Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah taught: “If there is no flour, there is no Torah; if there is no Torah, there is no flour” (Pirkei Avot 3:17). This aphorism is sometimes taught in relation to philanthropy: Learning cannot flourish without material support – and that’s true. But last summer, my appreciation for the relationship between physical and spiritual nourishment was enriched in the most unlikely of places. 

Last June, my family and I spent several days with a small but vibrant Jewish community in Eastern Uganda. The Abayudaya (literally “the Jews of Uganda”) number approximately 2,000 and boast 11 synagogues. For the most part, they are desperately poor; they survive on subsistence farming, which means they eat what they grow and grow just about everything they eat. Luckily, the hill country of Mbale is blessed with rich red soil. Nevertheless, Uganda’s level of food insecurity is ranked “serious” by the Global Food Index and 1 in 4 children are stunted, suffering from impaired growth due to malnutrition.

Members of the Abayudaya community in Uganda in 2024. Courtesy

The Jews of Uganda are indigenous to sub-Saharan Africa, having converted en masse in 1919. Their founder was Semei Kakungulu, a noted hunter and tribal chief with vast holdings in Buganda, the largest kingdom in the British colony. Kakungulu and his followers practiced Malakite Christianity. With his territory expanding and increasingly at odds with his British patrons, Kakungulu became a fierce anti-colonialist. His break from the British was also a break from Christianity. In 1919, after a period of self-imposed seclusion and contemplation, Kakungulu emerged with his copy of the Christian Bible in Luganda, ripped it in half and discarded the New Testament. “I like the first part,” he seemed to say. “The second part, I’m not so sure.” 

Kakungulu then circumcised himself and his sons, for which he was scorned by leaders of his former church. They argued that the “barbaric” custom was practiced by Jews who had rejected Jesus. The story goes that Kakungulu stood tall and proclaimed, “If this is the case, then from this day on, I am a Jew — call me Mayudaya!” 

I’ve known about this community for years, having become friends with their spiritual leader, Rabbi Gershom Sizomu, during our time at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies. Gershom inherited the position from his grandfather, who bestowed the mantle of leadership on his young grandson upon his deathbed. Gershom served as rabbi in Uganda, but through a number of connections to the American Jewish community, including Rabbi Jeffrey Summit in Boston, Rabbi Howard Goren in Rockville, Md., and Bradley Shavit Artson in Los Angeles, he was able to pursue formal smicha (ordination) at the Conservative Jewish seminary in California. 

Over the past few decades, Conservative rabbis from the U.S. and Israel have traveled to Uganda to oversee halachic conversion ceremonies for these devoted Jews. Two of the 11 congregations have adopted Orthodox practices, reflecting a diversity of praxis common in other global Jewish communities.

What I didn’t — couldn’t — understand until we spent the first of two Shabbatot in Nabugoya Village with the Abayudaya was just how much food and Torah learning are interrelated. 

At Beth Am, the congregation I serve in Baltimore, and at many American synagogues, we pride ourselves on feeding our members each Shabbat; but few of our congregants will lack basic sustenance if we don’t provide bagels, salads, kugel or kichel. In Mbale, however, the Jewish community depends on the rabbi and the synagogue to provide meals, some traveling many miles to spend the weekend learning and eating, eating and learning.

Friday night in the community’s central synagogue is a joyful affair. Young men hammer out Zulu rhythms on the djembe while Rabbi Gershom and his brother Seth strum guitars and women service leaders coax the congregation along with their unique musical stylings for our ancient Hebrew prayers. As visiting rabbis, Miriam (my wife, who is also a rabbi) and I were asked to teach Torah whenever the opportunity presented itself. Kabbalat Shabbat was the first of numerous times that we did so. After services, we made our way down the hill to the rabbi’s home, where we dined with the community on rice, beans, savory plantains, periwinkle g-nuts sauce (g-nuts are a small version of peanuts, but more flavorful), and small pieces of gamey chicken that had been ritually slaughtered earlier that day. After dinner, we thanked God for the bounty of our Shabbat meal.

Shabbat morning brought more music, more prayers, more learning and more food. After services, during which girls and boys, women and men, read Torah, we adjourned to the generous shade of two enormous mango trees. The Abayudaya peppered us with questions — about our sermons, about the Torah portion of the week, and with any Jewish query that was gnawing at them. We found their inquiries to be incisive and delightfully provocative. Then lunch was served (every meal was delicious and more or less the same). Children lined up for treats backward so they were unable to game the system by running to the end of the line for seconds.

After a Shabbat nap, a smaller group reconvened for Talmud study. We passed around three tattered copies of the Vilna Shas, reading in the original Aramaic with Rabbi Gershom helping his flock to decode the language. Readers took turns by age, from eldest to youngest. The back and forth of ancient rabbinic debate stimulated further debate, until a treat of roasted g-nuts was distributed along with refreshing watermelon juice. As the sun set and darkness descended, the assembled made their way to the rabbi’s house once more for havdalah (Debbie Friedman’s melody!), followed by hours of waiting while a group of women lit the charcoal stoves at the outdoor kitchen and began to prepare our late supper.

Shabbat in Uganda was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The davening and learning were rich and elevated by the palpable sense of gratitude felt by all for having enough nourishment to learn and learning that accentuated the sanctity of each meal. Baltimore has its share of poverty and real food insecurity, including in my own Reservoir Hill neighborhood; but it was watching my daughter prepare food with the women in a smoky mud-brick kitchen after Shabbat and my son (the vegetarian) observe with fascination the process of ritual kosher slaughter that helped me appreciate how much I take for granted. It’s a journey I hope more Americans will take in the coming years — including synagogue groups, who can learn so much from this special, egalitarian Jewish community of East Africa.

In Mbale, the Torah we learned was richer, sweeter and more satisfying because we took none of it for granted. The food we ate was made tastier and more fulfilling because the Torah we learned fed our minds, hearts and spirit. Gazing out at the Ugandan hills, I recalled that humanity began in this very region of East Africa, hundreds of thousands of years ago. At some point, humans learned to harvest wheat and bake bread. 

Learning and flour are both elemental; they are the raw materials that make for human thriving. In Eastern Uganda, my family discovered the best of that thriving among our Jewish people! 

This content is adapted from an article that originally appeared in Jmore.

Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg is the senior rabbi of Beth Am Synagogue in Baltimore, Md. He is a member of the national mentor team of the Clergy Leadership Incubator (CLI), a rabbinical fellowship program directed by Rabbi Sid Schwarz. Click here for a video recording of his Rosh Hashanah sermon expanding on this story of the Abayudaya and exploring the theme of Jewish peoplehood.