Rabbi's weekly Blog - Chabad of Basel

The inner voices

Thursday, March 27, 2025 - 1:13 PM

It always amazes and fascinates me to see how people find within themselves—and bring out—strengths precisely during times of darkness and pain.

The most incredible and moving example, of course, is our hostages—each and every one of them, in their own way, found extraordinary human strength and resilience in the tunnels of Gaza. One kept kosher and observed Shabbat, another shared a piece of pita she found with her companions despite intense hunger, one made Kiddush there, and another sang “Shalom Aleichem” in Arabic. They all speak of human bravery and mutual care, and though they emerge physically thin, broken, and wounded, their spirits are powerful, full, and whole—astonishing all of us.

What’s most amazing is that they are all regular people—normal individuals, people just like you and me. It’s just that the abnormal situation they were placed in drew out of them extraordinary strength that leaves us in awe.

It’s often said that from darkness comes light—the advantage of light that comes from darkness. And I recognize that in myself as well. Specifically in moments of real challenge, in places of darkness—that’s where I found peace and acceptance within myself, calm and confidence in the righteousness of the path.

In fact, in this week’s Torah portion—Parashat Pekudei, which concludes the Book of Exodus—there’s a verse at the end that speaks about this. It says, “And when the cloud lifted from above the Tabernacle, the children of Israel would embark on all their journeys.” The Rebbe sees here a fundamental message: the journeys of the Jewish people—“all their journeys”—begin not when the cloud of the Divine Presence rests among them, bringing Divine revelation, light, goodness, and warmth, but rather “when the cloud lifted”—when it gets a bit dark, confusing, unclear, and difficult—that’s when the journey begins.

I try to understand—what is it about darkness, difficulty, and moments when a person is backed into a corner that causes them to bring forth something they didn’t even know they had, something those around them never imagined they were capable of?

I’m not certain, but I suspect that at least one major factor is the disappearance of the inner voices that distract a person from connecting to their core purpose.

Most people carry diminishing inner voices—each in their own area of life. “You won’t succeed,” “They’ll surely say no,” “They won’t want you,” “They won’t like you,” “They’ll laugh at you,” “They’ll think you’re fat or ugly.” And there are also the voices of so-called ‘morality and righteousness’—like, “It’s not nice to say that,” “It’s not appropriate to do this,” “How will it look to others,” and so on. These voices are responsible for a large part of the obstacles that hold a person back from advancing toward their goal or destination.

But when a person is in a survival situation and sees only one path forward, there’s no room for these voices—they simply don’t show up. It’s a moment of “to be or not to be,” and the person chooses to be, and moves forward. There may be dilemmas, but once resolved, the head lifts and one marches on with dignity. Embarrassment or “what will they say” hardly matters in such moments.

The lingering question is: How can we be clear, sharp, and focused even when we’re not, thank God, in survival mode?
How can we silence those inner diminishing voices even when everything is okay, regular, and normal?

Do you think this text could also serve as a preparation for Passover, the Festival of Freedom?
Because at least for me, every time I manage to overcome those inner voices, I become a free person—a man who is free and liberated.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

When the pigeons had "upholstered" my car

Thursday, March 20, 2025 - 3:29 PM

A few years ago, I parked my car overnight on a distant street that I wasn’t familiar with. It was late at night, and I didn’t expect to find parking easily. But lo and behold, I found a spacious spot—right under a lush tree.

Early the next morning, I walked toward my car, but alas, I could barely recognize it. It turned out that a flock of pigeons had "upholstered" my car throughout the night. I’m not overly sensitive, and I don’t tend to exaggerate, but believe me when I say—the car was upholstered. I had to use a thick tree branch to open the driver’s door without touching the "upholstery" on the handle. I almost emptied my entire supply of alcohol-based window cleaner just to restore visibility. It then became clear to me why this parking spot had been available so late at night—apparently, the locals knew better than to park there.

At first, I was filled with frustration. My days are incredibly busy, and I wondered how I could possibly drive around in such a car. A smudge or a stain is one thing, but this was a full-on coating.

But then, as I drove into the car wash that afternoon, I suddenly understood everything. There are people who remember to take their car for a wash from time to time, and then there are people like me—who ignore all the hints and reminders until there is no choice but to be forced into it. And that childlike joy I always feel when entering the automatic car wash, this time, it was elevated into a deep sense of appreciation for the lesson I had just learned. For a brief moment, I was even grateful to those "upholstering" pigeons.

I reflected on this incident for a long time. The more I looked at my own life and the lives of those around me, the more I realized how often we fail to move forward—how many times we avoid checking what needs cleaning, and how rarely we enter a "cleaning facility" until we are absolutely forced to. Until someone or something comes along and "upholsters" us into action.

And yet, every single time it has happened to me, I have indeed moved forward. As if against my will, I found myself stepping toward a better place.

So if someone has "upholstered" you, try considering that perhaps it was the only way the Master of the Universe could get you to move.

Pesach is approaching—it’s time to clean, even if we haven’t reached the breaking point yet. We don’t have to wait until we’re completely overwhelmed before asking for help.

Much success and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Just one word – Truth.

Friday, March 14, 2025 - 6:13 AM

Just one word – Truth. Yes, for me, the holiday of Purim is the deepest expression of this value – truth.

