These immersive in-between days of prayer and reflection, when we return to our source, are imbued with a special designation, ben kese l’asor, “bracketed between the ‘covered moon’ of Rosh Hashanah, the first of Tishrei, when the moon is not yet revealed, and the upcoming ‘tenth,’” the impending Yom Kippur falling on the tenth of Tishrei.
Prayer is on our minds and in our hearts in these holy days.
Prayers of years past come back to us, returning like an old friend, as the nostalgia of the prayer leaders, the ba’alei tefillah of your childhood, ring crystal clear in your years, transporting you to childhood, where it all began.
As so much from our childhood does, this too takes on mythic proportions, imbued with a sense of intense wonder, meaning and possibility.
It’s visceral. We each reach into the folklore and time and space of our childhoods with a sense of legend out of the quotidian. Because those seemingly mundane games, adventures, risks, mischief are etched into each of us as our girsa d’yankuta — experiences captured in our youth — in other words, our formative years, that define so much of who we are, where we come from, where we were planted and grew.
For each and every one of us, in our own personal intimate snow globe of our childhoods, we have our legends. It might be the candy man at shul. It might be the grocer. It might be our doctor. Our babysitter. Rabbi. Teacher. Friend.
But what if I told you, a childhood friend of mine grew up to become an actual legend of Israel, of the Jewish people.
Emmanuel Moreno.
I’ve referenced him here in my column before, on the occasions when I wrote about my childhood in the Sanhedria Murchevet neighborhood in Jerusalem. Specifically, if I recall correctly, I believe I mentioned Moreno along with his side-kick, his pet dog Blacky, with whom he and his brothers often roamed the neighborhood up to fun and adventurous mischief.
If you google Emmanuel’s name, you’ll learn of his valor as a warrior for Israel. He tragically fell in the Second Lebanon War. A book published about Emmanuel has been published, but I don’t believe it’s been translated into English yet.
Our neighborhood, was made up dominantly of immigrants, of Jews from all over the world — Americans, Russians, Georgians, Persians, French, Dutch, Moroccans, Angolans and others — who, in the wake of the Six Day War, chose to leave everything behind and make their lives in Israel. The Moreno family was French Moroccan. Warm, regal in character and refinement, caring and full of joi de vive. The Morenos were a backbone of the community.
The decades passed and we had long left Sanhedria Murchevet. I was in sixth grade when we left.
I went on to life in Denver. High school, summer camp, college, graduate school, and my first job.
Meanwhile, many of the children I grew up with were molded and forged in the crucible of Israel and of serving Israel.
Emmanuel went on to reach the highest level of military service. To this day, his service was of such a risky, clandestine nature that it is forbidden to show his image in the press.
He happened to have also been the most humble and modest of humans, so there’s that too in the absence of his visage becoming a who’s who in hero worship.
Emmanuel’s beautiful parents, who emigrated from Morocco, buried their beloved son in 2006, a hero of Israel, whose life mission ensured safety for Israel and Israelis.
In the current wrenching war, Emmanuel’s brother buried his own heroic son, who rose like a fierce lion to fight and defend Israel just days after the Oct. 7 massacre.
The Moreno parents of my childhood buried their son, and now their grandson, too. This is a family that has given their blood, their love, a piece of their infinity, to each and every one of us.
This week I learned of a synagogue fundraiser being billed as a joint memorial for this courageous uncle and his nephew, Emmanuel and Itai, two separate generations.
As is the Moreno way, their goal in memorializing their loved ones, in synthesizing sacred prayer and unity, is to be coalesced in a new synagogue in Itai’s home community, Aderet, Israel.
In a unique and unprecedented move, this synagogue will merge and lace within its formal prayer service both the Ashkenazic and Sephardiic nusach, or prayer rites.
To serve this purpose, they are re-editing the classical siddur to include both streams of Jewish tradition. This siddur will be this shul’s prayer book.
It will also be shared with the IDF, to sensitize the soldiers to the connectedness of the Jewish people, as One People, who braid our traditions together as one, and are inseparable.
In the spirit of this unity, this synagogue project will be named Am Echad. One People. Not only is the meaning and purpose of this synagogue to elevate the community into a tangible kind of unity as expressed in the synthesized prayer and siddur, but there is symbolism to the name Am Echad in memorializing the uncle Emamnuel with his nephew Itai.
In Hebrew, the first letter of the word “Am,” meaning nation, is the letter ayin the capital letter of Emmanuels name. The first letter of the word “Echad,” meaning one, is the letter alef, the first in Itai’s name.
This is not an organization of any kind. It’s just a family. A majestic family, who have sacrificed so much for Israel, dreaming of building a house of prayer with a message of unity, to memorialize their son and grandson, brother and nephew, in a way that will elevate and unify their community of Aderet, and all of Israel.
I hope you will be interested to learn more and perhaps consider contributing to this deeply meaningful memorial project.
In these days of heightened praye, when the imprint of our childhood High Holiday prayers accompany us into our adulthood and remain the soundtrack of these hallowed days, I thought you might want to know about this close-to-my-heart potential place of prayer, Am Echad.
I hope and pray that by next Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur it will stand tall and be animated with the crescendoing voices of comingling unified prayers from Jews across the sweep of Israeli society, enveloping the souls and memory of my old childhood friend, Emmanuel Moreno, and his nephew Itai, in eternal whispers of prayer.
© IJN 2025
