From Tragedy to Strength: The Unbelievable Journey of Gabriel Sassoon After the Brooklyn Fire

On the Friday night of March 21 2015, the lives of Gabriel Sassoon and his wife were forever changed. Around midnight, their home in the Bedford neighborhood of Brooklyn burst into flames, and seven of their eight children perished in the fire. The mother, Gayle, and her daughter Siporah survived by jumping out of two separate windows into the yard. Gayle was critically burned, and Siporah suffered moderate burns. Gabriel, the father, was spending Shabbat at a seminar in Manhattan. He was located on Shabbat morning, after prayers, in one of the synagogues hosting the seminar. The police arrived there and informed him.

In this conversation, we revisited the days of the tragedy, the eulogies he delivered — words that moved Jews everywhere, and the source of the strength that enables him to keep going.

How did they find you? When did you understand the magnitude of the disaster?

“That Shabbat I was at a seminar in Manhattan. Aside from trips to Israel, it was the first time I ever left my wife and children for Shabbat. Before candle-lighting I spoke with my wife and children and wished them Shabbat Shalom. Then I turned off my phone.

After the fire, my brother-in-law told the police that I had spoken to my wife before Shabbat, and they traced the phone call to locate me.

The police came into the synagogue just as Shacharit ended. They said I had to come with them. I said, ‘It’s Shabbat, I can’t travel.’ They said, ‘You must come to the Brooklyn police station — your wife and daughter are in the hospital. There was a fire in your home.’ I told them, ‘Take me straight to the hospital.’ But they brought me first to the station, where my brother-in-law and Yanky Wiener — the head of the organization Misaskim, met me and told me what had happened.

I screamed a terrible scream. A doctor and medic came to give me a sedative, but I refused. I didn’t want to numb the pain; I wanted my mind and body to understand what had happened. I didn’t want to freeze my emotions. I’ve always been against tranquilizers. My brain immediately switched into practical mode: I needed to see my wife and daughter. So I went to both hospitals. They were both sedated. It was a heartbreaking sight. That’s when I understood the full severity of the fire.

I wasn’t the one who identified the bodies; my brother-in-law did. They didn’t want me to see them — it was too traumatic. I kissed each of them through the shrouds.

Immediately I asked about funeral arrangements and where the children would be buried. Of course the answer was obvious — only in Israel. My children were born in Israel and lived there until two years ago. The Syrian community in Brooklyn secured an entire row at Har HaMenuchot in Jerusalem, set aside for members of the Syrian community. Rabbi Ozeri and other rabbis and activists arranged everything: the funeral procession from the funeral home in Brooklyn to JFK Airport and the El Al flight to Israel.

About a hundred family members and prominent rabbis accompanied me on that flight."

Brooklyn Was Devastated

On Sunday — the day of the funeral, Brooklyn’s main roads and access routes to JFK Airport were completely closed. Crowds thronged the Shomrei Hadas funeral home. It was one of the most heartbreaking funeral processions ever seen in the Jewish community of Brooklyn.

Local restaurant owners reported that not a single customer came in that day. Photos of Gabriel appeared in newspapers across the country. People of all backgrounds came to express their sympathy. Some stood outside the burned home, leaving flowers and lighting candles. Fire trucks stood at the entrance to the street, and firefighters handed out smoke detectors to passersby.

In the driveway stood the family’s gray minivan, the one they used to drive the children to school. Inside were still traces of the kids’ belongings: candy wrappers from Friday, school bags, and a toddler car seat.

How did you stand through the funerals?

“I don’t think I was fully conscious. It felt like I was living inside a dream — one that wasn’t mine. I didn’t prepare any eulogies, but I delivered three: one in Brooklyn and two in Israel. They came straight from the heart.”

Your eulogies moved countless people. How do you explain that?

“They flowed from a deep well of pain, from the Torah I’ve learned, and from years of love and joy raising my children. The holy Torah tells us about the difficult trials our forefathers endured. Deep inside, you understand Who is running the play down here. You realize no human being controls anything — not his fate and not the fate of his children.

At the children’s burial, thousands of Jews came. Suddenly I felt that our private grief had become national grief. Such unity. A friend let me sit shiva in his home in Ramat Eshkol in Jerusalem. Crowds came to comfort me. I sat there for three days, then returned to Brooklyn for the remaining days and sat in the local Sephardic shul. Again, crowds came. Community leaders, neighbors, strangers — everyone came to weep with me and comfort me.”

