My Spiritual Genogram Story

My story begins in Odessa, a city steeped in Jewish history, humor, and endurance. My spiritual path did not begin in a synagogue or a yeshiva — it started with the people in my family who carried the Jewish spark through silence, struggle, and deep love. I want to share a few of those voices and how they shaped me.

My grandfather, Salita Lev Davidovich, studied in Cheder and spoke fluent Yiddish as a child. But like many Jews of his generation, he later became part of Soviet society and lived without formal religion. Still, he embodied a strong moral character. During World War II, he helped save a herd of cattle essential to the Red Army and received the Order of the Red Banner of Labor. He later became the director of a state-run farm and was deeply respected by those around him. He had survived the war, but not without loss — his sister was murdered during the Nazi and Romanian occupation of Odessa. Though he no longer practiced Judaism openly, he lived a life of integrity, discipline, and compassion. From him, I learned that living with dignity is also a form of faith.

My mother was a classic Jewish mother — warm, deeply loyal, and always putting her children first. She was the youngest of four siblings and was very close to her parents, who gave her part of their home to live in. I owe to her every loving memory I have from childhood — the smells of home-cooked meals, the sense of safety, the quiet encouragement. She may not have been religious in the traditional sense, but her love, care, and devotion were profoundly Jewish. She showed me that spiritual leadership is grounded in kindness and presence.

My brother became religious during a particularly difficult time in our lives. Our family had just immigrated, we didn’t speak the language, and our mother was seriously ill. He took on many responsibilities, navigating hospitals, caring for our mother, and still managing to begin his path toward Torah. He started attending synagogue and learning seriously. I followed him. We both found a spiritual home in the Chabad community. There I heard something beautiful — that in the time of Moshiach, children will teach their parents Torah. In many ways, that was true for us. I supported his religious journey from the beginning and felt instinctively that reconnecting with Judaism was the key to healing from our Soviet past. He lit the spark that eventually became my calling.

My father came from a proud Jewish family. He was raised by his religious grandmother, who secretly attended synagogue in Odessa, even when it was dangerous. Because of her, he knew some Yiddish and had a deep respect for Jewish tradition, even though he was officially raised as an atheist. He loved Jewish culture, hated antisemitism, and valued education above all. “Jews must learn,” he used to say. “We must be educated.” He graduated high school with a gold medal and became a brilliant engineer. His example taught me the importance of knowledge, discipline, and dignity — and his intellectual pride in being Jewish has always stayed with me.

My grandmother, Ita Lazarevna Salita (maiden name: Meyerovich), raised me with tenderness and strength. She, too, had studied in cheder and spoke Yiddish fluently. She and my grandfather spoke it at home, and from her, I absorbed much of my early Jewish awareness. We lived in a warm, welcoming house near the sea in Odessa, and she was the kind of person who opened her home to everyone. She didn’t know her exact birthday, but she always said she was born on Yom Kippur — and she fasted faithfully every year. During Pesach, she would send my father to stand in line at the synagogue to buy matzah, even though it was dangerous and frowned upon by the authorities. She kept the spark alive — quietly, bravely, and with love. I believe that she’s watching from above now, proud that I am studying to become a rabbi. I am living the dream she carried in her heart during a time when it couldn’t be spoken aloud.

Each of these people passed something on to me — not always through teachings or prayers, but through the way they lived. My identity is shaped by their courage, their pain, their pride, and their hope. I still struggle with vulnerability — in my family, emotions weren’t always openly expressed — but I know now that true leadership begins with being real. As I walk this path, I know I don’t walk alone. I carry their stories with me, not as a burden but as a blessing.