A special pre-Sukkot interview, translated and rendered as a first-person narrative
[Interviewer: We have the privilege, in the busiest days of the year, to enter the Rav's holy chambers, as the Rav receives us here in his room for a special holiday interview in honor of the Sukkot festival. Greetings to the honored Rav].
Rav: Greetings and blessings, tzaddik, greetings and blessings.
[Interviewer: Truly, all over the world people are hearing about the Rav — we see things here beyond the natural order, we see special things here, things that truly aren't seen almost anywhere else. We'd really like, first of all, to get to know the Rav a little — a bit about the Rav's childhood, where the Rav studied, where the Rav grew up].
A Simple Family
I come from a very simple family. My grandmother — may her merit protect us — was a truly holy woman, a tzadeket. I never had the privilege of knowing my grandfather, but my grandmother I knew well. My cousins, my broader family — they were traditional, not more than that. I did not come from a chassidic or charedi family out of Bnei Brak.
My childhood was not an easy one. My father ran into serious financial difficulties, and to this day my sister lives abroad. I grew up divided — literally split between two worlds. My mother wanted one thing for me; my parents, in their own ways, each imagined something different for the child I would become.
A Child Drawn to Smallness
As a boy, I loved physics and science. I remember once, at a bris, speaking with a scientist about physics — I was eight years old. I still love it today: Einstein, quantum theory, all of it. Now, thank G-d, I learn Torah, and that is my world — but back then, my mother hoped I would become a scientist, someone accomplished.
But that was never how I saw myself. Even as a child, I never wanted to be someone great. I was always drawn toward smallness. To this day, there is no one anywhere in the world who could describe me as a child who wanted to be great. I was broken, very introverted, very closed. You don't choose the life you're born into — you're born against your will, into a reality Hashem decided for you, into a simple family. I found myself spending long stretches with my grandmother, and then having to travel elsewhere, because I didn't want to be alone either. And in that constant, particular kind of solitude, something like a quiet crisis of the soul took shape — a difficulty, a disconnection from the people around me.
I didn't live along one continuous line. I wandered. I existed inside a life that pulled me in different directions at once — be like this, be like that, be here, go there. That confusion, all those competing opinions, that not-knowing — it shaped me deeply. And it was that, more than anything, that drove me to pour myself into prayer before the Holy One. I was very alone, and the combination of that inwardness and that loneliness forged in me a real, living connection to G-d. My life was divided, simply divided.
Two Names
I never belonged to a single fixed framework — not the kind of framework that today tells you "be the gadol hador." I was split between many places, abroad and in Israel. But my connection to the Holy One was always, always great.
I had a sister who tried to pull me toward her. My grandmother called me only "Shlomo." Why? At my bris, my grandfather — my father's father — was named Shlomo, and my mother's father was named Yehuda. My grandmother wanted me to be called only Shlomo. My mother wanted Yehuda too, after her own grandfather. (My grandmother never once called me Yehuda in her life — only Shlomo, always Shlomo, in the synagogue and everywhere, she never accepted the "Yehuda”.) And so it became a kind of nickname: Shlomo Yehuda — Shai, they called me, Shai, from Shlomo Yehuda.
Thank G-d, I was a very simple child, and I still love simplicity. I never wanted to be great. I'm not looking to be great — I only want Torah and the Holy One. That thirst brought me to a great closeness with Hashem.
A Boy's Tears in the Snow
I remember once being in the city of Davos, sitting there on a Wednesday before my nephew's bris — my father, of blessed memory, was the sandak. I sat by the window saying Tehillim and I simply cried. Snow was falling outside. You find yourself deeply frightened. Our financial situation was unstable. On one side, my mother in Israel; on the other, my father abroad; and my grandmother telling me to come to her. You go through something that draws you close to Hashem while it cuts you off from everyone around you, and at the same time you're living a life that isn't ordinary at all.
That is what brought me to real contemplation of the Holy One — something that took root in me so deeply that I can never forget it, never leave it. It is something I live. I still live it.
By the time I reached bar mitzvah age, I was already spending much more time here in Israel. I would travel from time to time — once I was in Bad Ischl, another time in the town of Thun, in Switzerland. My sister lived for a short period in Munich, then in Zurich. I was very close to that sister who lived abroad; I see her now only once every few years, in touch now and then, but the bond was deep. You live divided — one moment with your sister, and you never live a life that lets you fully know yourself. That not-knowing is what built me — my tools, and above all, my broken heart.
The Small Tehillim I have a small, old Tehillim that I keep in a beautiful wooden box. It is the Tehillim I used to pray from — I keep it like an amulet, from the age of ten. My father gave it to me; there was a story of how I found it in a small Tehillim volume, it was a gift he received. It's an old Yosef Yitzchak Chabad edition. When I would open that Tehillim and pray to the Holy One, He simply answered me. Just like that. I would say a chapter, and I would feel Hashem. And it traveled with me everywhere. To this day I still keep that Tehillim.
There was a purity, an innocence, to those years. I would sit in the synagogue; the gabbai gave me the key, and I would learn there, not even fully aware that another, larger world existed. I didn't understand how vast this world was. I was very closed in on myself. I did not grasp its size. You sit there, always searching for the One who created the world — not the world itself, but the One who stands behind all of it.
Walking to Shul in Tears
I remember times I would walk to a certain synagogue in the area, on foot, crying the entire way there. I was twelve years old — half a year before my bar mitzvah. I was learning to read the Torah portion in the Yemenite nusach, with a teacher who used to come to me, and I would go to him to learn the ta'amim, the Yemenite cantillation. I connected to it deeply, in part because my mother isn't Yemenite herself — she is half Tzur-Chalabi (Syrian), with an Ashkenazi grandmother.
So I had to find a teacher — someone to teach me, because I wanted it so badly; the learning itself made my heart tremble. I would sit and prepare to read the portion in that pronunciation, going over the weekly parsha again and again.
The Chavruta Who Didn't Come
I remember once arriving at the synagogue hoping to learn with someone as a chavruta. There was a certain Torah scholar there, a Vizhnitz chassid — a truly great tzaddik, a man of deep fear of Heaven, learning tractate Chullin. I told him how much I wanted to learn with him, how badly I wanted a study partner.
He told me: today at four o'clock, I'll sit and learn with you. I told him I needed to finish by six, because I still had to prepare the week's Torah portion with its cantillation. I said, fine, I'll manage. I remember going to him and waiting at four — I will never forget that day. It was raining. I arrived and waited, right at four, carrying the tractate of Chullin. I used to sit there, loving just to listen to the way he learned.
