KENYA has one of East Africa’s fastest-growing Jewish communities, ranking behind Ethiopia and Uganda in size. In Nairobi, the capital city, stands a synagogue established over a century, although its congregation has historically consisted primarily of expatriate and non-indigenous Jews. Beyond the capital, indigenous Kenyan Jewish communities are found mainly in the Rift Valley region, particularly around Nakuru, the 4th-largest town in the country, which has some fascinating rich Jewish history.

Traveling from the Indian Ocean coast at Mombasa through Nairobi and westward into the Rift Valley, one can find fascinating European Jewish history on different fronts. In Nakuru stands a former synagogue whose construction began in 1955 and was completed in 1956; today, the building serves as an orphanage. Nearby lies a Jewish cemetery, near the Kenya Medical College campus in Nakuru. Not far from Nakuru, the town of Elburgon became home to several European Jewish settlers who established agricultural enterprises in the fertile highlands. Further northwest, Eldoret also attracted Jewish immigrants and refugees seeking new opportunities and safety far from the growing turmoil in Europe.

While Nakuru remains the most prominent center of Jewish history in Kenya, the legacy of Jewish agriculture in the Rift Valley extends far beyond the town itself. Gustav Kramer, a German Jewish refugee who arrived in Kenya in 1938, rose to become Nakuru’s first mayor in 1955 and played a key role in facilitating the construction of the Nakuru Synagogue, completed in 1956. In nearby Elburgon and across the fertile Rift Valley, early Jewish settlers established successful agricultural enterprises that sustained their communities and contributed to the region’s development.

We can only look at some historical facts through the lens of history to understand this story. At one time, European settlers lived and farmed in the Nakuru region. Even Rothschild’s family was involved in large-scale farming in the Rift Valley. But over time, the Jews left the area. Their departures have led many local people to ask what happened to that early Jewish presence, as the baton wasn’t handed to any local people when they all left, selling the Nakuru Synagogue to the government, which eventually converted it into an orphanage.

However, today, many decades after the complete exodus, an indigenous Kenyan Jewish congregation and community have risen in the Rift Valley area, most especially in Elburgon and Molo in Nakuru County, and Kasuku in Ol Kalou in neighbouring Nyandarua County. Many of them once came from Messianic backgrounds before returning to Torah-based Judaism. The community in Kasuku has a shul, while communities in Molo and Elburgon continue to gather in homes and other informal settings. Some of the members say they received formal conversion through a Beit Din in Uganda about a decade ago.

The question posed earlier has now been answered. When the European Jews left Nakuru and the Rift Valley area, they left a religious and spiritual vacuum in the entire environment. According to Moshe Abraham, a Jewish leader in Elburgon, “The land has been calling for the return of Jewish people and Judaism. Today, we have filled that gap, both spiritually and in leadership.” He also says he serves as a local chief over more than 20 villages, and he sees a connection between his role and the earlier history of Jewish leadership in Nakuru.

The Mountain Jews of Kenya

On a trip to Kenya, starting from Nairobi, the capital, one should not expect to find any indigenous Jewish congregation in this city of more than five million people. It takes over four hours to reach the Rift Valley region, known for its vast lakes, forested mountaintops, and rocky hills. Whether in Ol Kalou, Molo, or Elburgon, one thing becomes clear: these communities are rural and isolated. While all three locations can be accessed through Nakuru, Ol Kalou is the farthest. The community sits on a mountaintop overlooking the long waters of Lake Olbolosat, home to hippos, fish, and crocodiles.

The Molo Jewish community, on the other hand, is accessible through a rugged, sloping, and meandering mountain track that leads to the highland plateau. The weather there is chilly and windy, offering endless views of grassy landscapes stretching into the distance. Yet the lack of sufficient basic amenities and the rugged terrain often make life challenging, with many interior villages depending on the small Molo town centre for most of their supplies.

The model of the Molo Jewish community is a particularly interesting one. Because of their small population and the fact that families live in scattered settlement across the mountain, they have adopted a rotational Shabbat system. Without a centrally built synagogue, each household takes turns hosting Shabbat in their home. Without a rabbi and without the luxury of trained and structured leadership, this weekly gathering from house to house has helped keep the community united as they share in the harsh realities of the terrain, the tough weather, and the poverty that affects the area.

What makes this detail even more striking is that the European Jewish settlers in the same Rift Valley region once did exactly the same thing. Before Gustav Kramer became mayor and before the Nakuru Synagogue was built, those early settlers gathered in one another’s homes to observe Shabbat, rotating from household to household as they worked to establish themselves in a new land. The Molo community is not behind; rather, it stands at a similar starting point to where its predecessors once stood, walking a path that eventually led to a synagogue, community institutions, and a lasting Jewish presence in the region.

This raises an important question: why do most Kenyan Jews live in rural areas, where life is often difficult? Survival requires hard work, and many families depend on cultivating their land to provide food for their households rather than relying on the market. Given these challenges, one might ask, if opportunities are greater in the towns and cities, why have so many remained in these remote highland communities?”

This region is where some of us came from. We are called the Mountain Jews of Kenya for a reason. We started out as Messianics, but today, as rabbinical Jews, we still find ourselves living on these highlands.” — Elder Sam Ben Abraham.

The gathering was filled with excitement and, as they told me, it was the first time they had ever received a visitor from Nigeria. As part of my speaking tour with Olam Network and its Olam in Motion program, I travelled into the Rift Valley and up the mountains to the Molo Jewish community, where I met about 20 of its members.

Poverty in the highlands does not only mean an empty pocket. It also affects the spiritual and communal life of the Molo Jewish community. The absence of a dedicated synagogue building means the community has no permanent place to gather. The community lacks Torah scrolls, has very few siddurim for prayers, and many cannot afford items such as tallitot and tefillin. There is no Jewish library with books on Torah, Talmud, halacha, and Jewish history to support learning and leadership development.

The children attend government schools with no Jewish education program, growing up without formal instruction in Hebrew, Jewish history, or Torah study. Without a rabbi of their own, the community hopes that one day it will be able to send one of its young men to a yeshiva so that he can return as an ordained rabbi and serve future generations.

These are not small challenges. For a community that embraced rabbinical Judaism with such commitment, the lack of resources makes it difficult to fully practice and develop Jewish life. Week after week, Shabbat services are held in different homes, often with limited prayer books and no central communal building. Yet despite these difficulties, the community continues to preserve its Jewish identity and look toward the future with hope.

Kenya’s Dairy Sector: A Proven Opportunity

The discussion was highly spirited as we sat with members of the community—men, women, and youth—reflecting on practical ways to support development and improve their future. Before anything can be achieved, there must be something already on the ground that can be used as a foundation. In their case, that foundation is experience—practical knowledge of cattle rearing and dairy farming. Almost every household keeps at least two cows in their compound, used for milk and basic economic support.

In their case, the answer lies in looking inward—asking what their environment can provide. The Rift Valley is rich in natural resources—fertile soil, a favorable climate, and green hills that support livestock farming. For generations, the people of Molo have kept cattle, and their experience with dairy farming is well developed. The cows thrive in this cool, lush environment, where grass is abundant. With enough land, farmers can both sustain their herds and grow improved fodder crops to increase milk production.

Moreover, the market for milk is vast. The Molo centre itself is a busy town hub with surrounding mountain settlements, each with populations of more than 2000 people, all dependent on milk for daily nutrition. Beyond Molo, the nearby town of Elburgon and the larger population of Nakuru City together create an even larger market for dairy products from these highland farms. Thus, what begins in the heights of Molo can become a lifeline, sustaining families as far as Nakuru, which is a testament to how looking inward can set them on a path to prosperity.

