I wish to present this personal, powerful testament to the "Ingathering of Exiles" in its most raw and human form.
It is deeply ironic and moving that it took a question from an Iranian student in Alabama to awaken my Zionism. This incident in my life reminds us that sometimes those outside the Jewish world see our connection to the land and each other more clearly than we see ourselves.
In my life story, I wish to relay two very different types of our existence as Jews:
The "Golden Medina" struggle: Facing the KKK as a youth growing up in the "Heart of Dixie" and the pressure to assimilate—the "self-deniers" Rav Meir Simcha wrote about in the Meshech Chochma.
The "Eretz Yisrael" struggle: The physical and social toll of building a nation from the ashes of the Holocaust and the trauma of terror.
By connecting my experience in Alabama to Mordechai’s experience in Auschwitz, I want to show that Jewish survival isn't just about escaping enemies—it’s about choosing to belong to one another in a "Covenant of Fate" (Brit Goral). This is the profound teaching of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who argued that our shared suffering and history bind us together even before we decide on our shared destiny.
Ma'alot—located in the Western Galilee of Israel, some 8 km south of "Hezbollah Land"—is a unique place. When I arrived here in 1976, I had not realized the great pain and sadness that existed here from the experiences of the Yom Kippur War and the "Massacre at Netiv Meir" in 1974. My story—our story—about "Old Ma'alot" is a story of unity. My marriage to Rena Brownstein and my friendship with Mordechai and Hannah Rosen represent the "knitting together" of the Jewish people—the very thing that the Nazis tried to destroy and that the "self-deniers" fail to value.
In a world that is once again becoming increasingly fractured and polarized, my story is a reminder that "the ash did not distinguish between us" is perhaps the most important lesson a Jew can teach today. It is a call to focus on our shared Covenant of Fate. My journey home transitions from the "tossing on the sea of hardships" to the solid ground of a home built on memory and love.
Many of you know me as someone who tied his fate to Ma'alot nearly fifty years ago, but few know what truly brought a young, totally secular "Driving Miss Daisy" Jew from the Deep South of Alabama to leave everything behind and build a home here. I was not even Bar Mitzvahed and knew no Hebrew.
In the aftermath of the Yom Kippur War, I was prompted by an Iranian exchange student I was assisting in English at Auburn University. While watching the news of the war, he asked me directly: "As a Jew, why are you not rushing to fight for your people and country?" Because of his question, I came to "visit" as a volunteer on a kibbutz. There, working in the banana fields, I fell in love with my people and Zionism. I arrived in Ma'alot in March 1976 as a "Single Soldier."
I arrived when the wounds of the 1974 Ma'alot Massacre were still raw. I saw a community that was broken but incredibly strong, and I chose to tie my destiny to yours. I met my wife Rena while on leave from my IDF unit in Lebanon during "Operation Litani" in 1978. Rena (who replaced the late Beronica Zilberstein as the legendary Tipat Chalav nurse) and I were married at the old WIZO center by HaRav Joseph Gabi z"l. Here we built our lives and raised our six children.
As a Jew who grew up facing crass anti-Semitism in Alabama, it pained me to see the Ashkenazi-Sephardic tensions in Ma'alot that peaked during the 1978 elections. To me, coming from a mixed Sephardic and Ashkenazi family, this division was unthinkable.
The story of the late Mordechai Rosen is the reason why we must never divide ourselves. In 1978, after my IDF service, I was helping Mordechai in his workshop. As we sat drinking coffee on a rainy afternoon, Mordechai told me about his arrival at Auschwitz in 1943:
"I was a naive 17-year-old Yeshiva Bucher when my family arrived at Auschwitz. We were over 70 people packed into a cattle car like sardines. As we were forced off the train, a frail Jew in a striped uniform whispered to me: 'If you wish to live, remove your payos and tell them you are a cabinet maker! Do not tell them you are a Yeshiva Bucher!'
At that moment, Josef Mengele flicked his hand to signal 'Left or Right'—life or death. My mother, father, and sister were separated from my little brother and me. I never saw them again. Later, as we stood in the freezing cold, grayish-white flakes of ash began to fall on us like snow. One of the Kapos pointed to the sparks flying from the chimneys and said: 'You see that? That is your loved ones fleeing to heaven.' I bowed my head, cried, and said Kaddish. I vowed that I would survive to honor their memory."
So why am I telling you this today? Because Mordechai survived to tell the story, and I was privileged to hear it. His message was clear: the ash rising from those chimneys did not distinguish between religious or secular, or between Ashkenazi or Sephardic. We were all there together.
We are one people, with a shared destiny forged in fire. Let us remember that every single day when we meet one another here in the streets of Ma'alot, the home of us all.
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