The privilege you don’t notice until it’s missing

I was sitting at the clubhouse of our soccer club recently, doing what I always do, drinking my evening double Jameson while watching whether my son was giving it his all or not. 

The early evening light was soft. The boys were kicking around. It was just another practice. 

And then it wasn’t. 

One of the 13-year-old boys went up for a challenge and came down wrong. His coach brought him up to the clubhouse. His wrist was bent in a way wrists should never bend. The kind of injury that makes grown men look away. 

He wasn’t one of our community’s children. He was an underprivileged kid from Hillbrow. A good kid. Tough. Brave. Trying not to cry. 

So the club manager did what anyone would do. She phoned for help. 

082 911 told us it wouldn’t dispatch an ambulance because the boy didn’t have medical aid and would be a financial risk. We were advised to call 112. 

So we did. 

Ten minutes on hold. Then the words you never want to hear in a moment like that, “There are no ambulances available any time soon. You’ll have to make another plan.” 

Make another plan? 

On a soccer field with a 13-year-old with a wrist that looked broken or worse and his parents nowhere to be seen. 

Long story short, his father eventually got to the club by public transport, and they began to make their way on their own to Chris Hani Baragwanath Academic Hospital, getting there late at night, with the boy eventually operated on the next morning. 

And I sat there thinking about something that made me both incredibly grateful and deeply unsettled. If, G-d forbid, that had been my son, I know what would have happened. 

I would have dialled one number! 

And within minutes, not hours, Hatzolah would have been there. 

Calm. Professional. Kind. Efficient. 

Not asking about medical aid. 

Not asking about payment. 

Just asking, “Where are you? We’re on our way.” 

That realisation hit me hard. 

We often speak about Jewish community in terms of schools, shuls, youth movements, philanthropy, and Israel. And yes, those are pillars of our strength. But there’s another pillar we don’t talk about nearly enough: our infrastructure of care. 

Hatzolah isn’t just an ambulance service. It’s a living expression of Jewish values. 

It’s volunteers who leave Shabbos tables, boardrooms, family dinners, and children’s bedtime stories to respond to strangers. 

It’s a community that built a safety net before it ever needed to fall into it. 

And perhaps most importantly, it’s a reminder that we’re not alone. 

That afternoon, I wasn’t thinking about politics or budgets or leadership debates. I was thinking about something far simpler. 

How lucky we are! 

Not because we’re elite. 

Not because we’re better. 

But because we built something together. 

Something organised. 

Something disciplined. 

Something compassionate. 

Something fast. 

In a country where emergency services are stretched thin and where many families live one crisis away from catastrophe, having a reliable network of communal response isn’t a luxury, it’s a blessing. 

And blessings should never be taken for granted. 

The uncomfortable truth is that most of us don’t think about Hatzolah until we need it. We see the ambulances at events. We notice them speeding through traffic. We nod with appreciation and move on. 

But sitting at that soccer club, watching a child wait for help that wasn’t coming, I realised something: 

Security isn’t just about fences and guards. 

Community isn’t just about schools and scholarships. 

Strength isn’t just about numbers. 

It’s about showing up for each other … immediately, without hesitation. 

That young boy eventually received care. Thank G-d he did. But the delay could have been worse. The outcome could have been different. 

And it made me look at my own community with fresh eyes. 

We’re not fortunate because we’re insulated. 

We’re fortunate because we’re organised. 

We’re fortunate because generations before us decided that we won’t rely only on the system but will build our own support within it. 

That isn’t superiority. 

That is responsibility. 

And perhaps the deeper message for all of us is this: If we know what it feels like to be protected, we also know what it feels like when protection doesn’t arrive. 

Maybe the ultimate expression of gratitude isn’t just appreciation but participation. 

Supporting. 

Volunteering. 

Donating. 

Strengthening the structures that protect us. 

Because one day on some random Thursday afternoon at a soccer club it might be our child. 

And when that moment comes, may we always be able to say with confidence that help is already on its way. 

• Adam Thal, husband and father of two, writes with honesty about community, fatherhood, and the quiet responsibilities that shape modern Jewish men in South Africa. Sometimes humorous, sometimes emotional but always truthful!