A routine kosher inspection in rural China by Shliach Rabbi Shimon Freundlich led to a surprising encounter and a timeless lesson about the power of words. Full Story
By Rabbi Shimon Freundlich – Beijing, China
As part of my work as a Shliach in China, I regularly visit factories that produce kosher food for export. Jews around the world rely on kosher products, and since so many ingredients are made in China, we help ensure that what reaches kosher consumers truly meets halachic standards. These visits are part of my ongoing effort to represent several kosher certifying agencies and support factories in maintaining full compliance with kosher standards.
Today I visited four factories. Each one had its own rhythm, its own smell, and its own story. At every site, I observed the processes carefully for kosher compliance, as usual, walking through production lines, checking ingredients, examining equipment, and reviewing records. But in the fourth factory, something remarkable happened.
There was nothing unusual about the plant itself. It was clean, organized, and efficient, typical of the well-run facilities scattered across China’s industrial regions. The surprise came not from the machinery or the process, but from a person. The factory’s representative, who was responsible for kosher certification and whom I had never met before, made a deep impression on me.
From the moment I arrived, I sensed something different about him. Factory staff are generally polite and respectful, but this man displayed an extra measure of reverence, not just professionalism, but almost a quiet awe. I later learned that he had recently been transferred to this department, which explained why our paths hadn’t crossed until today.
After completing my inspection and verifying that everything was in order, I gathered my notes and prepared to leave. But before I could step out, he approached me with visible excitement and asked if he could show me something. Intrigued, I agreed. He led me to a small closet behind his desk, opened it carefully, and took out two books in Chinese.
To my astonishment, both were about the Gemara.
He held them as if they were sacred treasures. With a proud smile, he explained that these books are his constant source of wisdom and that he studies them regularly for inspiration. The titles read Talmud Bavli and The Book of Wisdom, compiled by a Chinese scholar named Qiuquan and published by the China Federation of Literary and Art Circles Press.
When I opened the books, I noticed that they didn’t cite the actual references for the passages they quoted, but the content was fascinating nonetheless. Each page reflected deep admiration for Jewish learning, moral reasoning, and the life lessons derived from our ancient texts.
I asked him to share one of the stories he particularly liked. He eagerly turned to a passage and began recounting a tale, one that, interestingly enough, comes not from the Gemara itself but from the Midrash. It told of a Talmudic sage often mentioned throughout our literature: Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel.
This is the story he shared:
Once, Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel called his attendant Tavi and said, “Please go to the market and bring me the best food you can find.”
Tavi went and soon returned, holding beef tongue.
Rabbi Shimon thanked him and then asked him to go again, this time to bring something bad.
A short while later, Tavi returned, and again, in his hand, tongue.
“I don’t understand,” Rabbi Shimon said. “When I asked for the best food, you brought me tongue, and now when I ask for bad food, you bring the same thing?”
Tavi, the clever attendant, replied, “Exactly. From the tongue comes the good, and from the tongue comes the bad. When it is good, nothing is better than it; when it is bad, nothing is worse than it.”
(Midrash Rabbah, Parashat Behar)
The story’s simplicity hides its depth. Our words have power, to heal or to wound, to uplift or to destroy. What amazed me most, though, was not just the wisdom of the story but who was telling it: a Chinese factory manager in a remote corner of Shandong province, passionately studying lessons from our Sages.
Standing there, thousands of miles from home, I felt a sudden, unexpected connection, one that transcended language, culture, and geography. Here was a man who found personal meaning in the teachings of our ancestors, whose lives and lessons have shaped Jewish thought for over two thousand years.
One never knows where inspiration will come from. Today, it came from a Chinese gentleman in Shandong province, deeply engaged with our 2,000-year-old literature, and in turn inspiring me. Encounters like these remind me that the light of wisdom travels far beyond its origin, touching hearts in ways we could never imagine.
