My Caracas Raid

Headlining the news this week was the U.S. raid in Caracas, a dramatic operation aimed at the inner circle of the Maduro regime. Images of power, secrecy, and a superpower confronting a defiant ruler filled the news cycle. Caracas—once again—was the setting for a clash between moral authority and entrenched power.

Those headlines transported me back nearly four decades, to a very different kind of “raid” in the very same city.

In May of 1987, I arrived in Caracas, Venezuela, as one of twelve yeshiva student-emissaries sent by the Rebbe for two years of study and outreach. The first Spanish word we learned was “¿Te pusiste…?” — “Did you put on…?”
You can guess the next word: tefillin.
The day after we arrived, armed with one Spanish verb and a lot of enthusiasm, we were already in the local Jewish high school asking students if they had put on tefillin.

Within weeks of landing, we were already running a summer camp—despite possessing, at best, extremely rudimentary Spanish. The kids had a blast. They also took full advantage of our linguistic helplessness.

Starving for English reading material, a year into our two-year Shlichut, one of the guys made an “illicit” discovery: Caracas had an English-language daily newspaper, The Daily Journal. Each week, one of us would sneak a copy back to yeshiva—pure contraband by yeshiva standards.

It was the summer of 1988, and one notice in the paper caught my eye: a reception at the residence of the Australian Consul, commemorating the bicentennial of Australia—200 years since its founding.

At that time, the Rebbe was speaking passionately about the Seven Noachide Laws—the universal moral code for all humanity—and the Jewish obligation to encourage their observance among the nations of the world. For most of history, Jews had been subjects of empires, rarely influencers of them. The Rebbe insisted that this era was over. Jews must no longer see themselves as tolerated guests in history, but as moral leaders responsible for the spiritual health of civilization.

Part of this campaign involved encouraging governments—federal, state, and municipal—to formally recognize the Noachide Laws as the foundation of a just and ethical society.

When I saw the announcement about the consul’s reception, it struck me: this is where diplomats gather; this is where ideas travel. An opportunity.

So on the appointed evening, Mendy Gansburg, a fellow student, and I donned our best suits, climbed into our thoroughly unimpressive car, and headed for the consul’s upscale neighborhood. As we approached, the streets were lined with limousines delivering dignitaries to the event.

And then came our turn.

Our battered vehicle rolled into the grand circular driveway, drawing looks of disbelief from anyone who saw our “limo.” We handed the keys to the valet and approached the front door, where the consul and his wife were greeting guests.

Two bearded, hatted figures, party crashers who were clearly not on the guest list.

The consul and his wife did their best to conceal their shock. I introduced myself confidently as the “representative of Australian Jewry” for this important occasion. The consul hesitated, then smiled politely. Encouraged, I asked if, as the representative of Australian Jewry, I might say a few words.

He gently explained that this was a poolside cocktail reception, not a formal dinner, and there would be no speeches.

So instead, we spent much of the evening in conversation with the American Consul, discussing—among other things—the Noachide Laws. That conversation would later have unexpected consequences for one of the Israeli students among us, who had repeatedly been denied a U.S. visa—but that’s a story for another time.

The next morning, we opened The Daily Journal. There was an article about the previous night’s reception—complete with a photograph. And standing there, unmistakably, were the two bearded, hatted raiders, chatting with the American Consul.

Our raid had made the news.

Which brings us back to Parshat Shemot.

The book of Shemot opens with the ultimate confrontation between power and morality. Pharaoh, the ruler of the world’s greatest empire, enslaves an entire people. Enter Moshe, armed with nothing but a Divine mandate, walking straight into the palace to demand justice.

Pharaoh and Maduro are separated by millennia, ideology, and circumstance—but they share a common trait: rulers who confuse power with permanence, control with legitimacy. Shemot teaches us that no regime—however entrenched—can withstand a moral challenge grounded in G-d’s truth.

Sometimes that challenge looks like plagues and miracles.
Sometimes it looks like diplomats and declarations.
And sometimes, it looks like two yeshiva students crashing a cocktail party in Caracas.

The lesson of Shemot is that Jews are not meant to stand on the sidelines of history. We are meant to enter the palace, speak with courage, and remind the world—again and again—that power is temporary, but morality is eternal.

And every now and then, even a small raid can echo something much larger.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New