And just then, he was about to leave. I said I had come, and he said: oh, I have to go learn with my son. I have to go. I can't learn with you now, I have to leave. I remember it was exactly five minutes past four. I had come at exactly four. Exactly.
The Turning Point I walked into the sanctuary, and in that moment my entire life rose up before me — all of it, every voice, everything at once. I will never forget that day. It was a Monday, in the month of Shvat.
I sat down on the bench. I set aside the Gemara and picked up the Me'am Lo'ez on Parshat Shemot, which happened to be sitting right there. I opened it and began reading a few lines, and I simply cried.
I said to Hashem: why isn't my father with me? — Later, after my bar mitzvah, my father did come back. He was with me for the bar mitzvah itself, and he took me on a trip to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai's tomb. That was the one and only trip we ever took together — to Rabbi Shimon, to Rabbi Meir Baal HaNess. He took me to the graves of the tzaddikim as a bar mitzvah gift. To this day, whenever I go to Rabbi Shimon, to Rabbi Meir, to the Holy Arizal, I still shed tears remembering that trip he took me on. He also took me to the mikveh — he insisted on taking me every single week, without fail. It moved me deeply.
That day in the synagogue, I prayed, I said Tehillim, and I cried, truly, from the heart, to the Holy One. And I felt Him, again and again. That was a bond with the Holy One that reached great heights.
My Teacher, Rabbi Shmuel
After that came my teacher — Rabbi Shmuel, they called him. A Yemenite teacher, extraordinarily wise, a great tzaddik, who taught me so much Torah, and from whom I learned a great deal. He was eighty-four years old. I would kiss his hand; I was in tremendous awe of him. I asked him countless questions, and his knowledge and wisdom were truly as vast as the sea.
When I was about fifteen, he told me one day, as I was walking him home: you don't need me anymore. You don't need me, he said. I love you. Keep doing what you're doing, all of it. I see your heart. Be at peace — you don't need me, everything will be fine.
I asked him why he was saying such a thing — I still wanted to learn with him. Then I came to him on Shabbat, and found him weak. He told me: don't worry, everything will be fine, you don't need me, don't be sad, don't be sad.
That's what he said to me. Two days later, on Tisha B'Av, he passed away. Just like that. I hadn't understood why he'd told me I didn't need him, and I was utterly broken. At his burial there was a minyan of Jews — we buried him at noon, on Tisha B'Av. I merited to be there for the entire burial, and I was terribly, terribly broken.
Becoming "the Yanuka"
My grandmother, the holy tzadeket, built a synagogue on Uriel Street. The people there knew me as the child who came with his grandmother to that shul — Rabbi Nechemia is known, a very great tzaddik, along with all the rabbis of that community. My grandmother wanted very much to build a beit midrash, so I would accompany her there. I would pray there, feeling the holiness of the place deeply. And so, thank G-d, I prayed, I began to bring light, I composed prayers, writings, novel Torah insights.
At around sixteen, I already knew Chacham Avraham the Mekubal of Bnei Brak. We sat together once, and he was learning a particular passage of Zohar. I still have his Tikkunei Zohar with all sorts of bookmarks he left in it — his own bookmarks. He is the one who called me "Hayanuka" — the Yanuka. That's where the name came from.
He had asked me about a Zohar passage on Parshat Beshalach that he hadn't been able to locate — he said a novel teaching on that Zohar. In the course of the learning, I brought him that very passage of Zohar. When I brought it to him, he was overjoyed. He stood up, kissed me, and said: Yanuka, Yanuka, you are the Yanuka! He called it out with such warmth, such joy — "This is the Yanuka! This is the Yanuka!" From that moment, people began calling me Yanuka, because he had called me that. It spread from person to person, and many people who know me from that period still call me by it.
Early Recognition
Do you know of Rabbi Ovadia Chadad? He was very close to the Steipler, to Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky. He was an elderly man, a tzaddik, who lived on the street of Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky — on Rashbam Street, two buildings away. He was the father of well-known roshei yeshiva in Bnei Brak.
He was a great Torah scholar, and he and I also had a close relationship — I was a guest in his home, and I held him in great honor and merited to see him often; he loved me very much. He was also among the first to encourage and strengthen the classes I gave in those years. By seventeen, I already had a degree of recognition — all kinds of people, students, gathered around me. It was very hard for me, because — understand — I came from nowhere. Think of how much I was tested. You cannot imagine. I don't think there is another person who has been tested, suspected, investigated, and questioned as much as I was, on a level you cannot comprehend.
At around fourteen — I visited Rabbi Moshe Halberstam. I was about fourteen and a half or fifteen. Someone brought me to him, telling him I learned Torah well, that I knew a bit. He asked me all kinds of questions. Rabbi Halberstam took a great liking to me; he was pleased. Afterward I asked him if I'd erred anywhere, and he told me: you answered well, you answered well. He said he wanted to give me a gift, and he brought out a copy of Shivchei HaBesht that he had given his approbation to, and gave it to me. Then he asked me further questions — on the Talmud, then on the Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, on tzitzit, something from the Bach, as I recall.
I told him I also loved the Divrei Chaim of Sanz very much, and he spoke to me about the Divrei Chaim, and he truly honored me. We sat together for about half an hour in his room. He had a reputation for being somewhat firm; people knew that. There was even a gabbai who tried to suggest he was spending too much time with me, "with this child," and the Rav told him to move aside and kept sitting with me. That was the one and only meeting we ever had.
He gave me the book with an inscription, and I still have it to this day — it's put away with my clothes; I could even bring it out now. And so, thank G-d, students began to gather around me. By seventeen or eighteen, many students had already gathered, and I was very afraid, because I didn't understand what was happening. I have always been, and remain to this day, a very closed person — my heart is very guarded. I live almost entirely with the Holy One, and everything about that period was pure, entirely pure.
Exposure and Its Cost And then, suddenly, it comes to you — people start approaching you, and all at once you begin to realize you're becoming exposed. By eighteen, I had already become quite well known; people spoke about me, many came to see me, and it put me under enormous pressure. I didn't understand who these people were or what they wanted — and that's without even accounting for everything my soul had already been through. I didn't understand people well; I was very naive, and I very much wanted to get married.
I met many rabbis during that time, many scholars who came to me. And every student — think about this — every single student I have to this day, everyone who has ever grown close to me, never came close because of my father, or my grandfather, or anything like that. Today there are figures who sit in positions of authority simply because of a father or grandfather, without ever having proven anything themselves, without anyone even checking whether they had (what to offer). I had to prove everything, endlessly, every single thing. I'm telling you — they tested me on Mishnayot, then on halacha, then on everything, one thing after another, always testing, checking, checking again, to the point where it became almost absurd — I would just think, enough already.
