WEST AFRICA: 2010

In Ghana, every meeting begins and ends prayer-- to Christ. This can be a little awkward for any visitor, but especially if you are Jewish. One morning at the office, we all went outside to bless the new pick-up truck our organization had acquired. Everybody joined hands and sang hymns to Jesus. It was very special.

Ghana is by far one of the most religious countries I have ever visited. Although there's a minority of Islamic and indigenous communities, it is chock full of Christian disciples, who love to discuss and display their love of Jesus whenever possible. As you walk down the street in Ghana, 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 are adorned in biblical verse, and a crucifix is certain to be hanging from the rear view mirror.  

Often, while 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, sending me off balance. “Oh... umm…” I hesitate, then change the subject. When pressed further, I answer: “Actually, I’m a different religion. I’m Jewish.” Then I watch, as they search their memory for some frame of reference, but come up empty. And so they ask: “What is a Jewish???"

When attempting to explain what is “A Jewish”, I proceed carefully. “My people come from Israel, and we read the Old Testament” I begin. “In fact, we really, really like it, so we only read the old book, and not the new one”. “Ah, OK,” they respond. But then, I see the wheels turning once again. A look of horror appears on their face, as they raise the inevitable question that is sure to come next: “But… but… what about Jesus???” And from there, I have a lot of explaining to do.

That being said, I always make every effort possible to understand the customs and beliefs of the places I visit. It’s how I learn about the world, and I haven’t traveled to 65 countries for nothing. Also, religion is especially interesting in the rural area where I live, because it is a mixture of both Christianity and traditional village customs. I was hoping I might have the opportunity to attend a church service sometime while in the Volta Region, to get a taste of the local customs. So imagine my great fortune when I was able to kill two birds with one stone... I was invited to a funeral!!!

I don’t mean to suggest that I’m happy that somebody died. Quite the contrary. It was incredibly sad. My friend, Chef, lost his brother in a terrible bus accident. Fourteen people from the same village were involved in that crash, and while only my friend’s brother was killed, many people were seriously injured, so it affected everyone in the community. But I’m not going to lie. I was excited to go! Being invited to a funeral in a foreign country, especially Ghana, is the absolute pinnacle of any cultural experience. And I was all over it!

Not wanting to miss a thing, I showed up at the mortuary. It was a small, unassuming yellow building, which sat beneath a mango tree. There, we gathered to watch the corpse be carried out and loaded into a van; his body wrapped in a simple straw mat. The mourners began to scream loudly as the body was brought outside. I could see his legs- lifeless and dirty, as he was laid inside the back of the truck.

Next, my friend Moses, an older man, escorted me into a taxi cab, along with two others. I learned that the person in front of me was also in the accident, and the best friend of the man who died. It was immensely surreal, as we slowly made our way up the road in a 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 of Matse to receive the corpse. They were dressed in black and red, the funeral colors of Ghana; many of whom were howling, wailing, and collapsing onto their knees in grief as the van finally approached. A band was playing; circling quickly down 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 and every 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 outsider (i.e. white person) present, and people were understandably distracted to see me, but were welcoming all the same. Even so, the frenzied scene made me uncharacteristically frightened. 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, into the pitch dark night, and exited the village.  

The next morning, seven people, including myself, were crammed into a four person car, and driven to Matse. The corpse had been with the mortician overnight, and was now on display in a white lacquer coffin, decorated with ribbon and blue, 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 in with pencil, and his face was encrusted in layers of dull, black wax that looked anything but flattering. I don’t wish to pass judgment, but in my culture, we do not view or cosmetically alter the deceased. Frankly, I’m kinda cool with that program.

A serious argument ensued between the dead man’s 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 tense negotiations to reach a solution. During this recess, I was ushered into a variety of locations, including people’s homes and backyards. In one such place, I noticed an old man sitting on a porch, with his foot grossly diseased, being treated by witchdoctors. They mixed a potion from a number of bottles, herbs, and powders, then applied it to his foot. Next, the witchdoctors lit a fire, and the man held his foot above the flames. They then produced a razor blade, and sliced his foot four times, so that the smoke could enter his skin and heal his foot. Blood dripped onto the rocks beneath him. 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. It had already been stabbed in the abdomen, and was bleeding onto its own fleece. Next, the village chief poured himself a cup of palm wine, which smells sour, and overwhelmingly pungent, like bad vinegar. He began chanting, and pouring the liquid into a small puddle on the ground; drinking the remainder. A bottle of liquor also appeared, and a similar offering of libation was made. And then it happened. They held a knife underneath the sheep’s head, and slit its throat. Right in front of my eyes. It was horrible. Blood poured out from its neck, and they carried it away, still kicking, to a nearby ditch, as a trail of dark red fluid trickled alongside the dusty path.           

After gaining my composure, it 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, spoken entirely in the local dialect of Ewe, the coffin was quickly snatched up by a horde of men, who paraded it wildly into a crowd which had gathered in the road. Emotions were tense, and a brawl broke out amongst the pallbearers. The casket became unsteady, as the men exchange blows, and others rushed in to break up the fight. At times, I feared that the coffin would fall open, and the dead man would be ejected onto the pavement.

I didn’t attend the burial. The cemetery was too far from the village to walk, and I wasn’t feeling up to riding along with the corpse. I politely took a pass, and also decided to skip the festivities. I’d seen enough. Yet, I was quite honestly grateful for the opportunity to have been there, all the same. Cultural mission definitely accomplished.

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 Matzo? 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!

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 kidding when he informed me that someone from Chabad, a Jewish organization, would be flying to Africa to make sure that I had matzo and kosher wine to make a blessing with for the holiday. Clearly he must be pulling my leg. But unbelievably- it was no joke.

On Monday night, March 29, I attended a Passover seder in Ghana, West Africa. Two young rabbis, Mendy Mochkin, 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, kosher wine, Haggadot (Passover prayer books), and even brought kosher chicken! Just a handful of Jews are in this part of the world, but they made the effort to find as many of us as they could, and invited us all to Passover seder. We gathered together around the table, 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 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 me the special cracker. Since I'm the only Jew they've ever met, I was honored when they expressed how much respect they had for the Jewish people that we take our traditions so seriously. Naturally, I invited each of my friends to have a taste of the special cracker, and their eyes lit up with curiosity. I proudly reached inside my bag, broke off a piece of matzo, and watched as they excitingly crunched down and smiled.

So… What is A Jewish? “A Jewish” is someone who comes from a rich history, with traditions 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 time out of their busy lives, so that they can volunteer and serve other communities, helping 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.

 -LL

Say it loud, say it proud, Ghana!