By: Chaya Chazan

Neither my wife nor I would be where we are today without the Rebbe’s shluchim. As second generation “grandchildren” of shlichus, we’re a prime example of how far-reaching the efforts and effects of shluchim can be.

I was born and raised right here in Johannesburg. When I was a toddler, my parents met Rabbi Lipskar, who the Rebbe had very recently sent as the first shliach to South Africa. Over the next few years – my formative years – our family underwent gradual, but dramatic, changes, as my parents learned more and more about Yiddishkeit. They enrolled me in Torah Academy, the Chabad school, for the privilege of a thorough and Torah-true education.

When I graduated elementary, it was, once again, the Rebbe’s shluchim that formed the direction my life would take. Rabbi Levi Wineberg had been sent to open a yeshiva in South Africa, and I was proud to join as a student. The bochurim that spent the year with us were especially influential. It was through them that I became excited to use my brand new tefillin for mivtzoyim.

I’d take my tefillin to the mall, which was centrally located in the Jewish area, so between vendors, store owners, and shoppers, there was always a steady stream of people willing to put on tefillin. There was also a public school next door with many Jewish students that I’d help, as well. Over time, I became friends with my “regulars” and even set up regular chavrusa sessions with them. One year, I and a friend from my mivtzoyim route arranged a public menorah lighting.

Even at that young age, I’d become comfortable with many of the shlichus basics. There was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to keep at it for the rest of my life.

I continued my education in a yeshiva in Kfar Chabad, Israel. As I neared completion of my final year there, I began to hear disturbing reports about my alma mater, the yeshiva gedola in South Africa. It was apparently teetering on the verge of collapse. My mashpia, the famous chassid, Reb Mendel Futerfas, was extremely troubled by these reports. It pained him to hear an institution the Rebbe had been so instrumental in creating would soon be no longer. He urged me and other South African bochurim to return home and do all we can to preserve the yeshiva.

I followed Reb Mendel’s advice and returned to Johannesburg as a bochur shliach. I remembered how much the bochur shluchim had impacted me, and fully understood the gravity of the responsibility. Baruch Hashem, although the yeshiva has gone through many changes since, it flourishes today.

When I was introduced to my wife, I found we shared many commonalities. Her parents had also become friendly with the shluchim in her hometown in S Paul, Minnesota, which had changed the trajectory of her life. She became one of the first students of the Chabad cheder in Minnesota, and continued attending Chabad schools in Israel and Crown Heights.

An effervescent, compassionate “people person,” my wife was ready for any type of shlichus; she’d never pictured herself in any specific place, or even which type of shlichus she’d rather do. In my mind, there was only one choice: opening a Chabad house of our own in South Africa, the one place my wife never expected to live. I knew how powerful it was for native shluchim to effortlessly relate to the locals and who understood the nuances of the culture entirely. I nervously explained this all to her, although I feared I was asking too much. But my wife just smiled serenely and answered, “You’re right. Let’s do it.” Without hesitation, she flew halfway around the world, which, in those early days of cellular technology, left her virtually alienated from all her family and friends. Calls to the U.S. were so expensive, she could only call once a month. The simplicity and poise with which she handled this drastic move left me in awe and still confounds our children to this day.
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At first, my role was primarily in the yeshiva, serving as mashgiach. While I was happy to fill any role the community needed, I never forgot my vision of establishing our very own Chabad center. A short while later, we joined the central Chabad house, focusing on college campuses and young adults. We enjoyed it immensely, giving shiurim, making holiday parties and events, and hosting students in our small apartment. And yet, I still had my eye set on our own little corner of Johannesburg.

I met Steven at the central Chabad house. He was a successful property developer from a small suburb of Johannesburg called Strathavon. I knew the area well, as I had a cousin from there I’d visited frequently as a child. I remembered it as a beautiful, quiet neighborhood, and was excited about its potential. Steven was too, and promised to help us find the perfect property for a Chabad house.

