Visit to the Jewish Community of Sefwi Wiawso: Part One

 

My experience in Sefwi Wiawso, where I stayed last week, was profoundly moving. I cannot possibly capture this life-changing experience in one blog entry. So as I digest the experience myself, I will share with my readers over the next few days, as best as I can, the time I spent with the Jewish community in Sefwi Wiawso.

This village, located in Ghana’s western region, is home to the only known Ghanaian Jewish community and I am tempted to say perhaps the only indigenously Jewish community in West Africa at large (I’ll revisit what I mean by “indigenous Jewish community” later on). Humble in size but grand in spirit and pride, the Jews of Sefwi Wiawso have an incredible story and I hope I can do it justice.

The Beginning: A Jewish Mother Gets What a Jewish Mother Wants

I discovered the existence of the Sefwi Wiawso community through my dedicated mother who, with loving empathy, lamented the fact that her daughter would be spending the Jewish high holidays alone in a predominantly Christian country across the Atlantic ocean.

Let me take a moment to state that my second biggest fear in life is giving my mother cause to worry about me. Fear of failure and fear of cockroaches crawling into my ears while I’m sleeping are tied for first.

“Mom, don’t worry. I’m sure I can find a minion of Jewish expats in Accra who are renting the conference room of a two-star hotel to hold services for the high holidays. It’s a big city with a lot of travelers.” But I knew finding such an underground gathering would be very difficult in Ghana. Back home, one could simply google the words “Rosh Hashannah services, Toronto” and in six nanoseconds be met with an endless RSS feed of event postings and community calendars (granted, Toronto is not exactly a fair comparison to Accra in terms of Jewish events). This is not the case in Ghana, where word of mouth and the radio are the predominant means of acquiring knowledge of community based events - even those that are more mainstream. 

However, if the past 15 years have taught me, Paris Hilton and Mel Gibson anything, it is not to underestimate the power of the internet... or, in the case of Hilton and Gibson, resentful ex-lovers with recording devises.

My mother, slightly heartbroken at the thought of her daughter entering the Jewish New Year sans honey-dipped apple slices and shofar call, set to task. If the proverbial “Wandering Jew” holds any validity, surely a few of them must have wandered their Jewish asses to Ghana. And surely they would suffer from the same Jewish guilt that motivates us more-secular-than-not Jews to synagogue to celebrate the new year.

Well, my mother’s efforts paid off! But much to her surprise, her daughter would not be spending the holidays with a group of expats, as expected, but with true bonafide Ghanaians.

The following day an email landed in my inbox from mom. The subject line read: “jews in ghana” (my mother doesn’t get too creative with subject headings). It read:

Take a look at this website....it's fascinating. Have no idea where this is but you may be interested in exploring it a bit.

love you mom  http://www.kulanu.org/ghana/visit_to_ghana.php

I read the article and investigated the site further. Here is a more general description of the Jews in Sefwi Wiawso: http://www.kulanu.org/ghana/index.php

I was a mere 7-hour journey away from a small community of Ghanaian Jews (in hindsight, how naive I was to think this journey would be only 7 hours... ha!).

I remained skeptical, resigning myself to the fact that the community probably isn’t made up of Ghanaians. It must be some kind of volunteer community-building project that just happened to be organized by a humanitarian Jewish organization and perhaps through some kind of cultural osmosis, Ghanaians ended up adopting the cultural and religious rites of their Jewish visitors. And I wasn’t alone in my thinking! When I shared the news with officemates, they responded with “Ghanaian Jews?? Like Black Jews? In Ghana?”

I am no stranger to the fact that African Jews do in fact exist. I was just under the impression that they were confined to Eastern Africa - mainly Uganda and Ethiopia. I’ve even heard of the odd Jewish native to Kenya. But Ghana is a country that seems so inextricably linked to Christianity. Everything from the names of shops to dress patterns to bumper stickers carry symbols of the Christian faith. And where the Christian faith is absent, Islam is present, with its beautiful mosques, its women adorned in colorful headscarves and yes, its very own aptly named shops (“Allah’s Spot Bar” comes to mind). Was it possible that a pocket of Jews were hiding somewhere in Ghana’s Western Region?

