Dear Matzav Inbox,

It’s that time of year again. Matzav readers, you know what I’m talking about.

The doors swing open, and suddenly—almost overnight—the quiet, orderly rhythm of our neighborhoods is replaced by a familiar and unmistakable presence: the bochurim are back.

Yes, those same acne-faced, growth-spurted, slightly sleep-deprived teenagers who disappeared months ago into the holy confines of their yeshivos have returned, hats slightly askew, suit jackets that may or may not still fit, and an uncanny ability to travel in packs of no fewer than six at a time.

Our shuls are suddenly fuller. Much fuller. The aisles at the local grocery store now require strategic navigation. The pizza shops are…well, let’s just say they’re doing fine. And the noise level? Baruch Hashem, it’s alive and well.

And so begins the annual murmuring.

“They’re everywhere.”
“They’re loud.”
“They take over the place.”
“Why are they standing in the middle of the aisle like that?”

To which I would like to respond, with all due respect: What exactly were we expecting?

These are our bochurim. Our sons. Our future talmidei chachomim, our future baalei batim, our future leaders. They have spent months immersed in Torah, pushing themselves, growing, struggling, and yes, occasionally surviving on questionable dormitory schedules.

And now they’re home.

So yes, they walk into shul like they own the place, because, in a sense, they do. They fill the seats, they crowd the shtenders, they bring a certain electricity that you simply cannot manufacture. A weekday minyan that was once a quiet affair suddenly feels like a small yeshiva.

That’s not a nuisance. That’s a brachah.

Yes, they linger in stores, debating life’s most pressing issues, like whether to get pizza or sushi, and whether they should get a Borsalino or Bollini. They stand around, they laugh too loudly, they block the aisle. It’s true.

But let’s pause for a moment and consider the alternative.

Empty shuls. Silent streets. A generation that has nothing better to do than scroll endlessly or drift aimlessly.

Instead, we have bochurim who still wear their hats, who still come to daven, who still gather with friends in ways that are wholesome, spirited, and deeply rooted in who they are.

So perhaps instead of rolling our eyes, we can smile a little.

Instead of seeing a nuisance, we can see a living, breathing yeshiva that has spilled out into our neighborhoods.

Instead of complaining about the noise, we can appreciate that it is the sound of Torah’s future.

Yes, they may be a little messy. A little loud. A little in the way.

But they are ours.

And frankly, if our biggest problem is that our shuls are too full and our stores are too crowded with bochurim during bein hazemanim, then I’d say we’re doing just fine.

Sincerely,
A grateful (and slightly displaced in the grocery aisle) neighbor

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