Finding A Jew Where One Was Not Supposed To Be

by Udi Hershler

The following was posted by Udi Hershler in Hebrew to social media. His words have been translated to English for the use on CrownHeights.info.

I am writing the following story with real tears. It’s hard for me to even put into words the storm of emotions I am experiencing in these hours, after learning about the severe injury of my dear, beloved, and deeply respected friend, Major Rabbi Liraz Zvi Halevi, son of Sarah Yehudit. Just three days ago—on the past Sabbath—I had the privilege of spending hours in his company at the Chabad synagogue, Beit Menachem, here in the Rehavia neighborhood (a place we’ve shared as a community and a home for over a decade). I listened to him recount, firsthand, the incredible experiences he had during the days of Rosh Hashanah 5786, which had just occurred a few days prior.

To be honest, I write and erase, write and erase. I struggle to comprehend how to even begin to convey this story to you, a story that, to me, perfectly reflects who Liraz is—a man I’ve regarded for years as the closest thing to an angel in human form. There is no one like him in his boundless dedication and willingness to help others. A man whose hands have built an enormous enterprise of aid and kindness, spreading Jewish light and influence among thousands of young people here in the heart of Jerusalem. With his charismatic and towering personality, he manages to draw so many young men and women, seekers of Torah and knowledge, inspiring them to discover and embrace their Jewish identity and the meaning of their existence in this sacred land.

If there’s one thing that defines Liraz, it’s the very thing he is fighting for at this moment—his health and well-being: his total commitment to his people and homeland. He does everything—absolutely everything—to ensure that we live full and meaningful lives here, both in the physical, tangible sense and in the deeper, spiritual sense. A man entirely devoted. Entirely consecrated to the cause of the Jewish people.

So, as I mentioned, I heard this story from him on the past Sabbath, and it moved me so deeply that I practically begged him to write it down. He responded by saying that his role is to tell the story and share with us the wonders he experiences deep within his military service, and my role, as someone perhaps gifted with a writer’s pen, is to put it into words and share it with the world. Naturally, I agreed immediately, but unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to do so since that Sabbath. And now, I am doing so with tears, dedicating these lines to his complete recovery. May the world know what an extraordinary man Rabbi Liraz Zvi, son of Sarah Yehudit, is. Who is this man lying now, sedated and on a ventilator, somewhere in an intensive care unit, fighting for his full recovery?

So, here’s the story as it happened:

It was the first evening of Rosh Hashanah. In principle, the company in which Liraz serves (stationed somewhere in southern Syria, forming part of the security buffer protecting the Golan Heights communities and, essentially, all of northern Israel) was granted a two-day leave to celebrate the holiday with their families. But then, in the midst of the first evening of the holiday, the brigade commander decided—for reasons known only to him—that this was an unacceptable situation and ordered the entire brigade to return to their units and posts. Fortunately for Liraz, he had chosen to celebrate the holiday with his wife’s family in Rosh Pina (a mere half-hour drive from his military post). And so, in the middle of the festive holiday meal, Liraz left the table and made his way back to the post—to do what he does so well: stand and defend our nation’s borders with strength and courage.

But a man like Liraz wouldn’t let such a situation—far from convenient, to say the least—pass without seizing the opportunity to spread Judaism and the holiday’s mitzvot among as many soldiers as possible across the various posts along the northern border, in southern Syria and the Golan Heights. By some means, he managed to convince the deputy brigade commander, a Druze officer, to let him join him in his jeep as they traveled for hours on the first day of the holiday, visiting the posts. For brevity’s sake, I won’t detail all the events and their significance, but I’ll note that this was yet another of Liraz’s countless creative solutions and brilliant maneuvers. All to maximize, to the fullest, his service for the sake of the Jewish people dwelling in Zion. And that’s enough said.

Of course, one of the missions Liraz took upon himself during this security assignment was to go from post to post, and no less importantly, from soldier to soldier (who knows how many soldiers he reached across the entire sector), to enable them to fulfill the mitzvah of hearing the shofar, the quintessential mitzvah of Rosh Hashanah. The Druze deputy commander, already well-acquainted with the “madman” he was dealing with (Liraz described their deep friendship and bond over the years), not only didn’t object but even agreed to wait at each post until Liraz had finished blowing the shofar for the last soldier, even those tucked away in some tent at the edge of the post.

But then they arrived at a particular post where the deputy commander knew in advance there wasn’t a single Jewish soldier. This post was primarily staffed by “Bnei Yeshivot” (yeshiva students) as a group, but for Rosh Hashanah, a group of Druze reservists had agreed to take their place entirely, allowing the religious Jewish soldiers to celebrate the holiday with their families. This was yet another testament to the camaraderie, solidarity, and shared sense of destiny between Jewish and Druze soldiers in the Israel Defense Forces.

Upon arriving at this post, the deputy commander made it clear to Liraz that there was no need for him to get out of the jeep. He could wait a few minutes while the commander conducted the security check. “There’s nothing for you to do here,” he told him. “Everyone here is Druze, so you won’t find any clients for your shofar blowing.” And indeed, Liraz agreed to wait in the jeep until the commander returned.

But only a few minutes passed when, to his surprise, he saw a soldier walk by—dressed in sweatpants, no less. It was immediately clear that this soldier was not Druze in any way. His distinctly Ashkenazi appearance spoke for itself. Liraz’s eyes lit up. He immediately approached the soldier, but before he could even open his mouth, the soldier exclaimed, “Oh no, you guys made it all the way here?!” It’s hard to overstate how surprising this reaction was. “I’ve encountered plenty of reluctance to participate in religious activities,” Liraz told us, “but this? This was completely unexpected.”