Armah is to Ghana as Steinberg is to North America

I emailed Kulanu to inquire about visiting the community for Rosh Hashannah. I got a lengthy reply from a Harriet Bograd which detailed how to arrange my visit. Most guests stay with one of the community’s leaders, a man by the name of Joseph Armah. I was told to contact him with my request to visit the community.

“Armah” I thought, “that must be the last name of some Sephardic Jewish volunteer from abroad. A Persian Jew perhaps?” Wrong.

When I phoned Joseph to arrange my visit, on the other end of the line was a masculine voice, deep in timbre, with an unmistakeable Ghanaian accent. We discussed the visit, the travel directions, my vegetarianism (specifically my desire to keep it in tact) and the length of my stay. It was set. I was to travel to Sefwi Wiawso on Tuesday Sept 7 and leave on Sept 11 to spend the weekend exploring Kumasi (the stop-over city on the journey between Accra and Sefwi Wiawso).

I never did return to visit Kumasi.

The Journey to Sefwi Wiawso: Leaving Accra

Wait wait! The last line of that section made it sound like I died... but I didn’t. What I meant to say is that I never went back to explore Kumasi. Instead, I stayed in Sefwi Wiawso. But I wanted to be dramatic about it. But it seems like drama came at the cost of clear communication.

The Journey to Sefwi Wiawso: Leaving Accra (take 2)

I was ushered to the crowded trotro lot at Circle Station where dozens of minibuses destined to locations outside Accra lined the dirt lots (well, the term “lined” is a bit of an overstatement). The young man who led me in the right direction was impeccably dressed - from his Versace sunglasses through to his fitted skinny jeans to his pristine Louis Vuitton sandals. He informed me that he was a fashion designer working in South Africa and mentioned something about being a hairstylist as well. I appreciated his kindness in walking me all the way to the right lot, but not enough to appease his request for my phone number. I did compliment his sandals though, hoping this was repayment enough.

There I was in the trotro lot.  A white woman carrying a backpack and an overnight bag, wearing dirty jeans, a t-shirt and a very confused expression. Despite my best efforts, I could not conceal the last of these items behind my sunglasses. I might as well have worn a triangle placard board with the words “I AM A DUMB TOURIST” scrawled in painterly red ink.

Predictably, I attracted swarms of shouting trotro mates faster than you can say “trotro mates.” One or two would preface their grab-you-towards-their-trotro-arm-tug with the seemingly logical question “where are you going?” Others, however, skipped this formality and without a word went straight to carry my luggage to their vehicles. To say I felt “overwhelmed” by the encroaching circle of boisterous trotro mates yelling at me in a language I don’t understanding is like saying I felt “tickled” at a near-death sky diving experience (“Oh yes, I found myself a little bothered when the parachute didn’t open at 250 metres above the ground, but you know, it’s really nothing to write home about - plummeting to your death. A mere dent in an otherwise normal weekend. More tea?)”

I put their shouting to a halt with a pathetically unaggressive rant (if you can even call it that): “Hold on! okay? Just hold on for two seconds, okay? Don’t grab my stuff. Let go of my arm. I just need to decide where I’m going and when I decide I will tell you - okay?” The trotro mates met my semi-confident breaking point with laughter.

“Obroni! where are you going?” One mate asked with a smile.

“I am going to Kumasi.”

Intermission over. The chorus of young men return to shouting and playing a fun game of Obroni tug-of-war. It was 7:30am.

The battle ends with a decision made out of pure convenience and laziness. I wormed my way into the trotro that was both the closest and the fullest (trotros do not follow a set schedule but leave only when full to capacity with passengers). I paid my nine cedi (the high price was due to the fact that this particular minibus was especially spacious and air conditioned) and sat down. 20 minutes later we were on the road to Kumasi.

The Stopover in Kumasi: Just out of curiosity, is the name “Kumasi” Twi for “geographic manifestation of a panic attack”?