It was a gradual process, since we were still so busy with our college students and other activities. But finally, my lifelong dream was being realized.

To our delight, we already knew a number of people in Strathavon – some college students we’d met on campus, and even some people from my mivtzoyim route back in my yeshiva days! Everything was falling into place.

South African Jews, even ones with little affinity for Yiddishkeit, are traditional, and keep certain beloved customs. Going to shul on Friday night is considered a basic for many South Africans, so we knew that would be our first priority.

We looked at every property as it became available, but they were all too pricey for our modest means. Finally, there seemed to be one house we could realistically afford, centrally located, and spacious enough for our needs. Although our other inquiries had been perfunctory, we’d already started picturing ourselves living in this property!

I wrote a letter to the Rebbe, asking for guidance and advice, and placed it in a volume of Igros Kodesh. When I opened a page at random, I read a letter in which the Rebbe advised someone to consult with a real estate agent before purchasing a property, to ensure it was a good deal relative to the market.

I called Steven and excitedly shared my find with him. I was discouraged by his lackluster response.

“I see what you mean,” he said, looking through the listing photos. “But in my opinion, the house is overpriced for the area. I think you can do better.”

I remembered the Rebbe’s letter and swallowed my disappointment.

Over the next few months, I’d drive through the area as often as I could, on the lookout for any “for sale” signs. We went to any open houses we could find, but nothing seemed suitable.

A while later, Steven called me over after a shiur.

“A property a few doors down from me just went on the market,” he told me in a low, urgent tone. “It’s a corner house, and it’s centrally located. I think you should check it out.”

The next day, I drove past the property to check it out. Steven was right. It looked perfect, but it was considerably larger than the previous house we’d considered. If that one had been out of our price range, how would we afford this one? I didn’t want to get my hopes up for nothing, so I just drove away and focused on other things.

“Did you see the place? What did you think?” Steven asked me a couple of days later. I told him my reasons for passing it up, but he urged me to reconsider.

I halfheartedly returned for a tour. My spirits sank even lower as the agent walked me through the property. The proportions were off, there was a dank smell that warned me of major mold issues throughout, and the heavy security bars on the window made it feel cramped and stifling. But as we continued the tour, I began to see the potential.

“What’s the asking price…?” I asked the agent.

“Actually, the owners are in a hurry to sell, so it’s going up for auction this week,” he told us.

Unbelievably, although it was a decently sized property in an high-demand area, there were only three other interested parties at the auction. There was no minimum bid, and our offer, which was far below the value of the actual property, was the highest.

“Don’t get too excited,” the auctioneer warned us. “I highly doubt the owner will accept this offer. We’ll be in touch.”

I wrote another letter to the Rebbe, placing it, once again, in a random volume of Igros Kodesh. “In regards to your inquiry about expanding your Chabad house,” the letter read, “may it be with much hatzlacha and bracha.”

“We got the property!” I told my wife.

“The auction house called…?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted. “But just look at this letter!”

A few days later, when the auctioneer did call, even he sounded surprised, as he told us our offer had been accepted.

We moved in a short while later, and after we fixed it up, it became the perfect place for our new shlichus – the Chabad house I’d always dreamed of.
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“Do you have two spots available at your Pesach seder?” the email read. “We’re two Israelis in Johannesburg now, and we don’t have a place to stay.”

I immediately responded, welcoming them to stay with us.

When they arrived, early on erev Pesach, my wife stared at them with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Their hitchhiker lifestyle was clear from their clothes and faces, caked with mud and dirt, their disheveled hair, their sturdy backpacks, and the “potjie” they carried – a three pronged pot, for cooking on the go.

“Please, come in,” my wife invited them. “I’ll show you where you can wash up!”

A short while later, freshly showered and feeling refreshed, the two headed to the kitchen and offered their help. Of course, there was no shortage of work to be done. For the next few hours, they peeled potatoes, chopped onions, and swept the floors while chatting familiarly. They played with our three young children, who loved the extra attention.

