Healing Hands: A Volunteer’s Experience

Man lying on a treatment table receiving physical therapy איש על שולחן טיפולים מקבל פיזיותרפיה

By Samuel Esterson

Shabbat, Shmini Atzeret, October 7, 2023, is a day that will not soon be forgotten by Jews worldwide. The story of the brutal attack and the ensuing bloodbath is well known by now. So, too, are the heartening actions taken by Jews around the world, who joined in unity for prayer, rallies, fundraising, and volunteer missions to show support to our Israeli brethren in distress. One of the less obvious outcomes of the Gaza war has been the massive downsizing and closures of businesses, medical centers, and a dearth of manpower on farms and kibbutzim as a result of most of the young work force being called up to military duty. In response, organizations mobilized volunteers from around the world to travel to Israel and help in any way possible, from picking ripe fruit off trees to packing supplies for soldiers. Those with emergency medical skills and healthcare training were invited to sign up to be activated when and if the need arose. One such organization is the Emergency Volunteer Project (EVP), a disaster relief and rescue organization whose primary mission is to recruit and deploy international volunteer teams to Israel in times of crisis. Baltimorean and Pikesville volunteer firefighter Captain Scott Goldstein is EVP’s director of medical and civilian recruitment. It was through EVP’s Baltimore connection that I heard about the dire need for physical rehabilitation personnel in Israel. In fact, many hospitals were short-staffed, some down by 50% due to the army call-up of necessary military personnel.

I felt a responsibility and a deep desire to help in this crisis. I knew I could join a synagogue mission or help on a farm, but I felt that more beneficial to Israel would be my professional skills as a physiotherapist. Ironically, last year, on a whim and as a personal challenge, I decided to sit for the Israeli Physiotherapy National Board Examination that newly minted physiotherapy graduates in Israel must pass in order to be licensed to practice. At age 65, I was the oldest person taking the exam. I was later told that the candidates sitting for the exam that day thought I was a mole planted to keep an eye out for cheaters on the exam! Other foreign physiotherapists wanting to volunteer in Israel were forced to wait while their credentials and license status were vetted by the Israeli Ministry of Health. Who would have guessed that holding an Israeli physiotherapy license would allow me immediate access to volunteer such a short time later?

It was not long after I signed up with EVP that I was deployed to the only rehabilitation hospital in Israel’s south, ADI NEGEV, under the medical direction of Dr. Shilo Kramer. Dr. Kramer is an American who was educated and trained in New York and now lives in Beit Shemesh. Founded in 2005, the 40-acre ADI Negev-Nahalat Eran Rehabilitation Village was named to honor the memory of Eran Almog, the late son and guiding light of founders Didi and Major General (Res.) Doron Almog. Fueled by his love for Eran, who was born with severe autism and cognitive disabilities, Doron Almog led the creation of the one-of-a-kind rehabilitation village in Israel’s south, a community where people from diverse backgrounds and all levels of ability can live, heal, and grow together.

The village has fully accessible residential villas for people with multiple disabilities and complex medical conditions, an intensive care hospital wing, special education school, green care farm, hydrotherapy and sports therapy complexes, a therapeutic horse stable and petting zoo, and, most recently, a new Rehabilitation Medical Center – the first-ever rehabilitation hospital in Israel’s south. There is onsite housing for staff and their families as well. Before the Rehabilitation Hospital at ADI NEGEV opened, there were only 850 rehabilitation beds in all of Israel, and none of them were located in the south. Built near the city of Ofakim on the border with Gaza, ADI NEGEV hospital has taken a major role in treating and rehabilitating those injured on October 7th and many others who have sustained major war-related and other trauma in Gaza.

Ofakim is a small town with a population of about 35,000, 15 miles east of the Gaza border and 12 miles west of the large Israeli city of Be’er Sheva. According to Israeli authorities, Ofakim is the furthest point of the 30 locations the Hamas terrorists struck on October 7th. On that fateful morning, a group of Hamas terrorists launched a surprise deadly attack on Ofakim, threatening a larger massacre comparable to those happening in other areas closer to the Gaza envelope. Interestingly, even though ADI NEGEV Hospital adjoins Ofakim geographically, the signage on the main road leading to the hospital lists the facility as an educational institution. When Hamas planned their attack, they skipped over ADI NEGEV thinking that it was a school and schools are closed on Saturday. While several families were tragically murdered in Ofakim that day, the community, for the most part, managed to avoid a massive slaughter due to the efforts of remarkable first-responders, one of whom was the local community rabbi, Rabbi Shachar Butzchak. More on Rav Shachar later.

