So, you might have wondered what happened to me… no, I didn’t fall off the planet. I’ve been busy with the Jewish New Year, a couple of migraines, a sick hubbie (who seems be on the mend) and you know… life. But a lot has gone on over the last… nearly week. On Wed evening we began the celebration of Rosh Hashana here at the Nairobi Hebrew Congregation. A few mitigating factors made the evening a bit less-than… if you know what I mean.
First, I was working on my first migraine headache of the last few days. Two more would follow. Also, J was in rare form, too excited to sit and listen in services and so we did much more admiring the synagogue grounds (which are lovely, BTW) than sitting inside. Then, DW arrived directly from Mombasa and so he was hassled by the guards a bit more than was deserved. Luggage will always spark the security-conscious mind. He was not in the mood. And finally, the communal dinner, for which we had paid ahead of time, seemed too much like a show for the Israeli Ambassador, who was in attendance, than a true coming together of the committed synagogue attendees. We were asked to move twice to accommodate different groups that had to sit together. Ugh. I have no patience for that kind of B.S. When I finally threw up half way through dinner, we hit the road.
Thurs morning was much more enjoyable. Leaving J at home with Lydia was a god-send. I was finally able to concentrate on the prayers and even meet some new people. DW was fully-rested and in a much better mood. NHC is an Orthodox congregation which I call Orthodox-lite meaning that the place is set up with women sitting to the sides and women don’t have any formal participation in service leading. But you can tell that the community itself isn’t orthodox-observant. Married women do not cover their heads and many men had their cell phones visibly strapped to their belt loops during the service. One man even answered a call on the Bima!! (OK, so he’s a cardiologist and it might have been important, but still.) The community is bound by the architectural decisions of 50 years ago and by a (in my mind, false) sense that orthodox services are the most authentic way to pray.
The liberally-minded Orthodox rabbi who has newly arrived in Nairobi asked me to offer a few words to enliven the service. At first, he encouraged me to stand at the center bima to deliver them. But after another woman had done exactly that, the rabbi took some flack and asked me to stay in the women’s section and speak from there. I get it. There’s always going to be a proverbial Mr. Cohen in the back protesting any type of change. (No offense to any progressive Mr. Cohens out there.)
Anyway, by Fri morning’s service, I had definitely gotten my groove on and was fully in the New Year swing of things. I had eaten my fair share of apples and honey and was starting to feel really settled here. The services weren’t exactly as I would have hoped. The shofar-blowing was probably the worst in all of Africa. I never like to feel like a second class member of the community. But with the familiar words of the piyyutim flowing over me, I felt at ease. Hopeful. Thankful. Calm.
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