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He was known as a master hazan and an exceptional teacher. He was dubbed “The Voice of His Generation,” and described as the foremost Sephardic cantor. But notwithstanding his well-earned notoriety in hazanut, the true extent of Rabbi Raphael Yair Elnadav’s brilliant talents was far more rich and varied than most would ever know.

Born into the Jerusalem of some 90 years ago, Rabbi Elnadav grew up in a world vastly different from 21st-century New York, and throughout his life he carried a certain nostalgia for his simple, and pure Yerushalmi upbringing. To step into his home was like stepping back in time – the very atmosphere was saturated with Torah, halacha and tzeniut. He was always a very private person, even as he served the public, and after his retirement he devoted himself to personal pursuits and to his family. He carried with him the images of the great people he had known, never losing sight of the Yerushalayim of his youth. One grandson related that he once asked Rabbi Raphael a question regarding the Maharal and the plausibility of his renowned golem. Rabbi Elnadav replied, “If you knew the gedolim I knew, if you saw what I saw, you wouldn’t ask if such a thing was possible!”

Rabbi Elnadav was born to a prominent Yemenite rabbinical family that had immigrated to Jerusalem around the turn of the 20thcentury. His father, Rabbi Meyer z.s.l., exerted a profound influence on young Raphael, who expressed his reverence for him in a privately published collection of original Torah insights. Rabbi Elnadav would say, “Abba sheli haya kimo mal’ach – My father was like an angel!”

As a young man, Rabbi Raphael learned in the prestigious Yeshivat Porat Yosef in Jerusalem’s Old City, until Arab violence forced the yeshiva to relocate to Western Jerusalem. “We were forced into galut [exile],” Rabbi Elnadav said many years later. “We found refuge in synagogues in Western Jerusalem and studied there.”

Blessed with a magnificent singing voice, the young Raphael studied hazanut under the renowned Sepharadi hazan Yaakov Levi. He received further musical training at Jerusalem’s Conservatory, studying violin, voice development and musical theory. Professor Moshe Cordova trained him in the various makamot of Oriental music, and Raphael was soon recognized as a vastly talented singer with a diverse repertoire of Sephardic liturgical melodies, as well as Arabic, Turkish and Yemenite songs.

Simultaneously, he continued his Torah learning in Jerusalem’s Yeshivat Shaare Zion under Chief Rabbi Ben-Zion Uziel. He earned semicha (rabbinical ordination) from Rabbi Eliezer Waldenberg z.s.l. (1915-2006), the renowned halachic sage and author of the voluminous Tzitz Eliezer, and learned mila, shehita and safrut. He spent his evenings learning in the Gerrer bet medrash near his home. These diverse skills and qualifications prepared him for a future where he would draw on his unique talents and abilities to serve Hashem and the Jewish people.

As a young man, Raphael Elnadav sang at a reception before the Gerrer Rebbe, the Imrei Emet, (Rabbi Mordechai Avraham Alter, z.s.l. 1866-1948). Pleased with his performance, the Rebbe blessed the young prodigy and encouraged him to continue to develop his wonderful talent. A few years later, Raphael was asked to help the Gerrer community. Yaakov Talmud, a prominent hassid, had composed a number of melodies, but did not live nearby. The Rebbe sought someone classically trained who could read the music notes and teach the songs to his hassidim in preparation for the Rebbe’s tish. (The Rebbe would hold tish – literally, “table” – each Shabbat and on Yamim Tovim, where the participants would hear divreiTorah and sing.) Raphael Elnadav was asked to help teach these melodies, which he did, adding some of his own compositions to the hassidim’s repertoire. “They called me ‘Noodif, Noodif!’” he chuckled years later, recalling these events.

Before his wedding, Rabbi Elnadav visited the Gerrer Rebbe. By this time, the Imrei Emet had passed away, and so the young groom sought an audience with the Rebbe’s successor, the Beit Yisrael (Rabbi Yisrael Alter, z.s.l. 1894-1977). He handed the Rebbe an invitation to the wedding, and took his leave. As he exited the room, the Rebbe called him back. “This you gave me. This is mine,” said the Rebbe, indicating the invitation. “This is not!” he added, referring to the blank envelope which had enclosed the invitation. These were the people of the Torah world in that time…

But all was not calm and peaceful in the land he loved. The land of Israel was governed by the British Mandate which often took a hostile posture towards Jews. Deeply committed to the cause of Jewish sovereignty, the young Rabbi Raphael joined the Irgun, an underground defense force, serving as chaplain, even teaching hazanut to groups of young soldiers. At one point, he was arrested and imprisoned for some two-and-a-half months for his anti-British activities. His brother Yosef z.l. was killed in the struggle for Jewish independence, a personal loss which deeply affected Raphael.

