Why we opened this campaign
Kalev Yosef. 19 years old. Jerusalem.
What follows is a story that's hard to read — but read it to the end.
He landed in Israel a month ago. Not chasing an easy life — chasing his own.
Kalev writes songs, sings, plays guitar, drums, piano, ukulele. He recorded audio for rabbis' Torah classes, taught piano privately, learned Torah, and was preparing to apply to a music academy.
An observant young man from an observant family that walked the whole road to Judaism on its own feet: his mother, his sister, and Kalev himself all went through giyur, each in their own time.
His mother went searching for her roots, found them in the story of her grandmother who had once come from Poland, and converted in Pyatigorsk with Rav Eliyahu Levin.
And then came the antisemitic harassment after October 7, when photos of the family were sent around their hometown's local chats with the caption that "their mother has the blood of Palestinians on her hands," and the shop's merchandise was doused in paint.
They left for Moscow. And then they understood that for an observant Jewish family, there is only one place on earth where life feels safe.
They started packing for home.
Their mother has been in the aliya process for a long time — the consulate keeps calling her, which means the move is close.
Kalev and his sister decided to file their papers from inside Israel: here, at least, the timelines mean something.
They flew in light, planning to apply for repatriation soon and begin.
Nobody thinks about it in time. Not until the night everything changes.
It was an ordinary night. Kalev loves walking around Jerusalem — the weather is always good, he rides a skateboard, he just loves to move.
It was dark. He tripped and fell — into what turned out to be a construction pit.
He screamed from the pain, and that scream saved him: there was a crosswalk nearby, and people noticed him fast.
He woke up at Hadassah Ein Kerem. His phone had flown from his hand when he fell, his passport was at home — so he was admitted as "anonymous," because the pain wouldn't let him explain who he was.
His sister found him by a miracle.
He had dropped his earbuds — and she tracked them by geolocation. She walked the nearby buildings, knocked on doors, stopped people in the street, until one woman remembered that a young man matching the description had been taken to Hadassah.
"The worst is behind us, because I found you," she told her brother.
And it's true.
The diagnosis: three spinal fractures and contusions.
Here is how Kalev himself puts it:
"It's a nes that I fell the way I did — that I can walk, that I can move, that I'm alive at all. Bones heal."
A man from their Moscow community, Dor Revi'i, wrote to him that on Shabbat their rabbi blessed Kalev to come out of rehabilitation even healthier than before — and told the old joke about the fellow who asks his doctor:
"Doctor, once you fix me, will I be able to play the violin?"
"Of course you will."
"Amazing — I never could before."
Kalev doesn't play violin yet, only drums, guitar, and piano. But with support like this, he says, the violin won't be far behind.
The surgery costs ₪80,000.
The discount given to citizens couldn't be applied — Kalev isn't a citizen yet.
His mother lands late tonight.
Right now his sister is with him around the clock; after the surgery, his mother will keep watch at his bedside.
All of his rehabilitation and physiotherapy will take place right there, at Hadassah Ein Kerem — which means the family urgently needs to rent an apartment: a place for Kalev to be discharged to, to recover in, and to travel to his treatments from, while his mother looks for work.
His sister earns what she can as a house cleaner and florist, but without documents, it comes to very little.
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