At the time of my deployment in February, only El Al was flying the direct route between the U.S. and Israel. I was instructed to fly from Newark Liberty Airport, only to be later rerouted through Miami. The flights were long and arduous with various delays and nearly-missed connections, including having to run 20 minutes from Miami’s domestic terminal to the international terminal (the shuttle was not in service). But my motivation was high and my spirit was not to be broken. I was excited and felt privileged to be part of a team to help treat Israel’s war injured. I arrived at Ben Gurion airport Monday morning, February 19th, exhausted from the flights but energized to begin my service.

The Tel Aviv sky was gloomy, and the air felt moist from a recent rain. Yehuda, my contact at ADI NEGEV, dispatched a taxi to bring me to the hospital campus, and I soon found the cab and sat back for the one-and-a-half-hour drive to Ofakim. Being that most of my prior vacation trips to Israel were during summertime, when the country lacks rain and the terrain looks tan, the landscape on this ride looked oddly very green and lush. Heavy rains started and stopped throughout the trip. We passed farms and kibbutzim, small communities, and industrial complexes.

The taxi driver was a partially retired Sefardic man, very talkative, who told me all about his experiences as a truck driver. I was tired but the banter of his stories kept me awake. When we arrived at the hospital, we passed the security gate and entered the large campus with many new buildings, beautiful gardens, and accessible pathways. At the main hospital entrance, I was met by Nissim, the volunteer coordinator at the hospital, who ended up being one of my apartment roommates. Nissim was very warm and welcoming, quickly assisting me to my apartment and asking me if I needed specific foods or supplies. He gave me a temporary ID badge, which was also a “smart” card that I could use at all the hospital’s vending machines. Prior to my arrival, Nissim stocked the refrigerator with yogurt, cheese, vegetables, and fruits. He also gave me vouchers to get food at the hospital’s cafeteria. The vending machines outside the various rehab clinics, which were stocked with breakfast or lunch in a box, made it convenient during busy workdays to grab a quick bite. The residential part of the campus had multiple white, two-story structures surrounding a green courtyard. Our living quarters were one flight up in a well-appointed, furnished, three-bedroom, two-bath apartment.

After I unloaded my luggage. Nissim walked me to the physiotherapy clinic – a three-minute walk – and there I met the clinical director, Nira Shemesh, an outgoing, warm professional with an appropriate name, as she was warm and bright like the sun. Nira gave me a brief orientation to the hospital, documentation software, patient census, and daily schedule. We then took a walking tour of the administrative offices and the various in- and out-patient clinics (physiotherapy, occupational therapy, communication therapy, psychotherapy, and recreational therapy). There is a large beautiful gym where wheelchair basketball teams from all over Israel compete, as well as athletic programming for neighborhood school children. The well-stocked cafeteria serves salads, soups, pizza, borekas, shakshuka, and such usual Israeli fare. Upstairs are offices and research labs in conjunction with Ben Gurion University in Be’er Sheva, a well-equipped exercise facility specifically for patient use and under professional supervision as part of each patient’s treatment schedule, and a synagogue with bright LED strip lighting, plenty of religious books and siddurim, and comfortable, accessible Kibbutz Lavi wood furniture.

One unusual and fascinating aspect of the shul is the hydraulic pump-controlled center Torah shulchan (reading table) that can be lowered to desk height for individuals in wheelchairs who cannot stand at the table to see when the Torah is read. There are daily minyanim in the synagogue for staff and patients. The front windows of the synagogue face northeast toward Jerusalem and resemble painted landscapes every morning with beautiful sunrises and the lush fields of neighboring farms. I walked around the opposite end of the campus and saw the therapeutic horse stable and small petting zoo; I met the manager, Nitai, a sweet and caring young man, and sat and talked to him for a while. Like others, he and his family live on the hospital campus. Nitai was amazed that Jews from the Diaspora are coming to help Israel at her moment of angst and stress and put out his hands to give me his blessing for a productive and enjoyable experience. Like Nitai, the staff and professionals at ADI NEGEV were, without exception, warm and welcoming, and so appreciative of the volunteers’ commitment to Israel and her people.

