In 1964, the Rebbe sent my wife’s grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Lew, to Thule Air Base (now called Pituffik Space Base) in Greenland to provide services to the Jews stationed there over Yom Kippur.
As a US Air Force chaplain myself, every now and then, prompted by Rabbi Lew’s reminders, I would ask whether there were any Jews stationed there who might need support, hoping for an opening that would allow me a visit, and maybe even give Rabbi Lew the opportunity to return as well. The answer was always a straightforward “nope.”
This past summer, my assignment at Buckley Space Force Base ended, and during the reassignment process, I once again requested the closest base to my house, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio. This would allow me to serve without traveling far from home and my family.
My request was denied; all experienced chaplains were to be assigned outside of the continental USA. Most of the options were in the Pacific, but I chose Aviano in Italy as the most “family friendly” possibility—somewhere relatively close to kosher food where I might be able to bring my family along for a tour.
The response came back quickly: “Aviano was filled this morning, but we have a vacant spot at Pituffik Space Base in Greenland. We’d really love for you to take it, but it is a unique position, serving as the sole chaplain on the base in a remote location, so give it some thought and get back to us by the end of the day.”
I was in shock. This was a far cry from family-friendly! I would be extremely isolated for each tour; my family would never be able to visit.
At the same time, I felt a strong sense of Divine providence compelling me to accept. This is not simply another assignment, but an opportunity to continue and expand upon a mission that began 61 years ago with a close family member! How could I refuse?
Preparations Begin
My preparations for Pituffik began months in advance. Kosher food could not be sourced locally and there’s no next-day Amazon delivery. I needed to consult with experts about zmanim (halachic times), tefillin, Shabbat, and daily prayers, and doubts began to trickle in about whether this was even possible.
It was also important to me to begin thinking about the continuation of the 61-year-old mission. If Rabbi Lew’s trip to Greenland had been about bringing Torah and Judaism there, this one would be about ensuring that Judaism remained there in a lasting way.
Enter Operation Tanya Printing. The Rebbe strongly encouraged his chassidim to print editions of the Tanya, the foundational book of Chabad Chassidism, authored by the first Rebbe of Chabad, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, in every location. Doing so at Pituffik required careful planning and preparation, working through the proper channels to obtain official approval from the publisher and creating a title page appropriate to the location.
I also needed to think through the mechanics carefully. I needed a printer that could survive transport and function reliably, enough paper and toner, the correct power cords, and confirmation that everything would still work after being hauled across continents. I tested the printer beforehand, ran trial prints, and packed a suitcase with the printer and lots and lots of paper.
Food planning was a similar, although by now more familiar process. Purchasing shelf-stable kosher meals, as well as easy foods like tuna, peanut butter, instant soups, and oatmeal. Once I knew I’d have freezer access (and yes, all of the outdoors could’ve been my freezer), I was able to pack a small cooler with some protein items and bread. I’ve started bringing machine cookware with me as well, which has been a game changer; a rice cooker, sandwich maker, and of course a crock pot for cholent!
I had one suitcase dedicated entirely to the printer and Tanya materials. Another filled with kosher food and Jewish supplies. My uniform and clothing fit into a handbag. That’s it. Priorities!
Figuring Out Time When the Sun Neither Rises Nor Sets
It was clear that the hardest part of practicing Judaism in Greenland would not be the cold or the isolation, but time itself.
Judaism is built around zmanim (halachic times), which are based on sunrise and sunset. But in the Arctic, for months at a time, the sun does not rise or set in any recognizable way, raising a very basic question: What does a day even mean there?
These halachic discussions only became relevant a couple of hundred years ago, and have expanded significantly in recent years as travel to the Arctic and Antarctic has become more accessible. Jews are working and living at the poles, on submarines, and even in space. When Israeli astronaut Ilan Ramon went into orbit, many of these questions moved from theoretical to practical for the first time.
As I began researching and speaking with halachic authorities, I discovered that several broad approaches have emerged over time.
The most restrictive view is that there simply are no zmanim in such a place, and those who intend to fully observe halachah should not go there at all.
Another approach accepts that there are days, but argues that without a sun or moon, time becomes subjective and personal. Accordingly, a person might count 24-hour cycles from the moment of arrival, or establish a personal rhythm detached from any external markers.
A third category of opinions takes a very different stance, arguing that a day is always objective. Even if the sun is not visible, there is still a distinction between day and night. The question is not whether zmanim exist, but how to access them.
Within that category, there are further distinctions. Some suggest following an external point of reference, such as the nearest location with conventional sunrise and sunset, Israel, or even the point of departure. Others argue that the goal should be to use science and technology to uncover what the sun is actually doing relative to the horizon in that place.
This approach, the one used practically, came with a lot of homework for me.
I was instructed to determine the exact positioning of the sun at Pituffik for the entire duration of my stay, in half-hour (or even 15-minute) intervals. That meant finding precise location coordinates, altitude, and solar data specific to the base. I had to become familiar with data points like “topocentric elevation angle,” “zenith and azimuth angle,” and “atmospheric refraction.” Ultimately, the goal was to determine exactly how many degrees below the horizon the sun is at any given moment and to see whether it ever reaches any of the standard zmanim as we know them, as a starting point.
Where to find this information? Google directed me toward a Danish meteorological institute with posts in the area. They gave me a couple of resources online where I could access their data and plug in my own. Once I had the coordinates and altitude, and a few other data points, I plugged them into a solar table that could calculate the sun’s position relative to the horizon throughout each day.
Many complicated calculations later, a framework began to emerge.
Arriving at the Top of the World
The journey to Pituffik is unique. There is only one flight per week, and everything about life on base is built around that. Miss the flight, and you are there for another week.
