An interview with Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef, daughter of Rav Ovadia Yosef ztz"l appeared in the Binah

In the Corridors of Greatness

 A Glimpse Inside the Palace  

Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

When Rabbanit Yehudit Yosef married the youngest son of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, she entered into a unique role, privileged to both serve and observe the beloved Gadol Hador of the Sephardic community.

 

When I was meeting my future husband, Harav Moshe Yosef, shlita, the youngest child of Harav Ovadiah Yosef, zt”l, he told me that if I were to marry him, I must understand that his parents will always come first. I asked him what that meant, and he explained that he would always make sure to help his parents with whatever they might need, and that they were his top priority.

 

My father-in-law was especially close with my husband. Prior to our marriage the Rav gave my husband a new car, but with one condition: My husband must continue accompanying the Rav to the netz minyan each morning. Starting from the week of sheva brachot, the Rav phoned my husband each morning to make sure he was up in time to go with him to the beit haknesset. After Shacharit, my husband would drive the Rav home and remain there to prepare and serve his breakfast After we were married about two years,the doctor instructed the Rav to take a nightly walk for exercise. At 11:15 every night, my husband would go directly from his chavruta to accompany his father on his nightly walk.

Some 20 years ago, the Rav suddenly developed pneumonia. His lungs were full of water and he was in terrible pain. The doctor insisted that he be hospitalized immediately, but the Rav refused, explaining that he was supposed to meet with an important person in the government the following morning, to talk about funding additional classrooms for the Shas Educational Network. That night, the Rav was in agony, but in the morning, when he met with the government official, there was no sign that he was in pain. The moment the official left, however, his suffering was obvious. When we expressed our amazement, my father-in-law replied that he had been in pain throughout the meeting, but if he had shown any signs of being ill, the official would have felt uncomfortable and left, leaving the children without classrooms. And the children were his first priority.

Soon after the government official left, we brought the Rav to the hospital. After the doctors completed their examination, they informed us that medically, there was nothing they could do for him. The Rabbanit was inconsolable; she could not stop crying. Through her tears, she told me that the Rav must continue to live, as he has so many more sefarim to write, and so much more to do to help Am Yisrael. Then she lifted her hands upward and said, “Hashem, if it is decreed that the Rav must die, then please, take me in his place.”

The Rav survived and continued learning, teaching, and writing. The Rabbanit passed away that same year. She had always been the healthy one; shortly before she died, the doctor told her that she had the heart of an eighteen-year-old! On Erev Shavuos, as we were in the kitchen preparing for the Chag, she thanked me for everything that I done for her over the years, and then asked me to please run a quick errand for her. I returned some fifteen minutes later to find her lying on the floor, still grasping her Tehillim. She was perfectly tzanuah, everything was completely covered. She had had a stroke, and passed away two months later.

IN THE RAV'S HOME

At the conclusion of the shivah for Rabbanit Margolit the children decided that every two weeks, another couple would move in to the Rav's apartment to take of his needs. But the Rav had other plans. He asked my husband, his youngest son, Harav Moshe Yosef shlita to ask me for my permission for our family to move into his house permanently. At the time, I was 24, a young married woman with small children. I felt as though I had won the lottery. What a zechut to have this opportunity to serve the gadol hador!

We had such a warm, wonderful relationship. The Rav was always concerned about our welfare. I never had to worry about my children's chinuch; when one of my boys encountered difficulties in learning to read, the Rav arranged for a private tutor to come to the house and learn with him, without even telling me. When that same child brought home excellent grades, the Rav celebrated it like a chag! When my children brought home report cards, they first ran to show their grandfather, and only later to show my husband and me. My father-in-law would read the report cards carefully, always looking first at the marks in derech eretz, and only later at the academic marks. He often told us that derech eretz kadmah l'Torah; it's impossible to attain Torah without derech eretz.  

After each new baby was born to us, the Rav would constantly remind me to rest, and search for ways to help me. Once, when the baby was sleeping in our bedroom, I left my father-in-law eating at the kitchen table and ran downstairs to buy something in the small grocery store almost underneath the apartment. I returned home a few minutes later to an empty kitchen. Through the intercom, I heard the Rav gently cooing to the baby, telling her not to cry.

Whenever there was an infant in the house, the Rav made a point of holding the baby while reciting Birkat Hamazon, explaining that it's a segulah for yirat Shamayim.