Jet lag kept me tossing and turning the first few nights. It did not help that once darkness took over, very loud booms of what I learned were tank fire and missiles from the direction of Gaza, made the glass panes in our windows rattle for hours at a time. This went on most nights; sadly, I got used to it and fell asleep quickly each night. Oddly, once it was sunrise, I do not recall hearing any sounds of war nor was anyone walking around fearful or anxious. It was as if no war was going on.

Tuesday morning, my first official day at work, I got dressed in my clinic scrubs and headed to Shacharit at 6:20 a.m. The davening nusach was Eidot Hamizrach, which took me a good few days to acclimate to. By the end of my three weeks there, I was answering the shaliach tzibbur with all the proper responses like everyone else. Davening was over before 7:00, which gave me about 45 minutes to go back to my apartment, grab some cereal and milk, coffee, and straighten up my room. We had a washer/dryer in the mamad (safe room) next door that I used a few times before starting work. Israeli washing machines routinely boil the clothes, so my white gym socks ended up with a nice blue hue. Being that it was a “sealed room,” the dryer was vented inside the room, that is, the vent duct was just hanging there, unattached. That seemed to lengthen drying times, but what do I know?

After my coffee, I walked over to the physiotherapy clinic. Each day, I was the first person there. The Israeli staff arrives a few minutes before patients arrive, change from street clothes into work clothes, and begin treating the patients. They always come armed with bakery treats to share. The therapists were familiar with their caseloads, so they did not really need any prep time. Being that my orientation the prior day was barebones, I was clueless about the patient population, the flow of the schedule, and the documentation requirements. I caught on quickly and soon knew the patients’ names and diagnoses and their treatment routines, and I became an adopted part of the team. Each patient was seen one-on-one by the therapist for 45 minutes. Documentation was done on the fly or at the end of the workday.

The patient population was split into thirds: One third of the caseload comprised soldiers injured on or after October 7th. The soldiers’ injuries were massive, mostly as a result of wounds from RPG shells, shrapnel, and rifle fire. Post-injury infections were common, which delayed the soldiers’ access to rehabilitation and, as such, the patients were more debilitated upon initiating therapy. The second third of patients treated were people who were injured defending the city of Ofakim on October 7th. These were civilians, either part of the community emergency response team or other citizens who ran to help protect Ofakim from the brutal terrorist attack. Their injuries were sequelae of bullet or shell fire. Most of Ofakim’s dwellings are older construction without safe rooms or bomb shelters. Instead, there are neighborhood safe rooms and designated shelters for emergencies. The final third of patients were middle aged to senior citizens who had fallen and fractured hips and shoulders when running to neighborhood protected areas on October 7th. There were definitely cultural differences but no divisiveness among the groups of patients or among the patients themselves. Having a Yemenite therapist and a Russian-born therapist on staff was surely helpful in both communication and cultural exchange. I used Google Translate for an elderly, blind Ukrainian woman patient who spoke no Hebrew or English. Now that was a challenge! After her first words to me, “Lo Ivrit, Lo Anglit” (no Hebrew, no English), her face lit up when she heard the digital Google voice from my iPhone in Ukrainian asking her to bend her knee!

The physiotherapy staff was young and all female, since the males on staff were called up into reserve duty. Most of the therapists were married, and half were overtly observant, wearing hair coverings. My own caseload was cobbled together with patients who were being seen by the therapists who were called up for reserve duty. Since many patients had been hospitalized for a time prior to my arrival and had developed a rapport with a given therapist, imagine the suspicious and apprehensive looks on the patients’ faces when I showed up on the scene! Thankfully, it did not take long for the patients to warm up to this foreigner. I hit it off with most of the patients, and they enjoyed the upbeat attention I gave them and perhaps a little different treatment perspective and approach than what they had received to date. Between patients, I enjoyed talking to the staff. They were very interested in hearing about my professional experiences and educational background and eager to learn, often approaching me with more complex clinical questions and suggestions for their own patient care. I was impressed with their clinical knowledge and enjoyed their team approach.