The broader context makes the dairy potential of the Molo community even more compelling. Kenya has the largest dairy industry in sub-Saharan Africa, producing billions of litres of milk every year. The sector supports well over one million smallholder farmers, while demand for milk and dairy products continues to grow across the country. The Rift Valley, where Molo is located, is already one of Kenya’s leading dairy-producing regions, benefiting from the same cool climate and fertile grazing lands that the community has long relied upon.

Across Kenya, smallholder dairy cooperatives have proven to be one of the most effective tools for rural economic development. When farmers pool their resources, share veterinary services, and work together to secure better prices for their products, household incomes can increase significantly. The Molo Jewish community already possesses many of the qualities that make such initiatives successful. Through their rotational Shabbat system and other communal activities, they have developed a culture of cooperation, shared responsibility, and mutual support. In many ways, the social foundation needed for a successful dairy cooperative is already in place.

The human capital needed for this dairy project is already in place. During our discussions, members of the Molo Jewish community expressed a strong willingness to contribute their time and skills. Men, women, and even younger family members are ready to play their part, helping to care for the cows, milk them, and manage the day-to-day operations of the farm. This spirit of volunteerism provides a strong foundation, allowing the project to grow from within the community.

To move the project forward, land will first be leased, providing a cost-effective way to begin operations immediately. A fertile and relatively flat piece of land near the foot of the mountain, with access to natural water sources, has been identified as a suitable location. By leasing the land for an initial period of five years, the community can reduce upfront costs while retaining the option to purchase it in the future.

The next step will be the construction of a secure cattle shelter using locally available materials. Designed to protect the cows from cold nights and harsh weather, the structure will provide a safe and comfortable environment for the herd. With proper security, lighting, and access to water, the farm will create the conditions needed for healthy cattle and steady milk production.

What Investment Would Unlock

The Molo dairy initiative does not require enormous capital to get off the ground. Its greatest assets are already present within the community. What outside investment and partnership would unlock is the ability to move from subsistence to scale. Additional funding would allow the community to expand beyond the two or three cows that most households currently keep and build a coordinated communal herd capable of producing enough milk to serve larger markets, including Nakuru. It would also make it possible to acquire basic milk cooling and processing equipment, helping to reduce spoilage, improve quality, and secure better prices.

Beyond the farm itself, improved earnings would provide something equally important: opportunity and choice. Today, poverty keeps many members of the Molo Jewish community tied to the mountain interior. With a sustainable source of income, families could establish small businesses, participate more fully in the wider Kenyan economy, and create new opportunities for the next generation. For young people especially, such a change means access to education, employment, and a reason to invest in the future of their community.

And it would mean something more. It would mean the ability to build a synagogue, acquire siddurim and other religious materials, establish a Jewish library, and provide children with a stronger Jewish education alongside their secular studies. Investment in the Molo dairy initiative is therefore more than an investment in agriculture. It is an investment in the future of Jewish life on a Kenyan mountaintop.

In conclusion, the story of the Jewish people throughout history has often been a tale of endurance and of starting from scratch. Whether in Europe, North America, the Middle East, or Africa, they share a similar pattern. They rose from poverty, displacement, and hardship to build prosperous lives and strong institutions. They never waited for an opportunity to arrive but did so by identifying the resources around them and working together to create a better future.

Today, the Molo Jewish community stands at the beginning of a similar journey. Rooted in the highlands of Kenya, they are looking inward at what they already have: land, knowledge, faith, and a spirit of working together to create a better future for the next generation.

The post Scaling Dairy Dreams: How Cattle Rearing Can Lift Remote Kenyan Jewish Communities Out of Poverty first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

UGANDA is also known as the Pearl of Africa, and no doubt the name is for a good reason. Its rich soil, abundant rainfall, and equatorial climate, all of which conspire to produce agricultural abundance that few countries on the continent can match. Vast stretches of arable land, much of which is still untouched and unharnessed, hold enormous potential for farming communities that are willing to invest their labour, knowledge, and hopes in the earth. Moving around the country’s rural heartlands, it’s clearly evident that agriculture is not merely a livelihood for the majority; it is a way of life, a cultural identity, and the primary engine of household survival.

However, potential and prosperity are not the same thing. This is the simple reality. Because across Uganda’s countryside, significant portions of fertile land go unfarmed. Economic trees that could generate income for generations remain unplanted. And in tourism, opportunities for organised tourism services remain largely untapped. This article examines how the Abayudaya, the indigenous Jewish community of Uganda, are turning the land into a source of food security and communal strength and how, with vision and resources, these efforts can be exponentially scaled to turn things around for good.

Like most Ugandans, the Abayudaya are primarily agricultural people. Their connection to the land is an important part of their daily lives and their sense of community. Across their scattered locations in villages within the Mbale District of eastern Uganda, families tilled their plots individually, growing food for home consumption and modest sales. Yet beyond the household, the Abayudaya also engage in collective farming—members of different Jewish communities working side by side, pooling effort and sharing both the burden and the reward of cultivation.

This spirit of cooperative agriculture reflects something deeper: a community that has survived and thrived not through individual ambition alone, but through collective effort and resilience. It is this same spirit that has carried the Abayudaya through more than a century of hardship, faith, and renewal.

At this point, let’s briefly look at the history. The Abayudaya, which literally means ‘People of Judah’ in the Luganda language, trace their origins to the early twentieth century, when Semei Kakungulu, a Ugandan military leader and political figure, embraced the teachings in the Hebrew Bible as it appealed to him heartily. Around 1919, Kakungulu and his followers began observing Jewish law: keeping the Sabbath, practicing circumcision, and following the dietary laws of kashrut. Over subsequent decades, after the death of Semie in 1927, the community deepened its Jewish practice, eventually meeting several global Jewish organizations that contributed to shaping their future.

Under the regime of Idi Amin in the 1970s, the community endured severe persecution when Jewish practice was outlawed by the dictatorial regime. The regime’s crackdown on worshipers forced many to flee, forsaking their faith, and nearly obliterated the community. A cave synagogue in Nangolo provided a hideout for religious gatherings and prayers in the thick of the forest, where the brave ones continued to hold the torch of Judaism against all odds.

Yet the Abayudaya survived, regrouped, rebuilt, and flourished. Today, they number several thousand people, spread across multiple congregations in the Mbale region and beyond, with synagogues, schools, and a growing connection to the worldwide Jewish family. They can be found in central and western as well as in northern Uganda. Their story is one of extraordinary faith, resilience, and the quiet power of a people rooted in both their African heritage and their Jewish identity.

Eastern Uganda’s Tourism Treasure: Mbale and Beyond

The Mbale region, which is the cradle of Judaism, is home to the majority of the Abayudaya and a couple of minutes’ drive from the foot of Mount Elgon, the second-largest mountain in Uganda. Mount Elgon National Park offers trekkers, bird-watchers, and nature lovers a pristine highland environment rich in biodiversity. Its caves, hot springs, and unique flora make it an unforgettable destination for adventure travellers. The peak of the mountain, known as the Wagagai peak, stands at a height of 4,321 metres and is a destination for lovers of mountain climbing.

Nearby, the Sipi Falls cascade down the slopes of Mount Elgon in a series of three dramatic waterfalls, offering breathtaking scenery, hiking trails, and cool highland air. Guides familiar with the terrain can access and view all three of these falls from three different locations. The area has quietly become one of Uganda’s most beloved natural retreats, drawing visitors who linger for days to take in the views and the serenity.

Ascending the mountain from the Ugandan side and descending on the other side into Kenya is a fascinating experience. The Malaba-Busia border crossing, connecting Uganda to Kenya, adds another dimension to the region’s appeal—offering double opportunities: for cross-border cultural tourism and trade. Eastern Uganda, in short, is a region of genuine touristic richness, waiting to be more fully discovered and its potentials harnessed.

