You carry that same spark.
You are brave.
You are leaders.
You gave me strength.

A Deeper Connection

As I left the synagogue, my heart was full.
The warmth and gratitude of South Hampstead — and the community in Brighton — made me feel not like a guest, but like family.

The Jews of England have built something so beautiful. Communities that honor the Crown, cherish their freedom, and build rich, meaningful Jewish lives with quiet determination. Respect for the kingdom — and deep love for their roots.

I understood my father in a new way — what it means to grow up as a Jew in England. The kind of strength that lives in quiet gestures, in gentleness, in polite restraint. Not in loud declarations, but in quiet perseverance.Not in what’s said — but in what’s done.

Before flying home, I went to see Les Misérables. A show I saw as a child.
A show I love. One line has stayed with me, especially now: “Tomorrow we’ll discover what our God in Heaven has in store.”

Since October 7, we’ve got punched in the stomach so many times and we’ve lost so much. We’ve buried sons and daughters.    We’ve seen horrific truths. We’ve been betrayed by friends. Worldwide networks ignored our suffer and the truth. We felt alone and afraid time of the time.

And still — we believe.
Still — we carry each other into a tomorrow we cannot see and with hopes in our heart we will continue to walk through the storm with our heads up high.

In loving memory of our brave boys:
Staff Sgt. Matan Gotlib (21), Staff Sgt. Omer Chai (21), and Sgt. Guy Algranati (20).