Time is divided into weekly periods from flight to flight, especially in the dark months when one’s internal clock is out of sync. Someone getting ready to finish a tour might say, “I’ve got three flights left.”
Delays are also not unusual, and weather dictates everything. As they say there, “We plan for all contingencies, and weather has the veto.”
The landing itself set the tone for what I was about to experience. Due to extreme winds, the pilot had to abort the first landing attempt. As we climbed back into the air, he came on the microphone and said, “Well, we missed that one, but let’s try again and hope for the best.” Very reassuring.
He did manage to land the plane, albeit at a sideways angle, and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
When the wheels finally touched down, the reality of where I was started to sink in. The wind bit at my face as I stepped off the aircraft and the darkness was immediate. It was 9 a.m. and pitch black.
That first day, after thinking I had come fully prepared with the zmanim plan, my body was completely confused. Is it bedtime? Dinnertime? Morning time? Your internal clock gives zero clues. I was so preoccupied with making sure I would put on tefillin at the right time, yet I had no idea what time it actually was.
To make it even more confusing, the base runs on “camp time,” which is two hours off from the rest of Greenland (This is done to keep the timing closer to the US, making it easier to work alongside our Stateside counterparts). So now my phone was telling me it was two hours later, and I wasn’t sure if the times on my data sheets were for Greenland time or Pituffik time.
I realized I would have to be much better prepared for each day, knowing not only the “ideal time,” but also the boundaries. When is the earliest time I can put on tefillin, and when is the latest? What is the earliest time I can say the Shema? When can I take in Shabbat? Giving myself blocks of time instead of a specific moment would make it easier to plan and function each day.
Settling In
Looking around, I started to notice the infrastructure that makes Pituffik possible. Power and water lines run above ground because the permafrost makes it impossible for pipes to sit safely underground. The harbor is kept from freezing through active effort, even in the dead of winter, and an old sunken ship sits intentionally in the bay to help fortify it against the ice. Vehicles are often left running because turning them off can mean they won’t start again, and heat is left on in the vehicles even when they are not running. Each building is constructed with a storm door rather than a regular entryway.
Monitoring storm condition levels is a vital part of daily life. When the wind picks up and snow begins moving horizontally, movement across the base changes or stops entirely. When it reaches the higher levels, you literally cannot see anything in front of you, and we remain on lockdown until the storm passes. Everyone walks around with reflectors to remain visible in the dark. Inside, people take vitamin D and make use of “happy lights” to try to absorb as much “sunlight” as possible and create some type of rhythm for the body.
Communication is different as well. Radios and the TETRA system are part of daily operations. The TETRA serves as our GPS tracker, so it must stay on you at all times in case you get stuck out during a storm or away from the main base site. It is also the duty phone. As a chaplain, I am accessible 24 hours a day through my TETRA.
As I was shown around the base, I wondered how I would ever know where anything is. I was being told there is a beautiful mountain out that way, or that the harbor is in front of us, or to look in a certain direction and see a glacier, but it is pitch black. I see none of it.
A few days in, though, as my eyes adjusted, I started to see the beautiful and incredible natural landscape. The mountains, the glaciers, the waves crashing and turning into ice, and, of course, the animals as well. Arctic foxes wander close to buildings. Muskox herds appear suddenly. Rabbits dart across paths. Polar bears are real, and the protocols surrounding them are taken seriously.
Those first few days were harder than I anticipated. Your body takes time to adjust. Sleep is irregular. You cannot get into a proper schedule. You get tired early but then wake up at bedtime, and you wake up frequently during the night. Hunger comes at odd hours. You feel awake when you should be tired and tired when you should be alert. I am not sure I ever truly got used to it.
Operation Tanya Printing
Setting up the Tanya printing took more time than I expected. I remember someone walking into my room and exclaiming, “Oh my, why do you have so much paper?”, giving me the opportunity to explain the value of printing Jewish books and bringing a sense of Torah permanence to this place.
As the pages began to print (slowly!), I was able to stay connected to my wife’s grandfather through WhatsApp so we could experience the moment together.
Using the newly printed Tanya on Shabbat was an emotional moment.
Echoes of the Past
When Rabbi Lew arrived at the chapel in 1964, all he saw was a large cross. He had been told there was a Jewish section and expressed his confusion. The chaplain at the time showed him that the door bearing the cross could be flipped around, revealing a Star of David on the other side.
When he discovered that the Torah he had been promised was not a kosher one, simply a toy one printed on paper instead of hand-inked on parchment, his heart sank as he realized how isolated he would be on the holiest day of the year. At one point, I found a paper Torah in the supply closet. Was it the same one Rabbi Lew had encountered decades earlier?
Judaism in Practice
Every night, I’d review my chart of zmanim for the next day.
Shabbat was the most disorienting and, eventually, the most powerful. Shabbat began shortly after midday. That alone felt unnatural. As one does on Shabbat, the body is ready to relax and wants to nap, but it’s only noon on Friday—there’s still a half-day left until night!
Some of the questions that arose were: When can I make kiddush? Do I make it midday Friday or wait until later at night? On Shabbat morning, how do I structure all that needs to be done in the few hours of daylight? And so on.
Life at Pituffik taught me a lot of things. It taught me things about myself, about my ability to adapt, and how to walk with pride in a place not many people have walked.
Judaism here demanded intention in a way that it rarely does back home. I couldn't rely on habit. I had to think through and plan each step deliberately.
Most importantly: Torah does not bend for the Arctic. With determination (and complex calculations utilizing the most advanced technology), we can bring the Arctic into Torah, show that Torah can be lived and applied in literally every corner of the globe.
Reprinted from the Jewish-American Warrior Magazine
Start a Discussion