Your Granddaughter

How does one's legacy live on after they pass away?

What happens to the prayers I recite on behalf of the sick when, unbeknownst to me, they have already died?

Is "fool" the correct term to attribute to me for praying for someone who already passed away?

How do I sum up my Saba's life in one blog post?

What is my first actual memory with my Saba?

I have been grappling with these questions ever since I received the news last night that my grandfather, my dear Saba passed away.

With blissful innocence (or maybe ignorance?), I had been praying for his recovery the entire holiday. He passed away on Simchas Torah day. This is no surprise given his complete love and dedication to the Torah.

If you have been following me for a while now, you already know that my Saba is the absolute love of my life.

My grandmother put it best when, on the rare occasions she would express her affection for my Saba publicly, she would remark, “They don’t make men like Saba anymore”.

And while I almost always shoot back equally sharp comments to my grandmother's commentary, this is the only time I do not challenge her words. I am sure she is laughing in heaven, wagging her finger and muttering "I told you so!" as I type these next words, but (as usual) my grandmother is correct.

My Saba was, put simply, a humble giant.

Have you ever heard of a Rabbi of a Shul whose seat is in the back of the room?

Have you ever seen a community leader sit on a simple wooden bench to pray, and not a royal velvet chair?

Have you ever seen a leader so respected by his neighborhood, that merely being in his presence is considered the greatest honor?

That was my Saba.

He was a paradox of a person really. My Saba endured pain and suffering that no human should have to go through. Growing up in poverty stricken Yemen in the 1930's, he was orphaned at the young age of 10. He and the rest of the Jews living there suffered under severe Islamic rule in Yemen. And then he finally arrived to the promised land, Israel via Operation Magic Carpet, only to be taunted by the Israeli government for being observant Jews. My Saba watched as fellow Jews forced Yemenites to remove their beards and the traditional, long payot (sidelocks).

"You won't need those here", they declared with arrogance.

Although my grandparents met soon after their arrival in Israel, they lost their two eldest children to what my grandparents till this day believe was part of the Lost Children's Affair.

Shockingly, though, these hardships did not harden my Saba. And even more shockingly, I did not know about these hardships until much later in life, and even then, only when I pushed for answers. As I learned about the details of his life, it blew me away that a person who encountered so much suffering did not become callused.

I believe this is because my Saba never dwelt on the injustices in his life, of which there were many. Like the knit Kippa that never left his head, my Saba wore an unwavering faith in G-d, a second skin-a constant presence, a foundation of the Jew he was.

For the first eighteen years of my life, I only knew my grandparents through stories my mother shared. We lived in Seattle and they all the way in Netanya. The tales we always heard about my Saba were about his love for G-d, Torah and his family, especially his grandchildren and, as I always tried to get him to admit- especially me. (He never did admit it though, the peacemaker that he was, always declaring that he loved all his grandchildren the same.)

That is why the early recollections I have of my Saba are concoctions of my mind, a fusion of my own vivid imagination and details my mother shared with us about her dear father. These details were always about how much my Saba valued his Jewish identity.

Like the story of how he learned how to read upside down, because the school he attended in Yemen was so poverty stricken, six children shared a book.

He was able to read Hebrew upside down quicker than I could read it right side up.

The story of how my Saba sang his beautiful Yemenite melodies, how those ancient songs carried him through his life.

How he loved to chant those melodies with his grandchildren, as I drummed along on the hand drum.

The story of how my Saba knew the entire Torah by heart.

"You tell him any word from the Torah", my mother would relay to us with pride, "and he will tell you exactly which Perek it could be found".

Unlike most grandchildren, I first met my Saba when I was eighteen years old. I remember feeling nervous as my aunt walked me to their humble house on Rechov Ehud Ben Gera.

Would he meet the expectations my mother set so high? Would he be at all like the man from the stories I heard all these years? And, most importantly: would he love me? I asked myself.those questions as I saw my Saba's small figure walking toward me with his long strides.

I discovered the answers as I got to know my Saba. I spent Shabbat afternoons at my grandparent's house, danced with my Saba at family weddings, toasted Lchaim over Sukkot parties. Within a week, it felt like I had known this man all my life. He had, as usual, exceeded all expectations. It was, quite literally, love at first sight. From the moment we met, he completely and whole heartedly loved me entirely. The parts of me that others find irritating (my loudness, my candor, my stubbornness just to name a few), he absolutely adored.

