Sunday, February 19th, 2006
I went to bed last night with a small amount of fear. The Port Hartcourt Community was kind enough to put me up in a hotel, and while the guys escorted me there, checked it out, and made sure I was okay, they left me there truly on my own for the first time in Nigeria. It was only strange because it was so unfamiliar. In any other country, it would not even have occurred to me. I thought about using my freedom and going for a walk, exploring the neighborhood like I would do in a European city. Better judgment kicked in, and, alright… fear.
The guys came back for me at 9:30am sharp and we walked over to the synagogue. This is like none other I have seen so far. Unlike other Nigerian synagogues tucked into remote compounds, The Port Hartcourt Synagogue sits proudly on a busy road. Its Israeli flag and large sign proudly proclaim its identity to the neighbors across the street. Another unique aspect is the land is all community property. It’s not part of anyone’s compound, and while there are a few small apartments on the property, it does not belong to any one particular family. There’s a grassy common area, and the building itself is large and solid. A faded tallit hangs on a nail on one wall, and somehow it reminds me of old synagogues I’ve seen in Poland. The entire neighborhood was built on marsh land, and there are gullies to drain the water away when it floods. They tell me the synagogue still gets a foot of water anyway.
Shmuel is the Hazzan (Song & Prayer Leader) at the synagogue, and he seems at home in the community and his leadership role. Playing with the kids, greeting the adults, taking care of the building, he is happy to be back. Shmuel leads services and his self-taught knowledge still astounds me.
Only moments after services end, a shirtless man barrels through our space, yelling and screaming. The community is quick to react and pushes him back to the street. The peace brought on by the morning prayer was quickly killed as the community and neighbors get into a shouting match. It seems a girl has slapped her mother, run into the synagogue area and is hiding. Her brother is the irate one, looking to kick the shit out of her. I keep the camera rolling not to capitalize on the drama, nor portray the synagogue poorly, but to show the outside elements that affect daily life here. While one of the community members stands in front of me laughing and pretending nothing is wrong, he is only kidding himself. When things calm down, Shmuel says he is thankful – thankful I was there to witness what they are dealing with, and thankful it happened after services had ended. I agree.
Without the rabbi here and any pre-set agenda, I have the ability to lead a discussion, and my hope is to get people talking on a number of issues. I feel like Camp Counselor as I re-arrange people from rows of seats to a big circle. My first few questions produce a lot of blank stares and I’m not sure if the camera is intimidating people, or if they are just not understanding my accent and phrasing. A man finally responds to my question on the challenges of being Jewish in Nigeria. He points out the issue of trying to keep Shabbat, when Saturday is the day the city sets aside for sanitation. Many questions arise… A woman wants to know the appropriate dress for synagogue and is confused about what the Torah says she is allowed to do during her menstruation period. The familiar plea for books is heard a few times. A beautiful, older woman said Judaism has made her a stronger woman.
I spent the afternoon interviewing Shmuel until rain and lack of battery power brought it to an end. His insight and clarity will be key to telling the story.
Back at Asher’s home, it’s dinner, some TV, a walk through the neighborhood (after much pleading on my part) and finally a presentation of gifts. My gift is a pair of black trousers, a long white shirt with gold cufflinks and a pendant, and a large-brimmed, white hat. They want to dress me and I’m told to take off my jeans. There doesn’t seem to be a choice in the matter. A few moments later, I am dressed like the Governor of Rivers State, and a photographer is taking my picture. I am shown a huge blown-up picture of Howard dressed similarly, hung in a way that reminds me of how the Chabad have pictures of the Rebbe in their houses. I hope my picture doesn’t get the same treatment.
Shmuel leads the congregation in morning prayer.
Elder Asher was key in developing the synagogue and he has a proud fatherly look as the community arrives. A former bishop, he says he discovered his Jewish roots after a series of re-occurring dreams woke him up to his history. He was told to build a synagogue, and the community has come to him. A quiet but fiery guy, he is known throughout the neighborhood, and nobody messes with him.
Afterward, Miriam, a large, animated woman sits down and wants to hear stories about America. She loses interest after a few moments, and I turn the table back on her, and turn on the camera. She’s thrilled and has a thousand things to say. She tells me about her 5 year old daughter, and how her teacher called Miriam to ask her why her daughter is constantly washing her hands at school. Miriam tells her it’s a Jewish custom (I’m not sure if she’s talking about ritual hand washing or Jewish neuroses). Her daughter shares a bench with the other Jewish girl in her class, and the two take care of each other, feed each other, and never stray. When I’m out of questions, Miriam is disappointed that I am tired. We go on a bit longer until the same exchange happens again, and again. Eventually, I am tired. Happy, but tired.
Elder Asher
