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Rabbi's weekly Blog

Does everyone think we are poor?

Dear Friends, When we first arrived in Switzerland two decades ago, we had one child, then two, and very quickly three. Local friends brought us second-hand clothes—clothes their children no longer needed. At first, we were deeply hurt. What? Why? Does everyone think we are poor? It took us some time to understand that this is simply an accepted practice here. People initially buy expensive, high-quality items, take good care of them, and there is no shame whatsoever in passing them on or receiving them as a gift from friends—it’s the norm. In fact, when we looked into it, we realized that the second-hand clothes we received were of higher quality and more expensive than the new ones we had considered buying. At a later stage, we noticed people putting good items outside their homes—like a chair, a vacuum cleaner, or even kitchenware—accompanied by a note saying"gratis zum Mitnehmen,"meaning "free to take." Ordinary, respectable people would stop in broad daylight, get off their bikes, examine the items without any embarrassment, and take what they needed. I still remember the first thing I ever took from the street—it was a high-quality and expensive toddler car seat, which I believe we used for twenty years. The peak of it all was when our eldest son turned three, and someone gave us a gift—a second-hand bicycle with training wheels—because their child had already moved on to a bigger one. When I checked, I realized that the price of that second-hand bicycle on the market was actually higher than the new one we had planned to buy. In my opinion, the vast majority of the cars on the streets around me are relatively old but very well maintained. Even today, there are quite a few second-hand furniture and clothing stores here. I see this as a positive thing—not rushing to throw something away when it can still be repaired, not buying just because something is on sale, and not spending money on things we don’t need simply because there’s a Sale. To me, this represents a form of impulse control and self-discipline—perhaps also a touch of Swiss meticulousness. Maybe this comes from the maturity of people who have lived in the same place for centuries. Perhaps it is a deep respect for raw materials, as is common in classic Europe. It could also be the natural humility and quiet confidence of people who feel no need for showiness and, in fact, almost have an aversion to it. Most likely, it’s a combination of all of the above. When we built the Chabad House in Basel, the friends who were with us urged us to seek out simple yet high-quality materials that would last for many years. Fifteen years later, it is quite clear: everything we bought that was of high quality has remained strong and beautiful, while wherever we compromised, it shows. We found the chairs for the Chabad House at a company specializing in this field. The chair we purchased is called"Kirchenstuhl"—a church chair—designed for people who sit on it for hours, read from a book, and listen to a cantor or a rabbi. Each chair cost €250 at the time, and for over a decade, not a single chair wobbled—until this past year, when some of them started collapsing under their users. Again, the dilemma arose: should we throw them away and buy cheap new ones, or invest in a carpenter who would build wooden reinforcements and repair each chair? The local mindset—and probably also my upbringing—played its role, and the carpenter was invited. Last June, he came, examined the chairs, and devised a plan. A month later, he returned to present me with various options. His eyes sparkled with excitement: "I worked on this outside my regular hours,“ he said. "There is a joy and thrill in encountering fine raw material that requires a solution, a repair, and reinforcement." This week, he arrived with the wooden supports he had built in his workshop and repaired each chair individually. The cost? €45 per chair. But in my eyes, it was undoubtedly the right thing to do. I have no direct way to connect this to the weekly Torah portion, but certainly to life in general. Everything—not only material things, but certainly also those—everything we invest in is worth doing in a way that takes more time, costs more, and ensures better quality. And when something starts to wobble—whether in marriage, parenting, livelihood, or even just a chair or a table—it is worth seeking out a professional with a sparkle in their eyes, someone who can build the right kind of support so that it lasts for many more years to come. One more thing: Every week, I try to write about things that have touched me over the past days—things I have experienced. This post, though, is not only about my perspective this week, but also a request and an invitation to take part in restoring the chairs. €45 per chair. Here is the link for credit card payments, PayPal, or bank transfers: https://www.chabadbasel.com/templates/articlecco_cdo/aid/4195815/jewish/Donate-Tzedaka.htm May we have much success, and Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Teshuvah is indeed urgent

