Vietnam

The Road Where Hashem Kept Showing Up

I arrived in Vietnam while studying in yeshiva, trying to build a meaningful Jewish life without losing the parts of myself that felt curious, adventurous, and alive. Somewhere along the roads of Northern Vietnam, I began understanding that those parts of me were never in conflict.

A Wedding Became an Adventure

The trip began because my friend Lawrence was getting married in Hanoi.

He had met an incredible Vietnamese woman while they were both living in Vancouver, and they decided to celebrate their wedding in her home city. Since I was already living and studying in Israel, I thought I might as well arrive two weeks early and turn the wedding into an adventure.

Vietnam is enormous, and two weeks is not very long, so I chose to focus entirely on the north.

At that point, I had been studying in yeshiva for several months. I was learning Torah and trying to build a deeper relationship with Hashem, but I was also beginning to feel constrained by the structure of the institution.

Yeshiva was giving me a lot, but I was realizing that my relationship with Judaism could not survive on structure alone. I needed to study, practise, and experience Judaism in ways that actually made me feel love for Hashem.

Vietnam became a test of that.

I wanted to maintain Shabbat, kashrut, prayer, and the Jewish standards I was still learning how to live by. Outside the protected environment of yeshiva, none of that was simple.

But the challenge forced me to speak with Hashem more honestly.

Hanoi and the Beginning of the Journey

I arrived in Hanoi alone.

On my first night, I met a Vietnamese woman and we ended up talking about life, grief, and philosophy. Her grandmother had recently passed away, but she was struggling to access the emotions around it. I mostly tried to listen and be present.

It was the first of several unexpected connections that would shape the trip.

I explored Train Street, watched a water puppet show, visited Chabad, and quickly learned that not every coffee in Vietnam was going to meet my kosher standards.

Then I boarded an overnight bus north to Ha Giang.

I arrived at Jasmine Hostel, slept for a few hours, and woke up ready to begin the four day Ha Giang Loop.

Four Days on the Ha Giang Loop

Around fifty travellers arrived for the loop, but we were divided into smaller groups. Mine had about nine guys from different parts of the world, all travelling with local easy riders.

Every morning followed a similar rhythm.

We would wake up, eat breakfast, pack our bags, and get back on the motorbikes. Because I was eating vegetarian, most meals involved some combination of eggs, vegetables, tofu, and rice.

Then we would ride.

The roads wound between enormous mountains, deep valleys, villages, rivers, and landscapes that barely looked real. We stopped at roadside cafés, viewpoints, local towns, and small restaurants where the different groups would gather for lunch.

There was music, rice wine, laughter, and a lot of time sitting on the back of a motorbike trying to take everything in.

At night, our group stayed together.

One evening, we all slept on mattresses in the upper level of a large wooden lodge. We stayed awake in the dark, sharing stories, laughing, listening to the sounds outside, and enjoying the kind of friendship that forms quickly when nobody knows exactly what they are doing.

I even found a kosher cider.

A small miracle.

Another evening, we stayed in a tiny town where I decided to go for a run. I came across local high school students playing volleyball and asked if I could join.

Almost nobody spoke English, but volleyball did not require much translation.

I got destroyed by the Grade 12 students and barely held my own against the younger ones. After every point, I shouted encouragement anyway.

“Good serve!”

“Let’s go!”

“You did so good!”

I am not sure they understood the words, but they understood the energy.

Finding Joy in Small Places

As we travelled through the villages and towns along the loop, I kept noticing how little many people seemed to have compared to the life I knew.

Yet people were smiling.

Children played. Families worked together. Communities gathered. Life looked simple, but it did not look empty.

It made me question how much I really needed.

I had spent years imagining happiness as something I would eventually reach through achievement, money, success, the right relationship, or the perfect version of religious observance.

Northern Vietnam reminded me that happiness can begin much closer to the ground.

Good people.

Community.

Meaningful work.

A place to sleep.

Something to eat.

A relationship with Hashem.

Maybe the rest could be figured out along the way.

Choosing to Be Where I Was

The final evening of the Ha Giang Loop was spent at a beautiful hostel surrounded by mountains. There was a pool, warm showers, comfortable beds, karaoke, and another long night with the group.

But underneath the fun, I was still wrestling with questions.

Would I ever feel comfortable with who I was?

Would I ever understand what observance was supposed to look like for me?

Would I find the right person?

Would my relationship with Hashem always feel like a struggle between who I was and who I thought I was supposed to become?

Eventually, I decided to stop trying to solve everything.

I would embrace where I was.

I would make the most of the people around me.

I would build an honest relationship with Hashem and let the next step reveal itself when it was ready.

So I sang karaoke and enjoyed the night.