On Purim, we drink a lot of wine, and in our circles, quite a bit of good vodka and whiskey as well, because on Purim, a Jew is supposed to drink "until he does not know". But no, not to revel and go wild—absolutely not! He is meant to drink significantly in order to uncover his inner truth, to fulfill the saying "When wine enters, secrets emerge" (the words "wine" and "secret" share the same numerical value in Gematria). Because when a drunk person tells you, "I don't like you," believe him. And even if the next day he apologizes and says, "Sorry, I was just drunk," know that yesterday, he spoke the truth!

The costume also serves the same purpose. When a child dresses up as a police officer, it expresses a hidden but genuine and internal desire—he truly wants to be a police officer. And when I put on a clown's hat and a red pom-pom on my nose, it becomes easier for me to do "silly things" that I truly want to do, but my official "pose" as a rabbi does not allow me to. But with the pom-pom—I can! The truth comes to light.

It is no coincidence that our sages in the Zohar referred to the most serious and truthful day of the year, Yom Kippur, as "Ki-Purim"—which means "like Purim." Because sometimes, one might think that Moishaleh, who is crying under his tallit on Yom Kippur, is not the same Moishaleh who celebrated quite differently just a week ago. But the truth is—it is the same Moishaleh! Only that on Yom Kippur, under his tallit, his inner self emerges. And the "costume" of angels on Yom Kippur—the white garments and fasting—certainly help the inner truth come out.

Not every day is Purim. Not every day do we have the opportunity to touch and allow ourselves to experience our inner truth. It would be a shame to waste it on mere revelry and foolishness—this day is far too precious for that. Purim is a serious day. A serious joy. A serious introspection. But don’t be confused—a serious person does not have to put on a serious face. One can be serious—even with a red pom-pom on the nose.

I wish us all a Purim filled with deep and genuine joy, with good health, true happiness from our children and family, and yes—a little satisfaction from ourselves as well.

Happy Purim and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Can a Story Be Told Without a Moral?

Thursday, March 6, 2025 - 12:51 PM

This week, ten years ago, I found myself—by Divine Providence—on a United Airlines flight from Tel Aviv to Newark. I can’t recall the last time before that when I had been on such a long flight.

In my youth, when I traveled from Israel to the Rebbe, I almost always took connecting flights—both because they were usually cheaper and because, as a curious young man, I found it fascinating to land in another country, hear another language, and then board another plane (I must admit, I still find it fascinating today).

So, when I flew eleven hours straight in Adar 5775, I started getting bored in the middle of the night and decided to wander around the darkened plane.

I reached the galley, where there were hot and cold drinks and some Nature Valley cookies with a kosher certification. As I took a sip of my scorching hot tea, a man, older than me, turned to me and asked, "Are you a Chabadnik?" Without waiting for an answer, he immediately added, "Are you going to the Ohel?"

"Yes, I am Chabad," I answered, "and yes, I am definitely traveling to the Rebbe’s resting place—the Ohel."

"Tell me," he asked again, "Can one visit the Rebbe on Shabbat?"

I explained to him that the Ohel is open 24/7, but if he was asking my opinion, I told him that it’s not appropriate to drive there on Shabbat.

He shushed me and added, "That’s between me and the Rebbe. I visited him once, in 1975, on Simchat Torah with my uncle, and I will never forget the look in his eyes."

I reassured him that I wasn’t getting involved in his choices—just pointing out that Simchat Torah in New York is the second day of Yom Tov for those outside of Israel, so back then, as an Israeli, he was actually permitted to drive.

I found a lemon and added it to my tea, which was far too strong. At that moment, the man in front of me pulled out $200 from his pocket, handed it to me, and said:

"Listen, if you see a Chabad shliach there, give this to him as tzedakah."

I promised him that the money would indeed reach a Chabad shliach—without telling him that I myself was one. But I was curious. "What’s the story behind this donation?"

"Listen," he began, "my son became religious through Chabad in Holon. He is close to Rabbi David Gourarie. Ever since, he searches everywhere for kosher food and a place to be for Shabbat, and sometimes it’s not easy. But luckily, there’s always Chabad.

For example, last year, there was a soccer match between the national team and FC Basel. He simply called the shliach there, and the guy invited him for Shabbat. He stayed for the meals, prayed with him, even brought chocolates for the shliach’s kids, and had an amazing time!"

At that moment, I froze. My mind went blank. Shock. Total disbelief.

"Wait a minute!" I nearly shouted. "Do you know who I am? Do you know my name? Where I live?"

He had no idea.

"Listen," I said, "I am the shliach in Basel. Your son was at my house! His name is Omer, right?"

Now it was his turn to be stunned. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. He placed his hand on his head in total disbelief.

At that moment, my heart filled with gratitude for this tiny pat on the back that G-d had just given me.

Just think—how much did Hashem have to orchestrate behind the scenes? He had to turn the world upside down just so that I would fly from Israel to Newark, meet this man in the United Airlines galley, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, at precisely the right moment, and hear a good word about Chabad of Basel—and even receive a donation!

Most of what we do—all of us, in our own lives—we rarely see the results.

Thousands of people have passed through Chabad of Basel over the years. I have no idea what impact, if any, it had on them. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t do it for the feedback.

You do it because it’s the right thing to do.

This applies to parenting as well. If we raise our children expecting constant feedback, we set ourselves up for disappointment, frustration, and emotional scars—mainly the ones we’ll inflict on our own children.

We give. We educate. We nurture. We know that "It is not upon you to complete the work."

But this time, G-d granted me a kindness. He gave me a glimpse of what one Jew felt after being at my home—how he felt accepted, loved, and welcomed.

This week, for several reasons, I was reminded of this story.

And I thought—it’s a beautiful story.

Enjoy.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski