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March 24, 2006
Taking the long way around
Nigerians who feel connected to the Lost Tribes return to Judaism.
JEFF L. LIEBERMAN
Shmuel Tikvah dreams about becoming a rabbi. He thinks often about
the day he is ordained at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New
York and then returns home to lead his community with full knowledge
of all things Jewish.
But New York is a long way from Shmuel's home in Port Hartcourt,
Nigeria, and getting there will present all sorts of obstacles.
He knows that the cost of tuition, the ability to get an American
visa and being accepted into the university are all real challenges
that he is facing. He even points out that the color of his skin
could present the largest obstacle in his acceptance by the university.
However, the 31-year-old college lecturer is not deterred. He stays
focused on his dream and his own independent Jewish study.
I met and befriended Shmuel and countless other Jews on a recent
trip to Nigeria, where I encountered a Judaism that I didn't know
existed, nor that it could be so beautiful. I got a small inkling
of it two years previous when I heard Rabbi Howard Gorin of Temple
Israel in Bethesda, Md., speak at a synagogue in Los Angeles. He
presented photos of the Jews of Uganda, and I was mesmerized. Approaching
him afterwards, I asked about the video footage. When he told me
none had ever been recorded, I made him promise to let me join him
on his next visit to Africa. Now, with video camera in hand and
a documentary shaping in my mind, together we criss-crossed Nigeria,
meeting several Jewish communities who embraced us with hugs, songs
and "shaloms." For many, Gorin was the only rabbi they
had ever met – and for a group of people trying to figure out
Judaism on their own, with few resources, our visit was a chance
for them to absorb as much Judaism as possible in the three weeks
we were together.
Much of our time was spent with one of the larger congregations,
Tikvah Israel, in Nigeria's capital, Abuja. It is a one-room building
on the property of its owner, Habbakkuk, a man in his 40s who lives
there with his wife and five children. Their home is at the end
of a long, dusty road full of potholes, where chickens and children
dart between the creeping cars, goats wander through discarded trash
and people transport all sorts of goods by cart or on their head.
Habbakkuk's compound is a kind of quiet oasis away from all of this,
and under the shade of a big cashew tree, Jews from around Abuja
gather to pray, eat, sing, dance and celebrate Judaism together.
There are only a handful of prayer books and only a few who can
lead services or read Hebrew, but their devotion is undeniable.
As they joined together in "Oseh Shalom," the sound was
not only beautiful and distinctly African; it was so familiar that
it brought tears to my eyes.
Nigeria is the most populous nation in Africa, made up of roughly
128 million people. It is a deeply religious country where an atheist
or agnostic is hard to find and the vast majority are either devout
Muslims or Christians. British colonialism and a more recent wave
of Pentecostal Christianity in the last 25 years brought the promise
of a better life through prayer to Jesus and a belief in miracles.
Most of the indigenous people lost many of their tribal ways and
the Igbo people were no exception. The Igbos are one of the three
largest Nigerian tribes and while they are now scattered throughout
the very large country, it is no coincidence that the majority of
Jews that I met are Igbo. While they are only a tiny percentage
of the roughly 23 million Christian Igbos, they believe that all
Igbos are descendants of the Lost Tribes of Israel.
Shmuel, Habbakkuk and others I interviewed told me that, as children,
they learned through oral tradition that the Igbos derived from
the Hebrews. The words themselves have a similarity: Igbo (pronounced
ee-boo) is not that different from Hebrew. They also point out obvious
similarities between Igbo tradition and Judaism, like the Igbos
circumcising their sons on the eighth day of life and practices
followed by women during their menstrual period. While most of the
Igbos could not escape the stronghold of Christianity over the last
few centuries, many have now found Judaism as a result of wider
communication and resources through the Internet and a growth in
tolerance; as Nigeria has moved from military rule to a democratic
society.
For many Igbos, the road to Judaism is a bumpy, difficult path.
Shmuel Tikvah was born Samuel Chuks, and raised by his uncle in
the Catholic Church. He served an Irish priest and knew his Bible
backwards and forwards. Shmuel felt deeply committed to Catholicism,
but always remembered his father telling him that Jesus was not
Christian and was born a Jew.
In his 20s, Shmuel began finding inconsistencies in the religion
and contradictions that he could not set right in his head. He also
began enjoying Nigerian nightlife and got caught up in a world of
picking fights and street brawling. It was around the same time
that a friend introduced him to Judaism and showed him some of the
practices and beliefs. He cautiously adopted them and skirted the
issue of denouncing Jesus by not denouncing him at all.
Like many Nigerian Jews, Shmuel had adopted messianic Judaism without
even knowing it. It was not until he moved to Abuja soon after and
came to Habbakkuk's synagogue that he was informed of the true ways
of rabbinic Judaism. It immediately made sense to him, for the contradiction
he could never resolve was the belief in both Jesus and the first
of the Ten Commandments. He began to study with Habbakkuk's community.
Now, reciting the Shema, he feels that he is finally home. When
I played devil's advocate and questioned any of the Nigerian Jews
about their next religion, they told me Judaism was the last bus
stop.
Whatever their ancestry, there is no denying the Jews of Nigeria
are passionate and committed to Judaism. Most have become vegetarians,
since kosher meat is not available. They travel long distances to
gather for prayer – sitting through services without a siddur.
They abide by the laws of Shabbat, even going for a dip in the river
beforehand. They spend what time they have learning Hebrew –
from each other, or by spending what little extra money they have
at the cyber café. They erect Israeli flags, proudly wearing
their Judaism. They do not face anti-Semitism in the western sense,
although they face contempt for denying Jesus.
Shmuel showed me the volume of e-mail he receives, mostly subscriptions
to various Torah portion-of-the-week explanations. He shares what
he learns with the people in his synagogue and they are all the
more grateful. Shmuel is the closest thing they have to a rabbi
and, for a community that is so hungry to learn about Judaism, they
too can't wait for him to go to rabbinical school. They pray for
Jewish books, tallit and tefillin, and that one day their children
will go to a Jewish school, where they will not be faced with Christian
teachings, but will learn Hebrew.
Still, with as little as they have, they are truly happy, for they
have found Judaism – and this is just the beginning.
Jeff L. Lieberman is a Vancouver native currently working
as a journalist and producer in Los Angeles. He is working on his
first independent documentary film, Re-emerging: The Jews of
Nigeria. For more information, visit www.re-emergingfilm.com.
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