By Altie Seigel

I see the post on COLlive: a women’s trip to Almaty, Kazakhstan, for Rav Levi Yitzchok’s yartzeit on Chof Av, generously subsidized for single women to Daven for Shidduchim. I think about it for a beat and then put it aside.

My sister sends me the link. For you maybe? She asks. Hm, ok. Maybe it’s a sign.

I call Rivka Goldschmidt and Nechama Shemtov, two of the organizers, to ask for more information. After debating a while, I decide to take the plunge and send payment to the travel agent. How weird, I think. I’m going to Kazakhstan.

As the days pass and the trip comes closer, I think about what this trip means to me. I know about Chof Av, about the exile, Rebbetzin Chana collecting berries for ink. But I don’t really know. I find Rebbetzin Chana’s memoirs on Chabad.org and start reading. I read it hungrily leading up to the trip and then on the flight, page after page. The arrest, Rebbetzin Chana running around using all the influence she could just to locate her husband, advocating for his release, bribing officials to help him get better living conditions. And when all else fails, joining him in exile.

Step by step, I follow their journey alongside them, from Dnipropetrovsk to the remote Kazakh village of Chili with its horrible living conditions, and eventually to this very city, Almaty, where he sadly passed away a few short months after their arrival.

The story is one of heartbreak. Of survival. But it is also our story. I can’t comprehend the depths of suffering that the Rebbe’s parents went through, but each one of us here has something they’re going through, some heartache they are bringing here.

The Rebbe’s parents were absent from their children’s wedding, and thereafter only communicated through telegrams and letters. The Rebbetzin writes about celebrating the Rebbe and Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka’s wedding without them, “Our longing for him was indescribable.”

Shortly before her husband’s 5-year sentence was to be over, they started thinking about where they would go, even as the rumors spread that Russia might not release exiles before the war was over, or at all, and certainly not allow them to live in large cities. The Rebbetzin writes, “In our hometown of Dnepropetrovsk, Hitler had killed all the Jews, and we had no reason to consider returning there. We wanted to improve our situation and to think about the good times that might await us. We imagined moving to a city where we could live among normal people. Perhaps it would be possible to speak to our children by phone, or even to see them, too, by means of a television. But my husband never lived to that point.”

It just makes me so sad to read that.

Now, we are on our way. After an 18-hour journey to this remote part of the world, we are here. We join the throngs of people coming to visit the kever on this special day. Our group of women will have an exclusive hour at the kever. And so we go.

I walk down the path a little apprehensive, a little unsure of what to expect. My Rebbe, after all, is in Queens. I’m not even sure how to address my Pan.

But the words come. After reading about the pain and suffering Rebbetzin Chana and Reb Levik went through, it is hard not to feel something.

I stand in front of the kever and daven, and read all the names people sent to me. Then I take a moment to make my own request, to ask Reb Levik to intercede on my behalf, to ask Hashem to send me my bashert, and I can only hope our relationship will be half as great as the Rebbe’s parents’ devotion to each other was. I rip up my pan. The kever is very narrow, with only a small space on either side that fits about 4 people. After a while, someone shifts, and a space opens up for me to stand next to the kever.

I move into the space. It becomes very quiet. The structure over the grave has an opening to the sky that creates this hushed feeling. The second I move in front of the grave, I start crying. I feel this wave of sadness engulf me, like a part of his spirit, the part that suffered, is still here. It is a sadness born of suffering. A sadness that says, I see your pain, I feel your pain, I’m here with you. It is a heavy burden to carry.

I cry silently, letting the emotions wash over me until I am calm enough to say the tehillim we split. Then I leave to give others space to daven.

I walk down the path out of the cemetery still crying, still feeling the pain and sadness of a life spent in suffering, a life spent in service of others, a life of trying to do Hashem’s will in the face of unimaginable opposition.

And all the time it took to get here, all the lost sleep and preparation disappear. Here I am for a reason. Whether I will see my requests fulfilled immediately or not, there’s a reason I had to come here.

And when it comes time to leave, I don’t want to go. I feel my heart is back at the cemetery, with the Rebbe’s father, telling him- you’re not alone; we’re here with you.

We have a chance to have Rabbi Lew from London speak to our group Monday night. It is beautiful to listen to the stories, both personal and widely known. The Rebbe specifically asked Chassidim who were able to visit his father. I encounter Rabbi Lew again at the airport, as we are preparing to leave. We chat as we walk to the gate, and he tells me that the first time he visited Alma-Ata 40 years ago, they couldn’t locate the grave. There wasn’t the beautiful enclosed structure it has now. And I feel privileged to have joined the many thousands of Chassidim who make the annual pilgrimage on this holiest of days.

Returning to JFK, we complete the journey by visiting the Ohel and reading a Pan Klali. We visit the Rebbe’s kever and Rebbetzin Chana’s. The silence of the Ohel at night is calming, just us and the Rebbe—just us and Rebbetzin Chana. We’re here to say thank you, to give a report.

And when I leave Almaty, I leave knowing one day, soon, I’ll be back to share good news.

Thank you to the generous sponsors who made this trip possible – Mr. Sam Stern and to Mrs. Mica Soffer and other additional sponsors. Thank you to the trip organizers, Rivka Goldschmidt, Nechama Shemtov, Devorah Leah Andrusier. Thank you to everyone who joined and made this trip so special.