When Tragedy Strikes Chabad, It Strikes Us All

This week marked the annual “Kinus Hashluchim” in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, a gathering of all the Chabad – Lubavitch Rabbis from across the globe. Normally this would be a cause for well-deserved celebration, but this year it was more of a testament to resilience in the face of adversity, coming so close on the heels of the brutal murder of Rabbi Tzvi Kogan in the United Arab Emirates. Rabbi Kogan was a young and energetic Rabbi whose only crime was being Jewish, and this made him a target for an age-old hate that follows us across the ages and the planet.

While I am not a member of Chabad nor do I subscribe to much of their philosophy, like many of my fellow Jews across the spectrum, I have on many occasions enjoyed their warm hospitality, and the congenial manner in which it is extended. Across continents, I have spent many a Shabbos, eaten many a meal and prayed a multitude of prayers with our bearded brethren. I have witnessed first-hand their ability to reserve judgment while opening their hearts and homes to all and sundry with unconditional love and no expectation of reciprocity.

I confess that while I am not one given to wearing my heart on my sleeve, there are specific tragedies from the past few decades that have managed to pierce my emotional armor, and all of them share a common denominator.

In August of 1991, Yankel Rosenbaum, a young Australian rabbinical student studying in Crown Heights was murdered in cold blood. The gang who murdered him had been riled up by Al Sharpton in a targeted three-day antisemitic riot. Yankel was guilty of being Jewish in the wrong place, and at the wrong time.

On the first of March 1994, Ari Halberstam a gifted 16-year-old high school student with his whole life ahead of him, was in a van full of fellow students returning to Crown Heights from a visit to the city. While crossing the iconic Brooklyn Bridge, a Lebanese national opened fire on the van and murdered this innocent teenager in cold blood.

On the 26th of November 2008, Pakistani terrorists rampaged through city of Mumbai with a maniacal focus on the local Chabad house where they violently murdered six people including Rabbi Gavriel and Rivka Holtzberg, a beautiful couple who had dedicated their lives to the spiritual wellbeing of others.

On the last day of Pesach, 2019 a shooter entered the Chabad in Poway, California, in search of Jews and shot several congregants including Lori Kaye, who in a selfless act of heroism, tried to intervene in an effort to protect her Rabbi from being shot, for which she paid the ultimate sacrifice.

We live in a world where a certain level of “acceptable” violence has sadly become the norm. We have become inured to the media sensationalizing distant wars and calamities in our daily lives. Of course we make the right noises, donate to the proper causes, and occasionally march at demonstrations, but the reality is our core being remains unaffected. That is not the case when it comes to the tragedies experienced by our Chabad co-religionists.

There is something far more personal and intimate about these events that is incomparable to any other. These episodes strike a chord and invoke a seismic emotional reaction that is deeply disturbing and should shake us to our very core. These victims are not combatants, they are not participants, they did not intentionally put themselves in harm’s way, their only crime was living their best spiritual lives.

While most of us will often try to avoid broadcasting our Jewish identity when in public, Chabad have never shied away from overt displays of faith and has proudly stood their ground, no matter its cost. Theirs was never a political quest nor an elitist insular movement, as they have always and consistently been on the front lines in the most altruistic manner possible.

My own personal experience with Chabad is slightly irregular. Because of my misanthropic nature, my personal Rabbi happens to live 9,000 miles away in Beijing. While others have local Rabbis they can consult with on spiritual matters, most of the Rabbis in my geographical proximity will usually not take my calls. Rabbi Shimon Freundlich and his Rebbetzin Dini, have embraced our family in the bosoms of their Chabad community unconditionally. Despite the challenging time differences, Rabbi Shimon and I never miss our daily Torah studies together and his rabbinical presence in our lives has been a true force of scholarly erudition and a beacon of positivity.

I recall my first Shabbos in their home over twenty years ago, while the three of us were enjoying a traditional Shabbos lunch, the conversation drifted to the challenges of living in a country that does not recognize Judaism as a legal religion. Raising their children without the benefit of schools or friends, Kosher items needing to be shipped in from overseas, and the closest Mikve a three-hour flight away, were just some of the challenges they faced. The incredible sacrifice they were making to live in Beijing, included a litany of deprivations of basic comforts that most of us take for granted in our daily lives.

In a moment of exasperation, I asked them what the heck was a guy from London and a girl from Johannesburg even doing there, why did they not pack up their family tonight and return to the comfort of civilization. Without a moment of hesitation, Rebbetzin Dini responded with her characteristic wit, “Now perhaps you can understand why we want the Messiah so badly.” I should point out that in the intervening decades, they have incredibly built a school, a Mikve, a restaurant, and a thriving Jewish community.

These people are the absolute best of us. While we shirk communal responsibility, they embrace it, they invest personally in their fellow Jews spiritual journey no matter their affiliation. Their only agenda is love, and their only ambition is to spark the spiritual embers of our souls. We do not need to agree with them on all subjects, but we do need to respect them for rolling up their sleeves and doing the work that needs to be done while we are too afraid or too self absorbed to actually do it.

An attack on Chabad is an attack on all of us, because, at the end of the day, Chabad is us. They are the victims because they wave our flag, they represent our values, and they walk our walk and talk our talk. Chabad shows up every single day in every region of the world, not just identifiably Jewish in their manner but identifiably Jewish in their very essence, and most importantly in their actions. When they cry, we should all cry.

Embed from Getty Images