A Shabbat of Silence and Leadership in Surfside

by Eli Schochet – chabad.org

It was Friday night, early Shabbat morning—June 26, 2021—less than 48 hours after the tragic collapse of the Champlain Towers in Surfside, Florida. The air was thick with smoke, grief and uncertainty.

That night, I was among a group of Hatzalah members and medical professionals from the Surfside Jewish community who had just completed a long shift at the Family Reunification Center, providing emergency medical care, writing prescriptions for lost medications, and offering emotional support to survivors and displaced families. As Shabbat settled in, we felt ourselves drawn towards Ground Zero. We walked over to recite a chapter of Tehillim.

What we expected to be a chaotic rescue scene was, instead, hauntingly silent. No shouting. No urgency. Just an eerie stillness. A line of firefighters sat slouched on the curb in full gear, looking disoriented and drained. A few responders walked solemnly across the rubble.

A lone water fire rescue truck stood nearby, spraying a steady stream of water over the smoking rubble, not just to cool the site, or to extinguish the fires, but as if to symbolically quench a tragedy still unfolding.

While at Ground Zero, surrounded by the eerie silence, a nurse with us, Sara Raskin, finally gave voice to what we were all thinking. “What’s going on here? Why is nothing being done? We have to do something!” Her words cut through the heavy silence and expressed the gnawing frustration that had taken hold of all of us.

Moments later, an officer from Miami-Dade Fire Rescue approached us unsolicited. She was visibly anxious and emotionally strained, yet open. She shared an unfiltered and deeply emotional account of what she believed was happening at the scene. There was pain in her voice and urgency. It was clear that she, too, felt trapped in the stillness. She wanted to act but felt unable to break through the red tape.

We listened carefully, and then one of us asked, “If there was anything you could change right now, what would it be?”

Her answer was immediate: “Sound the alarm. Get us access. Even if it means we’re doing a bucket brigade. But we can’t sit here doing nothing.”

It is important to note that nothing in this account is meant to cast blame or suggest that a different outcome could have been guaranteed. The responders on the scene—firefighters, law enforcement, and medical personnel—were navigating an unimaginably complex and dangerous situation. Their courage, dedication, and professionalism deserve the highest respect. This story is not an indictment of what was or wasn’t done, but a reflection of what it felt like to be present in that moment—grappling with helplessness, urgency, and the overwhelming desire to help.

We immediately began making phone calls, reaching out to contacts—people we thought might be able to help move things forward. We hit one brick wall after another. No one had answers. In fact, everyone had the same response: there is nothing you can do.

That’s when I thought of my uncle, Rabbi Sholom DovBer Lipskar. He and my aunt, Chani, had started The Shul of Bal Harbour 40 years earlier, building from scratch the area’s massive Jewish community. I knew my uncle and aunt had moved into his office in The Shul to be even more available for their community during this unfolding crisis. “We need to speak to my uncle,” I told the group. “If anyone can give direction at this moment, it’s him.”

It was well into the night by the time we arrived at The Shul and made our way to his office. I knocked gently. My aunt called out, “Who’s there?” “It’s Eli, your nephew.” “What do you need?” “There are serious concerns about what’s happening at Ground Zero. We need to speak to Sholom.”

There was a short pause, then she replied, “Sholom will be out in two minutes.”

We sat down to wait around the table outside his office. A moment later he emerged, dressed in his Shabbat clothing, kapota and all, calm and composed—but alert. He listened as we explained what we had seen. He asked clear, incisive questions. After a few minutes, he stood up and said, “I need to see the site myself.”

He began to prepare, reaching for a raincoat—but I stopped him. “It’s not a walking situation. We have to drive.” He immediately replied, “It’s pikuach nefesh.”

When there is even a chance of saving a life, pikuach nefesh, the laws of Shabbat, so precious and immutable, are cast aside.

We piled into a car and headed down the northbound side of Collins Avenue—closed off due to the collapse. The closer we got, the thicker the smoke in the air. We donned masks and approached the site, only to be stopped by an official telling us we couldn’t be there.

Rabbi Lipskar didn’t argue. He said nothing. But the pain and determination in his face said everything. The man stepped aside.

Rabbi Lipskar walked through the area, taking it in fully, asking questions, thinking aloud. Then the ranking officer arrived. Without hesitation, Rabbi Lipskar walked beside him, pressing him for answers. Respectful, but resolute. He wasn’t there for ceremony—he was there for solutions.

Throughout the interaction, the Hatzalah paramedic who was accompanying our group was Eli Bryski. He had been working closely with families at the reunification center and was present on behalf of Hatzalah. From within our group, he served as the primary guide and point of coordination for Rabbi Lipskar that night, helping to navigate the moment with sensitivity and purpose.

Then the Rabbi turned to me and said, “Eli, I need my phone.” He told me where it was, and I quickly left to retrieve it.

When I returned, he made three calls—each one deliberate, focused. One to the office of the then-Israeli Prime Minister Naftali Bennett. Another to the office of Senator Rick Scott. A third to the office of Florida Governor Ron DeSantis. The order didn’t matter. What mattered was that the right people heard the right words.

He finished his calls without fanfare. We drove him back to The Shul. But he wasn’t done. He stayed in contact with us through Shacharit the next morning. And by then, word had come: the Israeli search and rescue team was being deployed.

We spent the next three Shabbats at Ground Zero, offering medical support to the Israeli team and other responders. On one of those Shabbos mornings, Colonel Golan Vach—the commander of the Israeli rescue unit—shared something that left an impression on us all.

He explained that after 9/11, he had mobilized his team to join the rescue effort in New York. But red tape and political hurdles kept them grounded. They never made it.

After Surfside, it felt like history might repeat itself. Colonel Vach was once again told the odds of being granted access were slim. “It’s one building,” he was told. “In a small town called Surfside.”

By Shabbat morning, he had been all but stood down. And then, his commanding officer delivered a new message: “You and your team are activated. Get going.”

Rabbi Lipskar’s three calls had done their part.

The rest is documented history. The Israeli team arrived in Florida, bringing with them knowledge, experience, spiritual strength, and a coordinated effort that reignited a stalled response. They became the heart of the search operation, and their presence gave hope to families and dignity to victims.

We had witnessed it unfold, how a quiet Friday night conversation in The Shul became a catalyst for global rescue coordination.

At the center of it all was my uncle, Sholom. No title in emergency response. No formal command. Just a kapota, a clear mind, a heart full of responsibility, and an unshakable conviction that he was acting with the strength and mission of his sender, the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory.

This year, on the 5 Iyar, Rabbi Sholom DovBer Lipskar returned his soul to his Maker, and today we mark the shloshim, 30 days from his passing. The wound is still fresh. The absence is still sharp. But so is the clarity of his impact.

That Shabbat night in Surfside wasn’t an isolated moment—it was a reflection of who he was every day. A man who lived for others. Who showed up. Who carried the weight of community, of responsibility, of truth.

On a night when the world stood still, he rose. And even now, he continues to lift us.