My phone rang last week, without any prior notice, without a preliminary WhatsApp message—just a phone call, like in the old days. I replied that I couldn't talk at the moment. A message followed, asking when I could. I asked, "How urgent is it?" The reply came: "Quite urgent." I cleared some other tasks and immediately called back the unfamiliar number. "My name is Michael," said the man on the line, speaking German with a Slavic accent. "My wife and I are both Jewish, and we want to 'return to Teshuvah' [repentance]." When he said the words "return to Teshuvah," he said them in Hebrew, with the same Slavic accent, just slightly heavier. "We were born Jewish, and now, at a little over forty years old, with the kids growing up, livelihood stable, and life calm, we've suddenly realized that we know nothing about who we are. You understand now, 'Herr Rabbiner,' why this is urgent, right?" We met earlier this week. They both came. My heart melted to see them come like this, asking in the simplest way possible—in the most "simple Jewish of the Baal Shem Tov" way—"We want to return to Teshuvah." I think, more than anything, I felt a pang of jealousy. We set up a schedule and a work plan. I asked them to carefully consider each step. They borrowed tefillin, a tallit, a siddur, a Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, and two enlightening books on family purity. I also gave them links to relevant YouTube channels. After they left, I was lost in thought, with a mixture of pain and delight swirling in my heart from the emotions they stirred in me. I, too, want to return to Teshuvah. The Alter Rebbe, whose yahrzeit is today, the 24th of Tevet, devoted himself to this—to making Baalei Teshuvah. In my view, studying the Chassidut of the author of the Tanya, as well as that of his successors, shows me every morning that there’s always a place to return to, that I haven’t returned enough, and that there’s still a journey ahead to fully become who I am meant to be. My soul still cries out: "Return, Zalman, return." On Shabbat Parshat Va'eira, in 5718 (1958), the Rebbe quoted a talk from Rabbi Shalom DovBer Schneersohn (the Rebbe Rashab) about the 24th of Tevet. He related the well-known dream of Rabbi DovBer, the son of the Alter Rebbe (the Mitteler Rebbe). Here are the words as they appear in *Torat Menachem*, volume 21, page 323: "The content of the Mitteler Rebbe’s dream: A wooden plank lay across a river, and the Maggid [of Mezritch] crossed from one side to the other on the plank, swaying as he went. Afterward, his father, the Alter Rebbe, crossed on the plank and didn’t sway at all. When the Mitteler Rebbe told the Alter Rebbe about the dream, the Alter Rebbe said to him: Why are you surprised? The Rebbe [the Maggid] made tzaddikim, while I, thank G-d, have made many Baalei Teshuvah as well." Moreover, there’s an inscription on the gravestone of every Chabad Rebbe. To my understanding, it’s the only sentence that describes their work in this world: the three words, "And he turned many away from sin“. The Alter Rebbe arranged it so that anyone who encounters him or his teachings immediately understands that they must become a Baal Teshuvah. Then Michael came with his insistent phone call, saying he urgently needed to speak with me. It turns out that returning to Teshuvah is indeed urgent. Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Rabbi Nisan, I salute you.

"I have a database of approximately 240 Jews, almost all of whom agree to stay in touch with me." This is how the message of one of the remarkable members of our group began, one of the 170 members of the ‚Shluchim hebrew' group of Hebrew-speaking Chabad emissaries in Europe. His name is Rabbi Nisan Rupo, and he is the Rebbe's emissary in a remote city in Russia, Kostroma—a city that once served as the place of exile for Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, also known as the Rebbe Rayatz of Lubavitch. Today, the city is home to a community that Rabbi Rupo manages with exceptional dedication and genuine humility. He showed us a collage of over 200 photos of families lighting Chanukah candles in their homes. When we asked how this was achieved, he gave the following response. I didn’t touch Nisan’s text; his words touched me. Here is the continuation, in his own words: "For twenty years, I’ve been doing home visits during Chanukah, lighting candles. Some have already grown accustomed to this practice, while others learned about it in classes. On the first night, we held a large event where a significant portion of the community participated. We distributed kits there and asked people to light the candles, take a photo, and send it to us. We also distribute humanitarian aid packages, and we included a menorah with candles in each package. Every evening, except for Shabbat eve, I go out on mivtzoim (outreach activities), visiting homes and lighting candles with them. This year, I took my children with me. Thanks to this, some families agreed to let us come and light candles. I do this from nightfall until relatively late at night, managing to visit a few homes each day. Yesterday, I reached someone who lives dozens of kilometers from the city. Initially, he didn’t want to hear about Chanukah, but when I mentioned that my children were with me, he agreed. During our drive, he called to say that they were invited to someone’s house. I told him I was already nearby, so his whole family went to the gathering while he stayed home to wait for me. After I returned home at midnight, another person responded to a message. So, around midnight, I went out to another home. I, too, became closer to Judaism thanks to these outreach efforts, so it touches my heart. It’s imprinted in my childhood memories." By this point, Nisan didn’t know that I was already teary-eyed from emotion. I quietly waited to read more. Here it is: "In the summer of 1991, I attended a camp for non-Jews, where even mentioning the word 'Jew' was the greatest embarrassment. When I received a letter from my father, with the sender's name, 'Eidelshtein,' clearly marking it as a Jewish surname, someone noticed it. I didn’t know where to hide myself. By the summer of 1992, I arrived at a Jewish camp—Gan Israel Chabad camp in Moscow. On the first day, they gave me tzitzit, and I wore them. On the second day, everyone went to put on tefillin, so I joined them. On the third day, a mohel arrived, and I underwent a brit milah. During Sukkot, I was at 'Marina Roscha,' Rabbi Lazar’s synagogue. I saw yeshiva students preparing to go out for lulav outreach on the city streets. I asked how they would recognize who was Jewish. They said by their nose. I thought they were joking. They invited me to join them. I went with them, and at that time, Moscow’s streets still had a relatively high percentage of Jews. Many could even be recognized by their faces. (Until 1985, according to the census, most Jews in Moscow married other Jews.) Then, the students would actually approach people in the street. Some admitted they were Jewish and agreed to shake the lulav right there in the street. I remembered the shame I had experienced a year earlier, and now I saw the 'majesty of Jacob' and told myself, 'This is what I love.' The next day, I stood myself with a lulav on Moscow's main street, asking people if they were Jewish. I was a very shy 14-year-old boy. After that, I went to yeshiva, and during Chanukah, we went out every day to light candles with Jews in central Moscow (in a mitzvah tank). Since then, I’ve loved it very much." Rabbi Nisan, I salute you. Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Zalman Wishedski
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