Lecha Dodi {Insp}

"Lecha Dodi"

On his way out from shul in Jerusalem , Dan approached
a young man in Dungarees, backpack, dark skin, curly
black hair -- looked Sephardi, maybe Moroccan.

"Good Shabbos. My name is Dan Eisenblatt. Would you
like to eat at my house tonight?"

The young man's face broke in an instant from a worried
look to a smile.

"Yeah, thanks. My name is Machi."

Together they walked out of the shul. A few minutes later
they were all standing around Dan's Shabbos table. Dan
noticed his guest fidgeting and leafing through his
songbook, apparently looking for something. He asked
with a smile, "Is there a song you want to sing? I can help
if you're not sure about the tune."

The guest's face lit up. "There is a song I'd like to sing, but
I can't find it here. I really liked what we sang in the
synagogue tonight. What was it called? Something 'dodi.'"

Dan paused for a moment, on the verge of saying, "It's not
usually sung at the table," but then he caught himself. "If that's
what the kid wants," he thought, "what's the harm?" Aloud he
said, "You mean Lecha Dodi. Wait, let me get you a siddur."

Once they had sung Lecha Dodi, the young man resumed
his silence until after the soup, when Dan asked him,
"Which song now?" The guest looked embarrassed, but
after a bit of encouragement said firmly, "I'd really like to
sing Lecha Dodi again."

Dan was not really all that surprised when, after the chicken,
he asked his guest what song now, and the young man said,
"Lecha Dodi, please." Dan almost blurted out, "Let's sing it
a little softer this time, the neighbors are going to think I'm nuts."
He finally said, "Don't you want to sing something else?"

His guest blushed and looked down. "I just really like that
one," he mumbled. "Just something about it - I really like it."
In all, they must have sung "The Song" eight or nine times.
Dan wasn't sure -- he lost count. Later Dan asked, "Where
are you from?" The boy looked pained, then stared down
at the floor and said softly, "Ramallah."

Dan's was sure he'd heard the boy say "Ramallah," a large
Arab city on the West Bank . Quickly he caught himself, and
then realized that he must have said Ramleh, an Israeli city.
Dan said, "Oh, I have a cousin there. Do you know Ephraim
Warner? He lives on Herzl Street ."

The young man shook his head sadly. "There are no Jews in Ramallah."

Dan gasped. He really had said "Ramallah"! His thoughts
were racing. Did he just spend Shabbos with an Arab? He
told the boy, "I'm sorry, I'm a bit confused. And now that I think
of it, I haven't even asked your full name. What is it, please?"

The boy looked nervous for a moment, then squared his
shoulders and said quietly, "Machmud Ibn-esh-Sharif."

Dan stood there speechless. What could he say? Machmud
broke the silence hesitantly: "I was born and grew up in
Ramallah. I was taught to hate my Jewish oppressors,
and to think that killing them was heroism.

But I always had my doubts. I mean, we were taught that
the Sunna, the tradition, says, 'No one of you is a believer
until he desires for his brother that which he desires for
himself.' I used to sit and wonder, Weren't the Yahud (Jews)
people, too? Didn't they have the right to live the same as
us? If we're supposed to be good to everyone, how come
nobody includes Jews in that? "I put these questions to
my father, and he threw me out of the house. By now my
mind was made up: I was going to run away and live
with the Yahud, until I could find out what they were really
like. I snuck back into the house that night, to get my things
and my backpack.

My mother caught me in the middle of packing. I told her
that I wanted to go live with the Jews for a while and find
out what they're really like and maybe I would even want to convert.

She was turning more and more pale while I said all this,
and I thought she was angry, but that wasn't it. Something
else was hurting her and she whispered gently, 'You don't
have to convert. You already are a Jew.' "I was shocked.
My head started spinning, and for a moment I couldn't
speak. Then I stammered, 'What do you mean?' 'In
Judaism,' she told me, 'the religion goes according to
the mother. I'm Jewish, so that means you're Jewish.'

"I never had any idea my mother was Jewish. I guess
she didn't want anyone to know. She whispered
suddenly, 'I made a mistake by marrying an Arab man.
In you, my mistake will be redeemed.'

"My mother always talked that way, poetic-like. She went
and dug out some old documents, and handed them
to me: things like my birth certificate and her old Israeli
ID card, so I could prove I was a Jew.

I've got them here, but I don't know what to do with them.

"My mother hesitated about one piece of paper. Then she
said, 'You may as well take this. It is an old photograph of
my grand-parents which was taken when they went visiting
the grave of some great ancestor of ours.' "Now I have
traveled here to Israel . I'm just trying to find out where I belong."

Dan gently put his hand on Machmud's shoulder. Machmud
looked up, scared and hopeful at the same time. Dan asked,
"Do you have the photo here?"

The boy's face lit up. ""Sure! I always carry it with me." He
reached in his backpack and pulled out an old, tattered envelope.

When Dan read the gravestone inscription, he nearly
dropped the photo. He rubbed his eyes to make sure.
There was no doubt. This was a grave in the old
cemetery in Tzfat, and the inscription identified it as the
grave of the great Kabbalist and tzaddik Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz.

Dan's voice quivered with excitement as he explained
to Machmud who his ancestor was. "He was a friend
of the Arizal, a great Torah scholar, a tzaddik, a mystic.
And, Machmud, your ancestor wrote that song we were
singing all Shabbos: Lecha Dodi!"

This time it was Machmud's turn to be struck speechless.
Dan extended his trembling hand and said, "Welcome home, Machmud."

This true story, submitted by Nechama Goodman, is
documented in "Monsey, Kiryat Sefer and Beyond" by Zev Roth.
Received on Sun Mar 30 01:18:15 2008