Life took on a more regular routine once the State was established in 1948. In 1950, Rabbi Elnadav married Bertha (Batia) Hassoun, and the couple settled in Tel Aviv, where he was appointed chief hazan in Congregation Ohel Moed, the main Sephardic synagogue of Tel Aviv. Their eldest son, Yosef, was born soon after. By then, Rabbi Elnadav had earned widespread acclaim in the world of hazanut as a talented innovator, composer and expert in Sephardic liturgy, and his fame had spread to Jewish communities throughout the world.

He was only 34, but tremendously accomplished – a shohet (ritual slaughterer), mohel, hazan and rabbi – when the life-altering job offer came. An emissary from Cuba’s Sephardic community arrived in Israel, having been sent for the sole purpose of offering Rabbi Elnadav the leadership of the community. After months of negotiation and deliberation, the Elnadavs agreed. Mrs. Elnadav, and her parents, the Hassouns, were heartbroken at the prospect of separation, and so, just before Rosh Hashanah of 1955, Rabbi Elnadav, his wife, child and parents-in-law arrived in Havana.

Rabbi Elnadav lived with his parents-in-law for most of his married life. Mrs. Elnadav was an only child, and her parents were heartbroken at the prospect of their only daughter moving to Cuba. Rabbi Elnadav undertook to move them with his own family, and took care of them for the rest of their lives. He treated them with respect and devotion, never raising his voice or losing his temper with either of them. (It helped that they, too, were exceptional people!)

During Mrs. Hassoun’s illness, the rabbi commented to one of his daughters-in-law, “I feel like she is my mother! I lived with her more years than I lived with my own mother!”

Rabbi Elnadav quickly threw himself into the service of the Cuban community. He functioned for them at every level – leading the prayers, performing marriages and funerals, presiding over gittin (divorces), and answering halachic queries. Often, there was more than one berit mila to perform in a day, and the community would pay for him to travel by plane from one end of the island to the other so the mitzva could be performed at the proper time. He supervised kashrut in Cuba, overseeing the shehita process twice a week.

However, despite the critical role he served as spiritual leader and functionary of the Cuban community, Rabbi Elnadav was forced to cut his time in the island short. With the rise of Communism, Rabbi Elnadav sensed the impending Castro takeover of Cuba, and realized he had to get his family, now with two young children, out of Cuba. Fortunately, Hashem had already paved the way for his exit. In the mid-fifties, before the Elnadavs moved to Cuba, Mr. Isaac Shalom a.h. heard Rabbi Elnadav perform at a special congress of Sepharadim in Jerusalem. The Shaare Zion kinees on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn was in its planning stages. Mr. Shalom spoke to Rabbi Elnadav and expressed his hope that the young hazan would consider a position in the Syrian community once the Shaare Zion building was complete. When life in Havana became no longer viable, Rabbi Elnadav accepted Mr. Shalom’s invitation. In 1959, together with his two children (the youngest was born later, in America) and parents-in-law, he moved to New York and assumed the position of chief cantor, a post he held until his retirement in 1980.

Mr. Shalom once told Rabbi Elnadav, “You’re a richer man than I am. If I give and give and give some more, my pockets will be empty. You can give and keep giving!”

His tenure as hazan in Shaare Zion had a profound impact upon the community. “He taught us how to pray,” commented one woman who grew up hearing his tefilot. “All the tunes, all the words – he gave us the key to prayer, and enabled us to build our own relationships with Hashem.” Some of the tunes used in our shuls today, like those of “Romimu” and “Mah Tovu.” were actually original compositions, introduced by Rabbi Elnadav.

“When he prayed, you had the feeling you were eavesdropping,” said another community member. “He knew to Whom he was praying, and he brought that reverence and majesty to us, as well.” The rabbi had no ulterior motives when he prayed. He simply stood before Hashem, as a representative of the public. He was precise in all he said and in all he did, strictly following halacha and tradition at every step. He demanded much of his congregants during tefila, but he demanded far more of himself. He took his responsibility as emissary of the congregation very seriously, and stood in awe of his Creator. He felt the holiness of the Mikdash, of the synagogue, and his demeanor during prayer was awe-inspiring.

In 1987, long after Rabbi Elnadav had moved from Israel, his son Yosef z.l. visited Jerusalem with his family. They were aboard a bus one day when a stranger approached them. “I’m looking for a job,” the man began. “Maybe you can help me. I’d like to find a job in America as a hazan. I studied hazanut and learned with the expert – Rabbi Raphael Elnadav! Have you heard of him?”

