around kids world with kids
introducing HOUSTON,TX GALVESTON,TX Houstonzoo
Hi!Wearesohappyto ushaveyou!Pleasetell whereyourname,age,and youarefrom.
Hi,mynameisTehila Ouzzan,andIamtenand ahalfyearsold,andI liveinHouston,Texas.
andHowmanysiblingsdoyouhave canyoutellusaboutthem?
Michalis12,thenme, Yehudais8,Hadassahis5, andLeoraisturning2.
Ifyoucouldbring somethingtothe newspaperfor ShowandTell, wantwhatwouldyoutosharewith alltheJKkids?
MysisterLeora Canyoutellus aboutyoursister?
IgotoYTE,which standsforYeshiva TorasEmes,andIamin fifthgrade.SomethingI reallylikeabout schoolisthatmy motherismyteacher thisyear.
It’sgoingtobelong…shehasa conditioncalledTreacherCollins Syndrome.Shelooksalittlebit different,butthat'sokay.She’svery cute.She’sdeaf,butsheknowssign language.Shehasgoodeyesightwhich isreallygreatbecausealotof peoplewithTreacherCollinsSyndrome don’t.Shehasalotofreallycute curlyhair,andshe’sveryhyper.She’salso verygoodatcommunication.this morningshewashittingmeso Isaid,“Leora,whyareyou hittingme?What doyousay?”and shesigned language.“Sorry!”withsignShe’svery independentandshe lovestoplay.She mostlylovestogo swimming.
syndromeTreacherCollins conditionisarare that affectsthewaythe facedevelops. cheekbones,especiallythejaws, ears,eyes,and eyelids
Whatschooldoyougo to,andwhatis somethingyoureally likeaboutschool?
Whatdoyour parentsdo?
Bothofthemareteachers. Mymotherisanadministrator inaschool,andshealso teaches,andmyfatherisa teacherinahighschool,and herunsakiruvorganization calledJ-Hype.Weusually havealotofguestswho arenotfrumatour Shabbostable.
aDoyoulikehaving over?lotofpeople
Yes!Ilovehaving bigmeals.Butit dependsonwho’s over:)
Doyouhaveany interestingstories thathappenedat yourShabbostable?
OnetimeIsawsomeonedriveuptoour house,andIthoughtitwasanurse,soI openedthedoorandsaid(becausewe haveanursenamedTheresa),“HiTher-oh you'recomingtoourmeal?!Becauseit wasn'tTheresa,itwasaguestbuttheyhad drivenacartoourhousebecausethey didn’tknowbetter.
Andshesaid “My motherwouldalways sayI’mgoingtoofar, reallybutiwouldn'treally continuecare,Iwouldjust doingit.”Because forthem(peoplewhodidn’t growupwithmitzvos)they don’tknowthatyouare supposedtolistentoyour parents.
OnetimeaJ-Hypercameup tomeandaskedifIhada horse,andIwaslike,“No, ma’am.”SHecamefromNew YorkforaJ-Hypeeventand askedallthequestions abouthorses.
Anothertimewehadsomeoneatour housewhosaidthatshewasobsessed withleopardsandshewantedtodyeher hairbrown,andthey gotbrowneverything andleopardsheets andeverything,and whenshegotbraces, shewantedtoget brownbraces,andshe wassodisappointed whentheydidn’thave. Ijustlovetalkingto her!Iaskedher“You justlovebrownthat much??”
rare
IloveShabbos. favoriteWhatisyourmitzvah?
Whatisyourfavorite YomTovandwhy?
Chanukah!Becauseit’smy IbirthdayonChanukahand andlovegettingpresents, sendsalsoChaiLifeline Leora.uspresents,for Sowegetalotofpresents.
Whatdo aboutyoulikebeing Jewish?
AsJewish people,we know Mashiachis coming!
Whatdoyouwanttobe whenyougrowup?
Iwanttobeateacher.Iwouldstartoff teachingPre-Kbecausetheyareveryvery cute.Andtheysayalotoffunnythings.My littlesisterHadassahwhoisthatagesaid tomymother“Mommycanyougetmechips” Mymotherboughtherchipsandshesaid, “Mommycanyouintroducemetothechips”.
Whatissomethingyou liketodowhenyouare
Whydoyouwant toteach?
Iwanttobeinchargeof everybody:)andIalso reallylikekids.
Isthereanythingyouwantto tellalltheJKKidsoutthere?
jkkidsrock!
bored?
