Last summer, on the eve of Shavuot, during one of my visits to the Abayudaya, a Ugandan community that converted to Judaism in the 1920s, I met a young man named Israel.
Later that night, Israel’s older brother, Saul, his wife Samalie, and their newborn child, were hit on their bike by a motorcycle, on the way back to their home in Nabugoya Hill.
When we woke on the first morning of Shavuot, Israel and I set off for the hospital in Mbale, a 45-minute walk through back roads and narrow streets. Walking along the site of his brother’s accident, we sang liturgical songs and discussed everything from marriage to religion. Per his suggestion, I bought two mangos and half a kilo of sugar as gifts for his family.
As we entered the city limits, the grass turned to grungy city ground, water basins and hanging clothes appeared on lawns, and children were seen playing on every available surface. Shopkeepers called out to me from every storefront: Muzungo! Muzungo! White man! White man!
St. Marks Hospital, its name evoking the country’s colonial past, appeared before us, a blue concrete building on a busy street. As we wound through hallways crowded with the infirmed, I felt very white and very out of place. I thought of the countless white Christian missionaries in similar roles: expressing concern for people they had never met and would probably never see again.
When we found Saul, Israel encouraged me to sit beside him. With one side of his head bandaged, he began talking to me earnestly, his yellow eyes moving back and forth and his voice pained and deliberate. He said he was happy I was there, mentioned that the community’s rabbi prayed with them the previous night, and that he turned away the Christian nuns who offered their prayers.
Then Saul mentioned the steep hospital fees. The implication was clear. Rather than discuss paying them, I, too, opted for prayer. The only one that came to my secular mind was “Shehechiyanu,” which thanks God for bringing us to a new time, a new place. I hoped it would express thanks and hope for the couple’s survival and recuperation. As Saul and I clasped each other’s hands, I wondered what the African Christians and Muslims in the room were thinking, seeing this able-bodied white man and bedridden black man praying together in a foreign tongue. I wished Saul well and told him that I would soon return to the Abayudaya.
Looking around for Israel, I wandered into Samalie’s room, where she lay surrounded by him and other relatives, her right eye half-shut and swaddled in loose wound dressings. With judgment clouded by my new stint as the lone Jewish missionary in Uganda, I approached her. My words rang foreign in my own ears as I asked her if we could pray a little. She told me of the role Hashem (she used the Hebrew term for God) played in their survival. I uttered the same prayer as before. In the silence that followed, I said the only thing that came to mind: “I’m sure Hashem will help.”
“You are asking how you can help?” Samalie asked.
“No, no,” I stammered. “I mean, I just hope things get better.”
After a pause, she called Israel over and told him something in their native Lugueri.
He turned to me. “She thinks you have asked her how you can help.”
“No,” I protested, my cheeks burning. “I meant that God will help.” Not me. God.
I realized that my offer of help colored me as a benefactor, as an American white man who would see to their financial stability. And though I knew I could have shouldered the costs, I did not want to falsely imply that I would be a stable, munificent presence in their lives. I also did not want my relationship with Israel and his family to take on such a classic first-world-meets-third-world pattern.
I excused myself and quietly wished Samalie well. As I got up to leave, she uttered something almost inaudible. Feeling more and more like a failure by the moment, I asked her to repeat herself. “Nesiya tova,” she said, wishing me a good trip in Hebrew. Thanking her, I took my bag and walked out of the crowded hospital, out onto the bright city street.