Time went fast for me. There was little down time. Patients were brought to the clinic a few minutes before their allotted time by a designated transport person. Eran was a caring, happy young man, always on time, who loved the patients – and they loved him. If I was running a few minutes behind with a patient, the patient waiting for me was sure to let me – and everyone else in the room – know that I was late. Patient self-motivation to improve was impressive, and each patient clearly understood that to improve they had to participate in physiotherapy. I felt that I personally had to concentrate much more there than in Baltimore because of the language difference and my need to plan and communicate clearly with patients and staff.

The camaraderie amongst the patients was amazing – each patient cheering and rooting for his/her colleague to do more, balance better, reach higher, jump further, or just stand without using hands! Specifically, within the soldier group, the motto was to get better to return as fast as possible to each soldier’s respective unit. Actual patient care hours ended about 4:00 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, but it took me longer to type my notes into the patient record online. I closed the clinic, turned out the lights and locked the doors about 5:30 p.m. I then walked back to my apartment, grabbed something to eat, relaxed a bit, and prepared for the evening activity, which was going to an ohel ra’anen – a “refreshment tent.”

These very large structures, about a city block long by two city blocks wide, were erected in open areas around the Gaza envelope. This particular tent was in Gilat, a large moshav nearby. The tent housed long tables and chairs where soldiers exiting Gaza after their missions could come and relax, eat, listen to music, and hang around with friends. Gigantic BBQs were set up outside the tent, and local citizen volunteers from Ofakim and the various area kibbutzim and moshavim would man the serving tables, offering everything from grilled meats and soft drinks to baked goods, chips, and fruits. The aroma throughout the tent was tantalizing!

Months back, a group representing the Israeli Physiotherapy Association began setting up treatment tables in these tents and treated soldiers “on the fly” who were suffering from neck and back, shoulder, and leg pains, from carrying heavy packs or crawling around on the battlefield in Gaza. Similarly, soldiers lined up for our services in the Gilat tent and were so very appreciative, especially after they found out that we were volunteer physiotherapists from the U.S. After I completed a soldier’s treatment, he would invariably stand up, grab the rifle that he had positioned alongside his body on the treatment table, sling it over his shoulder, smile, and ask me, “How about a hug?” Hard to imagine anything more satisfying than that.

One free evening, Yisrael, my partner-in-crime, a volunteer physiotherapist from Connecticut, managed to borrow a car. We drove to nearby Kibbutz Be’eri to pay our respects at the Nova Festival’s grounds where thousands of young people were partying before dawn on October 7th when terrorists poured in from Gaza. In total, 364 people were tortured and murdered there, and around 40 were taken hostage back to Gaza. Those who have witnessed the festival grounds-turned-graveyard have seen the photo posters of those murdered mounted on poles, yahrzeit candles burning, and flowers laid around the memorials of the festival attendees who were brutally killed. A prayer tent and a large charity box are positioned near the markers. Surrounding the open field are innumerable kalaniyot, Israel’s well-known poppy flowers that are the first to blossom when winter rains subside. The juxtaposition of the beautiful, red flowers against the bloody tapestry of death is chilling. Yisrael and I cried, prayed, and sang to honor the souls who were taken from our people that day. On our way back to the hospital, we decided to take a detour to Netivot, a small nearby city, to visit the grave of the holy Baba Sali, the Moroccan Sefardic rabbi and kabbalist renowned for working miracles through his prayers. The memorial is housed in a large building, and people come and go day and night. We stood among many other visitors that evening and prayed for peace and salvation. It was a moving end to a very emotional day.

One of my other free evenings turned out to be a busy reunion of sorts. I had finished my workday, when on my way back to my room, my phone suddenly rang. It was Tidhar Jackson, my “adopted kibbutz brother” from Kibbutz Sa’ad. Unlike the post-high school gap year (or two or three) taken by local day school or yeshiva high school graduates today, in my day, there were only a handful of Israeli yeshivot that took in American boys. An alternative to yeshiva or seminary was a popular kibbutz-based program through the Bnei Akiva religious Zionist youth organization, called Hachshara (preparation). It was created to be a one-year introduction to religious kibbutz socialist living that young men and women would complete and then plan for their aliyah to kibbutz thereafter.