Igotomysister Leoraandweplay orIentertainher andwhenshe’s sleepingIhelpmy motherbake.
hatzala hatzalaletter
and I was thinking long and hard about spending the night in the presence of the rebbe. The rebbe was not famous. He was one of those rebbes known to a few and adored by those who knew him well. To everyone else, he was almost invisible. For years I had been spending the night of Mattan Torah with a tikun on my shtender. Everyone has their own way when it comes to how they spend their Shavuos evenings. I was from the group of people who liked to recite the tikun. There was something to be said, I felt, about doing a mini review of the entire Torah on the night it had been given to the Jewish people thousands of years earlier.
So I said tikun.
There was also something to be said about saying the tikun by the rebbe’s shteibel, with its worn wooden benches and simple airs. Although located not far from a host of gigantic shuls with stained glass windows, carpeted floors, social halls and central air conditioning, the shteibel had managed to retain its original feeling and pashtus. The simplicity in that room was breathtaking, although not many people were able to see the greatness. Yet those who did became chassidim -and returned again and again. I could already see the rebbe’s face and the soft glow of his smile. I could hear the way he’d say my name, “Ah gut Yom Tov, Reb Michoel…” Some things you can’t put a price on, and Shavuos at the rebbe’s shteibel was one of them
story asheardfromrebmichoelzeidel
letter
story
a true
by:rabbinachmanseltzer
a true
It was Erev Shavuos
story...
Night had been with us for a while when I set out on my journey. It had been a satisfying seudah, complete with all the Yom Tov regulars that grace thousands of Yom Tov tables around the globe. There had been salads and fish and a delicious milchige soup and a pasta dish and baked potatoes and it had been rounded out by a generous portion of ice cream, cheese cake and a steaming coffee. By the end of the suedah, I was not finding it easy to move around, but I told myself that a few minutes of walking would help me find my rhythm.
The streetlights illuminated the road I had walked a thousand times before. I passed in front of the nearby homes, their windows still filled with light from the Yom Tov meals which had just ended - and soon enough I reached another street – this one dark and unlit. The lights were not working just then and needed to be repaired. It was also possible that there had never been streetlights in the first place. I walked down the road, my footsteps beating a hollow tattoo in the darkness. In my dark suit and hat, I blended into my general surroundings. Compounding the danger was the fact that that particular road boasted no sidewalk for pedestrians…. who were consequently forced to walk in the street.
I was almost at the next artery – the major intersection separating my neighborhood with the next, when my evening walk was suddenly cut short. I was out like a light. There was no further thought of saying tikun or anything else. For the foreseeable future
I was out cold.
CONT...
CONT...
I WOKE UP IN THE HOSPITAL
Let me rephrase that. I woke up a week later in the hospital. It took me a while to grasp where I was or what I was doing there. People came and went and in the beginning I wasn’t fully cognizant of anyone or anything around me. Slowly however my health began to improve and I was able to focus on my visitors and to recognize family members who made sure to remain at my side.
When the doctors came to see me on their rounds, I asked them how long it would take me to recover. Their answers were not overly encouraging and I realized that I was in the hospital for the long haul. I knew this not only because the doctors said so. I knew it in the core of my being. I knew it because I had never felt pain of the current variety – pain so powerful it dwarfed anything I could have ever imagined. I knew it was going to be very difficult for me to recover. At the same time I also knew that I planning on doing whatever it took for me to get back to myself and leave my jail.
When I asked my visitors to tell me about the night of the accident, many of them didn’t want to discuss it. I couldn’t blame them once I learned what had actually gone down.
It had been a truly terrible accident.
“People thought that you died,” one of my relatives told me, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “The newspapers reported that there was a death on the spot where you were hit. They claimed a drunk illegal immigrant was behind the wheel and that the car was long gone – a hit and run if there was such a thing.”
The next few months were torture for me. The recovery process was extremely difficult and challenging. So many parts of me had been hurt and damaged by the accident. Sometimes it seemed like I would never be myself again. But the many people who came to see me brought me strength. I saw how much I meant to them and I fought with myself to get out of bed. If it had just been me, I could have easily fallen to the wayside, but it was clear to me that too many others would be let down were I to fail. So I fought back, and I made progress. Slowly but surely inching forward up the incredibly tall hill that never seemed to end.
One day however, I crawled just a few more inches and found myself at the summit.
From there it would only get easier.
