It was the mid-1970s. At that time I was 19 years old and like every other religious boy from Jerusalem—long coat, long peyos, a fuzz of a beard. My brothers and I went to Eitz Chaim Yeshiva. I was a good student, and it wasn’t long before people began to suggest marriage proposals to my parents.
After a few months, I set out for New York to meet someone. Soon we got engaged and a summer wedding was planned. My parents wanted us to live in Jerusalem. Her parents wanted New York. They finally said, “Let the young couple decide.”
But we couldn’t decide. Arguments broke out and by Passover the engagement was broken. I was devastated. My family was devastated, too. My parents insisted that I return to Israel, but I couldn’t face returning alone. And so I stayed in America.Read the full story »
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