Editor’s note: Lucy Steinitz became a lifetime member of Kulanu following her participation in the first Kulanu trip to the Abayudaya community in Uganda in 1995. She has since been active in Kulanu in many ways, which are outlined in the Volunteer Spotlight article on page 10, immediately following this article. She continues to travel widely for her work with Catholic Relief Services as the Senior Technical Advisor. This is what brought her to Nigeria, just prior to Yom Kippur.
Lucy, the author, presenting Sar Habakkuk and fellow congregants in Kubwa, Nigeria with a donation of machzors from Kulanu
My work took me to Nigeria immediately after Rosh HaShanah and I stayed through Yom Kippur, thanks to a wonderful reception I received at the Tikvat Israel Synagogue in Kubwa, a forty-five-minute drive outside Nigeria’s capital city of Abuja.
My preparations started weeks before when a fifty-pound box of machzorim (High Holiday prayer books) landed on our Baltimore doorstep, courtesy of Kulanu, a wonderful organization that supports re-emerging Jewish communities in unlikely places around the world. I repacked the books into two second-hand suitcases to leave with my hosts and added several metal mezuzot in my hand luggage as additional gifts, not realizing that these would cause havoc with all the airport security monitors en route. Fortunately, once I explained what they were, I was allowed to “let God’s word pass through,” as one of the agents described it.
After arriving in Abuja (initially to lead a three-day workshop), I contacted Sar Habakkuk, leader of the Tikvat Israel Synagogue and Kulanu’s main liaison to the Nigeria Jewish Federation. When Habakkuk told me that the Federation has 56 synagogue members and he knew of 8 other communities that are emerging, I was amazed. Even though each congregation is very small, almost all are reportedly growing.
All consist of members from the Igbo ethnic group who believe themselves to be among the ten lost tribes of Israel. While most Igbo practice Christianity, many have observed some Jewish customs as far back as anyone can remember, such as keeping Saturday as the Sabbath day of rest.
The Tikvat Israel Synagogue lies among several unfinished buildings (envisioned as guest rooms) and a small internet café with one working computer on the compound where Sar Habakkuk lives with his immediate family. Most significantly, this includes his son Hezekiah (aka Moshe Hezekiah) who ably serves as the congregation’s main tutor and sheliach tsibur (leader of prayers), and studies Judaism intently over the internet or through books whenever he can.
As yet, Nigeria has no ordained rabbi—though Hezekiah dreams of becoming the first one. Notably, there are only a few Sifrei Torah (Torah scrolls) in the country, so these rotate among the faithful. Kosher slaughterers are even rarer than Torahs, so all the Jews I met stick to fish, grains, and vegetables.
Two days before Yom Kippur, I met with Hezekiah and his friend Japhet Echegwo at my hotel. Afterward, I arranged for transport to and from the synagogue via my office. The directions weren’t clear so we had to ask people in Kubwa town for the synagogue—and, when they didn’t understand, we asked for the “Jewish church” and even the “Sabbath-worshipers,” but none of these designations brought a flicker of recognition. Finally, someone asked if we meant the “bearded prayer house.” That proved successful and its accuracy caused great mirth at the synagogue. When I asked Habakkuk afterward why there are no signboards on the street identifying Tikvat Israel for visitors, he answered that while that the community is not worried about their safety they also don’t want to give the impression that they proselytize.
I arrived at the synagogue on Friday afternoon. Like most events in Nigeria, things ran late so we were pushing twilight by the time Mincha services ended and we could break for some spicy fish soup just prior to the Yom Kippur fast. The electricity had gone off but miraculously, just as the Kol Nidre prayer began (post-candle lighting, so I did not take any more photographs), all of the lights suddenly turned back on. As you can imagine, everyone present (15 men and 4 women) took this as a good sign.
The services are all in Hebrew. Many melodies were unfamiliar to me, but I could tell that their “Lecha Dodi” prayer had a distinctly Ugandan ring to it, probably stemming from the time that Hezekiah spent with the Abayudaya Jews in Uganda under the tutelage of Rabbi Gershom Sizomu. Hezekiah’s voice resonated strongly through the various services. The congregation’s members stood barefoot on a thin carpet for virtually all the prayers, having removed all the chairs from the sanctuary prior to the holiday. (Women sit separately and, since in the women’s area there was no carpet, I insisted on retaining a chair.) Saturday morning services started quite early before it got hot. Early in the afternoon, Habakkuk called for a two-hour break, and members sprawled all over the floor or on nearby benches. Initially, I heard the men talk about world politics but then, as the temperature pushed higher and sweat dripped off our foreheads, all I heard was snoring. When we gathered again for prayers, the wind suddenly picked up and a deafening rainstorm crashed against the synagogue’s tin roof and open windows. Worshippers had to huddle together during the Ne’ilah prayers, pitting their voices to be heard above the storm. Happily, the rain stopped just as the holiday ended so we could venture outside once more.
The congregation welcomed me warmly in every way they could, even though it quickly became obvious that my own style of Jewish practice differed from theirs. Nevertheless, I was asked to give a d’var Torah (biblical teaching) on Saturday afternoon, so I drew my inspiration from the Book of Jonah, whose hero initially ran away from God’s call and landed in a big fish where he lived in darkness, without food or water, for three days and three nights. I was a bit nervous about my open-ended non-Orthodox approach, but after the services were over several people said I made them think and they liked it.
Young boy lighting the candle during havdalah
Who are the members?
I didn’t get the chance to speak to most of the women (whose English was very limited), nevertheless, some trends came through. Given that almost all the members were raised in Christian families, I wanted to know how they had changed. Several described a spiritual journey that first took them to a Messianic church (retaining the belief in Jesus as the messiah but with Jewish practices), and then to Tikvat Israel. For example, Sar Habakkuk transitioned from Christian to Messianic in 1994 and then decided to become “wholly Jewish” ten years later.
When I asked what is the most difficult thing about being Jewish in Nigeria, the answer I received had to do with employment: the men, most of whom are university educated, can’t find jobs that allow them to take off Friday afternoons and Saturdays. As a result, there is a strong culture of self-employment at the synagogue, in occupations, for example, in computer technology (Japhet’s) or construction (Okwuya’s).
Difficulties in finding a spouse also came up: several young men in their mid-thirties said they are still looking for a wife, either someone who is already Jewish or else a Christian Igbo who
would be willing to change her practice. (For example, Japhet spoke of his fiancée’s father breaking off the engagement when he transitioned from Messianic to Jewish. Presumably, for Jewish women, this problem is even harder, as Igbo custom does not allow them to initiate a relationship.) When I asked Japhet if he ever regretted his choice, having given up a salaried job and a fiancé in order to become Jewish, he answered confidently, “I don’t regret it at all. Now I study Judaism on the internet and I am learning Hebrew… I know that this is what HaShem wants me to do with my life.”
It was interesting to me that the number one problem that the Beit Avraham of Ethiopia used to mention is not a problem here at all: In Ethiopia, there is neither a non-denominational cemetery nor a Jewish one, so community elders maintain a veneer of Christianity just so that they will qualify for burial. But in Nigeria, virtually all Igbo have ties to land someplace in the southeast (or wherever they originally came from) and the tradition is to bury relatives within the original family homestead.
Worldwide, there are up to 50 million Igbo. Add these to emerging Jewish groups of Lemba Jews (Zimbabwe and South Africa), Ethiopian Jews, and descendants of the Abayudaya in Uganda, and gradually the face of Judaism may change forever. Intriguing, don’t you think?
