It has been a month now since Rabbi Moshe Hauer passed away, and the outpouring of tributes has ranged from U.S. President Donald Trump to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Israeli President Isaac Herzog, along with the who’s who of U.S. officials and civil society.
While the Jewish spiritual and literary world both mourns and celebrates his life—his untiring and unconditional care, teachings and activism at a difficult time for global Jewry—I knew I had to write something to honor the great and humble rabbi, as I saw him, especially on his shloshim, the 30-day mourning period after his death on Oct. 14.
I was introduced to him by my colleague and friend, Rabbi Yakov Polatsek, who sits on the board of directors at the Orthodox Union, and worked closely with the late rabbi. It was meant to be a general introduction to explore ideas to work together.
It was autumn of last year, and I was meeting members of the Syrian Jewish community in the neighbourhood of Flatbush in Brooklyn, N.Y., to carry out my project on the oral history of the communities from Greater Syria. In between, I had my first meeting with Hauer; he invited me to dinner and his office to have a chat. He chose the Wall Street Grill on Pearl Street, later explaining that it was one of his favorite places. I was running late and messaged him nervously, apologizing, as I could not understand the differently color-coded lines in the metro system.
I remember my first sighting, as he stood out waiting for me rather than going inside. He gave me a big hug, as if we had known each other all our lives. That warm embrace was enough for me to drop my nerves about meeting an esteemed scholar, theologian and community leader. It was like that of a father seeing his son after a long time apart.
He had been briefed about my undergraduate degree, with a focus on Judaism, working in Syria and Afghanistan to examine the Diaspora community that left both countries and how they could play a role in bringing people together in these troubled times since the Hamas-led terror attacks in Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, and the subsequent tumultuous rise in antisemitism. He began by jokingly apologizing for not being of Syrian Jewish origin and hoped that it would still suffice to pique my interest in having a conversation. It was almost as if he were the one honored to meet me—me of little learning and just a few undergraduate courses 20 years ago, who could not even carry out more than a few minutes of conversation in Jewish theology or history.
Yet he made me feel as if he was all ears as to how he could help. It was that instant humility and character that shall be impossible to ever forget. I had just lost my father a year ago, and he immediately got into advising on a spiritual front. After I inquired about the concept of life after death in Judaism, he posted some literature for me and tried to console me on how to cherish the memories and prepare the soul rather than be too downbeat. It is this message that I now think of as I think of the rabbi, who I believe left us too early. Still, in his parting at 60 years old, it seems that he had already lived a full life with no stone untouched—from synagogues to interfaith harmony to giving and caring for not just the Jewish community but anyone he came across.
The main message I got from Hauer was his desire to talk to all sides. We discussed projects and ways to reach American Muslims and Christians who have been reviving old antisemitic tropes, and about the level of hatred that had risen to unprecedented levels within the United States and globally, where in Europe, it seems almost irreversible.
He was firmly of the opinion and told me that he would meet anyone from the business community to the academics to the priests and the clerics. Of course, he was already engaged with world leaders, leading imams, priests and those who were looking to fight hate. Yet he listened to me and my out-of-the-box thinking to tackle student-led campus hate, when I suggested that we go meet parents from influential Muslim families to tackle this head-on, or by using trade and commerce as a way of bringing together communities within the United States, as well as in the context of the Abraham Accords.
The overarching theme was that Jews and leaders like Haeur were open and even self-critical. But where were the partners from the Arab or Muslim world who could look at the mirror and say that we are wrong? Where were the Christians who would not harken back to the Christ-killer rhetoric?
The answers lie in learning, learning and more learning. Only this way can we tackle the ignorance of so-called Ivy League students or the lack of basic knowledge to engage in an argument, rather than hurl a chair or flag. Jews often publicly acknowledge when they are wrong, but it’s a lesson lost on other Abrahamic cultures that rather rely on hyperbole.
In his humility, the rabbi had found a shamash (a “helper,” referring to the candle associated with the chanukiyah used to light the other candles) in me. And still, he behaved as if it were he who sought to learn from me. I continue to learn from him, even as he smiles from above.
