An Extraordinary Life Lived

 

 

 

 

The last time I saw my Father z'l

The following is the eulogy I delivered at my father’s funeral on Monday 18th October, 2010. His full name was Dr Reading A Dallal. Perhaps I will post a history of his life soon, it is well worth reading to ponder if there are such men with such passion in the world anymore.

There is an audio available as well. However, some of my Hebrew-impaired friends might not understand the references herein. There is a solution to this: 1. Google it. 2. Call a friend 3. Ask the audience 4. Figure it out. Cmon, youre smart. Otherwise why would you be reading my blog? But seriously folks, just be with me in the moment and realise that my father was an extraordinary man. A Mentsch. A Mentsch Plus. They dont make em like that anymore.

Thanks for tuning in. We’ll be back with our regularly scheduled programme next week.

Abba’le.

Such a man. You were a legend, Abba. You were destined to be someone great. And Hashem led you on a journey from your place of birth to this day. You had a mission to fulfil in this world and on Shabbos, you completed your task.

Some people live their entire lives not knowing why they are here. They search from one interest to the other, one relationship to the next, always unsure. But not you, Abba. You knew from the time you were a child, with the strongest conviction, that your life was meant to be a journey.

You called yourself, “a wandering Jew.” You always said – where am I from? Israel? Iraq? America! But HKBH summoned you on Parashas Lech Lcha for a reason. To show us, the ones who are left behind, that it is not just the completion and destination that matters, but just as Avraham was shown – the mission is in the journey.

Like Avraham, you too left your homeplace and went to Eretz Yisrael. This past Shabbos, we hosted a Sheva Brochos for a choson and kallah. And Levi, your grandson – Levi Ephraim – who was named after your father, gave a drosho. He said, “When people come to a new place – they are facing three main challenges: no one knows them, they have no money and they have no relatives or children. When Hashem told Avram to go to Eretz Kena’an, he promised him these three things: his name would become great, he would have vast wealth and he would have many children.”

Like Avraham, Abba – you came to Israel and America where no one knew you and you had virtually nothing. But there is one lesson you taught us above all in our lives: that anything is possible.

As a solider in the Israeli Army

To live on a ma’abara?? you had your barmitzvah in a tent – which 13 year old boy would stand for that today? You were the middle child of nine, and supported your brother and sisters at a young age and helped them through school, walking them home, picking them up and often taking jobs to pay for their school fees. I cannot think of a teenager who can get up in the morning, let alone do what you did. Then, you came to America.

So brave, no fear – because you never had anything to fear, did you. And you believed that anything was possible.

• So you came to a place where no one knew you and you had nothing – but again you believed – that anything was possible.

 

• So you knocked on doors and called people up – can I teach your son/daughter to read Hebrew?

 

• So you went to a Christian university to get an education when no one would accept you. And they took you in and you refused to go to prayers looking them straight in the eye and proclaiming you were a proud Jew. Because you believed…that anything was possible.

 

• So you marched your way into summer camps and Hebrew schools, shuls, high schools and universities – surpassing all their expectations of a teacher extraordinaire. You were larger than life.

 

• And you married, took on countless jobs and had three children, 15 grandchildren –bought houses and built eight new shuls, supported so many charities, were so devoted to the community… because you believed…that anything was possible.

 

• And you, Abba – you gained a doctorate and wrote a book, you travelled and you didn’t stop after your retirement – because retirement was not in your vocabulary – you learned and taught Arabic, then Chinese….because again you believed that anything was possible.



 

• And then, just a year ago – you fell ill, but your spirit was strong and against all odds you defied everyone’s predictions and you came storming through to prove to all of us – that ANYTHING is possible.

 

And Hashem granted you a second chance, Abba.

I told you this last year and you listened. You felt honoured and privileged that you were given more time in this world and you promised me you would change your health for the better and you did.

And Hashem granted you another year, Abba.

One in which you would live to see another grandchild, and hear of another one coming, one in which you would be restored to a good state of health and you would celebrate the yomim tovim once more.

But I believe Hashem granted you these things because you willingly and lovingly accepted your journey and your mission in life. Nothing was ever too hard for you and you made every minute last a lifetime. Even when you were in your weakest moments in the hospital, you asked to put on tefillin – how will we ever forget that image.

How can we, your children, not see this journey as the greatest lesson from the greatest teacher!?

