Changing tyres isn’t for everyone

Around a week before I got married, my father decided it was time for an intervention. Not the “Sit down, son, let’s talk about your obsession with Holocaust literature” kind. More the practical kind. In his mind, he would have failed as a father if he hadn’t taught me how to change a tyre before I became someone’s husband. 

So, early one Sunday morning, I found myself standing in the driveway as he methodically removed a perfectly healthy tyre and replaced it with … the exact same perfectly healthy tyre. Chatting away instructively as he did so. My role in all of this was simple. Watch, learn, and absorb. 

Spoiler alert: I didn’t. 

Some years later, while driving to a remote mine somewhere in North West province with my business partner, a born-and-bred New Yorker, we suffered a blowout. I pulled over beneath a road sign that cheerfully informed us we were in a “Hijack hotspot”. We sat in silence for about five minutes. Eventually he turned to me and said, “I’ve just realised, if I don’t get out and change the tyre, we’re going to be here forever.” He was an exceptionally bright man. Sometimes, though, it took him a few minutes to read the room. The tyre got changed. But not by me. 

There are simply some things I will never learn to do. I will probably never rewire a plug. And frankly, I think that it’s in everyone’s best interests. If I ever attempted it, there would be a great chance that people would probably die. I also won’t become an expert at sewing, laying tiles, or making perfect sushi rice. 

Others can’t tie a tie, reverse a trailer, or keep a pot plant alive. And that’s perfectly fine. Some skills are essential. Everyone needs to learn to swim. Everyone needs to know basic first aid. And everyone needs to know how to block someone on WhatsApp. 

Beyond that, life has always worked because we’re different. Judaism has always understood this. In the desert, every tribe had a different role. The Mishkan wasn’t built by one extraordinary person but by ordinary people, each contributing a different skill. 

Today, that lesson feels more relevant than ever. 

There was a time when defending Jewish identity felt like a specialist skill. Something for rabbis, diplomats, communal leaders, or the person in the family who actually enjoys arguing on Facebook. 

The events of 7 October changed that. Whether we like it or not, every Jew is now an ambassador. Not because we all have to speak at rallies or write opinion pieces, but because sooner or later every one of us will be asked a question, hear a comment, or find ourselves in a conversation that will ask us to speak up. And whereas we don’t need to become an expert on the Middle East, we do need to know enough to explain who we are, what we believe, and why it matters. 

There are still plenty of things I have no intention of learning. Changing a tyre remains high on that list. 

Standing up for being Jewish isn’t. Some skills are optional. That one no longer is.