Before my twins were born, the Rav told me that I should not worry about how I would take care of them at night. He would take care of one while I would take care of the other.

When one of my children was about two years old, he started waking up at night and walking into the Rav's study. The Rav would allow him stay for a few minutes, and then put him back to bed and continue learning. One night, however, the youngster refused to go back to bed. That night, the Rav went to bed early, together with his grandson. In the morning, we found the two of them sound asleep in Sabba's bed.

The Rav once heard me yelling at my children. He gently told me that divrei chachamim b'nachat nishma'im; people hear words that are spoken quietly. I was so embarrassed; since that day, I try to speak quietly to my children.

My father-in-law was careful to never speak to his children if he was angry. He would wait until he was no longer upset, and only then would he discuss what happened with the child, and give a punishment if necessary.

The Rav was always effusive in expressing his gratitude. Once, after I served him a meal, he told me that although he's so grateful for everything I do for him, he's afraid that someday he'll be so accustomed to it that he'll forget to thank me. But that never happened. He always thanked us for every little thing.

My father-in-law spoke to his talmidim about the importance of gratitude. Around three years ago, on Simchat Torah, the Rav told several Rabbanim, including my husband, that he wants to tell them a story and that the story has an important lesson.

Although I was busy in the kitchen and missed the story, I did hear the lesson. The Rav pointed to the food that was on the table and asked, “Did you ever think about how hard your wife works to prepare all of this delicious food? Please, right after Yom Tov, buy her a piece of jewelry as a token of your gratitude.” 

A week later, the Rav asked me if my husband had bought me jewelry. 

The world knew the Rav as the Gadol Hador, but for us, he was a warm, loving grandfather, who took a personal interest in each of his grandchildren, and in my husband and me, until the last day of his life. The children were in awe of their sabba. As one of them once explained, Sabba learns, and learns, and then learns some more! Torah was his life, nothing else.

The following story exemplifies the Rav's love of Torah: My grandmother passed away just before the Rav turned 80. The Rav traveled to Ramleh to pay a shivah call to my mother. I decided not to tell him about the memorial service that was to take place a month later, so as not to disturb his Torah learning. But on the day that the service was to take place, someone came in to speak with the Rav, and upon leaving said, “B'ezrat Hashem, I'll see you again at the memorial service tonight.”

After the man left, the Rav came into the kitchen. “Yehudit,” he said, “it's normal for a person to live to be 80 years old, but afterwards, every day of life is a miracle. Now that I am 80, and I know that my remaining time on earth is limited, I need to pack in much more learning than I did before. I still have so much more to learn, and so many more sefarim to write. For that reason, I prefer to remain at home to learn, and to dedicate my learning l'iluy nishmat your savta.”

It was only then that I understood something that had perplexed both me and my husband. After my father-in-law had turned eighty, he suddenly seemed younger; although he had previously been learning day and night, now it seemed as though he had somehow doubled his hours of learning!

A RAV FOR ALL OF KLAL YISRAEL

The Rav was available to answer questions every morning and evening – until age 92! Most of the people who came to him were simple, hardworking Jews. They would pour out their troubles, and he would return home with eyes that were red from crying. He felt all of Am Yisrael's pain. If there was a war, or - more recently - with the decrees against the yeshivot, he cried as he recited Tehillim throughout the night. A few years ago, when an entire family was killed in a horrific accident, our home was plunged into mourning. It was as if he had lost a family member.

Because he took such a close, personal interest in so many different types of Jews, I was not surprised by the huge number of people who came to pay their final respects at his funeral. During the Rav's final illness, thousands of people who were not shomer Shabbat took upon themselves to keep one Shabbat as a zechut for the Rav's recovery. Someone told us of two brothers who reconciled after 20 years of not speaking with each other, as a zechut for the Rav. Another person told us that in the discothèque across the street from his apartment, a few days before the Rav passed away, the music came to a sudden stop and the MC announced that the Rav's situation was extremely serious. He requested that everyone join him in reciting Tehillim. Everyone in the discothèque started to cry as they began reciting Tehillim together, begging Hashem to have mercy on the Gadol Hador. There were many more similar stories.

SUNSET

During the last few months of the Rav's life, he was in constant, excruciating pain. Shabbat was especially difficult. With true mesirut nefesh, he would recite Kiddush, and force himself to eat a kezayit of challah before retiring to his room.