You can imagine the joy I felt – the joy we all felt, the day I was released. It was like being born into the world again. Leaving the hospital, I felt the feeling of cool air against my cheek. I could smell the aroma of the coffee beans roasting in a nearby diner. I could appreciate the bright colors of the store’s awning. It was good to be ALIVE. “Let’s go home,” I said. So we did.
CONT...
In my mind the story was finished.
It ended the day I left the hospital, reasonably healthy and ready to face the world again. A year passed. I benched gomel and brought whiskey and cake to shul. We had the entire family over and my wife cooked a giant seudah and we ate and sang and some of the children spoke. It was an emotional night to say the least.
But time moves on and you forget what happened to you. Not forget exactly, but the memories become slightly fuzzy – as if someone slipped a layer of gauze over what happened. You recall the night, but as if through a haze. Years passed. Five years, then eight, then ten. Ten years since the night I’d gone walking after the seudah – my destination – the rebbe’s shteibel for a night of tikun. And then one day a friend of mine brought me a letter.
“I think this belongs to you, Michoel,” he said, as he handed it to me in shul one morning when we were zipping our tallis bags shut after davening.
“Where’s it from?”
I was curious.
“I found it in the Hatzala office.”
Being that this friend was a Hatzala volunteer, his being in the Hatzala office made sense. What didn’t make sense was the fact that someone had written a letter to Hatzala – and that the letter was about me.
“One more thing,” he said.
“Yes?”
“The letter was written by a twelve year old kid.”
I opened the letter while sitting at my desk at home, smoothing the pages with my fingers. You could tell it had been lying around somewhere for a long time. It just had that feeling. The writing was young – I’m not a graphologist or anything, but having been informed that the writer was a child, I couldn’t help but see that in the script before me. Then feeling like I was on the verge of a phenomenal life discovery, I started to read.
CONT...
TothepeopleatHatzala,
MynameisYitzyKlein.Iamtwelveyearsold.Iwasout walkingwithmyfatherthispastShavuosnight.Thestreetwe wereonwasdarkanditwasdifficulttosee.
Suddenlyweheardatremendouscrash!
Iquicklyturnedinthedirectionofthenoiseandsawwhatseemed likeabigblackplasticbagflyingthroughtheair!Ittookmeafew secondsuntilIrealizedthatitwasn’tabagatall,butaperson,andthat thepersonhadbeenhitbyacarinaterribleaccident.
Idon’tknowexactlyhowlongittookuntilHatzalawasonthescene, butitcouldn’thavebeenverylongbeforecarsandambulanceswere convergingonthestreetandpeopleweresuddenlyeverywhere.Itwas reallystrange.Onesecond,thestreetwasempty–thenext,itwasfullof peoplewhoweretalkingtooneanotherandaskingquestions,butnobody wassayingTehillim.
Iturnedtomyfatherandsaid,“Ta,nobodyisdaveningfortheman whowashitbythecar!!”
MyfatheragreedwithmethatiftherewaseveratimetosayTehillim forsomeone,thiswasit.SothetwoofussaidTehillimthereandthen,for themanwhohadbeenthrownbythecar.
That’swhatIwantedtotellyou. Ialsowantedtothankyouforalltheamazingworkyoudosaving KlalYisrael.
Sincerelyyours, YitzyKleIN
I’m not going to lie to you. There were tears streaming down my face by the time I finished reading Yitzy’s letter. I could imagine the scene. The father and son heading to shul for a night of learning, the sound of the car hitting a person, sending him flying through the air. How quickly the crowd must have gathered. I could picture Yitzy standing there with his father taking in the scene and his concern because nobody was davening. I was filled with admiration for the twelve year old kid who instead of throwing his hands up in the air and saying “what can I do about this?” instead got his father to daven with him for the person neither of them knew. There and then I decided to track him down and thank him for saving my life.
I did the math.
Yitzy had been twelve years old on the night of the accident. Now it was ten years later and he was twenty two. While it was true that Klein was a common name, I knew his age and where he was from, and I didn’t think it would be that difficult to track him down.
I called a whole bunch of people. The first person I called knew a family from the neighborhood called Klein, but they didn’t have a son named Yitzy. The second person I called knew the family, but wasn’t sure where they were living at this point. I made call after call. Finally I struck gold.
“Yitzy Klein, sure I know him.”
“The Yitzy I’m referring to is twenty two years old.”
“That’s the one. I went to camp with him last summer.”
“Wonderful, do you by any chance have his phone number?”
“Let me check.”
I could hear him scrolling.
“Yes, here it is.”
He read me the number and I wrote it down on a piece of paper.
“Thank you for your help.”