“Let me tell you the truth,” the soldier began. “I may not look like it, but I wasn’t born looking like this. Far from it. I was born and raised in the Satmar Hasidic community, perhaps the most extreme part of the ultra-Orthodox world. But at some point in my early twenties, I decided to leave that society and go as far away as possible. To adopt a lifestyle with not even a hint of Judaism. Even now, during my reserve duty, I try to stay as far as possible from anything religious. That’s exactly why, when I realized I’d have to serve during Rosh Hashanah, I did everything I could to be stationed where I’d have the least chance of encountering any religious rituals during the holiday. And indeed, my request was granted. They found this post for me, knowing it would be entirely staffed by Druze soldiers, with no religious activity whatsoever.

”But then came an even more surprising confession, breaking yet another record in this surreal situation: “I was so happy to come here,” the soldier continued, “for these two days of the holiday, surrounded by soldiers whose one thing in common is that they’re not Jewish in any way. So I could relax, knowing I wouldn’t encounter even a trace of religiosity during the holiday. I could rest and pass the time in peace and quiet. Hallelujah. But then, out of nowhere, you show up! How did you even get here?! You’re not supposed to be here, and certainly not approaching me with a shofar in hand. Exactly what I feared has come upon me.”

No need to elaborate on how utterly shocked our dear Liraz was. He had met all sorts of people, including many who were once religious—especially ultra-Orthodox—and had since distanced themselves as far as east is from west. But this? This was a first! Naturally, with his characteristic grace and incredible generosity of heart, he tried to tell the soldier that it wasn’t such a bad idea to hear the shofar after all. It wasn’t a huge effort or a particularly challenging task—just listening to some bearded guy blow a few blasts on a shofar. If it doesn’t help, it certainly won’t hurt.

But then, just when he thought he’d seen it all, came the truly surprising response: “Rabbi,” the soldier said, “look, now that you’re here and it seems like this is really closing in on me from all sides, I want to fulfill the mitzvah in the most ideal way possible! Let me go to my room, change out of these sweatpants into my military uniform, collect myself, and come back to perform the mitzvah properly.” And that wasn’t all. “I’d also like, if it’s okay with you, to recite the blessing for hearing the shofar myself, instead of you doing it.

”You can imagine the rest. No one understands a moment like this better than our Liraz. If there’s one word that defines him, it’s shlichut—mission. Mission in every fiber of his being. Liraz is the ultimate emissary, as if the great Rebbe of Lubavitch—the Rebbe of the entire Jewish people—had him in mind when he established the concept of shlichut. That’s how I’ve seen him for years: a man whose every action and way of life screams one thing—mission.

So, in the spirit of shlichut, our eternal emissary Liraz immediately grasped what was happening. All the chaos of this Rosh Hashanah, all his travels and endeavors, converged in this pivotal moment, standing before this holy soldier on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. In one swift motion, he ignited in him the spark of passion and connection to the living God. Suddenly, as he stood before him, watching him close his eyes with devotion and recite with profound intention, in the most authentic, rooted Hasidic pronunciation imaginable: “Baruch Ata Hashem Elokeinu Melech Ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu lishmoa kol shofar”—Liraz understood what this Rosh Hashanah was all about. What a single awakening looks like, one that could tip the scales of the entire world to merit.

And so, I sat last Sabbath, eagerly absorbing this story (and many others, anecdotes, Torah insights, and Hasidic teachings) from Liraz’s mouth. I’ll never forget how I looked at him in awe, thinking to myself what a privilege it is to be a close friend of such a man. How much I love him with all my heart—love, admire, and above all, revere. What spiritual greatness and stature. Who, if not he, is worthy of experiencing and sharing with us such a primal taste of wondrous stories that echo the tales of the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples? For a moment, I almost rushed to hug him tightly, as if to hold him here with us. We truly need him in our mundane, gray reality. Where else are there people like this man? A wonder in human form, sitting among us, sharing stories that we last encountered in 18th-century Hasidic tales.

I also remember thinking how fortunate it was that, in just a few days, this reserve duty would be over. Liraz would be back in a safe place, returning to the embrace of his family—his amazing wife, Anat, may she live, and their five children.

And indeed, that’s how it was supposed to be. Today is Tuesday, and Liraz was supposed to have completed his long—oh, so long—months of reserve duty and put this chapter behind him (at least for now). But this morning, in a single moment, disaster struck. None of us know the full extent—or the calculations of heaven—but the harsh reality is here and now, with us. Liraz lies sedated and on a ventilator, with doctors fighting to ensure he emerges from his severe injury with minimal harm to his body and soul.

There’s no need to elaborate, but our Liraz, this man who is more a beacon of light than mere flesh and blood, needs our support and prayers now. Our hearts are torn, and the tears flow freely. All we have in this moment is to lift up this man, to dedicate to him the utmost love and attention. No one is more worthy of our prayers and supplications, of every good deed and resolution, of every improvement and intention. Perhaps, in some small way, to enable him to continue his infinite mission, even as he lies in that hospital in his somber state, in that less-than-pleasant ward.

May this story be for his merit and his swift and complete recovery, in all his 248 limbs and 365 sinews, for Rabbi Liraz Zvi Halevi, son of Sarah Yehudit.

“El na, refa na lo. El na, refa na lo. El na, refa na lo!” (Please, God, heal him.)