I was driving my kids home from school on one of those brutally hot afternoons, the kind where the sun feels like it’s sitting right on top of your car, burning a hole through the roof, when the engine sputtered and gave out.

I set my hazard lights flashing and cranked the windows. Heat poured in and cars were flying past, the kids getting restless. I tried calling people, but no one answered. I tried pushing the car to the side of the road, but it wouldn’t budge.

We were in a less-than-desirable neighborhood.

And then, out of nowhere, a man walked toward us.

“Let’s get your car off the road,” he said.

Together, pushed the car off the road to safety and tried jumping the battery.

I offered him money. He refused.

“I’ll go get the part you need,” he said. “It’s for G‑d.”

And before I could argue, he went two blocks in the blazing heat, bought it with his own money, came back, set things up, and made sure the car started.

I offered him money again but he firmly refused.

“I’m Muslim,” he said. “I’m from Afghanistan. You’re Jewish. We help each other.”

He introduced himself as Ghulam. He had arrived in the U.S. only a year and a half earlier, escaping the chaos back home. His English was surprisingly good. When I introduced myself as Mordechai, he smiled.

“Mordechai? That’s a Persian name! I’m Persian too, from Iran originally but have been living for many years in Afghanistan.”

Two people with different backgrounds, different histories, different worlds. Yet, in that moment, we were simply two human beings helping each other.

I said the one Arabic word I knew: “Alhamdulillah.”

He laughed and answered, “Yes! Thank G‑d.”