The next day was Shabbat. I did not use my phone or take my own videos, but I had the opportunity to jump from a waterfall.

Cliff jumping has always scared me.

I jumped anyway.

Someone else captured it on video.

Hanukkah in the Middle of Ha Long Bay

After the loop, I travelled overnight to Ha Long Bay.

I had originally booked an adventure cruise, but there were not enough people interested, so I was placed on a quieter boat with five French travellers.

That change of plan led to one of the most meaningful Jewish moments of my life.

A man named Julian, whose Hebrew name was Yehuda, was travelling with his family. His father and brother had recently passed away, and his children were struggling with their belief in God.

Yehuda wanted to light Hanukkah candles with them on the boat.

He had searched several stores for candles but had not been able to find what he needed.

Then I arrived.

I had brought a hanukkiah and candles with me.

When he realized I was Jewish and had everything required to light, he began crying.

He told me that Hashem must have sent me to him.

That night, in the middle of Ha Long Bay, we lit the first Hanukkah candle together. I felt the presence of his family, his ancestors, and something much larger than either of us.

Later, when I told my rabbi the story, he said:

“Sometimes you live long enough to experience Eliyahu in your life. Sometimes you are lucky enough to be Eliyahu for somebody else.”

I do not know whether I was Eliyahu.

But I know that Hashem put me on that boat with a hanukkiah at exactly the right moment.

Sapa and a Familiar Culture Far From Home

From Ha Long Bay, I travelled north again to Sapa.

I arrived in the middle of the night during Hanukkah. Chabad was closed, but the rabbi gave me instructions for finding the key so I could get inside and escape the cold.

A few hours later, after coffee and morning prayers, I joined a hiking group and began walking through the rice terraces.

Our guide was from the Black Hmong community. She had taught herself English, her husband guided hikers on Mount Fansipan, and together they welcomed travellers into their home.

We hiked through villages and fields, learned about their traditions, cooked together, played games, and slept in their home that evening.

The more I learned about their culture, the more familiar parts of it felt.

They believed in one God. They followed a calendar connected to both the sun and the moon. Their major celebrations followed the agricultural cycle. Their clothing reflected modesty, tradition, and community identity.

I was standing in a village in Northern Vietnam, yet parts of their way of life reminded me of Judaism.

I felt strangely at home.

I remember thinking that I could stay for months, build a small home, and help teach English to the children.

The peace of the rice terraces, the generosity of the family, and the simplicity of the community stayed with me.

The People Hashem Placed in My Path

Throughout Vietnam, I met people who helped me understand myself more clearly.

There were women I met in Hanoi, Ha Long Bay, Sapa, and on the road back to the city. Some connections lasted only a conversation. Others lasted several days.

We spoke about grief, faith, relationships, antisemitism, religious identity, safety, and what it means to feel at home with another person.

One woman was a Balinese Hindu who understood the experience of belonging to a religious minority. We bonded over the similarities and differences between our traditions and spent several days sharing a small piece of life together in Hanoi.

Another woman allowed me to guide her through a meditation that helped her reconnect emotionally with her grandmother. She cried while I held her, and I was reminded that sometimes the greatest thing you can offer someone is simply a safe place to feel.

These connections did not need to become permanent relationships to be meaningful.

They showed me that intimacy could exist through kindness, listening, care, and being fully present with another person.

I felt grateful that Hashem kept placing me in moments where I could show up as a mensch.

Coming Back to Hashem in My Own Way

The most obvious Jewish moments of the trip happened at Chabad, putting on tefillin with another Jewish traveller, celebrating Hanukkah, and carrying my Jewish practices across Vietnam.

But the deeper spiritual journey happened in the ordinary moments.

It happened while journaling with Hashem.

It happened on the motorbike.

It happened in conversations with strangers.

It happened while trying to find kosher food, choosing how to observe Shabbat, and accepting that I was still learning.

Vietnam taught me that my relationship with Hashem could not depend entirely on being inside a yeshiva.

It had to travel with me.

It had to live in my questions, my decisions, my adventures, my mistakes, and my effort to notice Hashem wherever I was.

What I Carried Home

Northern Vietnam taught me that I do not need very much to be happy.

I need good people.

I need community.

I need meaningful work.

I need adventure.

And I need an honest relationship with Hashem.

Everything else can be built from there.

The Ha Giang Loop gave me some of the most beautiful views I have ever seen, but the real gift was learning to be present enough to notice what was happening within me.

Hashem kept showing up.

In a hostel.

On a motorbike.

Inside a village.

At a wedding.

Through a stranger.

And in the glow of one small Hanukkah candle, floating somewhere in the middle of Vietnam.