My year had 20-some men and women, of whom many did move to Israel after returning to America for college or other training. In those days, when a participant in the Hachshara program came to the kibbutz, he or she was adopted by a family. That family was that participant’s lifeline to the kibbutz; we ate with the adoptive family and often visited them in the afternoons after work or at the kibbutz pool. Some of us became very connected to our respective kibbutz and families, others, not so much. I was fortunate to have a large adopted family with whom I have remained in touch for more than 50 years. David and Sarah Jackson, my kibbutz adoptive parents, moved to Kibbutz Sa’ad in the 1960s and raised their family there. David was originally from County Cork, Ireland, and Sarah was from Siberia. Tidhar was their youngest son; his voice on the phone that evening had quite an urgency to it.

It turned out that it was David Jackson’s yahrtzeit that day, and the family was all together to commemorate the occasion of their father’s passing. Tidhar was emphatically telling me that I had to come to the kibbutz immediately. He exclaimed, “It is an opportunity of a lifetime to see all of us together, in one place.” In fact, all seven siblings with their respective spouses and children and “Ima” Sarah Jackson were all there. Tidhar related that, as the family was assembled around their father’s grave minutes earlier, one of the sons spoke about how David Jackson was always the one in charge of the American volunteers on the kibbutz – when, suddenly, Tidhar remembered that I was in Israel, close by in Ofakim, volunteering at the hospital, and blurted out to the family, “Wait! Sammy is here! We have to bring him here now!” In short, Tidhar immediately sent a cab to Ofakim and swept me 15 minutes away to Kibbutz Sa’ad so I could take part in the special occasion. I had been in touch with David and Sarah Jackson and several of the children over the years, but I had not seen some of the siblings in 50 years, and certainly not all in one place! It was yet another emotional evening for me, and I felt special being included in the family again. Kibbutz Sa’ad is directly across the road from Kibbutz Kfar Azza, the site of an October 7th massacre, and was fortunately spared mass destruction by alert guards who stemmed a Hamas incursion.

With our five-day work week running from Sunday to Thursday, Friday was a great day to travel to friends and prepare for Shabbat. On both of the Shabbatot that I was there, I managed to travel to friends up north, using various online travel programs to plan my long rides on public transportation. When I was looking online to figure out my travel route, one of the therapists looking over my shoulder freely offered me a ride to a connecting city, which would make my trip more convenient. Since the war, especially in the south, close to the Gaza envelope, certain train and bus routes are rerouted. I must say that the bus and train systems run on time and are very convenient to use. The online bus and train schedules are likewise easy to navigate. But as I was not used to Sunday being a regular work day in Israel, getting back to campus by 8:00 a.m. Sunday morning was a challenge.

As I mentioned above, one of the many heroes of my story is Rav Shachar Butzchak, a young community rabbi in Ofakim, and a member of the first-responder team. This is what Rav Shachar told me as part of my initial examination of him:

“On October 7th, at 7 a.m., I was inside my home and heard gunshots from the direction of the entrance to my neighborhood. I looked outside my window and saw bands of Hamas terrorists speeding down the street in pickup trucks. The terrorists saw a few neighbors having an early coffee outdoors, and began shooting at them. Those were the first gunshots heard in Ofakim, typically a slow, quiet town, especially on Shabbat. I grabbed my handgun and prepared to respond. I asked my wife to take the kids and seek shelter in the protected room, and then went to the street in the direction of the gunfire. I was one of the 10 or so initial citizen responders – armed civilians, police officers, and on-leave soldiers – who went out to confront the terrorists. Once our group was visible to the terrorists, the Hamas men opened fire. The impact was so powerful that the whole road shook; everything flew into the air. Our group advanced toward the gunmen, but no army training taught us how to face a Kalashnikov and an RPG with our simple handguns. The Hamas terrorists confused us by dressing in green army fatigues and wearing ammo belts. Initially, they did not appear to be terrorists, but we were soon ambushed and realized they were the terrorists. Two responders were hit by automatic gunfire – I was struck in the left leg above the knee and the other responder was killed. I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by death. I could not move because of my leg wounds. Another responder, a policeman, shielded me as bullets were whizzing past our heads. The policeman took me to a nearby safe house, where he applied emergency first aid. At 9 a.m., IDF special forces arrived, and a fierce gun battle ensued. I was eventually transported from Ofakim to receive medical care in the hospital. By the end of the tragic events, 52 residents had lost their lives, including armed citizens, police officers, and on-leave soldiers.”

I remain in awe of Rav Shachar and his commitment to his community and our people.

