Shining a Light in a Dark Place

I remember my first Jewish experience in India. I arrived in Mumbai in June 2008, contemplating both the monsoon weather and the possibility of Jewish life in India.

On my first Shabbat, I stumbled through the narrow walkways of Kala Ghoda in historic South Mumbai until I heard the familiar sounds of Hebrew prayer emanating from the pale blue, late-19th-century Knesset Eliyahoo synagogue.

After the service ended, the young, bearded rabbi wished me "Shabbat Shalom" and struck up conversation in a Hebrew-inflected American accent, developed from years of praying in Brooklyn, I imagined. The rabbi introduced himself as "Gavi" and invited me to the Chabad House for dinner. When I declined his offer, as I already had plans, he generously told me I could come any time.

I never did take Gavi up on his offer, caught up as I was in my work, social life, and other outlets of Jewish MumbaiI never did take Gavi up on his offer, caught up as I was in my work, social life, and other outlets of Jewish Mumbai. Five months later, when I was home in Cleveland for Thanksgiving, I learned shocking news from CNN. This young rabbi, Gavriel Holtzberg, and his wife Rivki were tragically murdered on Nov. 26 along with four others in a three-day standoff with Pakistani terrorists at the Chabad center. The attack was part of a terrorist siege that also included two Mumbai luxury hotels, a hospital and a café, which paralyzed India's largest metropolis and left more than 160 dead.

My friend and fellow Clevelander Ethan Kay lamented to me at the time that he had lost two friends in the attacks. I didn't realize then I would come to know those he lost so well after their demise.

On my emotional return to Mumbai after the attacks – the first terrorist attack on Jews in India and possibly the first major public act of anti-Semitism there – I knew I would need the Jewish community by my side more than ever before. Instead of avoiding the community that was targeted, I again journeyed to the old synagogue for Friday night prayer. There I met Rabbi Dov from Paris, the temporary replacement. Just like Rabbi Gavi, he approached me after the service and invited me to Shabbat dinner at Chabad. This time I accepted, participating in the first Chabad Shabbat in Mumbai after the attacks.

Because the Chabad House was severely damaged in the attacks, the dinner was held in makeshift quarters. We walked for about 30 minutes through side streets and major thoroughfares. I kept the kipah on my head, following the rabbi and his entourage. He was dressed in full beard, tall black hat, and long black robe. Only weeks after terrorists had targeted the Chabad House, we walked confidently through the dark streets, signaling to Mumbai that, like the rest of the city, we, too, would be resilient.

Standing in the basement restaurant of a clandestine hotel in what could have been 1930s Munich or 1980s Moscow, I recited the kiddush. So began my eight-month journey into post-Gavi and -Rivki Chabad Mumbai.

I didn't go to Chabad every week, but I went with some frequency. I observed Shabbat at three different locations and was served hot kosher meals by at least 10 different rabbis. The scene around the table was never the same from one Friday to the next. There were a few regulars whom I got to know, but otherwise the seats were filled with Israeli backpackers and diamond dealers, European businessmen and at times American and Australian tourists.

I observed Shabbat at three different locations and was served hot kosher meals by at least 10 different rabbisIn this sea of change though, there was one constant. Aside from the regular prayers in memory of Gavi and Rivki, their traditions were practiced with great vitality. After the meal but before bentching (saying the grace after the meal), the rabbi would ask everyone around the table to introduce himself or herself – name, hometown, and then do one of four options: 1) Discuss the parshah (weekly Torah portion); 2) tell an inspirational story; 3) sing a Hebrew song (with help from the table); or 4) pledge to do a mitzvah. Because it was Gavi's tradition, everyone willingly obliged.

As Mumbai geared up to commemorate the anniversary of the attacks, I called Ethan. Together we attended Shabbat dinner in Mumbai on Nov. 27, 2009 – one year and one day after the attacks begun.

On many occasions I had attended Chabad meals with little more than two rabbis and three other observers. On this night, however, we were greeted at the new, temporary clandestine quarters by a long table of 25-30 people. Among them were the parents and brother of Gavi Holtzberg and the sister of his wife Rivki. Sitting across from Mrs. Holtzberg, I read the pain in her eyes. I felt both the anger and pride emanating from Meir Holtzberg, back in the place where his elder brother had sacrificed his life.

When it was Meir's turn to speak, he related a portion of the parshah to his brother and sister-in-law and their work in Mumbai. He talked about how shining a light in a dark place makes a far larger impact than shining a light in an already well-lit space.

My spine shivered as Rabbi Holtzberg, Gavi's father, spoke about a young Australian couple whom Gavi and Rivki had hosted in Mumbai little more than a year before, advising them to marry. On the occasion of their marriage this year, the couple invited Gavi's parents to take the place of Gavi and Rivki.

Ethan stood up next to me, reminiscing about his last Shabbat in Mumbai, which had occurred at the old Chabad House and was hosted by Gavi and Rivki. He recalled the warmness of his hosts and the empty feeling he experienced one year ago when learning of the tragedy. Many others relived their fond memories of the couple.

I glanced in the direction of Rabbi Holtzberg, imagining that he gave me a nod of approval passed on from his sonAnd then I stood up, unsure if I had anything inspirational to say. After all, I had only met Gavi once for a few minutes. I never knew Chabad Mumbai before Nov. 26. I glanced in the direction of Rabbi Holtzberg, imagining that he gave me a nod of approval passed on from his son.

I reiterated his point about the couple being alive through the actions of others. Over the past year, I felt as if I had gotten to know Gavi and Rivki quite well. I had heard so many stories about how they worked tirelessly for five years building a community and a sanctuary for Jewish residents and visitors alike. Through Gavi and Rivki, I had found a home away from home, and because of them, I never knew Mumbai to be a dark place. They had already brought the light by the time I arrived.