Rice Cultivation in the Swamps of Nalubembe. 

Another aspect of the region is its rich and fertile soil for agricultural purposes. Among the most compelling stories in eastern Uganda’s Jewish landscape is the rice farming project of Nalubembe, a small village where a group of Abayudaya are demonstrating what communal agriculture can look like when faith and hard work combine. Located at the outskirts of Mbale town, this isolated rural area currently has no public electricity, but most of the people farm the land for survival.

In the wetlands and swampy lowlands of Nalubembe, a modest but determined Jewish congregation has taken root. These are not wealthy farmers. They have received no external grants, no international development funding, and no NGO support. With their hands and their own limited resources, the community has cultivated two hectares of rice paddies in the swamps, turning marginal land into productive fields.

The results are tangible, providing a means of livelihood and survival to an extent. The rice harvest provides food security for the families involved—reducing hunger and dependence on purchased food. The surplus is sold in local markets, generating cash income that goes toward paying school fees for children’s education, meeting household bills, and covering other essential costs. In a community where poverty is the daily reality, this rice harvest represents something of extraordinary importance: self-sufficiency, dignity, and hope.

The Nalubembe congregation is small, and the challenges it faces are real and daring. But its achievement of farming two hectares of rice without any external support is proof of the spirit and capability of the Abayudaya people. With years of experience, this achievement also serves as proof of concept for what could be accomplished on a much larger scale.

The question facing the Nalubembe Jewish community—and those who care about their future—is not whether rice farming works. It clearly does. The question is: how can it be expanded?

At present, the congregation farms about two hectares. But the swamplands of Nalubembe, like many areas in eastern Uganda, contain far more cultivable land than is currently in use. If rice farming were scaled to between ten and fifty hectares, the economic transformation would be massive. At ten hectares, the community could generate enough income to fund the running of the synagogue, invest in farm equipment, and create steady employment for members of the congregation. At fifty hectares, the Nalubembe Jewish community could become a meaningful agricultural enterprise—producing rice for regional markets, funding communal infrastructure, and lifting families out of subsistence living into sustainable prosperity. 

Access to clean drinking water is another challenge in the village, and the absence of electricity is another setback. However, the Jewish community is prepared to take the lead; if their expanded agricultural enterprise succeeds, they can immensely contribute back to the surroundings that have sustained them. While the neglect from the government has continued over the years, efforts from the Jewish community can offer some basic and cooperative social responsibility to their immediate neighbourhood, harnessing the abundant sunshine to power a borehole and solar electricity to light up the village at night.

More revenue from rice sales is one of the most practical, grounded, and immediately actionable solutions available to the Nalubembe congregation. It does not require waiting for perfect conditions. It builds on skills the community already possesses. And it uses land that is already there, waiting.

Tourism as a Community Engine

Apart from agriculture, tourism offers the broader Abayudaya community a powerful second engine of economic development. This isn’t rocket science because the lights are already green. Without doubt, the Jewish community of Uganda is already a destination in itself. Each year, Jewish visitors from Israel, North America, Europe, and beyond make the journey to Mbale to experience life in the Abayudaya, who celebrated 100 years of existence back in 2019. Many visit to pray with them, celebrate Shabbat and Jewish holidays, learn from them, and be inspired by their extraordinary story of going from extinction to being the fastest-growing Jewish community in East Africa. This religious and cultural tourism is a genuine and growing phenomenon.

However, the community has not fully harnessed this visitor traffic as an economic opportunity. Organized tourism—with members of the community serving as guides, hosts, and cultural ambassadors—could transform these visits into a reliable and growing income stream. When visitors have unforgettable experiences, they become evangelists: they tell their friends, post on social media, write in community newsletters, and return themselves. Word-of-mouth promotion, rooted in authentic and memorable encounters, builds a growing network of potential visitors. The Abayudaya’s unique story of Jewish survival and resilience is precisely the kind that resonates powerfully with global Jewish audiences and beyond.

Fortunately, members of the Abayudaya community have already served as tour guides, welcoming visitors and sharing their world. The human infrastructure for community tourism is already present. What is needed is organisation, investment in welcoming facilities, and a deliberate strategy to develop tourism as a sustained economic pillar.

The tourism potential of eastern Uganda and of Uganda as a whole extends far beyond religious visits. The country offers an extraordinary range of experiences for the curious traveller: wildlife safaris in national parks, boat trips on the great lakes, hiking to spectacular waterfalls, mountain treks, cultural exchanges with diverse ethnic communities, visits to remote islands, border crossing adventures, and immersion in the rhythms of rural Ugandan life.

Each of these experiences represents a potential revenue stream for communities that are positioned and prepared to serve visitors well. For the Abayudaya and other Ugandan Jewish communities, integrating these broader tourism offerings into a community-led programme would allow them to serve visitors not just as a spiritual destination, but as a gateway to the full richness of Uganda’s landscape and culture.

Island Opportunities: Lake Victoria and Economic Trees

Lake Victoria, Africa’s largest lake and the world’s second-largest freshwater lake, is home to dozens of inhabited islands, some with populations numbering in the thousands. Because of the geographic location, these islands enjoy fertile soils and a particularly favourable microclimate, making them ideal for large-scale agriculture.

Buvuma Island, a collection of more than 52 islands inside Lake Victoria, offers a striking example of what large-scale economic planting can achieve. A government-owned mega palm tree plantation currently growing on the island produces cooking oil used in millions of Ugandan homes. The plantation has created significant employment for islanders, offering a reliable means of livelihood to hundreds of households that might otherwise depend on subsistence fishing and micro farming alone. 

Many portions of Uganda’s fertile islands remain uninhabited and uncultivated. This represents a remarkable opportunity: land for large-scale economic tree planting that could generate sustainable income for generations. For the Jewish farming communities in Uganda, engagement with such opportunities—whether planting timber trees or commercial crops—could provide long-term financial sustainability that complements the shorter-term returns of rice and other crop farming.

In conclusion, I must state the fact that mega revenues only come as a result of mega projects. This is not merely a slogan. It is an economic truth. The Nalubembe congregation has demonstrated, without external support, that Jewish farmers in Uganda can work together to grow rice, feed their families, and generate some income. Across other Abayudaya communities, small-scale tree planting is already underway. And on the other hand, a couple of community members have served as tour guides. The knowledge, dedication, and skills exist. No doubt.

What is needed now is scale. If rice farming in Nalubembe grows from two hectares to fifty, the community will be sporadically transformed. If tourism is developed as a deliberate economic strategy with trained guides and organised itineraries that draw on the region’s natural and cultural wealth, then Abayudaya could become a hub for international visitors and a model for community-led development. If economic tree planting is embraced on Uganda’s fertile islands and open lands, the Jewish farming communities of Uganda can invest in a future that will sustain their grandchildren.

The experience is already on the ground. The land is already fertile. The story is already compelling. All that remains is the commitment to scale these small successes into a large-scale, commercially viable enterprise—one that can lift the entire Jewish population of Uganda out of extreme poverty and into a future of dignity, prosperity, and pride, just like their counterparts in other parts of the globe.

The post Rice Farming, Tourism, and Economic Tree Planting in Uganda first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

EVERY MORNING at four o’clock, long before Lagos wakes up, Nathan Uwaoma, a chazan and father, climbs to the bimah of Adat Yisrael Synagogue and begins to chant Selichot. He has done this ritual every morning, at the same time, apart from Shabbat. Selichot, which is known as the penitential prayers, and depending on the custom one is following, is recited daily from the first of Elul through the eve of Yom Kippur, pleading for forgiveness ahead of the Days of Awe.

