In 2017, I took my first-ever trip to Israel with my two kids, ages 2.5 and almost 12. On a hot summer day, while strolling down Ben Yehuda Street and wondering what to eat for lunch, my son spotted a Pizza Hut and asked excitedly if we could experience a kosher Pizza Hut meal. As we finished our lunch, I noticed my phone was missing. I thoroughly checked the stroller and the restaurant, but it was gone—someone must have taken it, either accidentally or intentionally.

Feeling defeated, I stepped outside with the kids. Right next door was a makolet (mini-mart). The owner noticed me looking lost and asked if I was okay. I explained that my phone was missing. A young Israeli man standing nearby overheard our conversation and kindly offered to call my phone. He dialed the number, but after a few rings, it went straight to voicemail.

At this point, most people might say, “Sorry, hope you find your phone,” and move on, content they'd offered some assistance. But not in Israel. Israelis often go out of their way to help strangers, like they would their own family.

The young man, who introduced himself as Adir, asked, “Is your phone enrolled in the ‘Find My Phone’ feature? We could use my phone to log in and locate yours.”

I had completely forgotten about this feature and I gratefully accepted his help. Logging into my account through his phone, a map appeared, showing my phone moving along Ben Yehuda Street.

“There it is!” I exclaimed.

Adir immediately responded, “Let's go get it!”

I hesitated, reluctant to take up his time, but he insisted, reassuring me, “Don’t worry, I have time. Let me help.”

My daughter was hot and cranky in the stroller, and my son kindly offered to watch her. Seeing my hesitation, the makolet owner gently said, “Go and get your phone. Your kids can stay here. I'll watch them, they will be safe.” Her warm Moroccan accent and reassuring manner reminded me of a dear friend from the States, prompting me to trust her.

Adir and I quickly followed the phone’s movements, tracking it in and out of cafes along the street, always seemingly just behind. After about 20 minutes, we noticed the phone’s icon swiftly moving away—someone had boarded the light rail towards the city center. Realizing we couldn’t continue on foot, I thanked Adir for his kindness and we began to head back. Adir paused to speak with a friend and then a policeman he knew, sharing our story and seeking advice as though it had happened to him. His genuine concern touched me deeply.

Adir handed me his phone and said, “Call your phone company to freeze its use.” Another great idea. As I was about to dial, his phone rang—displaying my number! I quickly answered, relieved to hear a woman explain she’d accidentally taken my phone and would drop it off at Phone Zone, a store in the city center.

Returning to the makolet, I found my daughter happily enjoying a lollipop. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I thanked the store owner profusely and tried to offer her money, but she adamantly refused, saying, “No, that’s my mitzvah! If you wish to give money, put it into the tzedakah (charity) box.” As we left, my son revealed that besides the lollipop, she had also given my daughter kosher ice cream and a snack, further moving me with her generosity.

Adir urged me not to waste time and to quickly take a cab to the Phone Zone. I explained that I’d run out of shekels and needed to use the light rail with my credit card. Without hesitation, he handed me 200 shekels. “Take a cab—it's quicker. Don’t worry, you can repay me later. See that store? That's my father’s store where I work. Meet me there afterward.”

After a tense cab ride, I reached the correct Phone Zone—a small, booth-sized shop. An older man handed me my phone, visibly flustered. “It was dangerous for me to keep this,” he explained in broken English. I understood immediately: in Israel, an unattended phone could potentially be dangerous. Tears filled my eyes as I realized the risk he had taken. When I tried to pay him, he refused, declaring, “No! That’s my mitzvah!”

Adir checked in repeatedly to ensure I had safely retrieved my phone. When I returned to his father’s store, two workers outside started clapping when they recognized me from Adir’s earlier story and cheerfully congratulated me with “Mazal Tov!”

Adir introduced me to his father, who expressed pride in his son’s actions that day. When I returned the borrowed shekels and tried to give Adir extra money, he declined firmly, joking, “Just don't lose your phone again.” With sincerity, he added, “That’s my mitzvah! If you want to give, you can donate to a family in need of food for Shabbat.”

Adir was the third person that day to proudly refuse compensation, emphasizing the importance of a mitzvah. It was heartwarming that not only did each person go out of their way to help me, but the way they preferred to be acknowledged was for me to give back to someone else in need.

But the story didn’t end there. Noticing housewares in Adir’s store, I asked if they sold a white Shabbat tablecloth, something I’d promised my mother I’d buy for her in Israel and had not yet had a chance to do. He promptly showed me the most beautiful one they had.

When I returned home and presented the tablecloth to my parents, they marveled at how beautiful it was and tried to pay me back for it. Of course, I enthusiastically insisted, “No way! That’s my mitzvah!”