Jacob J. Caspi

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In Memory of My Beloved Brother Kobi (Yaakov) Caspi
Kobi, my twin brother, was born on the first day of Sukkot, the 15th of Tishrei 5713, October 4, 1952. When we were born, our parents already had two daughters: Raanana, born December 1, 1935, and Niva, born December 27, 1942. Both are no longer with us. Our parents, who were Zionists, immigrated to Israel from Poland in the early 1930s.
Our mother, Luba Caspi, named us, the twins, after her parents, Michle and Yaakov Dubinsky, who perished in the Holocaust in December 1942 at Treblinka, along with her older brother, Moshe, and his family.
We grew up in Ramat Gan in a house built by our father in the same courtyard where our grandmother, Tova Caspi (Serebreni), our father's mother, lived, along with our aunt, our father's sister, Tzipora Brikner and her family.
The sandak (godfather) at Kobi's circumcision ceremony was our grandmother's second husband, David Kahana Yochvedovitz. He was a partisan in the forests during the Holocaust. Our grandfather, who was our grandmother's first husband, Michael, died from the degenerative disease ALS. This illness also killed our sister Niva, and twenty years later, our Kobi.
Kobi was a handsome young man and women loved him. He left Israel after the Yom Kippur War, following a love affair with an American young woman, Joan from Wisconsin, whom he met during his military service at Kibbutz Merom Golan. He spent most of his years in the United States living in warm San Diego, working any job to support himself. Despite the great distance between California and Israel, he would visit every two to three years to see our parents and made sure to call them weekly. He called me twice a week especially during the coronavirus pandemic and later during the current Gaza War, after rocket attacks on Israel from Gaza, Lebanon, and Yemen, to make sure we were okay.
On our 70th birthday, he came to Israel and we celebrated together. He was happy, and we planned to celebrate our 75th birthday together in 2027.
Kobi was a hero and a survivor. He tried to hide his serious illness from me to spare pain from us. Only when he lost his ability to speak did I realize he had ALS.
Two months ago, in early February 2025, my husband and I flew from Tel Aviv to distant San Diego, a flight that took more than 15 hours. We lived for a week with him in the home of his close and devoted friend, Alicia Rincon, who took care of all his needs. Alicia took him to doctors and treatments. I saw how bravely he faced his growing difficulties. He continued to drive until his right leg weakened, went to the gym with the help of a walker, got on stationary bikes without assistance, and bathed in the jacuzzi. His face would light up with joy when he listened to music on headphones while riding. This was his way of fighting the disease while stubbornly trying to maintain his independence and continue doing the things he loved. When he got up in the morning, he used a walker to prepare his own breakfast. He would blend fruits (mango, papaya, or banana) with oatmeal and milk in his powerful "Bullet" blender. He enjoyed going to the market with Alicia, choosing foods he liked, and made sure to eat salmon, tahini, broccoli, and asparagus because he believed healthy nutrition would slow the progression of the disease. In the last month of his life, he moved to Seacrest Village, a Jewish assisted living residence in Encinitas, his city of residence, where he was helped by caregivers. He didn't get to undergo the procedure for direct feeding to the stomach, and food entered his lungs. Kobi very much wanted to continue living and not give up, but pneumonia overcame him. Twenty-four hours before his death, he called me to say goodbye. His face on the hospital pillow was peaceful, and his gaze was serene. He seemed to have accepted his approaching death.
Kobi, I will carry in my memory your beautiful image, your courage to live far from our parents' home and our country, and your strong desire to fight against the limitations imposed by your illness. Rest in peace, my beloved brother, I will miss you.