But this year too, his voice doesn’t stay in the building.

Besides him on the bimah sits his android phone, quietly streaming the prayer live to a Telegram channel created by the synagogue, under the leadership of Kish Onyia, for exactly this purpose. The moment the cantor is ready to begin, a link goes out to the group, and members wherever they are click in to join him.

What’s striking is the math: the Telegram group now has about one hundred and fifty members, a number that outstrips the synagogue’s own physical membership. People who may never set foot in the building on a given morning are logging in from home, from other parts of Nigeria, mostly in the East, and even from other countries such as the United Kingdom, to pray together in real time.

The arrangement solves a problem as old as Selichot itself: the prayers demand an early hour that many people, especially those with jobs, families, or long commutes, simply cannot keep in person. For a working parent or someone living far from the synagogue, attending at four in the morning every day for weeks is often unfeasible, and attending at four in the morning every day for weeks is often out of reach. The Telegram broadcast removes that barrier entirely.

While leveraging an online tool, it also solves something more structurally important—parts of the Selichot service require a minyan, a quorum of ten, for certain responses to be said. Even remotely, members respond “Amen” together as the chazan reaches those points, turning what could be a solitary act of listening into something closer to communal prayer, even at a distance.

This is the second year Adat Yisrael has run the broadcast. A Telegram group existed last year too, but nowhere near as prominent or well-organized as this year’s effort. The synagogue has clearly taken it upon itself to make the prayer as accessible as possible, every single morning of Elul. The synagogue is ensuring that congregants approach and prepare for the High Holidays in the most halakhic ways possible.

The channel has, in effect, become a small act of decentralization for Jewish life in Nigeria: allowing people to join Selichot from the east, from the west, and from communities abroad, each tuning in according to their own time zone. Praying together in this way, even scattered across such distances, has helped bring a sense of kavanah, the focused intention that the High Holiday season calls for.

The Challenge: Network, Not Will

Not everything runs perfectly. Rivka, wife of the cantor, says the main challenge has been network reliability. Even when Nathan continues chanting without interruption, poor connectivity inside the synagogue can cut off listeners who are furthest away.

At times, Rivka says, her husband has had to step outside the building mid-prayer, phone in hand, walking around in search of a stronger signal, hoping the brothers on the other end remain connected while he continues leading Selichot. It’s a small, almost unnoticed act of devotion. To be chanting ancient words of repentance while pacing outside in the dark, the phone held up like a lifeline to a congregation he cannot see.

“The problem might also be about the gadget being used,” Rivka said, suggesting that a dedicated router powering the broadcast could offer a more stable connection. Despite the challenges, a 4G or 5G router could ensure a significantly more stable and uninterrupted Selichot experience, even for those joining from outside Nigeria.

In the meantime, the synagogue has built in a workaround. Kish, who doubles as leader and Telegram admin, typically records the prayer as it happens, whether or not the live stream makes it to the end without dropping. Once Selichot concludes, the recording, whether the full session or just the portion where the connection faltered, is posted back to the group. Someone who wakes at five can simply open the recorded version and pray along on their own time from their phone, even after the live prayer has ended. In addition to joining the Telegram channel, members also have a copy of the Selichot prayer on their phone to follow the live or recorded prayer session.

Are you finding it challenging to keep up with the Selichot prayer? Add your “Amen” to ours. Join the Adat Yisrael Selichot broadcast every morning of Elul — click below to join us on Telegram and be part of the minyan: https://t.me/+YkBoTdlJdAoyNmY0

In conclusion, the solution Rivka points to is a simple one: a dedicated router and WiFi at the synagogue to stabilize the connection for listeners whether in Lagos or beyond. It’s a small, practical upgrade, but one that could be the difference between an interrupted broadcast and a truly uninterrupted, worldwide Selichot minyan.

For now, though, the model is already working. Whether from the bimah, where six Sifrei Torah rest in the ark, or from a phone screen hundreds of miles away, the members of Adat Yisrael are managing to pray as a small congregation in Lagos, quietly reaching well beyond its walls. as we approach the much-anticipated High Holidays.

The post FROM LAGOS TO THE WORLD: How One Synagogue Is Taking Selichot To Telegram first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

THREE YEARS AGO, African Jewish Voices (AJV) started with a simple question: who is telling the story of Jewish life in Africa? Today, with its fifth edition just launched, the answer keeps growing.

What began as an ambitious vision to document the lives, experiences, and activities of Jewish communities across Africa has grown into a significant platform for telling the African Jewish story to the world.

The 5th edition of African Jewish Voices was launched at the Beth Harachaman Jewish Community in Uruan, Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. The event brought together members of the host community, guests from within and outside Akwa Ibom State, as well as students and staff of Brachot Yeshiva International School.

For Beth Ha’arachaman, the occasion, which took place August 5th was a celebration of an idea that had survived, grown, and continued to make its mark. In his opening remarks, Yerimyahu Ukpong, the leader of Beth Ha’arachaman Jewish Community, expressed his delight:

“I am happy that African Jewish Voices is not just a dream but a project that has been actualized and sustained.”

He called on Jews, Jewish organizations, and supporters around the world to find ways to support the vision of the African Jewish Voices, stressing the importance of ensuring that this first publication of its kind in Africa continues to grow and reach its full potential.

Three Years, More Than 100 Stories

The launch also marked a major milestone: three years and over 100 published articles documenting Jewish life across Africa. The management of the African Jewish Voices has maintained a commitment to producing two editions every year, creating a growing archive of stories about communities, people, events, traditions, achievements, and challenges across African Jewry.

For many communities whose stories might otherwise remain unknown beyond their surroundings, the magazine has become a means of ensuring their experiences are recorded and shared. This latest edition, with the theme “Building Stronger Communities,” focuses on entrepreneurial enterprises, scaling success, creating opportunities, and strengthening Jewish life across Africa.

The launch also recognized service beyond journalism. We witnessed an evening that took time to honour a genuine service to Jewish Education. Brachot Yeshiva, a school run by the synagogue management presented an appreciation award to Chief Editor Avraham Ben Avraham for his charitable work and support for the school.

Among his recent contributions was the donation of Wi-Fi equipment and data, giving students and staff easier internet access and supporting computer training. The award highlighted that African Jewish Voices is not only about telling stories, but also about doing.

African Judaica Marketplace Opens a New Door

The launch introduced a new dimension to the platform: the African Judaica Marketplace.

Integrated into the African Jewish Voices website, the marketplace will create an online space where people anywhere in the world can purchase Jewish products made in Africa. This will be the first time any platform is committed to host and feature Jewish craftsmen and women across Africa borders.

Products will include Nigerian-made tallitot, Ugandan kippot, Ghanaian challah covers, and other handcrafted Judaica produced by artisans across the continent. This initiative expands the publication’s role beyond storytelling, creating a direct link between African Jewish creativity and the global Jewish marketplace. Buyers can simply browse through collections on the website, and with a click make their orders, which would be shipped to their destination anywhere across the world.

Sukkot Village Documentary Postponed to Next Year

Another major announcement concerned the highly anticipated Sukkot Village documentary. During the launch, the film poster of the proposed documentary, Voices from the Sukkot Village, hung alongside the posters of the front and back covers of the new magazine.

Emmanuel Yerimyahu Ukpong, the leader of the community, announced that the documentary would be postponed until next year to allow sufficient time for preparation and to properly capture the uniqueness of the Sukkot Village experience.

Sukkot Village is distinctive for how families celebrate. Rather than gathering around a single communal sukkah, families construct their own sukkah where they live and remain connected to the festival throughout Sukkot. Each Sukkah unit in the village is occupied by a family, with some units separated from others, and each unit contains different rooms for sleeping, cooking, and sitting. In these makeshift shelters, the members manage to stay for the week, abandoning the comforts of their homes to dwell in the Sukkah.

