In Ghana, every business meeting I attended began and ended in prayer-- to Christ. This can feel a little strange to any visitor who isn’t accustomed to religious practices in the workplace, but especially if you also happen to be Jewish. Every time people bowed their heads in prayer and sang hymns to Jesus, I just awkwardly smiled. I felt like such a weirdo.
That said, I have to admit how much I genuinely admire the love and joy that I see expressed in the hearts of Ghanaians, who display their devotion to Jesus wherever and whenever possible. As you walk down the street, you will find shops with names like Christ Resurrection Superstore, Clap for Jesus Hardware, and the Amen Sister Rice Shop. The back window of most taxicabs is adorned in biblical verse, and a crucifix is certain to be hanging from the rearview mirror.
Often, when having just met someone new and engaged in an otherwise delightful chat, the topic of religion is briskly introduced. “I hope you are a Christian?” they inquire out of nowhere, suddenly sending me off balance each time it happens. I try to laugh it off, but am pressed to answer.
“I’m a different religion, actually. I’m Jewish.”
Then I watch as they search their mind for understanding, but come up empty and finally ask: “What is a Jewish???
In attempting to explain what is “a Jewish” I proceed with caution. “My people come from Israel, and we read the Old Testament” I begin. “In fact, we like it so much that we only read the old book, but not the new one.” “Ah, OK,” they respond with a smile. But then, I see the wheels turning again, and a look of absolute horror appears on their face as they ask the inevitable: “But… but… what about JESUS?”. And from there, I have a lot more explaining to do, bless their hearts.
That said, I’ve always made an effort to try and understand the customs of each country I’ve visited. Also, religion is especially interesting in the rural part of Ghana where I live, because it is a mixture of Christianity and Voodoo. So I couldn’t believe my luck when I was invited to a funeral!!! Don’t get me wrong– it was a terrible situation. Fourteen people from the same village were involved in a terrible bus accident and many of them were badly injured. One person died, and that was the brother of my friend. But it was a huge honor to be invited, and I’m grateful for the experience.
The first part of the funeral process involved collecting the body from the mortuary– a small, unassuming yellow building that sat beneath a mango tree. We gathered to witness the deceased being carried out and loaded into a van, his body wrapped inside of a straw mat. The mourners screamed loudly as he was placed inside, and the men gathered nearby to pour out libations .
Next, my friend Moses, an older man, escorted me into a taxi cab, along with two others. I learned that the person in the front seat of the car was also in the accident, and was the best friend of the deceased. It was a surreal experience, as we slowly made our way up the road in a funeral procession of cars, following the dead man, and listening to African funeral music, just as the sun
started to set behind the banana trees.
Hundreds of people were waiting in the village to receive the body. They were dressed in black and red, amd many of them were howling, wailing, and collapsing in grief as the van with the dead man finally approached. A small band of musicians were circling the street and beating their drums loudly. People danced wildly in the road, frantic, drunken, and overflowing with emotion. I couldn’t help but feel the anguish of each person that my eyes met, as my heart became heavy with their pain.
I stayed for just a while that evening. I was the only white person present,
and people seemed understandably distracted to see me, but were still welcoming all the same. Even so, the scene shook me up. My friend Moses, bless his heart, held on to my hand, and didn’t let go, as we made our way through the unruly crowd and into the pitch-dark night.
The next morning, seven people, including myself, crammed into a four person car,
and drove back to to the village. The body had been with the mortician overnight, and was now displayed in a white lacquered coffin, adorned with ribbon and artificial flowers. I can only guess that funereal technology in rural Ghana is a bit outdated, because the dead man looked alarmingly grotesque. His nose was propped open with cotton, his eyebrows were drawn with a grease pencil, and his face was encrusted in layers of dull black wax that did not look flattering.
A tense argument ensued between the family and the tribal council. The
elders of the village had a differing viewpoint on the funeral proceedings, and it took nearly three hours of negotiations to reach a solution. During this recess, I was quietly ushered into a variety of locations, including people’s homes and backyards so that I wouldn't become a distraction.
In one such home, I noticed an old man sitting on a porch, with his foot grossly swollen and being treated by witchdoctors. They mixed a potion using a number of bottles, herbs, and powders, then applied the compound directly to his foot. Next, they lit a fire, and the man held his foot above the flames. The witchdoctors produced a razor blade and sliced his foot open four times, as blood dripped onto the ground. The man sat in silence and continued to hold his foot over the hot coals for nearly an hour.
It was finally time to continue with the ceremony, so we gathered under a tree, with the
family and me on one side, and the chief and village elders on the other. As a guest of
honor, I was made to sit in the very front row, whether I liked it or not. And I would have
preferred the “not,” because had I known what was coming next, I would have high tailed
it out of there in two seconds flat.