But on Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot, the last Shabbat before his final hospitalization, the terrible pain disappeared. That Shabbat we returned to our previous, happy life. The Rav made Kiddush, sang zemirot, told stories, and spoke divrei Torah at the table. Although we understood that the lack of pain was a sign that the Rav's kidneys were failing, it was still a very wonderful Shabbat. At the conclusion of the seudot, he held my three-year-old twins on his lap and encouraged them to respond to the mezuman, and even gave them his traditional loving slap on the cheek! He was in such a great mood!

Shabbat afternoon, the Rav thanked me for all my years of help. He asked mechilah for making me work so hard, and then blessed me.

On Motzoei Shabbat, the Rav blessed my sixteen-year-old son, Avraham. I explained to Avraham that his sabba was saying goodbye, and we both cried. 

We were undecided if the Rav should be hospitalized, and asked the nurse who had been helping us for the last 23 years to come to the house to do a blood test. When she arrived, the Rav thanked her profusely for all her help over the years. Through her tears she responded, “K’vod Harav, I will continue coming here to help you.” She drew some blood for a blood test; the results were not good and she told us that he needed to be hospitalized.

As they wheeled the Rav into the ambulance, he told us that there was nothing more that the doctors could do for him. He was crying; he knew that he would never return home.

Two days later, on Monday, my husband asked the Rav for mechilah. The Rav responded, “You are asking me for mechilah? I am the one who must ask you for mechilah. Throughout the years, you were always there for me. You always did whatever you could to help me.” Then the Rav did something that was very unusual for him: he pulled my husband close to him and kissed his face over and over again.

Within the hour, the Rav's lungs had collapsed and he was given medication to put him into a medically induced coma. A week and a half later, he had sufficiently recovered for the doctors to stop the medication. When the Rav woke up from the coma and saw the medical staff standing around his bed, he somehow found the strength to thank the doctors for everything that they had done for him, and then proceeded to bless them.

But now that he was awake again, he was in agonizing pain. When I came to see him that Motzoei Shabbat, he could not stop crying. Yet, even in his pain, he kept thanking me over and over again. But when he tried to lift up his arms to bless me, he began to cry that the pain was unbearable and begged us to have mercy on him.

Sunday night, the doctors told my husband that they were going to put the Rav into a medically induced coma again, and that this time, he would remain unconscious until his petirah. My husband kissed his father's hand. The Rav was too weak to move. He kissed the air.

Monday, shortly before the petirah, the entire family was called in to recite Kriyat Shema with the Rav. As one, we screamed Shema Yisrael, but then the situation suddenly stabilized! The doctors told us that it could take minutes, hours, or even days. No one wanted to leave, so we all remained and were there for the petirah.  

My daughter's wedding was scheduled to take place a few days later. As we watched the Gadol Hador slowly take leave of this world, I gently told my daughter that her wedding will take place during shivah. She said that it would be impossible for her to get married then; she had grown up with her sabba, and was very close to him. How could she rejoice while the entire family was in mourning? Then she said, “Let's ask Sabba what he thinks.” I sadly pointed to the Rav. She took one look at his unconscious figure, attached to multiple machines, and burst into tears. I think that's when she really grasped what was happening. After the petirah, we asked Harav Wosner, shlita, what to do about the wedding. He told us to postpone it until after the shloshim.

Now that the shivah is over, our entire life has changed. Before, everything revolved around the Rav, and the house was bustling with people. Now that the Rav is gone, I'm alone with my family. The first Shabbat that we were alone, my husband tried to make Kiddush, but instead, he broke down crying and our son-in-law had to make it for us. People say that I should appreciate my privacy, something that we never had before. But I can't. I miss the Rav too much.

***  

At the conclusion of the interview, I packed up my equipment and ran downstairs to catch the taxi that I had ordered. When the driver, who was not wearing a kippah and appeared completely irreligious, realized that I was coming from the Rav's house, he started telling me about the Rav's greatness and told me that he went to the Rav with all his questions. "He was my posek. I used to pray in his synagogue every day. I went to him for everything."

That was the Rav's greatness. To the talmid chacham, he was pure, unadulterated Torah. To the simple, unlearned Jew, he was a father. All looked up to him and appreciated him, because he loved and appreciated every single Jew.

