The Rabbi Who Changed My Israeli Life (Part 1)

Every so often, life brings us someone who changes the direction of our lives. For me, in 1991, it was someone I had never imagined needing ever: a well-known, beloved North Tel Aviv rabbi. Though he has since passed away (z”l — may his memory be a blessing), I remember him with deep affection.

I landed in Tel Aviv in November 1990, completely clueless about Judaism or the local attitude toward non-Jews. My husband, a very secular Israeli, was certain we would be fine as we were. Well, he was wrong. His parents wanted a Jewish daughter-in-law. Not because they were particularly observant—they kept a kosher home and celebrated the chagim—but because tradition mattered to them, as did the opinions of others.

I agreed to convert, but finding out how—and where—proved challenging. That was when Rabbi F. came into my life. After exhausting all the other options we could find, he was my last chance.

My in-laws were a mix of nerves and excitement that evening. My father-in-law checked his kippah for what must have been the thousandth time; my mother-in-law hurriedly pushed away a newspaper and surveyed the room. My husband just sighed. (For those new to the blog: he was actually against my decision to convert and hoped I would change my mind.) 

As for me, I had done my best to look respectable and modest, though certainly not in the Orthodox "uniform" of a long black skirt, long sleeves, high neck, and tights. And forget about the tights.

At the time, I was rotating between two long skirts: one light pink and one green. That evening, I wore the green one, along with a white long-sleeved shirt embroidered with flowers along the buttonholes—a French classic at the time. I was barefoot, too. It was, and still is, my favourite way to be.

I stood back in the tiny hallway. So far, life in Israel had not been what I expected, and I wondered what the evening would bring.

A knock at the door. My mother-in-law, looking radiant, opened it and ushered him in as the VIP he was.

Rabbi F. looked exactly as one might imagine: a black hat, black suit, white shirt, long white beard, and tiny glasses. He was not a tall man, but he had a calm presence that filled a room. He was deeply respected throughout the community.

The rabbi inclined his head in greeting—no handshake. 

My father-in-law handled the introductions while everyone moved towards the living room. My husband added a few words and the reason for his visit was explained. Throughout it all, Rabbi F. stood quietly, hands clasped in front of him, listening. When offered a seat, he declined, so we all remained standing.

Then the unexpected happened.

He turned away from them and looked directly at me.

He asked me a few questions.

In all my limited experience with religious men, being addressed directly had never happened before. My heart leapt.

I had no idea what would come from that meeting—only that, for the first time since arriving in Israel, I felt I might have a chance.

A snapshot of my uniform on a different day—green skirt and white shirt. Israel, 1991.

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This post is inspired by my memoir, which is currently seeking publication. Thank you for reading—feel free to share and explore more posts! You may also enjoy:

- Why I Wrote This Memoir 

- Searching for the Perfect Title for my Jewish Conversion Memoir

- Why People Convert to Judaism: Three Very Different Stories (Among Many)