Eventually word spread that I knew Torah, that I was capable. I am a deeply emotional person, and I love with all my heart — Torah, melody, niggunim. Music has always been part of who I am, inseparable from me. I once heard a Jew playing music as I passed by on some street — deeply moving niggunim. That night I prayed to the Holy One that I too would learn to make music, and with tremendous heavenly assistance, I found my way into the wisdom of melody, and I composed many niggunim of my own.
By then, thank G-d, a large following had gathered — students, rabbis, everyone. And more and more people decided to become students only after they had concluded, each in their own way, that I was worthy — because everyone is naturally cautious. A rabbi — where does he come from, what is he, what has he been through? People always judged me unfavorably at first, whichever way it went, and each time it hurt me, because from my side I always tried to judge favorably — you don't come from their world, and suddenly they don't know what to make of you, they don't know how to categorize you. And so, thank G-d, I gathered students, and then I needed to get married.
Many, many students remember me from those years — I'm speaking now to people who still remember. That's part of why, today, when there's a great deal of noise around me, people who don't know the history don't understand where it's coming from. Many, many people know this goes back a long way — that's why it isn't new to them. And those who don't know ask, "what is all this noise?" It isn't noise — it's old; not new. Those who know me can tell you — I gave lessons to three thousand people at eighteen. I taught in Neve Yaakov; I once spent a Shabbat in Bnei Brak, at twenty, giving a class from nine in the evening until three in the morning.
By the end, I could barely gather a minyan for vatikin. They had just wanted an oneg Shabbat with a Torah shiur. So yes, many people know me, remember me. And it was then that I reached a very great breaking point — at twenty years old.
The Accusation I was ready to get married, and that's exactly when the upheaval came that scarred me. Suddenly, on one ordinary, clear day, without my understanding all that was unfolding, certain rabbis put out word about me. They said — they decided, they concluded — that most of the Torah, all the Torah I knew, wasn't rational (i.e. it wasn’t rationally possible for someone to know so much), and that it must therefore be something demonic.
[Interviewer: Wow.]
Just like that. They said it plainly — that his Torah is from a demon, that the powers, his abilities, because there had also been certain wonders at that time, you understand. It isn't a "wonder" — a wonder is simply that the Holy One hears you when you pray. For the Holy One, nothing is difficult; everything is effortless for Him. And so they decided that I was sitra achra — impure, a demon. Just like that.
[Interviewer: They actually used those words? They said "demon"?]
They used those exact words behind my back. I was twenty. And what hurt most was that this happened precisely during the period I was supposed to get married — it destroyed every shidduch I was suggested. Every match I was proposed, every single one, was simply cancelled.
People would say, "No, absolutely not — haven't you heard?" And so, one by one, word spread that I was something strange, a demon, something impure, that these powers were dangerous mystical forces, not holy at all. I said — what does that even mean? Someone who isn't holy has an open road ahead of him; who would even want to walk the path of the Holy One and play games with it? I asked them: how old do you think I am? What reason would I have to play such games?
I tried explaining myself with every argument I could find; I even debated them in matters of Torah and showed them where they were mistaken on various points, but nothing helped — they wouldn't hear any of it. These weren't real rabbis, not in the way that matters — all kinds of people acting with real wickedness tried everything against me, and none of it succeeded. And so, for nearly seven or eight months, I had no shidduch whatsoever — no one wanted to be matched with me, not a single suggestion.
The Day of the Cancelled Meeting I remember once going to a certain place — I had a meeting arranged for a Wednesday, and I was genuinely happy, because they had said yes, that this was surely meant to be, a merit, and everything good. I was on my way to the meeting, at eight in the evening, when the driver who was taking me suddenly said: Rabbi, why don't I take you for a detour by the Kotel first?
I told him I couldn't — I had a meeting now, a shidduch. He said: no, I want to take you to the Kotel, maybe we should delay a little, maybe the meeting should be postponed.
I asked him why, what had happened. He didn't want to tell me. Finally he said: fine, just don't be hurt. I said I wouldn't be. Then he told me: the mother of the girl had just called, saying — how dare you propose him? He's a demon, terrible things — they had said truly terrible things about me.
Baseless, all of it. And in that moment I truly broke, and I understood — it wasn't going to work. From then on, those same people pursued me relentlessly, making sure I had no shidduch, shutting down my classes, going from synagogue to synagogue to prevent me from teaching. They took my writings and had them placed in geniza; books I had published were simply confiscated and buried. Everything was said against me — and it was only afterward that I understood the truth: the bottom line was, they were simply afraid of me.
They didn't actually believe I was some kind of demon. I know because one of my students went and asked that same rabbi directly: do you really believe what you're saying? And he answered: I'll tell you the truth — no. But what do you want me to do, lose my students, lose my yeshiva? The student said to him: if it were your own daughter, would you speak this way about her just so no one would marry her? Would you really do that?
Arrested on the Day of My Engagement
Around that same time, I was on the verge of becoming engaged — a good match had come, and she had truly agreed to become engaged to me. And in that exact same period, I was, without realizing it, a fugitive from military prison. I hadn't understood the seriousness of it — I kept receiving draft notices, and I kept writing letters back to the army explaining, in complete innocence, that I couldn't enlist because I needed to immerse in the mikveh every day and needed to learn Torah.
I genuinely believed, because I never heard back after sending my letters — and I still have that letter to this day — that this meant I had simply been released, exempted. I explained everything respectfully, in the way of Torah, and thought that would settle it. But they had simply gone silent.
Then one day, someone knocked on my door. It was four in the morning, a Wednesday. That motzei Shabbat before, I had dreamt that I would be apprehended — some dream like that. I thought, dreams are just dreams, but who knows. So I had packed a small bag, just in case, I had everything ready.
At four in the morning, they knocked on my door. "You have time to get ready," they said. I told them: come, I'm ready. I took my bag, my tefillin, and went with them.
They arrested me and took me to military prison. There were open miracles for me there — but what mattered most was that this was, precisely, the day of my engagement. The very day. My mother was abroad; my father wasn't there either; there was no one with me at all.
I had no way to let anyone know. I was simply arrested. That evening, the shidduch celebration was supposed to take place at the synagogue — there was joy, the family had gathered — and I never arrived. I was sitting in a military jail, on the very day of my own engagement.
I remember thinking, utterly broken: why am I going through this pain? Why is this happening to me? I cried out to Hashem. And what hurt most of all was that the very rabbi who knew where I was, who had told me he would help me, that he was with me — that same rabbi went to the girl's family and told them that I had disappeared, that I didn't want the match, that I had simply run away. He betrayed me.