I was busy running last minute errands, burning the chometz, and meeting to sell the community’s chometz, so I barely had time to greet them when I finally came home. I noticed their pot, and offered to put it away with our own chometz utensils.

That night, they joined the seder, watching each step with open-eyed curiosity. They admitted they’d never experienced a seder before, as the kibbutz on which they’d grown up was virulently anti-religious. They even shamefully confessed that, as kids, they’d once put a pig’s head on the doorstep of the shul of the moshav next door.

As the seder progressed, we learned that Omer* and Matan* were a few weeks into a year-long hitchhiking trek across all of Africa. They’d both taken a year off and pledged to complete the quest together, walking the length of the continent from tip to tip.

The next morning, Omer and Matan shouldered their backpacks and thanked us for a wonderful seder.

“Our next stop is Zimbabwe,” they told us. “We have to leave now if we’re going to stay on schedule.”

We tried convincing them to stay for at least one more day, but they politely refused. “As soon as we can get that pot back, we’re on our way,” they answered, regretfully.

“Your… pot?” I repeated. “Uh – I don’t know how to tell you this. I can’t get it. It’s locked away with the chometz. I can’t open it until after Pesach.”

They thought I was joking at first, and got annoyed when I tried to explain the laws prohibiting me from opening the chometz closet.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” I told them. “I can’t prevent you from traveling on the holiday or eating whatever you want. But the pot is in my house, in my closet, and I will not break the laws of Pesach.”

Omer and Matan held a hurried, whispered conference before turning back to us. “Fine. We’ll stay until after chag.”

They enjoyed the rest of the week with us, although they were off the second Yom Tov was over and they retrieved their pot.

Fifteen years later, I got a call. “Shalom Rabbi! It’s Omer! Remember me? The hitchhiker, with the pot?”

“How could I forget?” I laughed. “Long time, no speak!”

“I know! I was just calling to thank you for changing my life. After Matan and I left your house, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything we’d talked about over Pesach. We weren’t even halfway to Zimbabwe, when I stopped and told Matan that instead of hiking through Africa, I wanted to spend the remainder of my year in Israel, learning about Judaism.

“Matan was furious with me. He accused me of abandoning him in the middle of Africa and reneging on the pact we’d made. We split up – Matan continuing the hike through Africa, and me returning home and enrolling in a yeshiva for baalei teshuva.

“A month later, Matan walked through the door of my yeshiva! He told me that hiking across a continent alone simply wasn’t appealing. It was too dangerous. He’d decided to see for himself why Torah was so compelling. He joined me in yeshiva, and we spent the remainder of the year learning together.

“Today, both Matan and I have beautiful, Torah-true families in Yerushalayim. And it’s all thanks to you and that pot!”

*Names changed to protect privacy

Rabbi Ari and Naomi Shishler, Chabad of Strathavon, Johannesburg, South Africa

Coming Home: Chabad of Strathavon Part II

By: Chaya Chazan

While Friday night services are well-attended in every South African shul across all denominations, it can be more difficult to pull a minyan together for Shabbos day.

Steven*, the real estate developer that helped us find property, had a son, Simcha, who’d recently had his bar mitzvah. He was a precious potential minyan member I couldn’t ignore. Every Shabbos morning, I pounded on their gate until Simcha, usually bleary-eyed, stumbled downstairs. He had two Saturday passions: sleeping, and soccer, and I disturbed them both.

Week after week, I dragged him to minyan, despite his protests. Sometimes I wondered if I was pushing him too far; if I was teaching him to resent Judaism. But protests dwindled over time, and the grumbling was only vaguely discernible. Still, I was pleasantly surprised when Simcha told me he wanted to attend a baal teshuva yeshiva in Israel.

Now, Simcha is a proud, shul-going member of his community. He leads a Torah-true life, and dedicates much of his time to mivtzoyim.