Fast forward five months, and I have the distinct opportunity and honor to examine and treat Rav Shachar. I was not the only one who was enthralled by Rav Shachar and his story. On my last day work day at ADI NEGEV, a camera crew filed into the physiotherapy clinic, led by a gentleman named Menachem Horowitz. Unbeknownst to me, and much to his chagrin, Menachem is a wildly popular TV and print journalist who broadcasts a feature dealing with life in Israel on TV channel 12 every night. Within minutes Rav Shachar and I were mic’ed up and after a brief sound check, Menachem began firing questions at Rav Shachar about his injuries and treatment at ADI NEGEV. He then turned to me and asked who I was and what I was doing there! My brief moment of national stardom was when I told him my name and that I was a volunteer physiotherapist from the U.S. Friends in Israel viewing Menachem’s spot that evening from their homes practically fell over when they saw me on the TV screen. One friend said, “I have lived in Israel for over 30 years and have never been on television. You show up here for three weeks, and now you are a star!”

By the time Rav Shachar came into my care, he had undergone surgery to repair and replace his shattered right hip bone and part of his pelvis. He was walking, albeit with a severe limp, and he returned to his position as community rabbi and teacher. Outside of the extensive bone and soft tissue damage, the bullets that struck him months prior severely damaged the sciatic nerve, the large nerve that supplies movement and sensation to the leg and foot. He walked with a makeshift brace that somewhat prevented the marked drop foot that slapped every time he took a step. His balance was compromised, he was weak, he had pain, and he was limited in mobility, but his spirit was unshaken. He was a motivator and a cheerleader for every patient who was in his company.

I worked closely with Rav Shachar for the three weeks I was at ADI NEGEV, using every technique and trick up my sleeve to improve his strength and function. His daily appointment with me was always at 12:30 p.m. to allow us a full hour to work one-on-one and then to have time to go to Mincha together. The few minutes we had together between therapy sessions and Mincha were very special for me, just to hear a word or two of spirituality or a thought about that week’s parsha from him. Unlike the other in-patients, Rav Shachar was granted special permission to be at home at night to tend to his community’s needs. One evening, I, along with other therapy volunteers, was invited to Rav Shachar’s home in Ofakim for a celebratory pizza dinner with his family. Rav Shachar wanted his children to meet us and learn about how we help the people in the hospital. The meal was delicious, but meeting the rabbanit and the children was a most warm and special time for us. On my final work day at ADI NEGEV, Rav Shachar presented me with his newly published sefer entitled Birkat HaShachar, a study guide about halacha. He wrote a beautiful inscription thanking me for my efforts on his and the country’s behalf. I was truly touched by his sentiments.

Despite intensive physiotherapy, Rav Shachar unfortunately did not regain much active use of the right lower leg or foot. He has since undergone yet another surgery, this time to debride the sciatic nerve, in hopes of a re-growth potential and future function of the nerve. Prior to this recent surgery, it was felt that the sciatic nerve had been severed on that fateful day by the path of the bullet. It became apparent when the surgeon exposed the nerve this time, that the bullet that entered Rav Shachar’s hip, struck the thigh bone, and then changed course, turning upward and scraping but not severing a 12 cm. length of the sciatic nerve. Rav Shachar is now recuperating at home from the recent surgery and in two weeks will return to the surgeon to remove the stitches and then reinitiate aggressive physiotherapy. In the future, he will likely need a leg brace to walk safely with improved balance and a more symmetric gait pattern.

Rav Shachar’s horrific experience is surely one of thousands of such heroic stories of this war. My ability to provide care to Rav Shachar and others like him in need, feeling an integral part of the nation, being part of a highly-trained staff, experiencing the hugs of appreciation and admiration for volunteering time – these were the real highlights of my trip.

To return for more would be my privilege and my wish.

Samuel Esterson is a third generation born-and-bred Baltimorean, on both his paternal and maternal sides, who has been a physical therapist for 45 years, 35 of which in private practice in Baltimore County. He trained at the world renowned Rusk Institute for Rehabilitation Medicine – NYU Medical Center in New York City, one of the first and largest rehabilitation centers in the world. Dr. Esterson is a diplomate of The American Board of Physical Therapy Specialties in Orthopaedics. The Esterson family was one of the original members and builders of Suburban Orthodox Toras Chaim synagogue in the early 1960s

Original Post: https://www.wherewhatwhen.com/article/healing-hands-a-volunteer-s-experience

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