Once the word reached them, the match was, of course, called off. I carried that pain the entire week. And then, only afterward, did I truly begin to understand — how not everyone considered "great," even a rabbi, speaks the truth. Suddenly I saw how it all connected — this to that, and that to this — suddenly I understood what was really happening. I asked myself: is it Hashem they don't want? Is it Torah they're after? What are they actually looking for? And all at once I understood — it was competition. A competition over wealthy patrons, over followers, over public admiration.
I told them plainly: none of that interests me. I serve Hashem. I am not seeking a following, not seeking politics, not seeking any of it. I simply want to live, to learn Torah, that's all. And I said things to them that cut deep — I told them to look honestly at themselves, to ask where they had actually come to. Are you truly so sure in yourselves? If Hashem wants something, "In His place shall you be seated, and by His name shall you be called" — no person can take what is destined for another. I asked them: where is your faith? What are you so afraid of? What are you so worried about? "You shall not fear any man" — that is the clear halachic principle for a judge rendering judgment. What are you afraid of? You cannot be inclined toward justice if you aren't first committed to truth. I simply asked them to leave me alone.
And, for a while, they did — nearly five months of quiet followed, once that particular match had fallen apart.
A Bride Found Through a Student's Daughter
Because the lashon hara was never retracted by anyone, I still wasn't accepted — until one of my students, who had a daughter, came to me. His daughter told him: "I'll agree to marry him." I said, if she agrees, let's meet. I set out a few conditions in that meeting; she accepted them, and we got married. It was a modest wedding, simple, unassuming — and that is how I married.
Poison in the Water Afterward there was a period of quiet. I gave classes, life went on, the earlier storm died down, and once again there was only Torah. But then they came back — the same people who had been pursuing me. It happened in the middle of a class. To this day — you may have noticed — I only drink from sealed bottles. It isn't anxiety; it's simply been that way for years now. During that class, someone put poison in my water.
I went to take a drink in the middle of the lesson, looked at the water, and noticed a strange smell. I asked who had brought the water. No one answered. No one said a word — nothing. Someone took the cup and threw it out, and that was when we understood: this had become an actual war. They were genuinely trying to hurt me — and that was only the more forgivable part of what they did. They pursued me in every way they could, and finally they came to me directly and said: if you want to live, stop giving classes. Stay within your four walls. Disappear. That is exactly what they told me.
They came to one of my classes, and I fled from that pursuit. Thank G-d, they eventually left me alone, and I moved forward with my life. But I understood that they would always rise again in some new form. I don't carry many enemies — in truth, I have none, because I have never done wrong to a single soul.
Choosing Light Over Competition I have never done harm to anyone; no one can honestly say that I have — only good, only the light I try to give. I understand that today's world runs on competition; people can compete with themselves if they like, but I refuse to descend to that level. It doesn't trouble me what people say about me, because whoever wishes to follow a path of light, of Torah, has that option before them — and if a person chooses instead to listen to nonsense and slander, that is his choice. Everyone chooses his own path.
To my mind, it is beneath dignity to be governed by petty opinions and vanities, rather than by the light and truth that ultimately prevail. I once heard something from the Rebbe of Ziditchov: several chassidim once came to see him. On the way, one said to himself, "If he knows the Tosafot I’m learning, he'll be my Rebbe." Another said, "If he knows what I'm thinking, he'll be my Rebbe." A third said, "If he can help my wife, who is having a difficult labor, give birth safely, he'll be my Rebbe." The moment they entered, the Rebbe of Ziditchov said to them: to you — mazal tov, your wife has given birth. To you — your Tosafot is on Ketubot, page 64. And to you — I know exactly what you were thinking. Now leave me, because I don't want to be your Rebbe. Do you imagine you're doing me some kind of favor by choosing me? I don't need that.
Built From Nothing, With Blood and Sweat My approach today is this: I search only for people of truth, a path of truth — nothing else. And understand that everything I have built until now has come through blood, through toil; I lean on no one who came before me. All of it — every composition, every book of mine — you can see all my books right here. Look how many have been published. Look — all of this (catalog) is books.
And look also at how many books were prevented from being published, how many things were blocked from ever seeing light, because we've had to do everything ourselves. The synagogue in Jerusalem, the one here that we're expanding, and all of my written works — I have a commentary on the prayer siddur; I have volumes of questions and answers in halacha; I have Derech Etz HaChaim in five volumes; Divrei Shlomo; Mat'amei Shabbat on the laws of Shabbat, in four volumes. All of these are my compositions, my Torah — Pnei Shlomo, which contains all my analytical lessons, and more besides. I have writings on the Talmud, on the Mishnah, on many other subjects — a full treasury that has, thank G-d, been published in part. Here — this one has just come out too; I'll give it to you afterward with a dedication.
All of this came out through a path of blood and exertion — and that is precisely what gives me joy. Not despite the struggle, the war, the simplicity, but through it — that is where the Holy One is with you. When you sacrifice yourself for Hashem's sake, when you truly want the Holy One, He is with you. It isn't about what you're seeking; it's about walking the right path. That is what matters — that you care what the Holy One thinks of you.
Standing With Hashem Alone Understand this: if you stand with the Holy One and the entire world stands against you, you have defeated the entire world. But if the entire world stands with you and the Holy One does not, you have lost everything — because in the end, you will be alone. "The body is carried to burial, and the soul mourns over it." The most important thing to me is that the Holy One always be with me. I am always thinking: what does He think, what would He want, how should I behave? And through all the pain I've endured, all the tears, all the sorrow, all the hardship, all the endless questions and struggles I've faced — I only give thanks. "And Pharaoh drew near" — for every difficulty, every hard day, every sorrow, every exertion. I used my time well. I did not learn Torah in order to complete all of Torah. I learned Torah in order to seek Hashem.
Learning Torah to Search for G-d
My thirst was for the learning itself. I would suddenly discover I had finished a tractate; I would suddenly realize I had completed five volumes — and I barely even noticed, because I was never seeking to finish. I was seeking to begin. When you learn in order to search for the Holy One, you are searching to see who the King truly is — and your learning becomes something entirely different. You find in Tosafot on Taanit page 7, that learning in order to provoke, to boast, to be called "Rebbe" — that is a Torah that brings death, not a Torah that brings life.
You are not learning Torah for its true purpose, whatever your intention actually is. In Berachot page 17, we find the teaching of learning Torah lishmah — for its own sake — and the Meiri, in Sefer Chassidim siman 279, writes that one who learns Torah, G-d forbid, in order to provoke, is called a wicked person, full stop. I have never been in that place, because I always want to illuminate. You know, sometimes a young man comes wanting me to test him on some tractate, or asks me to question him on what he knows, and I don't even want to embarrass him. I don't feel right asking something he might not know. Once, I asked a question and saw that someone didn't know the answer, so I answered along with him, together, so that he wouldn't feel discouraged.