“I know how powerful persistence can be,” he tells me with a smile, when I ask him how it’s going. “You taught me never to take ‘no’ for an answer!”
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After more than a decade, our community – and family – grew so much, the house was no longer big enough. Once again, we began house hunting, although we couldn’t hope for a miracle like the one we’d received before.

One day, I noticed the property directly across the street from us was up for sale. It was almost double the size of our property, but, after a quick glance, I knew it wouldn’t work. A significant portion of the land was covered with fruit trees, and the halachic ramifications of trying to build a Chabad house there without uprooting them would just be too challenging.

The property was taken by a developer who wanted to build townhouses just like those on all the surrounding properties. He got to work immediately, and we watched as bulldozers decimated everything on the plot – including the trees. We expected construction to start immediately, but the plot remained empty for a long time. I found out the owner was having trouble getting zoning for his townhouses – even though the area was saturated with similar developments.

When I saw the developer had given up and moved onto his next project, I offered to take the property off his hands.

Hashgacha pratis made everything turn out better than I could have imagined. The fruit trees that would have been so problematic for me were cleared away. Had the house remained, we would’ve tried to renovate it – perhaps expand – but now that there was a clear plot of land, we had to build from scratch, and we ended up with a spacious center perfectly catered to our needs.

It was clearly Yad Hashem leading to every brick of the Chabad of Strathavon Jewish Life Centre.
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Charlie* was a Peace Corps volunteer in Lesotho, a country entirely surrounded by South Africa. Pesach was approaching, and Charlie knew he had to do something to mark the holiday. He emailed us, and we invited him to our communal seder. In the end, Charlie spent the entire Yom Tov with us. He was a bright, kind young man who was easy to talk to. He immediately hit it off with my brother-in-law, who was visiting from overseas.

A couple of years later, my brother-in-law enrolled in a yeshiva summer program in Morristown. The yeshiva had two divisions – Tomchei Temimim, which catered to Chabad bochurim, and Tiferes Bachurim, a baal teshuva yeshiva. Although the two divisions are usually separate, for the summer program, they shared a dorm.

When my brother-in-law walked into his room, he was shocked to see that Charlie was his roommate! They hadn’t seen each other since that Pesach at our house, but they quickly picked up their friendship right where they’d left off.

Charlie had visited us a few times while he was on his mission in Lesotho. He never even told us he was interested in learning more and attending yeshiva!
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I’ve heard people joke “you can leave Lubavitch, but the Lubavitch doesn’t leave you.” There’s a lot of truth to that statement. I’ve had a Lubavitcher who forged his own path in life approach my tefillin stand to put on tefillin. He then searched for others who hadn’t put on tefillin yet and brought them to my table as well!

Although Rochel* had chosen a different life than the one in which her parents raised her, she still felt an affinity for Yiddishkeit. She often attended my shiurim, and, one time, she introduced me to her new boyfriend, Alex*. Alex knew he was Jewish, but was unfamiliar with even the most basic tenets of Judaism. In South Africa, where even assimilated Jews retain a number of traditions, this was very unusual.

Chana eventually left South Africa and continued on her personal journey, but Alex stayed. He’d never learned anything about Judaism before, and he simply couldn’t get enough. One shiur each week wasn’t enough for him, and he asked for a chavrusa session as well. Deeply intelligent and analytical, his insightful questions delighted and challenged me, and I gained from our learning sessions as much as he did.

Alex’s commitment to Yiddishkeit grew with his insatiable quest for knowledge, and he was soon keeping Shabbos, kashrus, tefillin, and more.

While we were planning our new Chabad house, Alex volunteered his help. As a structural engineer, his suggestions were invaluable.

Alex soon met a wonderful woman, and they began building a home built on the foundations of Torah and mitzvos.
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As a bochur, one of my regular mivtzoyim stops was a shop owned by two sweet ladies, who, to me, seemed elderly, but were probably in their 40’s. Like most South African Jews, they were traditional, and lit Shabbos candles every week, so, instead of giving them candles, I’d bring them a newsletter with short Torah thoughts on the parshah, stories, and other inspiring tidbits.