About three hours into the drive to Kumasi, I noticed that we were going to arrive at our destination a few hours earlier than I had anticipated. This was great news as I was really excited to visit Kumasi and could use the extra time to explore the place a bit.

Kumasi is the capital of Ghana’s Ashanti Region and the second-largest city in the country. More on its history HERE. I was particularly anxious to visit the infamous Kejetia Market, esteemed as one of the largest open-air markets in West Africa. What better way to start off your visit to a Jewish community than bargain-hunting! It’s the A-1 conversation-starter in any Jewish home: “you see this bracelet? Guess how much I paid for it? Just guess. No, no, come on, just guess! Please, for me, guess ... eight Cedis? Try three! Three Ghana Cedis! Can you believe it?? I picked up 20 for you and your family just in case. They make great gifts. Birthday, Channukah, graduation, whatever, who doesn’t want a bracelet?”

As the trotro drove into Kumasi, the streets grew denser with people and the sparse sights and sounds of vendors progressed into inner-city psychedelic mania. By the time we reached the city centre, my eagerness to explore the city crossfaded into a feeling of sheer panic at the carnivalesque busyness surrounding me - a hustle and bustle that I assure you would dizzy even the most severe of ADHD children.

The trotro engine turned off and the driver’s “last stop!” call forced me out of the vehicle like a dog being dragged to the vet for his shots - paws stiffened against the concrete parking lot like the breaks on a Flinstones car, terror peeking out of the whites of poor Sparky’s panic-stricken eyeballs. (For examples of such anxiety-ridden dogs, please ask around for my dog “Poochie” and/or Becca’s dog “Lucca”).

I experienced a similar reaction when entering Manhattan for the first time as an insecure, gangly and hairy 16-year-old with braces. I had dreamed all my life of visiting New York. But when I arrived at this amazing epicenter, I was so overwhelmed and felt so out of place. All I wanted was one day, just one “introductory” day where I would be afforded the opportunity to explore New York as a tiny unnoticeable fly slowly buzzing about at my own pace. After that, I would happily shapeshift back into my awkward teenage body and walk the streets of New York feeling resented and alien like every other tourist.

I stepped out of the trotro and was met with the usual assembly of taxi drivers that don’t so much ask where you are going as much as they simply tell you that you need a taxi.

“You need taxi. You need taxi!”

“Um. You need a passenger?”

I followed one of the more persistent cab drivers back to his taxi and picked the only destination I remembered from my guidebook - a restaurant by the name of Vic Baboos. Once there, I forced a few bites of salad past my throat into an unwelcoming and tense stomach. I decided to stick with my plan - I had to do at least one touristy thing with the extra hours I had in Kumasi.

Where better to calm your nerves but a museum? Particularly an old military fortress turned museum when you yourself have virtually no interest military history? I asked the concierge how long a guided tour of the museum takes. He gave me a “how long do you want it to take?” face. The standard is two hours but some visitors have been known to have their fill after 10 minutes. I asked if we could re-jig my tour to take 45 minutes to which he agreed and threw me in the middle of a guided tour taking place with a family of eight from Burkina Faso.

I learned some interesting facts about Ghana’s role in both World Wars as well as the history of Ghana’s independence from British rule. I would come to forget this information as quickly as I learned it.

An Indian man living in Kumasi who owns or works at Vic Baboos. He showed me where to find Kumasi's Armed Forces Museum

Room full of pictures of various companies, regiments, captains etc.

This vest was once apart of Ghana's military uniform

Much to my discomfort, the tour guide would often glance my way every time she mentioned the colonial masters, a term which she used interchangeably with “the British” and “the white man.” I quickly realized that this was not a resentful glare - quite the opposite actually! The sightline gesture my way was an attempt to make me feel connected, to include me in the story! Her expression was encouraging and excited, as if she were trying to say: “And now I’m telling the part of the story where people like you are involved! How exciting!”

While I could have been satisfied with the tour guide’s friendly elbow nudge in my direction, I stupidly interrupted her story with a completely inappropriate comment:

“I just want to say that I’m not British. So, you know, ha ha, don’t uh, look at me when you, uh, talk about the British and the colonialism because I had nothing to do with them. No sir! Huh, wasn’t me! I’m Canadian.” Uncomfortable laugh - oh look! an old bomb shelter! Maybe I’ll go hide there for the rest of the day.