With a smile on his face, Yosef answered, “Oh, sure. I learned with him too…”

During those same years, Rabbi Elnadav established himself as a legendary teacher, first at Yeshiva Magen David, and later in Yeshiva of Flatbush. His flair for drama found an outlet in the classroom. “Today I heard Yeshaya HaNavi himself!” exclaimed one observer of his Navi class. When he spoke, he brought the words to life. When he taught something, you saw it – and understood it differently. Throughout his life, when he told stories of the people he had known and dealt with, you felt like you were there with those men of stature. Today, when his former students meet Rabbi Elnadav’s grandchildren who serve as educators in the community, the conversation inevitably moves onto their vivid memories of Rabbi Elnadav and his dynamic delivery in the classroom.

To the world at large, Rabbi Elnadav was a musical genius, a master teacher, and a hazan of unparalleled stature. And yet, despite his public persona, he was a deeply private person. Perhaps what was most hidden, and least recognized, was his erudition as a talmid hacham. All his life he sought to grow in Torah, and he was constantly undertaking new areas of study. A visit to his home would reveal piles of sefarim on every available table, each seferwith a bookmark. “He was ‘holding’ everywhere!” exclaimed one grandson. He would share with you his latest discovery in one sefer, his elation at completing another, his enthusiasm at beginning yet another. Halacha governed his every decision, Torah was his life.

“He had a pasuk for everything,” said another grandson. “Every story he told, every decision he was consulted on, every issue he dealt with – even current events – had a source in the Torah. He kept a Tanach near him at all times, to enable him to search for the perfect pasuk to help illustrate the point he wanted to make. He even had a dictionary on hand to help him locate the precise English word that would communicate his thoughts most effectively.”

He was fascinated by everything in the world around him. He would take something apart to see how it worked and if he could duplicate it. If Hashem gave him a mind capable of understanding, he reasoned, it was to be maximized. Everything was “good to know.” He encouraged a grandson who registered to learn in an Ashkenazic yeshiva to learn Yiddish. “You should know it. It will help you,” he said, recalling the Yiddish he’d picked up in his associations with the Ashkenazic and Chassidic communities in Jerusalem. He undertook even the most complex sugyot (Talmudic topics), working his way through each of them with the joy and energy normally associated with a much younger man.

At age 80, Rabbi Elnadav took upon himself a project most people would never attempt. Utilizing his myriad skills, he selected parchment, made his own ink, and wrote his own sefer Torah – from start to finish. The writing is beautiful, a blend of many different styles, produced with meticulous care and an eye for detail – his very own signature writing in his very own signature way: beautiful and precise. The Sefer Torah exemplifies the way Rabbi Elnadav lived his life, combining the beauty of his many talents and the precision of halacha to produce a truly unique individual, devoted to Hashem and His Torah.

The untimely passing of his oldest child, Yosef z”l, affected him deeply. He found emotional outlet in his art – his poetry and music, expressing his grief in writing. And no congregant in Yeshivat Ateret Torah wasn’t moved by the sounds of a father sobbing for his son in his rendition of “Bnei Aharon” on Yom Kippur the last few years.

Hashem consoled Rabbi Elnadav during this time of grief by bringing several important projects his way. One such project was deciphering and organizing the manuscripts of a prominent community lecturer. The writings were in shorthand, and difficult to read. At an advanced age, Rabbi Elnadav had learned how to use a computer for the compilation of his father’s derashot (sermons). Now, he undertook to enter hundreds of pages of text with exact precision. The project was very difficult, but the rabbi persevered. He found that the work helped him focus his thoughts on Torah, and provided consolation after his tragic loss.

He carried that precision to every area of his life: his learning, his music, his tefila, and even his public speaking. He composed deep, intricate derashot for each of his grandsons to present at their bar mitzvah celebrations. He trained each of them in turn, ensuring that they mastered both the content and the delivery of these divre Torah. “I’m not sure I appreciated it at the time,” grins one grandson, “but it really helped me a lot later on!” This devotion to detail was Rabbi Elnadav’s way in avodat Hashem. He strove to bring each act, each speech, each prayer to its completion, achieving shelemut (wholeness) in both the action itself and within himself. If it was worth doing, it was worth doing not just well, but superlatively. This perhaps is why it is so difficult to write of Rabbi Raphael Elnadav without resorting to hyperbole – everything he did, every action he took, was a step on the journey to excellence. He wasn’t trying to outclass anyone else – he was trying to perfect himself in his avodat Hashem.

