Two Souls

Elisha Wiesel’s journey to Judaism and what it tells us about the two souls within us.

Eli Wiesel’s Tefillin

Elisha Wiesel is the son of the late Elie Wiesel. He says that as a child, he remembers his father showering him with love, and always telling him, “Be a good student, be a good son, be a good Jew.” He always taught him about Judaism.

But as a teenager, he did the opposite. He was angry at school, angry at his parents, and angry at his family’s traditions. But the more he rebelled—the more his father showed him love.

There’s a Chassidic story about a father who came to his Rebbe and told him that his son had drifted far from Judaism. The Rebbe replied, “Then love him even more.” Elisha says it seems his father knew that story—because that’s exactly what he did. His father believed in him even when Elisha turned away from his parents and from Judaism. Even when he yelled that he wanted nothing to do with Judaism—that he’d rather be a Buddhist or anything else, as long as it wasn’t what his parents wanted—his father never stopped loving him or believing in him.

But his father didn’t just tell him to be a good Jew—he showed him what that looked like. Elie Wiesel kept Shabbat and kosher, and he put on tefillin every single day. Incredibly, even in Auschwitz, for forty days he risked his life to put on tefillin. Beyond that, he studied Torah daily and devoted himself to defending the Jewish people and the cause of Judaism.

His father asked only two things of him: that he marry a Jewish woman, and that he say Kaddish for him after his passing. 

Indeed, he married a Jewish woman.

Then, when Elie Wiesel passed away, Elisha remembered his father’s final request. He went to the Chabad House in Connecticut, where his mother lived, to say Kaddish with Rabbi Yossi Deren. Since he was already there, he opened a Chumash—and what he read fascinated him. Even more so, he was captivated by the Rebbe’s explanations in the commentary. Slowly, he began to reconnect with his roots. This time, he was rediscovering Judaism on his own terms—and he found that it spoke to him deeply.

Around that same time, his son Eliyahu was reaching the age to start preparing for his Bar Mitzvah. Interestingly, his father’s name was Eliezer, his own name is Elisha, and his son’s name is Eliyahu. All three generations share one nickname—Eli.

Elisha lived with his family in Manhattan. A friend recommended a good Bar Mitzvah tutor, Rabbi Chaim Baruch Alevsky, who at that time was a Chabad shliach on the Upper West Side. They met—and quickly formed a warm and genuine connection.

When preparing a boy for his Bar Mitzvah, naturally the topic of tefillin comes up. Elisha bought his son a pair, and when his son began learning how to put them on, Elisha decided to join him. Today, both father and son—the son and grandson of Elie Wiesel—put on tefillin every day.

Then Elisha told Rabbi Alevsky that his father, Elie Wiesel, had lived in several places at once—lecturing in Boston, living in New York, and so on—and therefore kept a set of tefillin in each place.

As you know, every Chabad rabbi puts tefillin on people whenever possible—but for Rabbi Alevsky, this is a mitzvah he takes especially to heart. He even has a T-shirt that says “Real men wear tefillin,” with a picture of a hand wrapped in them.

Elisha Wiesel gave him one of his father’s sets of tefillin. Now, when Rabbi Alevsky offers someone the opportunity to put on tefillin, he sometimes asks, “Would you like to put on the same tefillin that Elie Wiesel wore?” The reactions are always powerful.

The Twins

In this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, we read about Rivka’s pregnancy. For ten years she couldn’t conceive, and finally—“Rivka became pregnant.” But it was a difficult pregnancy. The Torah says she cried out, “If so, why am I like this?” Rashi explains that she noticed something strange happening: when she passed by the study halls of Shem and Ever, the baby struggled to come out, and when she passed by houses of idol worship, the baby again struggled to come out. So she went to ask the prophet of her time—Shem, the son of Noach, who was still alive—what this meant. He told her, in G-d’s name: “There are two nations in your womb.” She was carrying twins.

