I was a young man in my first year of yeshiva (Torah study). It was about two weeks before Chanukah. One day I needed to go home to take care of some errands, but I got delayed after meeting up with a friend. Time passed quickly, and before I realized it, it was already midnight.
I live in a small and remote yishuv (settlement), where no buses run at such a late hour. But I was used to hitchhiking, which is common in such areas. I left my friend’s house and waited for a ride. The first driver who picked me up kindly dropped me off about five minutes away from my home.
Before I got out, they warned me not to accept rides from just anyone. At that time, there had been some attacks and attempted attacks, Hashem yishmor (may God protect us). To fulfill the Torah’s commandment of "Venishmartem me’od lenafshoteichem" (“You shall guard your lives carefully”), it’s important to check who you’re getting into a car with.
But like many boys my age, I was eighteen and didn’t worry too much. I thanked them, wished them a good night, and they repeated: “Don’t get in with just anyone.” Still, the stories about past tragedies seemed far away, almost unreal to me. I thought, “It won’t happen to me.”
After a few minutes, a private car arrived. There were two young men sitting in front, around 20 or 21 years old, just a couple of years older than me. They spoke with an Arab accent, but I didn’t feel too suspicious. Near my yishuv is a village of Israeli Arabs, and it’s common for people from there to work in our area.
I asked if they were heading to a place near my home, and they said yes. Because it was so late, I got into the back seat—not happily, but I felt like I had no better choice.
Just a few meters after we started driving, they suddenly began speaking quickly in Arabic, and then made a U-turn toward the direction of the Arab territories—areas known to be very dangerous, especially for a Jew alone in the middle of the night. I didn’t need long to understand: this was an attempted kidnapping. And if I didn’t do something fast, I might never make it back home again.
I yelled at them to stop the car. They yelled back for me to be quiet. I tried opening the door beside me, but it was locked from the inside.
Within seconds, my whole life flashed before my eyes—my childhood, my school years, my time in yeshiva. Dozens of memories raced through my head. I loved learning Torah. I loved life. I couldn’t believe that this was happening. Just a few minutes ago, I had been warned. And now, it was happening to me.
I imagined my parents and siblings not knowing where I was, maybe thinking I was still with my friend. By the time they would realize I was missing, it might be too late. I remembered the stories of soldiers and others who had been kidnapped. And now, I was in their shoes. Two Arab men, older than me, were in control of the car. It was dark, I was alone, and the doors were locked. We were headed toward a hostile village, and I was terrified to even imagine what might happen to me there.
But Hashem—our loving and watchful Father—didn’t leave me alone. The man sitting next to the driver was smoking a cigarette and opened the window to let out the smell.
And that was my moment.
Without thinking—because if I had stopped to think, I probably wouldn’t have had the courage—I jumped forward and leapt out the front window, while the car was still moving. The car had already picked up speed, dozens of meters away from where they made the U-turn.
I left behind my bag, which had valuable items in it. But I didn’t care. My only thought was: I need to survive. I need to live. Thank God, I wasn’t seriously hurt—just a few minor scrapes and bruises.
It was already after midnight. The roads were empty, and very few cars were passing by. Still, they didn’t come after me. That too was a miracle. They could have chased me or tried to force me back into the car—but they didn’t.
Eventually, I reached a nearby public phone and called home. I didn’t tell my mother everything, just enough to say they should come pick me up quickly. I was shaking as I spoke.
A few weeks later, they found only my wallet, ID card, and a few papers. The money, of course, was gone.
I hope, b’ezrat Hashem (with God’s help), that I’ll be able to keep sharing this story with others. It’s not just about me—it’s about how much Hashem watches over us, every moment of our lives. Even when we don’t expect it, even when we’re in danger, He is there. And everything He does—is truly for the good.
This story was shared as part of the “Pirsumei Nisa” (Publicizing the Miracle) project, where Hidabroot readers tell about personal miracles. Have you experienced a miracle worth sharing? Send your story to support@htv.co.il.