 

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THREE SPECIAL MITZVOT

The Rav often spoke about the importance of women waiting 72 minutes after sunset on Motzoei Shabbat (shittas Rabbeinu Tam) before beginning melachot. Like every other woman, I have lots of work to do after Shabbat, and I like to start as soon as possible. But the Rav told me that I would have a huge zechut if I refrain from performing melachot until 72 minutes after sunset, so that's what I do.

The Rav also held that women should cover their hair with a scarf or hat, rather than with a wig, and that the hair be completely covered. The day after our wedding, my father-in-law was so happy to see that none of my hair was showing, that he hugged my husband and told him how happy he was that I am such a tzanuah!

The Rav was very particular about eating the fourth seudah, on Motzoei Shabbat. Even when he was in excruciating pain, he would force himself to eat a kezayit of challah dipped in hot tea. Following his last Shabbat at home, I prepared a special meat delicacy for the fourth meal. With every mouthful he thanked me, saying "Salamedeiki," which in Arabic means, "May the hands of the one who prepared this be blessed."

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TEXT BOX

The following letter, written in 5734 (1974), was found among the Rav's sefarim. Although it is in the Rav's handwriting, the signatures are his children’s. In this letter, the children sign that they will listen to their parents, help their mother with the housework - especially with the preparations for Pesach - and behave with derech eretz and kavod to both parents, as is commanded by the Torah.

In the second paragraph, the children obligate themselves to go to sleep no later than midnight, and to wake up by 7:30 in the morning.

TEXT BOX

SIDEBAR  My Window Faces Harav Ovadia Yosef's Grave

My back window is almost directly across from Harav Ovadia Yosef’s, zt"l, grave. At any time of the day or night, I can see dozens - sometimes even hundreds - of people praying there. It's a strange feeling – Jews are standing almost below me, praying with an intensity that I can only envy, while I make the beds, fold the laundry, and continue with my normal routine. Yet despite the seeming regularity of my outward motions, my life really has changed. Every once in a while, I glance out my window, and those petty peeves lose their sharpness; for that moment, I remember there a reason for it all.

Although during the Rav's lifetime I was aware of his greatness as a gadol b'Torah and leader of the Sefardic community, it was only after his passing - when I witnessed the variety of people who mourned him as a father - that I began to comprehend his greatness as an ohev Yisrael.

Most of my neighbors are Sefardic. Some are traditional, some charedi, and a few, not yet shomer mitzvot. Yet when the Rav's situation became critical, the same young men with earrings and punk hairdos who congregate in front of my building were now sitting on our front steps and crying – yes, crying! – over their sifrei Tehillim as they begged Hashem to save their Rav.

For my Sefardic neighbors, Rav Ovadia Yosef, or as he is commonly referred to, Maran, was the ultimate religious authority. He was their father, and with his passing, they were orphaned.

Although I was overwhelmed at the sheer enormity of the levayah - close to one million people! - it was the small, intimate scenes that moved me to tears; the group of seemingly irreligious soldiers reciting Tehillim at the grave, the spontaneous minyanim in my parking lot, where an incongruous mixture of talmidei chachamim and "amcha" – the outwardly non-observant vegetable vendor and taxi driver - join each other in prayer.

I called my sister, who is not religious, and explained, "It's as if the Lincoln Memorial has been moved to my front lawn." Only it's not the Lincoln Memorial, it's the kever of a tzaddik. It will take time until I discover the full impact of living in such proximity to one of today's kivrei tzaddikim.

 

 

 

 

Debbie Shapiro lives in Jerusalem with her husband, children, and grandchildren. She works in marketing development and teaches at Levavi Seminary.

 

 

Thirteen Glimpses into Love

This appeared a few years ago in the OU's Shabbat Shalom. Forgot about it... Enjoy.

Here are thirteen glimpses at Israel, glimmers of what I love about living in the only place I will ever feel truly at home-- Israel.

1. As I take my morning walk, I love watching the men rush to shul, their tallis and teffilin held securely under their arm. One morning, I stopped at the corner to let the garbage truck by. That's when I noticed the driver wearing his tallis and tefillin. It reminded me of the famous story about Rabbi Levi Yitchak of Berditchev. He once saw a baal agala, a wagon driver, changing the wagon's wheel while davening, and wearing, of course, his tallis and tefillin. "Oh, how beautiful are the Jewish people!" Rabbi Levi Yitzchak he proclaimed. "Even in the midst of their work, their thoughts are with You!"