Before the age of ultrasounds, women often didn’t even know they were carrying twins. Once Rivka heard she was expecting two children, we never again find her complaining.

But that raises a question: what was it about that answer that satisfied her so completely? Even if there were two babies—and one was drawn to idol worship—shouldn’t that still have been cause for concern? What difference does it make if it’s one child who wants to turn away from G-d or one of two?

The explanation is this: if it had been one child, that would mean he was torn inside—sometimes wanting to serve G-d and sometimes pulled toward idolatry. He would be confused, living with an inner split. That’s what frightened her. But when she heard, “You have two nations inside you,” she realized there were two separate children—two clear identities. That brought her peace. At least they weren’t confused; there was something solid to work with.

Who Am I, Really?

This problem of inner conflict is as old as humanity itself. Jews want to serve G-d, they pray with deep concentration—and then, moments after finishing, they forget everything and act like ordinary people.

Picture someone standing in prayer at Ne’ilah, full of spiritual fire. But the moment the fast ends, he’s shoving his way through the crowd to grab a piece of cake. Then he wonders: who am I really? Such a person feels fake—because if his prayers were truly sincere, would he be pushing and yelling five minutes later?

A young man tells himself, “I’m still young. I haven’t reached real spiritual growth yet. When I get older, I’ll be righteous. I won’t have these material temptations anymore.” But twenty years pass, and now he’s forty—and he still has the same urges he’s ashamed of. So he comforts himself: “When I learn more Torah, when I’m sixty, I’ll finally be free of these desires.” Yet sixty comes, and he’s still struggling.

So he asks himself, “If so, why am I even doing this? What’s the point of all this spiritual effort if I’m still the same person?” For centuries, generations of sincere Jews have wrestled with this question—wondering if the system is broken, or if they are.

Then, the Alter Rebbe came along and opened everyone’s eyes with the Tanya. He explained that every person has not just one soul, but two: a G-dly soul and an animal soul. This isn’t the same as the good inclination and the evil inclination—it’s much deeper. Like Rivka’s twins, “Two nations are within you.” Inside each of us live two distinct souls. The G-dly soul is literally a piece of G-d from above. It yearns to reconnect with its Source, which is why it pushes a person to learn Torah and do mitzvot—because through them, it comes closer to G-d.

The animal soul, on the other hand, isn’t evil. It doesn’t want to hurt anyone—it just wants to live. It wants to eat, drink, and survive. Like an animal that isn’t wicked, just self-focused, the animal soul is simply self-centered.

These two souls battle for control over the person—like two armies fighting over a small city. One day one side conquers it, the next day the other side does (Tanya, Chapter 9). The “small city” is the human being. The question is, who will influence him? Will the G-dly soul inspire him to do mitzvot and connect to G-d, or will the animal soul take over, pulling him toward selfishness and doing whatever he feels like?

So really, it’s not one confused person struggling with a split personality—wanting to do a mitzvah one moment and the opposite the next. It’s two different selves. When a person does a mitzvah, he genuinely wants to do it. In that moment, it’s his inner Jacob speaking, yearning to study Torah. The fact that an “Esau” lives next door doesn’t change Jacob’s truth. And if, a moment later, the animal soul takes charge and he acts selfishly, then at that moment, it’s a different “person” in control.

We often hear people say things like, “You’re such a hypocrite—two-faced! If you keep kosher at home, why do you eat out at non-kosher restaurants? If you go to synagogue on Shabbat, how can you go to a game that afternoon?”

The answer is that each of us really contains two separate beings. “One nation will overpower the other; when one rises, the other falls” (Tanya, Chapter 13). When I eat kosher, it’s my G-dly soul expressing itself. When I forget myself and the animal soul takes over, I do what feels good in the moment.

When you rebel against your parents and your traditions, that’s one part of you. But when you later rediscover your Jewish soul, come home, start putting on tefillin and doing mitzvot—that’s your G-dly soul shining through, the part of you that longs to come close to G-d.