Did you sit shiva alone?

“Yes. My wife and daughter were too badly injured. But the unity of the Jewish people surrounded me — people cried with me, fed me, and held me.”

When did you begin to process what happened?

“After shiva, I immediately began running back and forth between the two hospitals to be with my daughter and my wife. I came to Israel for the shloshim, then stayed for Pesach. I stayed with dear friends who have no children — so the pain wouldn’t be too sharp.

After thirty days, I felt I had to choose: Do I want to live, or not? Suddenly all the Torah I learned came flooding in. I said to myself: Get up. Cut your nails. Shave. Choose life. You still have work to do in this journey.”

“A lifetime of building faith — and now came the test.”

Neighbor Hagit Avichazer shared: “We understood that night the enormity of what happened. The whole neighborhood was awake. But we hoped they’ll make it. They were special children, caring, the kind you don’t meet every day. It was heartbreaking.”

Gabriel says: “My keyword in serving God is submission. Surrender — surrender again, be humble before the Holy One. He runs the world. I began to truly grasp that this world is an illusion. Everything I experienced from childhood until now — it’s all transient.

I went from a private person to a public figure. Suddenly people invited me to speak, to give strength. People struggling with depression, addiction, illness. Young people who wanted to give up on life. Suddenly I was the one they leaned on — even before I processed my own tragedy.

People ask me: How did you get up the next day? I laugh and say: I have to get up for Shacharit — I’m a servant of God. That’s how I feel. Until the tragedy, I was a quiet, private person in my Avodat Hashem. Suddenly people wanted tools of faith from me. And very quickly I understood: this is my mission now. I want to reach all of Am Yisrael — anyone I can help.”

Life Before the Tragedy

“I loved being with my kids. I didn’t work; I learned Torah full time. My father left me a steady income. I invested everything in my children and my wife. We loved learning with them, traveling with them. Every Shabbat and holiday was a family experience. I spent hours talking to them, instilling values, listening to their hearts. We loved singing together.

A few weeks before the tragedy, I recorded them in a studio singing Yaakov Shwekey’s song ‘Cry No More, Jerusalem.’ They loved it. I’ve heard that today Shwekey dedicates the song to their memory.

My children were born in Jerusalem. We lived 15 years in the Old City and Har Nof. They were Jerusalem kids. Even though people felt they had a unique style — they were a mix: Israeli, Jerusalemite, and American.”

How did you end up in Brooklyn?

“We lived in Israel for years. But family was here in New York, so we came for a period. We always planned to return—Israel was home.”

How do you deal with thoughts that things could have turned out differently?

“That thought comes often. There is anger. But then I surrender to God’s will. My mantra is surrender. When a person surrenders to God, understanding begins. I began to realize: this had to happen. Until the tragedy, I served God — but lived privately. Suddenly I understood there is a deeper mission: to strengthen others, to help them rise, to continue life. To be a believing Jew, doing mitzvot and kindness.

My whole life I built tools of faith, and now came the test. Do you believe in theory — or in practice? ‘Choose life.’ That’s what I felt after shloshim. I want to live. I have what to live for. I have work to do.”

Family Background

“I didn’t grow up religious. I grew up in Japan. My father was a Syrian Jew from the Aleppo community, and my mother was Iraqi. They met when my father came to Israel looking for a match. They married and moved to Japan. We were a small Jewish community. I went to American schools. We searched for minyanim on Shabbat.

When I was fourteen and a half, my mother died of cancer at forty-three. I became angry at God. I rebelled.

My mother was buried in Israel. My father sent me to boarding school in England. Then university in the U.S. where I studied business and psychology. Psychology opened the door to spirituality. After college I worked with my father in Japan in a private bank for American millionaires.

I saw wealthy people chasing money endlessly, slaves to materialism. My soul wanted spirituality. I asked myself: Is this happiness? I knew it wasn’t.

So I went searching, and came to Jerusalem. I learned at Aish HaTorah for five years. My soul felt at peace. My father was proud. He came from a religious family and was happy I returned to our roots.

When I was ready for marriage, my rebbe suggested my future wife — who was visiting Israel from Brooklyn. We connected instantly. We married in New Jersey, then moved to Jerusalem, where our children were born. We were very happy. We moved to Brooklyn only temporarily, with plans to return to Israel.”