Rabbi Elnadav lived and worked with a keen awareness of his role as a bridge between two vastly different worlds: that of the Jerusalem of his youth, where tzadikim walked the streets and the very air was permeated with Torah and spirituality, and that of 21st-century New York. He felt a responsibility to hand over the mesorah (tradition) in its entirety, to ensure that the traditions of tefila, Torah, and halacha would remain intact in the way he had received them from his father and teachers. He took this as his mission, and took it seriously. He devoted himself totally to whatever he undertook. Hence, his penchant for precision.

One summer Friday night, Rabbi Elnadav stood up to recite kaddish for the yahrtzeit of a relative and, as is common, was joined by another congregant in the kinees who was also saying kaddish. The rabbi recited the kaddish in a loud, clear voice, carefully enunciating every word with his trademark patience and precision. The other man also said the kaddish loudly, but was very rapid and unclear in his pronunciation. Disturbed that the kaddish was not being recited in unison, and more so that it was not being said correctly, Rabbi Elnadav raised his powerful voice louder and louder until everyone in the kinees, particularly the other man across the room, was aware that kaddish should be recited clearly and precisely.

After the tefila, many people apologized on behalf of the other congregant, fearing that perhaps the rabbi was angered by what happened. But on his way out of the kinees, Rabbi Elnadav approached the man himself. In a caring manner, he explained that kaddish shouldn’t be read rapidly as though it is a burden.

That Sunday, the rabbi took out an audio cassette, and recorded himself reciting kaddish. He went to the kinees and handed it to the man, telling him he could keep the tape and should practice reciting kaddish with it. Grinning from ear to ear, the man would go on to tell everyone he met, “The rabbi made me a tape!”

With this gesture, Rabbi Elnadav touched this man’s heart. The fellow now realized that the rabbi wasn’t trying to orchestrate the prayer in hisway, but rather, he wanted everyone to pray the correct way. Rabbi Elnadav’s efforts also conveyed a powerful message to the man: that his kaddish is valuable because he is valuable, and that he is important enough that the Rabbi would go to the trouble of recording a tape just for him.

Rabbi Elnadav would often remark that a rabbi must put himself on the level of the people, in order to raise them up. In other words, the people must feel the rabbi is growing with them, rather than feeling that they are climbing a ladder alone to reach their rav. This added to the rabbi’s success as a teacher and as a friend to all. He keenly understood people and spoke to their heart.

Rabbi Elnadav’s clarity of vision was unparalleled and genuine. He had no patience for hanifa (flattery), and stayed far from any lashon hara (negative speech about others). After his retirement, he gloried in being a private person, never mixing or meddling in the affairs of the people around him. He believed that people should always know clearly what they are doing, and why. His faith was so strong, so clear, that it was his reality. “You saw it in his joy at fulfilling each separate missva on Pesah night,” recalled one grandson. “That clarity, knowing what life was really about, gave him a tremendous simhat hahaim [joy of life].”

He derived immense joy from his beautiful family. He gloried in the children, playing with the grandchildren and great-grandchildren with a softness his former students may have found astounding. He built serious connections with the boys as they grew up and matured in their understanding and Torah learning. And that pride was reciprocal. It meant something to be an Elnadav. “The name Elnadav opened doors for me that would have been closed otherwise,” said a grandson who sought audiences with some of today’s gedolim who had been Rabbi Elnadav’s contemporaries in Porat Yosef. At the same time, however, the Elnadav name was never regarded as a privilege. It was a mark of excellence – a responsibility to live up to.

All the boys in the family learned with Rabbi Elnadav at one point or another, and many of them studied hazanut. He held an exceptionally high standard in all areas of learning – and especially inhazanut. One day, in preparation for Rosh Hashanah, a grandson was reviewing the tefilot. Somehow, something he said or sang did not satisfy the rabbi. “Stop!” he commanded. “You know, on Rosh Hashanah, every word must shine!”

He was a man with a mission: “Zeh Keli ve’anvehu – This is my Gd, and I shall glorify Him!” He lived with the awareness that at all times, one has to bring glory to Hashem’s name. He carried a legacy from the great people he knew in his youth, and bridged the generations from then to now. He brought beauty to everything he did, and ensured that the heritage and traditions he learned from his rabbis, in Jerusalem of old, were transmitted to us in all their beauty and entirety.

“Ashira l’Hashem behayai – I shall sing to Gd in my lifetime.” Throughout his life, with every breath he took and every word he spoke, he sang a shira, a magnificent song of praise, to Hashem.