There is no place in Torah — this pure, sacred thing, the purest thing in the world — for use to extinguish the people of Israel. You need to illuminate the people of Israel, to see what Jews do know, not what they don't know. To see what is good and right in a Jew, and draw him closer. Instead, we use Torah like an axe to strike down whoever happens to know less.
Humility as Strength I'll tell you something else — perhaps my "problem" is actually my own lowliness. If I had been arrogant, if I had tried each time to make noise and compete with everyone, then perhaps that spirit would have let me "win," in whatever sense they mean. But I am not that way. I am not seeking to impress anyone, not seeking to defeat anyone, not seeking to impress anyone at all.
I am seeking to impress the Holy One. Nothing in the world matters to me except what the King thinks of me, because I know that the King is eternal. My path needs to be something clean — to etch into this world a Torah that is pure. We need to learn Torah for its own sake.
We have reached a state where we have lost Torah, corrupted it — dragged it into commerce, into competition, into wars, into disputes, into speaking in Hashem's name while actually seeking control over the world. Somehow we've arrived at a place where you suddenly realize you're living in a competitive world. But this realm is meant to be the purest of all, because it is the realm of trust in Hashem. Rabbeinu Bachya writes that this world is called the world of worry.
Judges and Judgment There is room for everyone. Why has it become a competition? Suddenly you realize you're constantly being pushed aside, constantly being told no — for what? For a mitzvah! Can you see — this is the crooked lens through which we view Torah today.
We no longer study it in search of what is pure and good; we study it looking for what is wrong. That is the fracture, that is the estrangement you see, that is why people are suffering, why there is so much distress. In tractate Shabbat, page 139, the Gemara says: if you see abundant suffering, go examine the judges of Israel. Today, instead of judges applying the principle "you shall not fear any man" to render true judgment, you see one person judging another, endlessly — everyone judging everyone.
Every single day is like "in the days when the judges judged" — everyone judging everyone else. Yeshiva students get thrown out of yeshivas over nothing, and where is that boy supposed to go? He'll be lost — an entire generation can be lost — and nobody cares, as long as this institution isn't affected. But in the end, everyone is affected: the one who was thrown out, and the one who threw him out, and everyone around them.
We need to raise people up, gather them in, uplift them. In tractate Berachot, page 18a, the Gemara discusses Rabbi Yonatan's techeilet threads that were hanging down (in the cemetery); Rabbi Chiya told him: "Dalyei — lift it up." That is how I understand this principle: lift the person up. Raise him higher, elevate him, let the light shine on him. I always try to raise up Torah scholars. I have students — real ones, I mean lions of Torah — great scholars who come to me on the festivals; they're not with me all year, because I set them their own schedules. But these are true scholars of Torah, masters of the Talmud everywhere, of the Shulchan Aruch, some more devoted to Kabbalah, some to the pshat — and you can see students today, someone who had never once completed the Talmud, who had never learned before, and I took him in, and today he has completed the Talmud multiple times, is expert in it, and has even written his own books. That is my satisfaction: bringing someone from nothing to real Torah knowledge, watching him rejoice, get married, have children — that is my happiness, seeing that you can etch out good from absolutely nothing. From nothing. Purely from effort and dedication — if you make the effort, if you truly serve Hashem, there is no such thing as the Holy One not being with you. The Holy One sees you.
A Clean and True Path That, I think, is the perspective — how did Hashem come to notice someone like me, who is nothing at all? He saw, and He saw that there was truth here, and He raised that truth up. He knows it is clean. And whoever looks honestly at this will see: it isn't just clever Torah insights — there is here a genuine and pure path of clear Torah understanding. You can read, learn, and draw truly close to the Holy One — because that closeness is really what matters.
When you draw close to the Holy One, when you truly want that closeness, you suddenly discover an extraordinary world — a pure world, a sweet world, without evil, without harsh judgment, without conflict. A way out of this bubble of hatred and everything bound up with it.
[Interviewer: Precisely because this story is so gripping, coming out of everything you've shared…]
I've given you only a small piece of it. If I could tell you everything, it would go on far longer — I've told you only a little, truly just a little.
How the Torah Came to Him
[Interviewer: It's astonishing — and that's exactly why the question is so natural: how did the Rav first connect to Torah study? At what age? And today, wherever you ask the Rav, on any subject in the whole of Torah, the Rav knows and answers. How does one arrive at that kind of mastery, and from what age did it begin?]
I'll answer. Look — as for the age itself, understand that I came from a traditional home, and in a home rooted in Torah, it simply comes to you as part of the air you breathe. My saintly grandmother, my uncles — Torah was present, but on a simple level, not an intensely scholarly one, because that tends to belong more to plain, traditional people. So my earliest exposure was to midrashim, to Tehillim, to the simple things a child encounters — not yet at the level of, say, the Jerusalem Talmud. That came a bit later, around twelve or thirteen. Do you follow?
From that angle, the learning came to me organically, not from some deliberate direction. I didn't fully grasp the idea of "mastering" Torah — I didn't understand greatness in that sense, I wasn't in a place where completing the entire Talmud felt like some kind of achievement to announce. You simply learn, and you learn because you want to know Hashem.
[Interviewer: And when did that connection to Torah turn into something the Rav recognized as success in learning?]
I never understood it as success. Even today, I'm not in that place — you know, I learn Torah to demonstrate that the Holy One is great, and when people come to me, I try to make them great.
I am not seeking to elevate myself. I don't learn Torah from a place of wanting to be great. I learn Torah from a place of wanting to elevate — I learn Torah from a place of wanting the Holy One to be great.
An Open Heart, Not Just an Open Mind The bond and connection I had to Tehillim, to prayer, to simplicity — that is what opened my heart, not merely my mind. We say "open our heart to Your Torah," not "open our understanding to Your Torah." When the heart opens to Torah, you suddenly understand it in an entirely different way. The Mishnah becomes a different Mishnah. When I learn Mishnah, I feel awe of Hashem.
When you learn Gemara, you feel awe of Hashem — you aren't learning Gemara now simply to..., you're learning because you're curious what stands behind this wisdom, who these sages were who held such reverence for Hashem. That was always my guiding thread. And through that, I learned the Jerusalem Talmud.
Through that, I completed the entire Jerusalem Talmud — and I suddenly discovered I had finished it three times over. I hadn't realized it; I once noticed my bookmark and thought, wow, I've already finished this — why am I learning it again? Fine, again then. You suddenly look and realize you've completed it, and you don't quite understand how — you know.
