Rabbi Yechiel Haboura is a third-grade Judaic studies teacher at Yeshiva Beth Yehuda in Detroit. He was interviewed by JEM in March 2025.
After her family emigrated from Morocco, my mother was born in Montreal, where she was raised. Although they weren’t Torah-observant, they were traditional Sephardim, holding regular Shabbat meals and a Passover Seder.
However, by the time she met my father, who had grown up in an observant, Yemenite family in Israel, she was living in New York and getting more connected with her Judaism. When they got married in 1987, they committed to leading a fully observant life together, settling in the Lubavitcher community of Crown Heights. Soon after, they were expecting their first child. It was all very exciting.
But then, early on in the pregnancy, my mother took the alpha-fetoprotein test to check for birth defects. The results were not good.
As the doctors explained, the levels of alpha-fetoprotein in her blood meant one of three things: The baby would have severe digestive issues, some kind of birth defect in the brain or spine, or Down’s syndrome. These outcomes were not presented to her as possibilities or even probabilities; it was definitive. And so, once they had received these results, my mother’s doctors were advising her to abort the baby.
By this time, my grandmother had come to Crown Heights to offer support. “You’re young,” she told her daughter. “How are you going to raise a special needs child? Whatever the doctors advise, that’s what we’re going to do.”
The thought of having a special needs child raised so many questions for my mother: Would she have to stop working? Would my father be able to earn enough on his own? What would it mean for their ability to have more children?
But this was where the chasidim came in. Most of her friends at this time were Lubavitchers, as well as her work colleagues and her boss, and they were all telling her to do the same thing: Write to the Rebbe and ask him what to do! My mother’s brother had a serious medical condition, and she would frequently go to the Rebbe to ask for blessings on his behalf, so she asked my father what he thought about consulting with the Rebbe.
“I’m all for it,” my father said, “but let’s be clear about what we’re doing. We’re not just getting his advice for consideration; his opinion can’t be cast aside. If we’re not willing to commit to what he says, then we should just keep to the doctor’s recommendation without asking him.”
For my father’s family, the concept of emunat chachamim – faith in Torah sages – was very strong, and it was a big part of my mother’s traditional Sephardic upbringing as well. So after thinking the matter over for some time, they came to a joint conclusion: They would have faith, and adhere to whatever the Rebbe says.
My mother wrote to the Rebbe, describing their situation, and shortly thereafter, she received a message from the Rebbe’s office. The Rebbe had requested to see the files relating to her pregnancy. She had them sent over, directly from the doctor’s office.
In the meantime, my mother had been scheduled for further testing, specifically for amniocentesis, which looks for genetic issues like Down’s syndrome. The very night before she was due to go to Maimonides Hospital for the test, she received a phone call from Rabbi Leibel Groner, the Rebbe’s secretary.
“The Rebbe said to stop taking these tests.”
He then stipulated that she should still take the test for diabetes – the condition runs in our family – “but don’t take any more tests connected with the genetic issues that the doctors have been speaking about.”
The Rebbe gave her a blessing for a healthy child and said that everything would be okay.
After hearing that, my mother didn’t show up at Maimonides for the test.
The doctors accepted her decision and went on with business as usual, treating it as a normal pregnancy, with regular visits and ultrasounds. At first, she didn’t tell her mother, but when she eventually did, my grandmother was devastated – and deeply worried. Still, she continued to stand by my mother’s side as the pregnancy progressed.
And, when the time came, she gave birth to a completely healthy baby boy, without any medical issues at all: me. My mother even told me that I scored quite high on the Apgar test that is used to assess babies’ health right after they are born.
The only issue was that I was born a little jaundiced, so the circumcision had to be pushed off by a week. On the day of the brit, my parents received a letter from the Rebbe, wishing them Mazal Tov, and blessing them to raise me to study Torah, perform good deeds, and eventually to marry me off under the chuppah.
That additional blessing on the day of the brit brought my mother an extra sense of closure and a feeling of calm after this difficult ordeal; it was like the stamp that sealed the entire story for her.
As a young child, she would always tell me this story. “You have a connection with the Rebbe from the very beginning of your life,” she would say.
When I asked my mother how she felt after receiving the Rebbe’s answer, she told me that she was definitely still afraid and anxious about the future. There was a lot going on: She was young, it was her first year of marriage, she and her husband were both from different countries, and she was at the beginning of her journey to observant Judaism – and all while carrying this baby. Deciding to follow the Rebbe’s advice and continue with the pregnancy was difficult for her.
Yet despite all this, in a way that she couldn’t quite put it into words, she felt a special connection with the Rebbe. And based on this connection, she was able to make her decision with confidence.
