Years ago, I spent a Yom Kippur in Buenos Aires unlike any other. One moment of it in particular still haunts me.
I generally like to be at home for the holiday but travel kept me on the road. I lodged at a comfortable hotel. I thought it would be good to stay in the room. The holiday encourages a contemplative state in me.
The day before, I had met Osvaldo, a friend whose family traces its roots to El Once, the immigrant neighborhood in the city where Jews first settled. He had grown up in a traditional environment but over time had drifted away from religion. Osvaldo’s older brother had followed a different path. After much indecision in his youth, not knowing exactly what to do in life, he spent months in Europe with relatives. Somehow he ended up in India. But his story isn’t predictable: he wasn’t enlightened by Hinduism, becoming a yogi and finding nirvana or something like it. Instead, in Vijayawada, in southern India, where he stayed in a commune, Osvaldo’s brother somehow awoke to his dormant Jewish faith and decided to become a ba’al tshuva. He returned to Buenos Aires a few weeks later and immediately registered in a yeshiva.
Osvaldo couldn’t quite understand his brother’s inner journey. He saw him as having abandoned doubt in favor of a strict certainty. In turn, his brother thought Osvaldo should follow him in embracing religion. They often got into heated discussions. Soon the tension between the siblings was exacerbated. Eventually they stopped talking to each other.
By the time of my visit, Osvaldo’s brother had made aliya. He had a...
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