But you never try to make use of what you know, never try to prove that you know it — "look, who doesn't know this?" I was never in that place. I didn't even understand that such a place existed. And I tell you — this is how Torah is meant to be learned. You should learn Torah in order to search for Who stands behind the book — not for anything else.
If you don't learn it that way, you have never truly begun learning Torah at all. When we learn Torah merely to know what is written, you can just as easily learn what's written from a book alone — even a computer knows what's written in a book. Any computer can tell you exactly what's written here, and more precisely than I can — it will give you the sources, the page numbers. I might tell you something roughly, but the computer will give you the exact page, the print edition, everything.
Why the Holy One Wants You
None of that is what the Holy One needs. He already had the Vilna Gaon; He already had the Rashba, the Ritva, the Maharam of Rothenburg, all the great ones, all the Rishonim, all the sages, all the Tannaim. What He wants is to see you. He wants to see who you are.
He wants to see what you bring to Him, what you can offer Him. He wants to see how you use the Torah to search for Him, blessed be He. When you search through the Jerusalem Talmud, understand — in its holiness, it surpasses the Babylonian Talmud. It predates the Bavli by a hundred years, but in its level of sanctity, the Yerushalmi is awesome, immense. It differs in style from the Bavli. But the real greatness is in this: that you learn Torah solely to know the One who spoke and brought the world into being. That is the true bond with Torah.
That connection, that understanding in Torah — when you rise after learning, you feel an entirely different light; it opens something else in you, and you remember it far better too. Let me give you a parable. Imagine someone who lived through a tragedy, G-d forbid — who witnessed some terrorist, some terrible event. Will he remember, for the rest of his life, the exact color of the attacker's clothing, the exact number, the date, the day? He will remember, won't he? "It was in the year such-and-such, exactly like this" — describing every detail. You'd ask, how does this person remember all that? Where does that memory come from? Would you say he has some special gift of memory? No one would say that.
What would people say? That fear seared it into him. I myself have no unusual memory — I'm not a person with some special power of recall. Well, I do remember things — I remember things from when I was very young — I do have memory, but I don't build what I have on memory. I build it on my awe of Hashem.
Learning Rooted in Awe When you hold the Holy One in awe, you remember Torah, because you understand that the One who created this vast world, who created every galaxy, this entire awesome universe you see, the sun, the moon, all the galaxies, the seas and everything within them — the One who brings death and gives life, who holds every human being, this muscle, the heart, that beats every single moment, and can simply stop, and a person is in the grave, finished — you understand that Someone governs all of this. That awareness terrifies you, in the deepest sense. And you say: this is His book.
Here His will and His wisdom are revealed. He wants you to know this Mishnah, this Gemara — otherwise you might err. When you learn from that place of awe, you will never forget it. That is my approach, that is how I learn, that is my strength.
That is how I learned. That is my path. It didn't come from anywhere else — and I tell you honestly, I am grateful that it came to me this way. I am glad, and this is how Hashem willed it.
Had the Holy One wanted otherwise, He would have turned my entire life in a different direction. Sometimes there are things — "Awesome and orchestrated in His acts" — He is the One who orchestrates every cause, guiding every wonder that occurs in this world. And this is simply how it unfolded. This is what He wanted; what can I do?
On Wonders and Miracles
[Interviewer: We truly see, with the Rav, miracles and salvations beyond the natural order — stories people can hardly believe exist in our generation. What is the explanation for this? How does the Rav actually bring about such things?]
That's a good question. Let me explain something.
You know, the Holy One performs miracles and wonders beyond counting, every single day, every moment, for all of us. You've heard of miracles from two hundred years ago, a hundred and fifty years ago — stories of wonders that happened. There were, certainly — two hundred, three hundred, four hundred years ago, there were stories of wonders; true, it wasn't common, but there were times, in various towns, with certain tzaddikim, who experienced great miracles.
Understand this: when you truly grasp that there is a King above you, that the Holy One exists in this world — sometimes I look around and think, how does the world not perceive this? There is Someone who created the world, and yet the world holds no real awe or fear of that fact. Fine, there's "someone in heaven," and we should learn to pray, and He should grant my requests — a match for my children, healing, this, that — and if He doesn't answer, then….
But we are approaching the Holy One in a mistaken way. I, essentially, come before the King in the simplest way possible. And you ask in a very simple way. That is what brings understanding — and suddenly, He hears.
No — I don't think, I don't attribute anything to myself, because I tell you, it is as clear to me as the sun that I am nothing. We are flesh and blood; anyone who exists in this world has no power to accomplish anything on his own. Understand: the power behind miracles, all of these things — these belong only to the King, to the One who created the world, to bring about. Only the One who fashioned this world, the sole Creator of the entire universe, can Himself alter what He decreed in creation.
Isn't that so? If you have some power over something right now, is there anyone else who can override it? No one. Only the One who created a person can command a growth in the body: "enough, this stops here, this moves." Only the King can do that — I cannot do such a thing. So obviously, I have nothing to do with it. It is simply, apparently, that a particular Jew experienced a merit, and the Holy One saw the pain in his heart, and I was like the final hammer-blow, you understand — one more small prayer, one more small blessing, and — suddenly — "Give thanks to Hashem for He is good, for His kindness endures forever." That's it. I always use that verse, so that people, so the world, won't get confused. I tell the Jew: first say "Hodu LaHashem ki tov ki le'olam chasdo" — say "Hodu" to Hashem, that it's His doing. I say that constantly. And, thank G-d — I'll tell you something else too — I think Hashem performs these miracles also out of compassion for me.
Compassion in the Midst of Suffering You know why? Because hearing so much suffering, day after day, breaks a person. It's shattering, and it's hard to witness — small children, especially. I see very difficult sights.
Children, adults, someone comes to me with half his head wrapped in a bandage, he opens it, and you see — a cavity, an absence, where something should be.
You see things that another person simply couldn't bear — couldn't eat afterward, couldn't drink. I am strong by now, yes — but someone else, hearing even one such story, one such image, couldn't contain or comprehend that pain at all. And I believe the Holy One also performs these miracles out of compassion for me — as if to say: look, here is some good too, here is some good too. Because hearing suffering upon suffering upon suffering is agonizing. Hearing troubles and problems, one person telling you of one sorrow, another telling you of another — you're only trying to do good, to help — and in the middle of it someone asks a Torah question here, someone else there, and suddenly you're back to a halachic matter, then suddenly back to someone in distress, and after someone has cried before you and you've absorbed his pain, someone else suddenly comes with an unrelated question, and you don't know where you are, you're carrying such a weight — and suddenly the light, as if the Holy One is telling me: I hear you, keep going. And then comes another sea to cross — “keep going”. It's very hard, but there is Someone who runs this world Who has performed, and continues to perform, all these wonders.