And your students – SO MANY STUDENTS. Each one was like a child to you. The Ben Ish Chai taught that a hesped is an honour for the dead and an honour for the living. As the soul continues to live on in the people who are left behind. And you were a teacher of the highest calling, surely your soul will live on in your students. Abba – I have something to confess. When we were young, we would wait for you to come home from teaching your students. You bounded in, always in a rush, and spoke about your day. Your students were always amazing and there were countless stories about them. They visited our home and became part of our lives. You cared about each one as if they were your own. And my confession is…..that as children, we were jealous. Everyone knew us as “Mar Dallal’s children.”

But then we grew older and everything we had seen we absorbed into our own lives with our own children. The passion, the pride, the excitement, the honesty, the integrity, the commitment to community and family, the way you took care of Mommy, the humility with which you regarded your heritage and history, the great respect you showed everyone from the school janitors to great Rabbonim – we saw and learned everything from you, Abba. So no, we were wrong to be jealous because we had the best teacher of all. And the day you began to be known as “Yael Simon’s father, Oreet Kaufman’s father and Eytan Dallal’s father” were probably the proudest days of your life.

And your compassion, your intensity – granted to all those who knew you. You did so many things in secret, gave so much tzedakah, things we will never find out. You opened gmachs for people who lost their jobs, hosted tefillos in your home for those who lost their loved ones…because you had a unique understanding of their plight. And that was your gift Abba. You understood people, all people – young and old – at every juncture of their life experiences. Sweet Babies – active children, difficult teenagers, and the elderly – you felt the fabric of their life and you wore it, sowing them all compassion and grace. And your underscore of this understanding was that each and every individual deserves to be treated with dignity. If we learned anything from you, it is to put ourselves in another’s shoes and walk a mile.

But we are left here without you – you were taken too soon. How we wanted to say goodbye to you. You always tried to say goodbye when we left home. You wanted ‘the last supper’, the ‘last car ride to the airport’ the ‘last kiss and hug’. But you left us without saying goodbye this time. And we cannot stop shedding tears of longing to just be with you once more.

Abba, you always loved when we said a dvar torah, so I wouldn’t dare continue without one.

In Neilah on Yom Kippur, we are told that the Gates of Heaven are shutting and we must hurry to beseech Hashem before they shut. The Gemoro Brochos 32b says that at the time of the Churban of the Bais Hamikdosh although all the gateways to heaven were sealed, the gateway of tears always remains open. The question is, if the gates of tears are never closed then why are there gates in the first place?

The Gerer Rebbe explained that although sincere tears always gain admission above, the gates were needed to shut out false tears. the numerical value of BECHI – weeping is equal to that of LEV- heart which is 32, because tears are meaningful only if they are sincere expressions of the heart.

There is a beautiful story about Rabbi Aryeh Levin, a man of rare compassion and sensitivity. Once a distraught, recently widowed woman came to him and cried uncontrollably. All of his efforts to console her were of no avail. Finally the widow said that she would accept consolation if he could please answer the following question.

“Please tell me what happened to all of my tears? I prayed and prayed for my late husband, I recited chapter after chapter of Tehilim, and shed thousands upon thousands of tears. My very soul flowed into those tears. Were they all wasted?”

Gently, Rav Aryeh replied, “After a hundred and twenty years, when you will leave this world and ascend to the heavenly tribunal, you will see how meaningful and precious your tears were. You will discover that Hashem Himself gathered them in and counted every single teardrop and treasured it like a priceless gem. And you will discover that, whenever some harsh and evil decree was looming over the Jewish people, one of your tears came and washed the evil away, making it null and void. Even one sincere tear is a source of salvation!”

Hearing this the woman burst into a fresh flow of tears – not tears of sorrow and grief, but tears of courage and hope.

Abba – we will have our time now to cry that you are gone. But with your blessing, looking down on us, your children, I promise you that we will turn those tears into courage, hope and triumph

There are things we inherit from our parents and grandparents – one of those things is passion. You are now reunited with your mother, your father and all your ancestors who accompanied you at every step of your journey. From Iraq to every aliyah to the Torah – Ephraim, Ezra, Rachamim, Yechezkel, Shlomo and David. Ashreinu Mah Tov Chelkeinu that we all have been blessed with your passion. Now we accompany you, Abba, on the last part of your journey. We will make our own journeys in this world and take all of the lessons you have taught us, we will use every minute and serve Hashem with simcha. We will make you proud of us – you will look down on us and see what you have carried down from your ancestors – peace between people, shalom bayis, peace in the family.

Because today of all days, we must believe – that anything is possible.

One day, Abba. We will see you again – with the Biyas Goel Tzedek.

May your petira be the last, and may we all be zoche to bilah hamaves lanetzach umacha Hashem dimah m’al kol panim.