Yep. I’m from Canada. No colonialism there!

“Alright, we won’t look at you.” Replied the tour guide with a smile.

Apparently the family of eight from Burkina Faso didn’t get the “don’t look at the squirmy white person” memo as they continued to stare at me with deep confusion - and believe me, it wasn’t due to the language barrier because I actually had the gall to repeat myself in French.

On the Road Again...

After the museum I made my way to the station where I was to catch the trotro to Sefwi Wiawso. I wasn’t blessed with the same fortune I had back in Accra. I took my seat in the overcrowded knees-pressed-against-the-seat-in-front-of-you stuffy trotro at that time of day when everyone’s deodorant stops working (mine included). We waited over an hour and half for the twelve-seater to fill up. Apparently Sefwi Wiawso isn’t the most popular of destinations on a Tuesday afternoon.

I secured my window seat thinking this would provide me with some kind of headrest for the upcoming three-hour trip. Unfortunately the bumpy road leading to Sefwi Wiawso destroyed all hopes of treating the window as a pillow. My head would rhythmically smash against said pillow like a felt-covered kickstand to a bass drum. Rest assured, my beating head didn’t induce any toe-tapping enjoyment from fellow passengers.

We arrived in Sefwi Wiawso around 8:30pm where again, I was met with a chorus of “obroni” calls and eager taxi drivers. I chose to ride in a dilapidated 1980s Peugot with a Rolls Royce angel nailed to the hood. As instructed by the email I received from Kulanu, I asked the driver to bring me to the house of former-Assemblyman Joseph Armah. After a confusing game of “who?” where? what? huh?” I handed him the email print out and hoped it would provide him with the directions he needed.

We drove for 10 minutes through fairly mountainous terrain. The odd streetlamp would reflect off my white skin revealing to onlookers the presence of an obroni in their village. This of course, resulted in animated waves and bellows. Being white in small villages can make you feel like an unmerited celebrity. People wave, smile and shout things at you as though you were a famous actress in a convoy of limousines on the way to the opening of your upcoming blockbuster film. You even get that token “what is that fancy-looking person doing in our small town?” look from the town’s oldest and most disgruntled man just like the real celebrities! The only difference, of course, is that you aren’t a beautiful celebrity. You aren’t starring in a new movie. And your glamourous lifestyle is essentially anything out of the ordinary that you can do on a volunteer’s budget like eating pizza or staying in a hotel with a shower for one night.

While in Krokrobite, I had overheard a young American tourist tell a Ghanaian couple that he loves being in Ghana because he feels like a celebrity. He loves the attention that he gets simple by virtue of being white. “Everyone wants to be your friend, everyone wants to talk to you. It’s great!” It took everything in my power not to slap the kid and rip apart his naive comment. I couldn’t have disagreed more. The attention to foreigners in Ghana is both a privilege and a burden. We foreigners are lucky that Ghanaians are for the most part very welcoming, friendly, hospitable, helpful and kind. There is always someone keeping an eye on you and looking out for your best interest. Whether it’s an old woman helping you order something at the market or a fellow passenger translating the call of the trotro mate or the bank teller who patiently repeats themselves until you can understand. But at the same time, people can often take interest in your simply because you are foreign and white. It’s difficult to build friendships with people who are approaching you on this basis. It feels unnatural and can be quite alienating. It becomes exhausting to be at the end of pointed fingers and the source of heckling despite the fact that all this is done in good fun and accompanied with friendly smiles and waves. I know the intention behind the attention I receive is positive and good natured. But sometimes I just crave the feeling of going unnoticed - like a buzzing fly in New York. And my taxi ride in Sefwi Wiawso was one of those times.

We stopped abruptly in front of a dimly-lit compound in an otherwise pitch-black rural neighbourhood. Before I could even dip my hand into my backpack to pay the taxi driver, three pairs of small arms reached into the front passenger window where I was seated and took hold of my luggage. Instinctively, I yanked it back and shot a disapproving glare out the window. Okay, good-hearted heckling and stares of disbelief were one thing - but stealing my bag is another!