I think that's good, don't you? It's good that Hashem answers us.
[Interviewer: Remarkable.]
And I actually think — if someone like me, absolutely nothing, coming from nowhere at all, is heard by Hashem — how much more so will He answer people far greater and far better than I am. It only takes a shift in thinking: to serve Him with truth, without seeking reward — not acting like Zimri and asking for the reward of Pinchas.
Someone wants to be this way and that way and another way, but along the path he also wants Torah and also this other thing. Why doesn't Hashem answer him? You need to go with the Holy One all the way to the end. The Holy One loves when you're with Him completely, to the very end. He doesn't love a person who is with Him only partway — He doesn't love remaining on the sides.
He told Eliyahu's generation: "How long will you hesitate between two opinions?" The Holy One loves when you walk with Him to the very end — then He is with you to the very end too. He doesn't love the in-between. That's it.
On Claims of Being the Mashiach
[Interviewer: We're nearing the end now, a few final questions. We've recently seen various people claiming that the Rav Hayanuka is the Mashiach, and we've seen the Rav actually silence them and protest against this. What is the Rav's actual view on this matter?]
Look — Mashiach is a light that exists within the whole people of Israel. Every Jew carries Mashiach within him. There is Mashiach in you, Mashiach in you, in everyone here, in this whole congregation, in every person present, in the entire people of Israel there is Mashiach. Mashiach is the light and hope present in every single member of the Jewish people. And the Holy One is not dependent on any single individual. There is no one that the Holy One depends upon.
The Holy One chose His entire people. Now, what happens? Sometimes, you know, people witness miracles, see someone bringing light, doing something — and they get confused, and try to interpret it as pointing to someone specific, right now. But regarding Mashiach, one can really only laugh at this, because in tractate Sanhedrin, page 94b, the Holy One wished to make Chizkiyahu the Mashiach and Sancheriv into Gog — and the Holy One said, "Razai li, razai li" — "My secret is My own." This is a secret hidden within the Holy One Himself. The Holy One alone decides whom He will choose, and who it will be. So long as the Holy One has not declared and chosen anyone, I only ever say: would that I merit to be the donkey that carries Mashiach! Would that I could do everything possible — however one puts it, I do everything I can to help bring him, everything I can so that it happens.
And I always say: with Hashem's help, when Mashiach comes, I'm going on vacation — I want to get away a little, to be alone, to rest from all this exile. I am not seeking crowns, not seeking any messianic claim — that holds no interest for me at all. I always tell people: don't search for the Mashiach — search for how Mashiach will come. Search for the Holy One Himself. We are not, once again, searching for flesh and blood; we need to understand that.
When we speak of redemption, of Mashiach, we are speaking of the Kingship of Hashem. We are tired of flesh and blood, of human kingdoms and dominions — tired of some new figure standing up to tell us what to do. That is not it. That is not where it's coming from.
That is not what is destined to arrive. What is destined to arrive is a revelation from Heaven. We need the Holy One Himself to reign over us — the Holy One Himself as King. We must ask for the King — for the Holy One — and that is where I direct everyone who comes to me: only to the Creator.
And that is why He hears, answers, and protects.
Addressing Accusations of Publicity Stunts
[Interviewer: We're sitting here with the Rav in such an authentic setting, hearing this entire remarkable story. And yet, we hear all kinds of people outside saying: everything happening around the Rav Hinuka is just PR — that people were specifically brought in to publicize this. How does the Rav actually see all these voices circulating?]
I'll tell you — there is indeed a "publicist" behind all this, and you know Him well. We all know Him — it's the Holy One. I don't believe, and I say this with certainty, that ever — not once, ever — has anyone... and more than that, I have actively fled from every camera.
I give classes; I have several groups of students. Some didn't want any recording at all. At the time, I said: don't publicize my classes, don't film me. There are entire lecture series that exist only in audio — thousands of classes in audio alone — because I never agreed to have a camera present.
One group of students said: no, don't listen to the Rav on this, put a camera there anyway — someday people will want this footage; set it up quietly, the Rav won't even notice, this will otherwise be lost, and the Rav will one day thank us for preserving the Torah. Do it discreetly. Others said: do what the Rav says goes — no camera, the Rav said no. So sometimes, if you look at older recordings, you'll suddenly see a camera positioned far away, oddly placed. Why? I was once asked exactly this question — why some old footage was filmed from a strange distance — and I explained: I fled from this, and I still flee from it.
I tell you honestly — I don't need it. I don't care what the world thinks of me; I care about doing good in the world and doing good for the sake of the Holy One. I never needed publicity, never. And more than that — I know that one of my own students was willing to pay a very large sum to anyone who could actually identify whoever is supposedly running this "PR campaign." He offered a reward, a gift, to whoever could produce the actual person — whoever was paid to do this, whoever arranged it — find them, bring proof, and receive a large sum. You could ask yourself afterward who it was (that made this challenge); he really would pay it, a substantial prize, to anyone who could identify that supposed operator. So I tell you — thankfully, we never needed anything like that. It is completely clean. And precisely But those with understanding will see through it.
We don't need to descend to that level; we don't need any of it. Torah sits humbly, in a corner — that is my path: simplicity and humility. The Holy One is the One who has done all of it. All of it, all of it, all of it. I only run from honor, only run from all of these things.
On Music and Melody
[Interviewer: One last question. We see something special in the Rav's connection to music — the Rav already mentioned this earlier. What is the real reason the Rav personally plays music for the congregation after every class, every gathering?]
Look — I love music deeply, for several reasons. First, I love its simplicity. The simplicity of playing — when a person plays music, you see who he truly is. Do you know when you see a person's true self? When he begins to dance. King David danced and leapt with abandon, and Michal, daughter of Shaul, mocked him for it — as if to say, that was beneath him. But what's wrong with dancing? In dance, in melody, you see simplicity, pure and unguarded.
I love that simplicity deeply. I'm not trying to project some image — with music, there's just simplicity. I play, yes, I'm a musician. I love being a musician, playing together with other artists; when people want a niggun from me, I play, because a niggun is what connects the congregation, brings people joy, gives people hope. You see people happy, dancing. I would have loved, honestly, to be a singer — I don't have a beautiful voice, but I know... I once wanted to read Torah publicly more, or... I like being a bit of a chazzan, trying my hand at it now and then. I don't think that's really my area, but I deeply love music, singing — I love it, I'm telling you the truth.
That kind of simplicity — Hashem gave me this gift, so instead of expressing it through singing with my mouth, I express it through playing. And music also connects you deeply to the Holy One. Music brings you to a place that disconnects you from the noise of people, disconnects you from the world — suddenly there's only the melody, the sound, and it is so moving, and it draws you close to the Holy One.