The celebration combines religious observance with education and culture: Children set off to school from their family sukkah, and afternoons feature Torah classes, while evenings after Maariv in the central prayer Sukkah include Jewish-themed plays and traditional cultural performances. Musical performance and football have also become popular. The postponement will allow us to capture these elements for a wider international audience.

During the launch, Chief Editor Avraham Ben-Aravraham also took us into the future of the magazine by announcing the title of the upcoming sixth edition as “The Tribes of Africa.” “The forthcoming edition will continue to explore the diversity and richness of Jewish life across the continent,” he said.

Abba Ori Otu emphasized the urgency of documentation:

“Please, you must amplify our voices. This magazine is the hope of most African Jewish communities. “Document every tiny detail; it will surely be needed tomorrow.”

The need for such documentation is vital on a continent where Jewish communities differ in history, culture, geography, and experience. Some are isolated, many are returning, while a few others are emerging. Each community has a story, and together those stories form the larger narrative of African Jewry.

The launch of the 5th edition was therefore not just the celebration of another publication. It was a celebration of three years of consistency, documentation, and vision—and a glimpse into an even more ambitious future.

As African Jewish Voices looks toward its 6th edition, “The Tribes of Africa,” it remains committed to being the voice of African Jewry: publicizing Jewish life, providing current updates, amplifying unheard voices, and creating a link between Africa’s Jewish communities and the international Jewish community.

The post AJV LAUNCHES 5TH EDITION, MARKS 3 YEARS OF DOCUMENTING AFRICAN JEWRY first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

IN JEWISH weddings around the world, one of the most striking and visually powerful moments comes just before the vows are exchanged. The bride, who is veiled and radiantly beautiful, walks around her groom seven times under the chuppah (the wedding canopy) in the presence of family members and guests. First, the groom enters into the venue and stands beneath the chuppah; then he’s joined by the woman, who begins the seven-circle ritual. This tradition, rich in meaning, is one that has been carried, generation after generation, into Jewish communities across the globe, including the growing Jewish community in Nigeria.

The custom carries several layers of interpretation. One of the most common draws from Kabbalistic thought: the seven circles are understood as a spiritual act of protection, with the bride figuratively building a wall of light around her groom. By this action, she’s guarding him from harmful influences and negative spirits as they enter married life together. In this reading, the bride is not a passive figure in the ceremony but an active spiritual participant. No doubt, her steps around her husband-to-be are an act of love expressed as protection.

A more dramatic interpretation is drawn from the story of Joshua leading the Israelites around the walls of Jericho seven times before the walls came down. In this reading, the bride’s circling becomes an act of spiritual strength rather than submission. Therefore, it is not a gesture of deference, but a display of her own power to bring down whatever walls might stand between them and the life they are building together.

Another interpretation ties the number seven to the story of creation itself. Just as the world was formed in seven days, the couple, in circling seven times, symbolically creates a new world of their own—a household, a partnership, and a shared life built from nothing into something whole. Each circle is said to represent a stage of that creation until, on the seventh, the couple stands ready to begin their life as one unit, complete.

The number seven does not end with circling. Following the vows, the Sheva Brachot, otherwise known as the Seven Blessings, are recited over a cup of wine, invoking joy, companionship, and the hope that the couple’s happiness will one day echo the joy of a Yerushalayim restored.

These traditions came together vividly on August 23, 2026, when Confidence Olachi Ibe and Yehudah Emeka Nnorom were married beneath the chuppah at Tikvat Israel Synagogue in Kubwa, Abuja. Both hail from Imo State in Nigeria’s Southeast. While the bride is from Mbaitoli Local Government Area, the groom is from Ikeduru.

The couple’s Igbo heritage adds another meaningful layer to their story. The Igbo people, whose ancestral homeland lies in Southeastern Nigeria, carry a rich oral and historical tradition tracing their lineage to the lost tribes of ancient Israel. Today, the Igbo make up one of the largest populations in Africa practicing Torah-based Judaism, with communities like Tikvat Israel in Abuja, though geographically distant from the Southeast, standing as extensions of that heritage carried by Igbo families who have settled across the country. Confidence and Yehudah’s union, both born of Igbo descent, is a living continuation of that ancestral thread, generation after generation reclaiming a Jewish identity that was never truly lost.

Yehudah has been a member of the Tikvat Israel community for about five years. Olachi, more recently drawn into the faith through her relationship with him, made the decision to convert to Judaism—a journey of her own that mirrors, in its way, the very story the seven circles tell: a stepping into something new, built with intention, circle by circle.

On the wedding day, Olachi arrived at the venue in a flowing white gown, greeted by family and community members dressed in vibrant traditional attire. Beneath the chuppah, holding a glowing candle, the bride circled Yehudah seven times, echoing a custom observed by Jewish brides across centuries and continents. The signing of the ketubah, the Jewish marriage contract, followed, before the couple emerged to celebration with guests dancing arm in arm across the lawn in joy.

The wedding also carried special significance as it followed directly on the heels of Camp Sarah, the three-week Jewish summer camp hosted at Tikvat Israel Synagogue, which concluded just a day earlier. Where past editions of Camp Sarah have closed with events like community football matches, this year’s edition closed with something unprecedented: a wedding, witnessed by campers and community members alike, offering a joyful and fitting capstone to weeks of learning, fellowship, and Jewish life shared together.

However, for Olachi and Yehudah, the seven circles were not just tradition observed: they were a beginning, walked into together, one step at a time.

The post Why Do Jewish Brides Circle Their Groom Seven Times? first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

THE ROOFING of a building usually marks the beginning of its one phase of completion. For B’nai Yeshurun, a Synagogue in Ikot Akpa Ekang, located in the Uruan Local Government Area, Akwa Ibom State, a roof rising over the synagogue means far more than finishing a construction project. it is a symbol of unity, long-standing, and the power of Jewish connections to support one another across borders.

The journey of the congregation into Rabbinic Judaism has been gradual and deeply transformative. In its early days, the community observed the Sabbath within a Messianic framework. Over time, as their study of Torah deepened, they connected with other Rabbinic Jewish communities in Akwa Ibom State. Through those relationships, and guidance from rabbis, they moved further into Torah-based Judaism— eventually adopting it fully, along with a Sephardi minhag shaped by their ties to established Jewish communal life.

Yet the community faced a basic challenge: it did not have a proper roof over its synagogue. For more than four years, members had to rent a canopy to provide shelter whenever they gathered for Shabbat, festivals, and other religious events in their synagogue. What might appear to be a simple logistical difficulty became a persistent burden for a community with limited resources seeking to establish a stable Jewish home.

A turning point eventually came through the Unity Shabbat initiative of the Jewish Community of Akwa Ibom State, under the Judaism Fellowship Initiative (JFI), Akwa Ibom State Chapter. Typical of these gatherings, communities take turns hosting each other for Shabbat, learning from, correcting, and sharing with one another. During one such state-level communal Shabbat at B’nai Yeshurun, members shared their roofing struggle and appealed for help.

Rishon Ben Avraham, Chairman of JFI Akwa Ibom State Chapter, assured the community, saying,:

“I will do everything within my power to see that support is found. But be reminded of an essential principle of Jewish faith: everything ultimately depends on Hashem.”

That appeal reached Kulanu, a non-government organization supporting emerging, returning, and isolated Jewish communities across the globe. Despite its own financial constraints at the point of request, Kulanu stepped in to fund part of the synagogue roofing project. For the community, the assistance was not just financial. It was proof that their struggles had been Their struggles had been acknowledged, and their efforts to build Jewish life had been validated. and that their efforts to build Jewish life mattered.