My cold gaze was met with the smiling faces of three adorable, innocent and laughing children.

“Let me carry your bags for you.” Said a young girl in a kind, soft voice. I finally put it together - these were tiny members of the community I was to stay with.

I smiled and apologized, trying to explain that I didn’t know what they were doing and I didn’t mean to... Before I could finish explaining myself I noticed my overnight bag bobbing up and down throughout the compound, traveling on the head of an energetic 10 year old boy.

I paid the taxi driver and once again, with my heart beating rapidly in my throat, dragged my shaky nervous body out of the car to enter the new surroundings.

I followed the little girl to my room, a large, clean bedroom with lime-green walls containing two single beds, a couch, a TV and a computer. It was clear that this room doubled as some kind of family room. My luggage was propped next to a bed, and the three children sat smiling on the couch.

“Hello” I said shyly with a smile. I received three equally shy “hello”s in return.

“Yeh freh meh Gabrielle” (my name is Gabrielle in Twi). Whenever I speak Twi it guarantees a few laughs.

The children giggled and introduced themselves but I was a little too overstimulated to pay attention. I turned away from them and looked around the room. Sitting atop of the TV were two silver Shabbat candlestick holders and a matching silver kiddush cup. I smiled and picked them up to take a closer look.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and a timid, tender woman entered the room holding a basket of tupperwear. She greeted me with a bashful smile, her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her. She unpacked the dishes from the basket onto the coffee table in front of the couch. I was starving at this point and for the first time quite grateful for the overly-generous Ghanaian-sized portions of food being offered to me.

“Medassi” (thank you) I said and smiled. Again, my Twi was met with laughter. I was at a loss of words so I just kept thanking her for such good food which was likely the driving force behind her departure from the room.

By this time, the boys had left the room as well and the only one who remained was the little girl who sat quietly observing me. There was a twinkle in her eye.

“So are you a Jew?” she asked.

“Yes.” I laughed at the unapologetic directness that is only endearing when it comes from a child. 

“And what about you?” I asked.

“Yes, I am Jewish.” She answered proudly. I smiled.

“Well, good!” I exclaimed with an unnecessary enthusiasm that often accompanies the stupid comments I make when exhausted.

We both let out a cathartic laugh.

“I will go and come” she said. This is the Ghanaian equivalent to saying “I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, go and come. Thank you so much for bringing my bags into the room.”

I slowly and cautiously ate my dinner. The room was completely silent other than the delicate sound of Gecko nails scattering across the walls and the whispering of children peeping through the screen window. I waved and smiled, trying my best to passive-aggressively communicate the message “if you can see me, I can see you! So don’t make peering into my window a daily habit please! Thank you! Medassi!”

The door creaked opened and in stepped a muscular middle-aged man in tattered shorts and a Lakers jersey. His brow was furrowed and he wore a serious expression. Deep lines travelled the width of his forehead no doubt from years of squinting in the sun. I was a bit intimidated by his presence until he sat down at eye level with me and smiled. His eyes turned gentle, his smile welcoming and humble. He reached out and shook my hand.

“Welcome.” He said.

“You must be Mr. Armah. Thank you so much for having me.” Second hand shake.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your hospitality.” Hand shake continues.

“And I am very interested in learning about this community so I hope you don’t mind my visit. It’s amazing to have a place to visit for the high holidays so thank you so much for having me.” Handshake going on 45 seconds now. Gabrielle let the man’s hand go.

“And yes. So, um, thank you.” Is it any surprise I was an English Major in University?

Joseph said he was happy to have me and that I should get some rest after my long journey. I asked about the history of the community in an attempt to fill the silence and he suggested that we talk about it tomorrow to which I wholeheartedly agreed.

He left me to finish my dinner and go to bed. I fell asleep listening to Sarah Silverman’s The Bedwetter on my iPod. She spent the first few chapters describing what life was like growing up as a Jew in New Hampshire. Perfect for the occasion, if you ask me.