And also, you know, after everything you go through, everything you hear — the melody is like something that tells you: take this, release it, play a niggun born of feeling, and it will always accompany you. There's a niggun I composed... all my niggunim came to me in the moment I played them, and it was recorded. It's as if the niggun simply emerged, complete, right then. For instance, I have a niggun called "There Is Hope," which I composed after a session receiving the public that had been full of tragedies and hardship — I simply sat there for two hours, in the early morning, before dawn, sitting like that, and I thought: wow, today was hard. It's terrifying, sometimes — you see difficult sights, someone brings a child wrapped in tubes, someone comes with a tumor, someone with something in their abdomen, someone with all sorts of things... you hear terrible things. There was a child once — a very difficult story, a very young child — and I cried a great deal and was deeply broken over it. Thank G-d, today — thank Hashem for He is good — that child came through the danger; there's no illness now, nothing, it’s a tremendous joy.
But that same night, that same morning, after the sunrise prayers, I composed — I sat, I played, and many of my niggunim have come out that way, on Tuesdays after receiving the public, at all hours. That particular niggun came out immediately as I played it — it became "There Is Hope." And there's another niggun that came from a time I felt a very broken heart myself, a real loneliness, and I cried out to Hashem, prayed to Him — so I called that niggun "Alone on the Road." I feel deeply connected to it. I called it "Alone on the Road" because it was as if I wanted it to help me further, to be heard, to help me on my own path. So I named the niggun "Alone on the Road." Every niggun carries meaning — something that says “be strong, have courage”. There's a niggun I composed for someone who was truly broken, on the verge of despair, and I managed to restore his spirit — so I called that niggun "Chazak Ve'ematz," "Be Strong and Courageous." And you know — music serves a purpose of its own. I don't play just to play.
I play with intention. Every niggun carries a purpose. Every niggun carries a message. The atmosphere of music after a class carries a message too — to bring joy.
It always comes with purpose. I don't do anything without purpose — that's my guiding line. Music has a purpose. You know, at the feast of Achashverosh, there was everything — except music. Achashverosh feared that if they heard music, their hearts would turn back to their G-d.
Closing Blessing for Sukkot
[Interviewer: First, in closing, thank you to the Rav for dedicating so much time to us — truly, this entire fascinating story. A message of strength for the Jewish people…]
This is really just the short version. Understand — there are so many more details, so many more things...
[Interviewer: Fascinating to hear.]
Very interesting, indeed. With Hashem's help, we'll expand on it. But there's so much — it's a gripping story. You can't imagine how many more moving things there are, from so many other things. There are also many things, you understand, that can't always be explained, because there isn't time to explain them, and also because one needs to know how to explain them properly.
Many things, many facets, many directions — in guidance, in Torah. There's so much to discuss, but that too will come.
[Interviewer: We're heading into the days of Sukkot. Can you offer a message of strength for the Jewish people as we approach the festival.]
A message of strength for Israel, for Sukkot. You know, on Sukkot we sit — "in booths shall you dwell." We all sit inside the sukkah and look up at the sky. You notice, if you follow the order of the festivals — we have Sukkot, we have Pesach, we have Shavuot.
Shavuot symbolizes the person consumed by the pursuit of money. Whoever has wealth and is constantly preoccupied with it is told: now it's Shavuot — the giving of the Torah. That's it, finished. Now you occupy yourself only with Torah.
King David, of whom it is said his mouth never ceased from Torah study — David was a king, and still he never stopped studying Torah. What do you imagine for yourself? Sit and learn Torah. And for the wealthy person, Shavuot breaks his craving for money — he must now stay awake through the entire night learning Torah. On Pesach, a person who all year loves rich foods, bread, leavened dishes — for one week, there's no craving for food at all. That's it, stop eating as you please. It breaks his appetite; he eats matzah instead, and it's hard for him — he isn't used to eating matzah suddenly, and it's difficult. Fine. Then comes Sukkot — the great wealthy man, accustomed to his palace, his domain.
He's told: listen, you don't sit in your house now — go outside, sit here, you now sit like everyone else; all of you sit in sukkot, look up at the sky. The Holy One arranged this specifically to happen in this kind of weather — not for nothing, as the Gemara says in Avodah Zarah, page 3: in the future, the Holy One will say to the nations of the world, "let's see you now" — all of you who shouted and made noise, claiming you want to serve Me — He gives them a taste of blazing heat, and they kick against the sukkah, unable to remain there even a moment. But to the people of Israel, the Holy One says: come, take up the sukkah in weather that has already begun to turn cold. People find it genuinely difficult to be in the sukkah at this time of year — by moving temporarily into a fragile, makeshift dwelling, one comes to understand that this world is not the true one.
Have compassion on yourself; listen carefully to the good inside you, be good, do good, focus on the good, see what is good, and lift your eyes to the heavens. Look at the sechach, the covering above you — the Divine Presence is closer to you there than anywhere else. You don't need to travel anywhere during Sukkot — not to graves of tzaddikim, not anywhere. During Sukkot, the Divine Presence rests upon the Holy One's dwelling with you, right here, right above your head. Pray.
The holy Shelah writes that people used to kiss the walls of the sukkah, kiss the sechach — everything about it is holy. Entering a sukkah is like entering a mikveh — these are the only two places where your entire body enters at once: the mikveh, and the sukkah. You sit in the sukkah, and its very purpose — a home exists for hospitality, and so does the sukkah. That is why being in the sukkah carries such a profound message.
No matter what you have — all the wealth in the world, whether you are the richest or the poorest — everyone, in the end, sits in the same sukkah. No matter what, no matter how hard life is for you, how difficult your livelihood, how heavy your burdens feel, and it seems as though everything is closing in on you and your hardship is overwhelming — know that the light will come. The people of Israel are compared to olives: the more you press and crush them, the more oil flows out. Everything you have suffered, everything you have endured, will in the end become for you extraordinary vessels.
That is the message of Sukkot: that you can emerge from anything, and you should never feel alone, because the Holy One always envelops you — so always lift your eyes to the heavens.
[Interviewer: Thank you so much, Rav, for these wonderful words.]
Thank you very much, my friend. May you have a joyous holiday — and... you managed to draw out of me a few words, truly from the heart.
[Interviewer: It is for the merit of the public. Thank G-d. Thank you so much — a good and sweet year.]
A good year, a good sealing. I was glad to meet you. You are all welcome to come pray with us, any time you'd like.
Amen, amen.
[Interviewer: Thank you so much, honored Rav — a good year and a good sealing, much success, a good life, all the best.]