By Yoav Korn
I recently returned to Cape Town from a trip to Switzerland. On my return journey home, I disembarked from my flight from Zurich to Frankfurt at 19:20. My onward flight to Cape Town was scheduled to board at 19:30 – and I still had to clear passport control. I began to wonder if I might be stranded in Frankfurt, but then made a conscious decision to let go.
None of this is in your hands, I reminded myself. To my relief, the queue at passport control was minimal, and I was through in seven minutes flat. I hurried toward Gate Z50 – only to discover, to my dismay, that it was at the opposite end of the airport. Again, I repeated the mantra: none of this is in your hands.
As I was about to step onto the travellator for the long trek across the terminal, a sign caught my eye: The Quiet Room. I now had
a few minutes to spare, and I felt compelled to daven Mincha. I stepped inside – and I’m glad I did. The Quiet Room was peaceful and thoughtfully designed: a simple wooden bench in the centre, polished white stone floors and walls, and a burnished copper ceiling with perforated window covers that filtered in a soft, diffused light – so different from the harsh lighting of the terminal outside.
In the corner sat a young, well-dressed Muslim man in prayer. I quietly took out my siddur, careful not to disturb him. As I flowed into Mincha, he concluded his prayer.
Before leaving, he paused, looked around the room, and then – just before stepping out – he turned toward me, bowed slightly, and said softly, “Shalom.” I was mid-prayer and could not respond aloud, but I nodded in return. He left, and I finished my davening.
Since returning home, I’ve thought about that moment often. It would be easy – and perhaps tempting – to reduce the experience to a neat takeaway: “Peace is just a kind interaction away.” But I’ve come to a deeper, and perhaps more demanding, reflection.
In a parsha we studied recently, Pinchas is rewarded with Brit Shalom – the covenant of peace – not because he sought harmony, but because he upheld a principle. Shalom is not merely coexistence: it is the divine gift that follows when we live in alignment with our identity and mission. We are promised: “Hashem will give strength to His people; Hashem will bless His people with peace.” (Tehillim 29:11)
When we take our Judaism seriously, when we prioritise it despite the pressures around us, the nations of the world will be compelled to respond not with opposition, but with blessing. And there is no greater blessing than the blessing of Shalom.
First published in CBS News (Camps Bay Shul)
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