Indian Passover in Ovamboland

Several friends and family have asked, jokingly or seriously, what I was doing for Passover here. After the entry about slaughtering the goat, one person wanted to know if there was a Pascal lamb that I had my sights set upon. Although we are right now only halfway through the holiday, I can tell already it is unlike any other Passover I’ve ever had.

At first, I thought I would go to the main town in the north where a couple of Jewish Peace Corps Volunteers were gathering to have a Seder. Then, the host’s house lost electricity so we couldn’t cook, and the main organizing Jew backed out, so at the last minute I had no Seder at all. I was pretty bummed, and so I talked to my friends Robin and Nicola, who agreed to let me do a Seder at their house. But at this point it was too late to do one for the first night, so we agreed to do it a week later – still during Passover, but not on the first or second night like we are supposed to!

Next, for the first time in probably 20 years, I decided to try to observe Passover this year. I’m not sure why, but I think it has something to do with wanting to find a way to establish an identity here that the folks at the mission can understand. They are religious, and they understand and respect someone else who is following the codes of a religion even if it is not their own. Or perhaps it is their example of devotion that made me want to do it. Or, perhaps, the bread I had was going moldy. I don’t know.

Anyway, adhering to the Passover rules has been fairly easy, although I’m not eating products that are rabbi-certified. For breakfast I’m mostly eating Morvite, which is a sugary instant sorghum cereal. It’s kind of like Cream of Wheat except you can add cold or hot water to it, and I discovered that it tastes really good when mixed with one spoonful of peanut butter. When I eat from the hostel, the staple is oshifima porridge, which is just ground pearl millet and water, so that’s fine.

One remaining questions was whether or not the rice, fish and veggies “pot of the week” that I made is Kosher. My friend Ronnie Broudo told me on the phone that my people, Ashkenazis, don’t believe that rice is kosher for Passover. His people, the Sephardim, believe it is. Immediately I responded, “Well, I’m south of the equator now, like a lot of the Sephardic Jews, so rice is kosher for me this year.” Ronnie is used to me making up my own rules about religion, and just laughed.

Yesterday was my birthday, and it was also Maundy Thursday and the last day of school before a four-day Easter break. I didn’t have big plans for the day because most of the teachers leave for their homes on long weekends, and besides, I couldn’t have a beer with them anyway! I had resigned myself to a quiet evening so when Sister Khotaram, my favorite of the Indian nuns, invited me to a small celebration after Thurday evening’s mass, I readily accepted. Then she told me that they were celebrating Passover.

Those of you who know little about Maundy Thursday, like me, might not have realized that Maundy Thursday celebrates the Last Supper, which was a Passover meal. So I was going to be able to have a form of Seder after all, even if it was with the Indian nuns. When 9 o’clock rolled around and the Mass and Adoration had finished, I grabbed my Maxwell House Haggadah and headed over to the Indian nuns’ house.

When I arrived, Sister Annie ushered me into a modest room, perhaps 15’x20’, that had several couches and about a dozen chairs arranged against the walls in a jagged circle. I chatted with Nicola, my German neighbor who is a volunteering here as an occupational therapist, and Father Joe, one of three priests here at the mission. I showed them the Haggadah, and was a bit embarrassed by the big sticker on the front of it which said:

Buy Maxwell House Coffee
(any can or jar)
GET ONE FREE HAGGADAH
while store supplies last

So much for making me seem particularly devout! Several of the Indian sisters moved about, arranging snacks and chairs. Sister Khotaram, who is my favorite because her eyes crinkle with humor, brought in an electric fan. Sister Daisy, who is serious but pleasant, solemly turned on a lava lamp.

Finally, the rest of the guests arrived. Altogether we were about 20. Two Indian priests were there including Father Joe and his younger counterpart, Father Byjou. Five Indian nuns were there, and then perhaps eight or nine Ovambo nuns came in as well. I don’t know the Ovambo nuns as well, because only one of them, Sister Kahala, is attached to the school. She is the matron for the girl’s hostel, so I don’t see her too frequently, and she scares me a big because she usually seems very stern. The party was rounded out by the ‘foreigners’: a Philippine woman named May, Nicola, and myself.



Father Joe began a brief service, explaining tonight they were celebrating how the Jews “passed over” into Sinai from the land of slavery, and also how Jesus helped people pass into heaven. I refrained from commenting that Passover meant when God passed over the homes of the Jews while slaughtering all the other first born. Then Father Joe read a short passage from Exodus, describing God’s instructions to Moses on how to observe the holiday. I didn’t know that you could eat either a goat or a lamb for the holiday, but there it was, right in Exodus.

Then Father Joe came to the, ‘matza,’ which looked like was a piece orangey-brown flatcake. It filled up a circular plate and the middle of it a small cross lay flat. Next to the bread was a pitcher of sweet milk on which floated another cross. In his sing-song Indian accent, Father Joe explained, “We are eating this unleavenèd bread tonight to remind us of the Passover that Jesus celebrated at the Last Supper, and of the sacrifice that Jesus made the next day.” It’s the first time I’d ever celebrated a Passover for Jesus!

Next, Father Joe broke the ‘matza’ and handed out small pieces to each of the guests, mentioning to them that if they wanted to more about the Passover they could ask me, because I was Jewish. Trying to contribute, I volunteered to say the Hebrew prayer over matza before we ate it. Father Joe was delighted and all eyes turned to me. I realized at that moment what a stupid offer I had made, because I didn’t exactly remember the prayer! The one I remembered was for bread, not matza! So, with about 18 devout Catholics looking on, I improvised, “Baruch ata adonai, elohaynu melech haolam, ha motzi lechem min ha matza.” Did I even get close?

Then we ate. For all of you who don’t like matza, you need to come to an Indian Passover in Ovamboland. The nuns’ version was a flatbread made of rice powder, delicately seasoned with Indian spices and then fried. It tasted like a potato bhaji, and is by far the best form of matza I’ve had. Then we had soft drinks and fruit. We talked about food, and I showed a picture of the Seder plate to the Ovambo nuns sitting near me, explaining the symbolism of the different items.

Finally, Sister Francis, the delicate-boned Indian nun who teaches math, asked if it was indeed my birthday. I answered yes, explaining how my birthday often fell during Passover, and how I hated that as a kid because it meant that I couldn’t eat cake. The assembled crowd, both Indian and Ovambo, thought this was hilarious, and one of the sisters brought over a peach and an apple for me. Father Byjou said, “Now you will have apple-peach cake!” and then the whole group sang “Happy Birthday.” I sat there, looking at the fusion of Ovambos and Indians, seasoned with a dash of German and Philippino, and marveled at my very special Passover.