A sacrificial lamb was carried out, and placed onto a stone before me, since I was a guest of honor as the only visitor . The animal had already been stabbed in the abdomen, and was bleeding out onto its white fleece. Next, the village chief poured himself a cup of palm wine, which smelled sour and pungent, like vinegar. He began chanting, pouring some of the liquid into a small puddle on the ground; while drinking the remainder. And then it happened. They held a knife underneath the sheep’s head and slit its throat. Right in front of my eyes, inches away from where I sat. Blood poured out from its neck, and they carried it away to a nearby ditch, still kicking, as a trail of dark red syrup trickled alongside the dusty path.
After gaining my composure was time for the church service, held outside in a beautiful grove. The mourners sat on wooden benches and plastic chairs, as the casket lay
at the edge of the courtyard. Once the pastor completed his service, the coffin was quickly snatched up by a horde of men who paraded it wildly into a crowd that had gathered in the road. Emotions were tense, and a brawl broke out amongst the pallbearers. The casket became unsteady, as the men exchanged blows, and others rushed in to break up the fight. At times, I feared that the coffin would fall open, and the body would be ejected onto the pavement. It was very unsettling for me to watch.I didn’t attend the burial. The cemetery was too far from the village to walk, and I didn’t feel up to riding with the coffin, so I politely took a pass and made the journey back to my hotel.
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I think that witnessing such an intense cultural experience genuinely gives one pause to consider their own. I found myself thinking a lot about Judaism, wondering how strange my own customs might seem to someone else. Take, for example, Passover, my favorite holiday of the Jewish calendar year. Would it not seem odd to an outsider that during our
observance, we do not eat bread or grain, but only eat Matzoh? Or, that we keep
saltwater, a glob of horseradish and a sprig of parsley, amongst other items, in the middle of our table? To me, it seems perfectly reasonable, and everything I experienced that day in Ghana did not. In fairness, hadn’t the Jews also sacrificed lambs, and did we not, in fact, smear its blood on the doors of our homes, so that the plagues of Egypt would pass
over, hence the term? Yup. We did. So, really, what do I know!
So, here’s where the story gets truly amazing. While instant messaging with my friend, Mayor, in the United States, he casually inquired where I’ll be having my Passover seder the following week. I told him I’d reluctantly be skipping it this year, being in the middle of Africa, and all. So I assumed he was joking when he informed me that someone from Chabad, a Jewish organization, would be flying here to make sure that I had matzo and kosher wine to make a blessing with for the holiday. Clearly he must be kidding, because
this seemed implausible. But it was no joke.
On Monday night, March 29, I attended a Passover seder in Ghana, West Africa. Two young rabbis, Mendie Mochkin, who happens to be the brother of my friend Peretz Mochkin, the rabbi at Chabad of North Beach, San Francisco, along with his comrade Pasi, flew all the way to from New York to Accra. They came armed with suitcases full of hand made matzo, wine, Haggadot (Passover prayer books), and even kosher chicken.
Just a handful of Jews are in this part of the world, but they made the effort to find them, and invite us all to Passover seder. We gathered together, drinking wine, eating delicious food, and recounting the story of our people so many years ago. It was truly one of the most beautiful, meaningful experiences I have ever had, and words can’t express how much it meant to me.
As an added bonus, I then had the unique privilege of sharing my culture (and my
matzo!) with all of my friends in Africa, telling them how my people, too, were once slaves; and that while escaping from Egypt, we had to leave in such a hurry that our bread could not rise. I explain that for eight days, we must eat a special cracker called matzo.
Everyone, of course, was blown away to learn that someone would fly all the way to
Ghana just to bring the special cracker, and all of them told me how much respect they
had for the Jewish people that we take our religion so seriously. Naturally, I invite each
of my friends to have a taste of my special cracker, and their eyes light up with curiosity.
I happily reach inside my bag, and break them off a piece of matzo, and watch as they
excitingly crunch down and smile.
So… What is a Jewish? “A Jewish” is someone who comes from a rich history of
tradition, passed down over thousands of years, who is able to remain connected to their
ancestors through the customs and community which they keep. “A Jewish” is someone
who values all people, all religions, and cares deeply about the struggles of others.
Sometimes, “A Jewish” takes a moment out of their busy lives, so that they can volunteer
their time to serve other communities, and help to repair the world. “A Jewish” is
someone who flies all the way from New York to Ghana, without being asked, just to
make sure that one of its community members, who is all by herself in a foreign country,
so far from home, has somewhere to be for Passover seder. I am “A Jewish.” And, quite
honestly, I’ve never felt more proud.
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