“No problem.”
I dialed the number. It rang. Glancing down, I couldn’t help but notice that my hands were shaking. The phone rang a few times, then went to voice mail.
“This is Yitzy. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
I left a message.
“Hello Yitzy, my name is Michoel Zeidel and I need to speak to you. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. Thank you.”
Yitzy didn’t call back for a while.
I had a wedding in Baltimore that evening and my wife and I left the house in the early afternoon to get there in time for the chupa. The entire ride I wondered when and if he’d call. Soon enough we were parking the car at the hall. I ate some fruit at the shmorg. Didn’t taste a thing. I wouldn’t be able to remember if I had cantaloupe, watermelon or honeydew if you paid me.
I put my phone on silent during the chupa.
After the chupa, I found my seat and ate the first course and even participated in the dancing when the chosson and kalla emerged from the yichud room.
When I got back to my table, sweating slightly and out of breath, I saw that I had missed a call. There was a message.
“This is Yitzy Klein returning your call.”
I called him back. The call went to voice mail.
By now I was feeling kind of desperate. Five minutes later my phone rang again. It was Yitzy’s number. I answered.
CONT...
“Hello?”
“Yes?”
“Is this Yitzy Klein?”
“Speaking, who is this please?”
“My name is Michoel Zeidel. I left you a message earlier this afternoon. I’m going to get straight to the point here. Did you witness an accident when you were twelve years old on Shavuos night?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I was walking with my father when it happened. Why do you want to know?”
“The reason I wanted to know is because I am the man who was hit. You wrote a letter to Hatzala detailing the story of the accident and how you told your father that nobody was saying Tehillim and that the two of you should daven right then and there. And then you davened for me. I read the whole thing in the letter you wrote.
The reason I am calling you, is because I just found out about your letter – I just read it today - and I wanted to thank you for saving my life. You were there for me when nobody else was. Sure the Hatzala men were busy saving my life on a physical level, but nobody was paying attention to my neshoma and nobody was davening for me. And then you and your father began saying Tehillim for me and I have no doubt that you were instrumental in saving my life. I was in critical condition. You can’t even imagine how bad it was!! Yitzy, I owe you a gigantic debt of gratitude for the kindness you and your father did for me. That’s why I called you.
Because I wanted to thank you for saving my life.”
I’m pretty sure both of us were crying by then.
“Your welcome,” he managed.
As I hung up the phone I reflected on the fact that Yitzy had written a letter ten years before I’d read it. But in the end, the letter had reached my hands.
Maybe that was the way it went. Because sometimes we don’t know where a tefilla goes or if there was a point to the davening that we did. But the Hatzala letter taught me that nothing ever truly disappears – and that although it might take time, in the end, every prayer, plea and letter gets to the right place.
CONT...
Weareso excitedto readwhat youhaveto say!
Wearehere tointroduce toyouafun andexciting newpartof thismagazine!
Weneedyoutosend inanyandall questionsyouhave aboutTorahand mitzvosandeverything inbetween--that maybeyoucouldusea littlebitofadviceon.
toWe’regoing questionspickafew tobeanswered inthenext issue
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Sostart thinking,and sendmakesureto inallof yourquestions!
QUESTIONS RABBIYOSSI
QUESTIONS ANSWEREDBY RABBIYOSSI BENSOUSSAN!!
JKIDS@PLAY JKIDS@PLAY RIDDLE RIDDLE JKIDS@PLAY whatgets wetterand wetterthe moreitdries? disappears soon say whathappens onceinaminute, twiceinamoment, butnotonceina hundredyears? i'mtall young, short old.what whathasa head,atail, isbrown, andhasno legs? whatkind ofrunning leadsto walking? emailustheanswers! at: jerusalemkollelkids @gmail.com
tallwhenim young,andi'm shortwheni'm whatami?
ifyoudropme fromthetallest buildingillbe fine,butifyou putmeinwateri won'tsurvive, whatami?
what english wordhas3 consecutive double letters?
isoundlikei canbevery coldbutin truthicanbe quitehot,what ami?
what disappearsas soonasyou sayit'sname?
themore thereis theless yousee, whatis it?
it'sarace!let usknowhow longittook you!;)
JKIDS@PLAY JKIDS@PLAY RIDDLE race RIDDLE race JKIDS@PLAY
By: moshe &adinamasri By: Naftali Moskovitz
By: rabbiYOSSI BENSOUSSAN
By: davidmasri
By: rikimasri
Rosh Hashana
The Chachamim