2. I love walking through the different neighborhoods. They are each so different –a true ethnic experience. The Bucharian neighborhood is just minutes from my apartment. As I cut through Bucharim to visit my daughter in Batei Varsha, I hear the haunting sound of the Bucharian Jews chanting Mincha in unison. Passing the synagogue complex I see elderly women, some with white embroidered pants peeping out from under their voluminous flower-printed dresses, standing outside, waiting for the opportunity to answer "Amen." Tiny tables, piled with anything from seforim to audio discs to toys to kitchenware, are set up along the side of the street outside the shul, making walking along the narrow, cobblestone street almost impossible.

I continue up the street and rush past the tiny "Aish Tanura" (an Arabic flat bread) bakery, a tiny hole in the wall, just big enough to hold a large, sturdy wooden table and an ancient stone oven. The circular flat breads are baked on the sides of the oven, just as described in the Mishna. The bakery hasn't changed since I arrived in Jerusalem close to 37 years ago. The smell is tantalizing, and I hasten my step to avoid temptation. But the owner stops me. "Rebbetzin," he calls out [here in Jerusalem, almost everyone's a 'Rebbetzin'] "I have a mitzvah for you. Please take challa for me." I make a bracha, separate the challa and throw it into the furnace underneath the oven, and yes, I also buy a half-dozen aishtanuras. How could I resist?

I continue up through the Bucharim shuk (marketplace), a miniature of the famous Macheneh Yehuda shuk, boasting anything from exotic spices, to bakery goods, to tablecloths, to fresh meat, to fish, to vegetables, and anything in between. I step into the spice store to buy Chilba seeds for my pungent Yemenite Chilba salad. The heady smell and combination of colors and textures transports me to the Orient. For less than twenty five cents, I have the makings of a phenomenal side dish for Shabbat lunch.

From the Bucharian shuk, I climb the steep mountain of Yoel Street. Within minutes I am plunged from the Orient to a modern-day shtetel. The sidewalks are so narrow that I end up walking in the middle of the street, sidestepping the cars that (chutzpah!) actually try to drive there. Instead of lilting Sefardi chanting, I hear the most beautiful sound of the world – that of men learning Torah -- coming from the tall arched windows of the nearby yeshiva. From the next building, I hear small children repeating pasukim of Chumash after their teacher, and then reciting the Yiddish teitch, the Yiddish translation. Mah tovu oheleicha Yaakov, Oh! How beautiful are your tents, Jacob!

From Yoel Street, I climb the narrow steps leading to the alleyway behind Meah Shearim Street. I navigate my way along the crowded alley until I arrive at my daughter's house. Her three older children are outside playing jump rope. The minute they see me they stop their game and come running to give me a hug – and that's the most beautiful thing of all!

3. I feel so privileged to live in this beautiful, holy city. I am writing this on erev Yom Kippur. From outside our living room window I hear someone speaking into a loudspeaker. "Tzedaka, tzedaka tatzil m'maves," he says. "Tzedaka saves from death. Give to the family in need…." I hear apartment doors opening and children rushing down the stairwell, their sweaty hands clutching the money that their parents gave them to deliver to the poor family. What a blessing to be able to give, and to have the opportunity to give brought to my own front yard.

4. I love the people of Israel. Even the simple people, despite lacking the outward trapping of religion, are holy (well, actually, aren't all Jews holy?). Rosh Hashana afternoon the upstairs neighbor knocked at our door. Dressed in nothing but a pair of shorts and flip flops, he shoved a candle in my hand and said, "Chag Sameyach. Our candle went out. Can we use your fire to light it?"

5. I love how everything in Israel is so – well – just so Jewish. I love walking to shul to hear Kol Nidrei on Yom Kippur night. The streets are crowded with hundreds – yes, hundreds! – of men wearing white kittels, women in their Yom Tov best, children, babies, teenagers, rushing to shul. In the short four blocks from our apartment to the shul where our family davens, I passed close to a dozen synagogues, some housed in large, impressive buildings, others housed in apartments or even bomb shelters. Each one unique and different, yet, on the deepest level of all, they are one, united in serving the Holy One.

