By Sarah Pachter
back to the scene of my assignment. We had placed explosives in a car that was to be driven by several members of a terrorist organization. Unavoidably, the car had been parked on a main street, and in the enormous blast innocent passersby had inevitably been injured. And while I had identified with the cause of my work, I could no longer identify with the justification for the loss of life. The means did not justify the end. I surveyed the structural damage caused by the blast that had not yet been repaired, and my heart throbbed painfully. Next was Allepo where we’d kidnapped a man for questioning and later passed him on to the Israelis for further interrogation. The information is still deemed classified. It was an intense experience, and a hard one, returning to the very same places where I had shed innocent blood. But finally we arrived in Israel. The memories there involved a bribe—cash for compliance—but little trauma. Having finally reached our final destination, all I wanted to do was run away from everything, from the life I had led. And then I found myself at the Kosel. It seemed like the right place to go. I was a lost and broken man. And there I stood, next to men in black who were completely engrossed in prayer. One specific rabbi caught my attention. There was something striking about him—maybe it was the look of inner peace on his face, the serenity he exuded. I decided to approach him; I sensed there was something he could give me that I was sorely lacking. So I waited until he finished davening, then walked up to him and introduced myself as a Jew who knew nothing about Judaism. A man who had sinned terribly. He responded with a smile, unperturbed. The two of us found a place to sit in the warm summer breeze and started talking. Our conversation continued throughout
the night and I felt myself opening up. I told him of my grisly past, the resulting nightmares and the blood that weighed on my conscience. “Come with me. I have an idea,” he said. He took me to a mikvah and guided me through the immersion process. Dawn was only a short while away; the water was freezing, yet the experience profound. I had never been to a mikvah before that night, and somehow, along with the water, I felt my sordid past being washed away. The kind rabbi explained that as a Jew, no matter how far I had fallen, I could always make my way back home. He said that a true baal teshuvah could rise to heights that even a great tzaddik is not able to achieve. Looking back, I can say that in that one night I had left my own personal Mitzrayim. Even without knowing what it would entail, I decided to make some real changes in my life—I wanted to become more observant. I had a compelling desire to learn what it meant to be an authentic Jew. Needless to say, I returned home a changed man. My next visit to Israel was with my wife and children. They joined me on my spiritual journey, helping shape my new self that allowed me to shed the ghosts of days gone by. Therapy became a thing of the past and Torah replaced it as a way to heal. Three years ago my confidentiality agreement expired, and it has taken me all this time to share my story with close friends and family. And now, I share my story with you. A story parallel to the Jews who left Mitzrayim. Like them I was a low sinner, but with Hashem’s help, I accepted the yoke of Torah.
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