Abimelech, the leader and founder of the community, expressed his gratitude when the project was ongoing. He said:

“Baruch Hashem le’olam va’ed, KULANU has made it possible for me to witness the synagogue being roofed during my lifetime.”

His words captured the emotional significance of the project. After years of worshipping under rented canopies, the community could finally begin to see a more permanent and secure home for its Jewish life.

The chairman of the community, Daniel Ephraim, similarly gave thanks to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, expressing his belief that “Kulanu is the answer Hashem has sent to us.”

The newly roofed section of the synagogue now provides protective shelter for the community against rain and wind. It strengthens the community’s ability to gather for Shabbat, prayer, learning, festivals, and communal activities.

For this community, however, the journey is not yet complete. Only half of the synagogue has been roofed, leaving the other half still to be completed. Yet the community views what has already happened as evidence of the power of unity.

They remain hopeful with the believe that Hashem will help them to complete the remaining part of the synagogue roofing. It is evident that the first half has already changed the atmosphere of the community. The hope is that the full roof will eventually provide an even stronger foundation for generations of Jewish life in Akwa Ibom State.

Kulanu’s support tells a larger story: of brotherhood across borders, and the truth that kol Yisrael areivim zeh lazeh—all of Israel are responsible for one another.

The post B’nai Yeshurun Synagogue: A New Roof, A Renewed Hope first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

A JEWISH sporting movement is emerging across West Africa, with Nigeria leading the way. While neighboring countries are only beginning to build the frameworks for organized Jewish athletics, Nigeria already fields active football clubs and two youth teams, alongside a small but growing number of individual athletes making their mark in kickboxing, swimming, tennis, and soon, perhaps, volleyball. Behind the games and the training sessions, a quieter process is also underway: the country’s bid to formally join the structures of world Jewish sport.

For decades, the South African Maccabi Union has stood alone as Sub-Saharan Africa’s only recognized voice within the Maccabi World Union, the body that governs the Maccabiah Games. What is happening in Nigeria now, both on the pitch and in a widening field of individual sport is best understood as the first serious attempt to build a second one.

Now, Nigeria’s Jewish football scene rests on four teams: Maccabi FCN and Harachman FC at the club level, and Mehamizrach FC and a National Youth Team developing the next generation of players. Together they form the most organized Jewish sporting structure anywhere in West Africa: regularly training, playing friendlies against professional and community clubs alike, and using the pitch as a gathering point for community life rather than a separate, purely competitive pursuit.

That community dimension has always run alongside the competitive one. Players from Maccabi FC Nigeria have taken part in Repair the Sea’s cleanup of Jabi Lake, and the club has played exhibition matches at gatherings like Camp Sarah and Simchat Torah football activities, turning sport into a shared celebration rather than a separate activity. That pattern continued Sunday, July 5, when Maccabi FC Nigeria faced Runners FC in an Abuja Youth Shabbat friendly at Kubwa. In August, the club is looking to return to the field for possibly two matches during Camp Sarah.

Mehamizrach FC and the National Youth Team have their rhythm built directly around religious life: the two sides play each other at the close of the National Youth Shabbat, an event that draws Jewish youth from across Nigeria to keep Shabbat together before turning, on Sunday, to football. Every player on both sides is Jewish—the match is less a standalone fixture than the athletic close to a weekend built around communal prayer and observance, which is as much the point as the result on the scoreboard.

Shlomo Yaakov, the head coach of Maccabi FC Nigeria, has been deepening his credentials alongside the team, enrolling in an AMAC coaching course even as he continues to lead the club and teach at Gihon Eden Academy. It is a dual role—coach and educator—that mirrors the broader pattern in Nigeria’s Jewish sporting life, where the same small group of committed individuals often carries responsibility across both the pitch and the classroom, a story explored in From the Bimah to the Football Pitch, which follows Shlomo’s work at Gihon Hebrew Synagogue and his commitment to nurturing both faith and football.

A Cycle Missed, A Longer Goal in View

Maccabiah 2026, the quadrennial gathering known as the “Jewish Olympics,” opened in Jerusalem on July 1 after its postponement in 2025, drawing thousands of athletes from dozens of countries. Nigeria’s clubs did not make the trip this cycle. But that absence has only sharpened focus on a longer-term goal shared across the region: a future in which Sub-Saharan African Jewish athletes have a structured pathway toward the Maccabiah Games, rather than relying on informal relationships and one-off invitations.

That vision builds on the groundwork explored in Africa’s Jewish Sporting Revolution: Inside the Formation of MAC, which examines the emergence of the Maccabi African Confederation and the growing network of Jewish sporting activity across the continent. Within that broader movement, Nigeria’s football clubs remain central—not as a finished product but as the most developed base from which organizers hope to build a lasting pathway to future Maccabiah participation.

Football remains the most visible face of Nigeria’s Jewish sporting life, but it is no longer the only one. A Nigerian Jewish athlete is currently building a career in kickboxing. In Lagos, a Jewish swimmer trains competitively in the water. A young Nigerian Jewish girl, under fourteen, has taken up table tennis, suggesting the next generation of talent may not come through football at all. And team sport may be next to grow: a woman has reached out about the possibility of organizing Nigeria’s first Jewish women’s volleyball team—an early, exploratory conversation, but one organizer is taking it seriously as a sign of where interest is heading.

Most of these individual pursuits yet don’t have the structure that football does: no club, no league, no fixed training ground. But that is roughly where Nigeria’s football clubs started too, as informal gatherings before they became organized teams with coaches and fixtures. If the pattern holds, today’s lone athletes may be the seeds of tomorrow’s second and third organized sports. And the volleyball inquiry may be the first sign of Nigeria’s next team sport taking shape.

The comparison across the region is stark. In Ghana and Zimbabwe, Jewish sporting activity is still at the stage of building basic frameworks—early conversations and organizing, not yet active teams. In Cameroon, community leaders have expressed readiness to contribute to recruitment and development, but no active teams have yet formed there either.

In other countries across the continent, there are various pockets of sporting activity, although football is not one of them. Uganda’s Jewish community has moved toward basketball and netball, with an emerging female netball team and interest building around basketball, alongside individual athletes such as competitive track and field athletes and a chess player. Kenya has a promising table tennis player and a marathon runner, alongside its established lawn tennis and long-distance running talent. Ethiopia has its own long-distance running culture, and swimming activity has been seen on the island of Madagascar off the East African coast. Morocco’s Jewish sporting scene is formidable, with a long-established football culture. But nowhere else in West Africa has organized team sport reached the scale Nigeria has built, characterized by professional football clubs and youth teams, all playing regular fixtures.

What sets Nigeria apart is not any single team or athlete, but the combination: an organized league structure at home and a widening base of individual sport growing alongside it. Other communities have athletes. Nigeria has athletes, teams, and coaches. It is a distinction worth naming plainly, because it is easy, from outside Africa, to assume Jewish sporting life on the continent is a single, uniform story. It is not. It is a patchwork of communities at very different stages, and Nigeria’s stage happens to be the most advanced.

Nigeria’s rise doesn’t happen in isolation. Across the continent, Jewish sporting life is taking shape unevenly and sometimes in unexpected places. In Uganda, beyond the emerging female netball team, organizers are exploring the idea of a men’s basketball team—an early conversation, much like Nigeria’s own volleyball inquiry, but one more sign that team sports for young athletes is a growing interest across the region rather than a one-off idea.