After some time, I met Sammy*, one of their sons. We began to learn together, and soon became friends, and when he got married, our wives became friends, too. Sammy and his wife became more committed to their Yiddishkeit and raised their family with Torah-true values.

At Sammy’s wedding, I mentioned my wife and I were about to move to Strathavon to open a Chabad house.

“No way!” Sammy exclaimed. “That’s brilliant! My brother, Edward*, lives there! He’s totally disinterested in Judaism, but I’m sure you’ll work your magic! You’ve got to get him to attend your shul!”

As it turned out, Edward lived just a block away from our new home, and I made sure to visit him early on to introduce myself. Sammy wasn’t kidding. Edward was polite, but not interested in anything to do with Judaism. I tried convincing him to come to shul, but he wouldn’t budge.

A few years later, Edward moved to a nearby neighborhood – directly across the street from a large shul. He didn’t become a member there, either – but in an ironic stroke of Hashgacha pratis, that’s when Edward decided to start attending our shul.

Once he braved the threshold, the hardest part was overcome. He started coming regularly, and soon, I knew I could count on him to never miss a minyan. He has a regular chavrusa every morning, and the impact spread to his entire family. Two of his children joined him on his journey and also deepened their commitment to Yiddishkeit, taking on observance of the mitzvos.
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Bradley* was learning about Shabbos and, week by week, observed more and more. He loved coming to shul and enjoyed the family time and delicious Shabbos foods. There was only one struggle he had difficulty confronting: Bradley was an avid scuba diver and had a big trip to the coast planned for the weekend.

“Don’t do it, Bradley!” my wife begged. “Scuba diving on Shabbos isn’t safe for a Jew! As your Rebbetzin, I’m telling you: please don’t go!”

Bradley pooh poohed her fears, promising he’d make up his Shabbos observance the next week.

“There’s a whole group coming, and we’ve invested so much time and effort into planning this,” he explained, apologetically. “Don’t worry; I’m an experienced diver – I’ll make sure to stay safe.”

My wife shook her head and reiterated that he simply couldn’t scuba dive on Shabbos.

Ignoring her warnings, Bradley set off on his trip that Shabbos, excited to dive into the cool waters. It started off like the hundreds of other dives he’d done – until his eardrum burst, and the trip was abruptly cut short.

“Don’t mess with the Rebbetzin!” Bradley would jokingly warn community members. “You do so at your own peril!”

And so, the legend was born.

A few months later, we hosted an El Al pilot for the first seder. He hadn’t grown up religious, but had warm feelings for Yiddishkeit, and enthusiastically joined the joyous singing of Dayenu. During Shulchan Orech, over a hot bowl of chicken soup, he told us he was scheduled to fly back to Israel the next night.

My wife was distressed to hear about this flagrant violation of Yom Tov, and spoke up.

“You cannot fly tomorrow!” she told him. “Even if it’s no longer yom tov for Israelis, most of the people on your plane won’t be Israelis!”

The pilot spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s company policy,” he said, apologetically. “I just go where and when they tell me.”

My wife shook her head, disappointed.

The next night, as we were about to begin the second seder, the pilot walked in.

“Can I join?” he asked.

“Betach!” I answered. “But weren’t you supposed to be leaving tonight?”

“There were some mechanical issues, so the flight was canceled. I guess you can’t mess with the Rebbetzin,” the pilot laughed. And so, the legend grew.
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Mark* was a busy man who ran a successful business. He loved the idea of mitzvoyim and decided to institute it in his office. He kept a pair of tefillin stashed in his drawer, and whenever he had a meeting with another Jew, he’d insist they put on tefillin before starting the meeting.

One day, a client came in for a meeting, and, as usual, Mark asked him to put on tefillin.

“I would, but I’m a lefty,” the client offered as an excuse.

Mark smiled. “No problem! I have a left-handed set here, as well!”

*Names changed to protect privacy