6. And Sukkot, oh, how I love Sukkot! I literally bump into a Sukkah wherever I turn. In addition to building them on any available open porch, people construct them on the sidewalks and in the parking lots. Someone actually built their Sukkah in the middle of the neighborhood playground, right next to the swings. I guess that's one way to take care of unruly children during the meal…

7. I love sitting in my Sukkah on Yom Tov night. From all sides, I hear people reciting Kiddush. Chassidim, yeshivishe, Yemenite, the words are the same, but they each sound so different. That's the beauty of Am Yisrael – a symphony of differences that, when properly synchronized, create a unique oneness that is our strength.

8. Here in Eretz Yisrael, Chanuka has no competitors. The radio plays the traditional Chanuka melodies, and every house sports at least one menorah in its window. No tinsel, no strings of lights (that's saved for the Sukkah. And yes, many Israeli use those decorations in their Sukkah, without ever realizing their source!), just simplicity and purity, without any alien influence. One year someone in the neighborhood made a toy sale a few days before Chanuka, and I went to see if I could find some bargains. A group of very orthodox young women were oooing and ahhing over a little train with a bearded man dressed in a red suit and hat sitting on top, singing "We wish you a merry…" No one had any idea that this was definitely NOT a Jewish toy --- until I enlightened them!

9. Believe it or not, I love erev Pesach in Eretz Yisrael! Everything sparkles with cleanliness. The bottoms of my shoes become wet from the rivers of "sponja water" spilling out from under the front doors and flowing down the sidewalk, into the gutter. Laundry is hanging everywhere and mattresses are balancing on porch railings. I pass an elderly man scrubbing a step ladder, a teenage girl scouring the front door. Amidst all this commotion, little girls are playing jump rope while keeping half an eye on younger siblings so their mother can ready the house for the holiday. The anticipation is tangible. Everyone's waiting for something great to happen!

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10. I love taking a walk after the Seder. Although it's two or, perhaps, three o'clock in the morning, the streets are vibrant with life! I hear the last strains of "Chad Gadya" wafting out from an open window. From another window, I hear the sharp scraping sounds of tables being cleared and dishes being washed. A child is playing with some Lego on the porch while singing (not so quietly!) songs from the Seder. He probably fell asleep right Kiddush, and woke up again when everyone started singing "L'shana haba b'Yerushalayim, "Next year in Jerusalem."

11. Although sitting on crowded buses has never been, and will never be, one of my favorite pastimes, I love how, when someone gets on a crowded bus through the back door, it is common courtesy for the other people on the bus to pass that person's fare up to the driver, and then return the change. The money passes through perhaps a dozen peoples' hand, yet no one would consider pocketing it! Could you imagine trying that on a crowded New York subway?

12. I love how everything in this country is so uniquely Jewish. Recently, the air conditioning technician called to explain why he would be late. "I'm stuck in a haknassat Torah (A Torah inauguration)," he began. "I went into a store to buy something to drink, and when I came out, my truck was surrounded. Right now they're auctioning off the honors, so it looks like I'll be here for a while." I knew he was telling the truth; I could hear the strains of canned "haknassat Torah" music over the phone.

13. Waiting in line in the local health clinic, I started speaking to the woman sitting next to me. She told me that this summer she had taken her eleven year old son, Shlomo, "the type who loves rollerblading and lives for his skateboard" to visit relatives in the United States. She made sure to give Shlomo the time of his life – amusement parks, ice skating, boating, you name it, if it was something an eleven year old kid would go for, they did it!

On the plane back to Israel, Shlomo was a bit pensive. "Boy, mom," he said. "I'm really, really happy that we're going back to Israel."

His mother was a bit surprised. "You didn't like America?" she asked.

"No, no," he replied. "It's just that I'm not frightened in Israel, like I was in the United States."

Now Shlomo's mother was even more confused. "Frightened?" she asked. "Why were you frightened in America?"

"Because I didn't feel Hashem with me, constantly, the way I do in Israel," he replied.

And that story, more than anything else, explains why I love living in Eretz Yisrael. With every step that I take on this holy soil, I am fulfilling a mitzvah. I am privileged to observe Hashem's holy Torah in the holy land that Hashem bestowed to our nation. May we all be able to keep all of Hashem's mitzvoth in Hashem's rebuilt Holy Land, speedily, and in our days. Amen.