Morocco, home to one of Africa’s oldest and largest Jewish communities, has a sporting culture that is formidable by any regional comparison and built on decades of established communal infrastructure rather than a recent revival. And in a different but related story, Cape Verde’s extraordinary run at the 2026 World Cup, becoming the smallest nation ever to reach the tournament’s knockout stage after historic draws against Spain and Uruguay, has drawn fresh attention to the island’s Sephardic Jewish history. Forward Gilson Benchimol, who wears the No. 9 shirt for Cape Verde, carries a surname that traces directly to that history: Hillel Benchimol, a Tetouani Jewish merchant who settled on the island of Santiago in the 19th century and whose grave remains a recognized heritage site in Cape Verde today. According to Carol Castiel, president of the Cape Verde Jewish Heritage Project, every Benchimol in Cape Verde descends from that Jewish lineage, even though the community assimilated fully generations ago and no longer practices Judaism. Fittingly, Cape Verde’s World Cup squad also includes Portugal-based defender Hélio Varela, whose club side is Maccabi Tel Aviv, which is another small thread tying this West African World Cup story back to Jewish life. Jewish sports stories here span multiple countries and continents.

Building for Continuity

None of these matters if it lasts only one generation. Continuity—not any single match, tournament, or headline—is what will determine whether Nigeria’s Jewish sporting life becomes a lasting institution or a moment that fades once its current athletes retire and move on. It is not enough to say Nigeria has Jewish athletes today if there is no clear path to having them tomorrow.

That is where the schools come in. Institutions like Brachot Yeshiva and Bal Shem Tov and growing academies like Ardent Hebrew Academy and Gihon Eden Academy build the land of Israel directly into their curriculum—not as distant history but as living context, covering the Maccabiah Games alongside Israel’s geography and tourist sites. A child who grows up learning about Maccabiah in the classroom is a child who grows up expecting, one day, to take part in it, whether through a future MAC tournament or the Maccabi Games itself.

That is what sustains a movement long after any single event or headline has faded: a generation of Jewish children in Nigeria who see themselves, from an early age, as part of the story rather than spectators to it. Football clubs and individual athletes give the country’s Jewish sporting life its present. The classrooms are what will give it a future.

None of this activity happens on a fast or predictable timeline. Building organized sport from informal beginnings takes years, as Nigeria’s own football clubs demonstrate—friendlies that grew into a four-team structure only after sustained community investment and media coverage. The same will likely be true for Uganda’s basketball idea, Kenya’s emerging individual talent, and Nigeria’s own kickboxer, swimmer, and tennis player.

But the direction of travel is clear enough: a football program that has grown from friendlies into a four-team structure, a widening field of individual athletes in sports the community had no presence in a few years ago, and similar early signs of growth echoing across Uganda, Kenya, and beyond. Few Sub-Saharan Jewish communities outside South Africa can say as much.

That is precisely what MAC organizers are watching. If a continental Jewish sporting body takes shape in the coming years, Nigeria’s clubs, coaches, and now its individual athletes give it one of the clearest starting points on the continent. This development is proof that, even without a single launch event to mark the moment, the movement is already underway, community by community, across West and East Africa alike.

The post Nigeria Leads a Growing Jewish Sporting Movement in West Africa. first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

FOR MONTHS, Elder Abashal, a member of the Beth Ha’arachman Jewish community in Akwa Ibom State in his early 70s, had stopped asking for healing. He asked for something else instead: to be taken.

His sight had faded until faces became shapes, and shapes became nothing he could name unless a voice came with them. He could no longer read the Torah he had spent many years with. He could no longer walk to synagogue, most of the time, without a hand to guide him. What is a life, he wondered aloud to those around him, when the world you love has gone dark? He prayed, community members recall, not for a cure but for Hashem to take him.

That prayer went unanswered and in its place came another.

Abba Otu Ori, a member of the community moved by the elder’s condition, stepped in to fund what the family could not: a full course of eye surgery, one eye and then the other, performed by visiting doctors from the United Kingdom. Between the two operations, corrective lenses, consultations, and follow-up medication, the cost climbed to nearly ₦3 million. Ori covered it in full.

Today, Elder Abashal sees. He reads Torah again. He rises early for synagogue and prays alongside the community he had once feared he would leave in darkness.

He was not the only one in Beth Ha’arachman to walk that road. Two years earlier, Elder Eliazar faced a similar decline—a time, community members remember, when he could no longer dial a phone number without asking someone else to do it for him. His family raised the funds for his surgery themselves, and he too regained his sight. The two men’s stories, separated by one year and by who paid the bill, now sit side by side in the community’s memory: one man restored by his own children, another by a member of his congregation who owed him nothing at all.

It’s that second fact that has moved people most. Ori and the elder he helped were not close relatives. There was no family obligation pulling him toward that hospital bill. Community members describe it simply as gratitude finding an outlet. It was a decision to give simply because he could, and because a fellow congregant needed it.

Ori’s giving did not stop with the surgery. In the same season, he funded construction of a new gathering space for Beth Ha’arachman: a marble-floored, pillared sitout, built into the earth in a semi-submerged style community members compare to a citadel, with careful attention to airflow and light. The space now hosts kiddush and community events that don’t take place inside the main synagogue hall, giving Beth Ha’arachman room to gather, celebrate, and pray.

For a community that has weathered its share of hardship, the two gestures have landed as more than isolated acts of charity. They’ve become, in the words of members who’ve watched both unfold this year, a kind of restoration: of sight, of space, and of hope. An elder who once prayed for death now prays daily in a hall built partly through the same community that gave him back his eyes.

Beth Ha’arachman’s leaders say the lesson they draw from Ori’s giving is not really about him. It is about what becomes possible when a community chooses to see its most vulnerable members: quite literally, in this case—and acts before it’s too late. For an elder who once asked only to be taken, that choice made all the difference.

The post Sight Restored, Hope Rebuilt: One Man’s Gift to Beth Ha’arachman first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

FOLLOWING Uganda’s historic admission last year as the second African nation represented at the World Zionist Congress, Nigeria’s Jewish community is now preparing its own bid for recognition within the World Zionist Organization. ZIMU Launched in Mukono: Uganda’s Historic Inclusion in the World Zionist Congress.

Nigeria is home to more than six thousand practicing Jews, with communities found predominantly in Lagos, Abuja and across Southern Nigeria, and the bulk of the population concentrated in the east of the country. Anambra State stands out in particular, home to roughly twenty synagogues on its own. Over recent months, consultations have taken place across the country, drawing in members of the Judaism Fellowship Initiative, known as JFI, as well as Jewish Nigerians either affiliated or unaffiliated with any single organization, resulting in a shared understanding of how Nigeria’s bid should be carried forward, and by whom.

That mandate has fallen to Arthur Regis, president of JFI, the organization representing the largest number of synagogues and members in the country. He is expected to travel to Israel during Sukkot, the pilgrimage festival, less than a month from now, where he will formally present Nigeria’s case for admission at the offices of the World Zionist Congress. A coordinator based in Israel has been designated to manage the follow-up work that such a bid typically requires, a process that, based on precedent, can take years to conclude.

Uganda’s own path offers a clear illustration of that timeline. The Zionist Movement of Uganda, known as ZIMU, was formally launched in June last year, in Mukono, following the World Zionist Organization’s decision in January to admit the Uganda Federation as its second African member. That outcome came after more than eight years of sustained effort led by Avram Mukibi, a Ugandan Jew from Mbale, who pursued the goal from 2018 onward despite long stretches when the cause appeared to have stalled. His perseverance ultimately secured Uganda’s place at the thirty-ninth World Zionist Congress in Jerusalem, making it only the second African federation admitted, after South Africa.

Nigerian Jewish leaders now point to that outcome as both inspiration and roadmap. The reasoning is straightforward: with a Jewish population significantly larger than Uganda’s, and a network of synagogues spanning multiple states, Nigeria has long had the community infrastructure to justify formal representation. What has been missing, until now, is a unified, agreed process for pursuing it.