After my parents moved back to Israel a few years ago, my siblings and I began visiting twice a year. From the moment I arrived in Ben Gurion, I became my Saba's tail. I followed his every move and demanded to do everything with him:

Early morning strolls to the local marketplace, my Saba linking arms with me tight, clutching onto me with pride like I was a gold medal and he the winner. We all know I was the winner.

Learning Torah with him over coffee and Bamba as the early sun streamed in through the frosted window behind him. He had the aura of angel in those moments.

Reading the newspaper with him on his front porch, every so often watching as he put his hands in his bulging pocket and slipped me a few of of his favorite mints.

Each moment with him is a pigmented fragment of glass that composes the stained glass of my heart. I hold them close to me, scared they will shatter.

In every picture you see of me and my Saba, you will notice him completely engaged in whatever activity he is doing and me staring at him in awe, totally enamored by his presence. You can tell from the title picture of this post. My Saba gazes lovingly at his Sefer while I gaze lovingly at him.

I remember one day waiting at the bus stop with my father. A woman sitting on the bench saw me and my Saba approaching.

“Shvi!”, she commanded. My grandfather obeyed. I snapped a quick picture of him, sitting on the metal bench with his cane perched next to him.

He laughed as he caught me taking a picture of him, like he didn't understand why I was so in awe of him, or why anyone was so in awe of him. I think that was part of his charm though, that he was completely oblivious to his exceptionality.

To know my Saba was to be loved. And love he did.

I think that's what blew me away about him really. That despite the hardships G-d served him, he never ever stopped loving- loving G-d, loving his Jewish identity, loving his community and, most importantly, loving his family.

Saba, you used to call me your dugmanit yafyafit, your beautiful fashion model.

The truth is though Saba, you are my model. My model for how to be a proud a Jew, for how to love people unconditionally, and, most importantly, my model for how to lead.

I am reminded of a poem I wrote about you a few months back:

one sunday i went to your synagogue with you

the one you have been the rabbi of for years

and i was confused

instead of sitting in the front of the room

on a chair lined with red velvet

a chair fitting for a king

a leader’s chair

you walked to the back of the room

to a worn wooden bench

where the rest of the neighborhood prayed

and you sat on it

bent over a prayer book

you began your conversation with G-d

you looked as peaceful as an angel

i watched as you sat on that bench

and i knew then

that a good leader

stands in the front

but a great leader

leads from the back

-a great leader

Saba, that is what you were in your essence- a great leader. Not just to your community and neighborhood, but a leader to your family. From poverty and adversity, you built a family so deeply in love with our Jewish and Yemenite heritage, a family who refuses to be victims of life's circumstances.

And now I am left to reconcile with the unbelievable pain of your absence. It tore my heart apart today, speaking to my mother before Shabbos and stopping myself from ending the conversation how I usually do when I hang up with her, "Tell Saba I say hi". I can no longer say hi to you.

Perhaps one of the saddest parts of your passing is the realization that I will not merit to introduce my future husband and children to you.

They will never feel the prickliness of your beard as you kiss them hello, never hear the sound of your footsteps as you enter your house on Rechov Ehud Ben Geirah, never smell the scent of coffee and tobacco as you hug them goodbye.

But I can promise you this Saba: That one day when I have a family of my own and I raise them with the lessons you have instilled in me- the pride and joy of being Jewish, the unconditional love you extended to me, the idea that faith in G-d is the only constant in life- they will absolutely know my Saba.

So how will your legacy live on Saba? We will walk in your footsteps, taking long and steady strides towards your values just like you walked toward me the first time we met.

The prayers I uttered on your behalf when you had already passed away? I believe they helped make your departure from this world a peaceful one.

And as for calling myself a fool? If my Saba were to hear me say that he would remark,"You are not a fool, you are a believer, you are my granddaughter"

I have received many titles over my years of living- teacher, tutor, babysitter, head counselor, sister, daughter. But the title I am most proud to wear is "your granddaughter".