Nigerian Jewish organizers say Regis and his designated coordinator will be the ones carrying this process forward in the months ahead.

This is not a small distinction. A seat at the World Zionist Congress is not merely symbolic. Delegates have a voice in setting policy on religious life, education, and aliyah that affects Jewish communities worldwide. For a community of Nigeria’s size, formal representation would mean a genuine platform in those decisions, including their own.

JFI itself has continued to grow as an organization with its own members, but its leadership has been clear that the bid is not being carried forward on behalf of JFI alone. The federation says it remains open to collaborating with Jewish Nigerians who are not JFI members, and has been actively reaching out to other Jewish groups and communities across the country to ensure the bid reflects the country’s Jewish population as a whole, not just one organization within it.

It would also mark another milestone for Black African Jewry on the world stage, following Uganda’s breakthrough last year. As ZIMU’s leadership put it at their launch in Mukono, the Zionist Congress is richer and stronger when it includes the full diversity of the world’s Jewish communities. Nigerian Jewish organizers are hoping their own communities, from Lagos to Abuja to the synagogues of Anambra, will soon be counted among that diversity, formally and with one clear voice.

Should the bid succeed, Nigeria would follow Uganda’s path as only the third African nation, after South Africa’s founding-era involvement and Uganda’s recent admission, to hold formal standing within the World Zionist Organization, giving Nigerian Jewry a direct voice in decisions shaping global Jewish communal life and funding.

For now, the process is just beginning. Whether Nigeria’s bid follows a path as long as Uganda’s eight-year journey, or moves more quickly, will depend on the willingness of the World Zionist Organization to engage with a united Nigerian delegation, and the patience of a community that has waited a long time to be heard.

The post Nigerian Jewry Moves to Secure a Seat at the World Zionist Congress first appeared on African Jewish Voices.

CAMEROON is a true patchwork of cultures, a country which has, despite all odds, maintained peace and security inside its borders. In this mix is our community, a Jewish community with roots in Bantu identity, practising a faith that we understand not as something we adopted from outside but as an expression

We call ourselves the Bantu Israelites, and our community is called Beth Goshen. The name comes from the Torah: Goshen was the fertile region in Egypt where Yacov settled when he came to be reunited with his son Yosef, who was then governor of Egypt. In Hebrew, it evokes a house of the sun, a green and grassy place, a home of abundance and renewal. It is the name we chose because it speaks both of memory and of what we are building.

About Us Who We Are

The word “Bantu” describes one of the largest ethnolinguistic groupings in the world, encompassing hundreds of peoples across Central, Eastern, and Southern Africa. We Bantu Israelites did not begin our identity with a foreign mission or a sudden conversion. It has its origin in the 19th century, when African groups, brought into contact with the Bible (often under the influence of Protestantism), found in its writings a description of themselves, and came to see their ancestry as the Lost Tribes of Israel. Later generations reaffirmed this identification through the narratives of travellers, the testimony of some missionaries, and the wider currents of Pan-African ideology.

Our community was born with a specific realisation. After visiting a number of communities across Cameroon and other parts of Africa that claimed a connection to Judaism, we saw a recurring problem: the transmission and practice of Jewish tradition in these groups rested on fragile foundations due to a lack of deep knowledge. We set out to build something different—a community anchored in serious study, faithful to the Derekh Haïm, the Jewish path of life, and committed to connecting our ancestral Bantu traditions to the teachings of the Torah and the Mekoubalim, the Kabbalists.

Our community came to life with the guidance and support of our teacher, Rabbi Pin’has Eliyahou Shaday. From the beginning, our goal has been to foster a communal life grounded in Ahavat Yisrael – love of one’s fellow Jews – and in Shalom, peace with all the cultural and religious communities around us in Cameroon and beyond.

Our Community Life

We are based in Yaoundé, and our membership reflects the diversity of our city and country. More than fifty active members are fully engaged in community life, coming from a range of backgrounds, both national and international. A further eighty-five people are currently in the process of formal conversion, awaiting the ceremony that will mark their official entry into our community. Around thirty supporting members regularly join us for worship.

Prayer is the beating heart of Beth Goshen. Everything begins and ends with it. Every Friday evening through to Saturday night, we observe Shabbat. We celebrate all the major festivals of the Jewish calendar: Passover, Sukkot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and others. We hold daily services, and Torah study is woven into the rhythm of our communal life.

“Israelite Bantu Judaism is one of the lesser-known but authentic faces of Cameroonian diversity. Since 1995, it has been represented by our association, Beth Goshen, committed to dialogue and civic engagement.”

How We Sustain Ourselves

We are a young organization, and sustaining community life is ongoing. We support ourselves through a range of economic activities that reflect both the realities of daily life in Yaoundé and the values of self-reliance and mutual care that define us.

We farm, cultivating cassava, sweet potatoes, maize, peanuts, and vegetables. We raise fish, including kanga and carp. The women of our community have built small enterprises producing and selling household goods: liquid soap, fabric dyes, natural juices, smoked fish, and poultry. We also trade in Jewish religious items—kippot, menorahs, and the Chumash—and distribute kosher products across Africa, including wine, books, and prayer shawls. We offer online training in soap-making and dyeing, extending our skills and economic reach beyond our membership.

Since 2019, we have also been connected to the Kibboutz Haolam project, a French association whose vision of international Jewish community networking aligns closely with our own. What draws us to this partnership is the conviction that modern technology and ease of travel make it possible to build strong bonds between communities that are geographically distant but spiritually close. Together, we pursue mutual enrichment through collective study, the sharing of experience and best practices, and the patient weaving of what we call a living and effective haverut—fellowship.

Our Place in Cameroonian Society

We understand our Jewishness not as a private matter but as a civic one. Our community participates actively in the interfaith life of Cameroon, and we show up at moments when the country needs voices of peace. In February 2025, with presidential elections on the horizon, we were invited to stand alongside the main religious denominations of Cameroon, including Christian and Muslim, in a solemn and unified appeal for national peace. We affirmed our community’s commitment to stability, dialogue, and the well-being of our nation—first and foremost, Cameroon.

We have also cultivated a relationship with the Embassy of Israel in Cameroon. In February 2024, we made a formal presentation of our community to Ambassador Raphael Morav. Most recently, we were glad to announce a significant partnership: the Israeli anthropologist Dr. Malka Shabtay has formalized a collaboration to produce an academic and cinematic documentary dedicated to the Israelite Bantus. For us, this project carries deep meaning. It is a record of who we are—of a community that has existed largely beyond the awareness of the wider Jewish world, now to be brought into view. We work on it with pride to honor our ancestors.

Where We Are Going

Our ambitions are concrete. We are working toward the construction of a synagogue, a school, and a training centre. We wish to build a mikveh, a community health facility, and a cemetery. We are also awaiting formal legal recognition as a religious and cultural association, as all administrative steps have been completed, and a presidential approval decree is pending.

We seek to formalize our practice through a halakhic conversion, so our members are fully recognized in the Orthodox community and connected with the State of Israel.

Our vision, as Bantu Israelites—descendants of Jacob, also called Israel—is to transmit the light of the Torah and share its wisdom with all who seek it, while remaining rooted in who we are: Bantu people, citizens of Cameroon, and members of Am Yisrael.

We are not a community on the margins of Jewish life. We are part of its story, which has a chapter written in Cameroon, in the Bantu tongue, under the African sun. Beth Goshen is our house. We are building it, one Shabbat at a time.

The post Spotlight: Cameroon Bantu Israelites of Beth Goshen first appeared on African Jewish Voices.