Are there any Jews there? we’re often asked when people hear we’re on shlichus in a small African country.
Surprisingly, yes. When the British colonized Zambia in the early 20th century, the fertile land and untapped potential attracted many seeking new fortune. Jews traveled north from South Africa and Zimbabwe’s larger communities, spreading out throughout Zambia’s cities. At the height of the Jewish communal growth, there were nine flourishing communities, each with their own shul and rav.
When Zambia declared independence from the British, everything changed, and many Jews, feeling that it was no longer safe for them, quietly packed up and left for safer shores. After the Communist uprising in the mid to late 1900’s, even more Jews fled Zambia. By the time a third wave of panicked Jews left after an antisemitism uptick following the Yom Kippur War, Zambia was left with just a bare skeleton of its once thriving community.
There are now less than 200 Jews left in the country. Seven years ago, the final of the original nine shul buildings was sold, placing a seemingly impenetrable seal of doom on Zambia’s Jewish community.
Luckily, even as a bochur, I felt a strong pull to African shlichus. I even brought up the possibility to my wife while we were dating and was thrilled to hear her answer that she’d be willing to move anywhere - yes, even to Africa.
A couple of days after our sheva brachos, we heard that Rabbi Ben-Tolila, the head shliach of sub-Saharan Africa, had announced he was opening a new shlichus position in Zambia l’iluy nishmas his wife, who had passed away not long before.
By the time I wrote to him, inquiring about the position, he told me someone had already applied. Disappointed, we began looking into other options. We received many offers, and had plenty of opportunities to visit various communities to see if it would be a fit, but something kept pulling us back to Africa. We just knew that’s where we were supposed to be.
Finally, we received the green light, and, in Adar 2022, we moved to Zambia.
It was official. We’d been appointed the new shluchim of Zambia. Before we could even move there, though, there was a long list of things that had to be done. Fundraising, of course, was paramount, and I spent a lot of time going from shul to shul in New York, explaining what we were going to accomplish, and collecting funds.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel anxious, and doubt our decision. There were so few Jews in Zambia, and it was so far away; so isolated. Was this the right choice? Was this what the Rebbe truly wanted?
One day, I got a call from a man named Alan Glazer. “I just heard you’re moving to Zambia,” he exclaimed in his signature, booming voice. “I myself was born and raised there, so I’m very happy to hear the news.”
It was a pleasant surprise to meet a Jew who’d been born there, and I asked him how he’d heard about me.
“Oh, you went to my brother’s shul yesterday to fundraise. He told me about it, and I had to call you up to congratulate you!” he explained. “You really should meet my brother, Yerachmiel. He has a lot of great stories to tell about Zambia.”
I was eager to meet him myself. When I was in New York for the kinus, I called Yerachmiel and asked to meet.
Alan was right. Yerachmiel was a veritable font of information, and had a fascinating story to share:
I was born and raised in Zambia, and attended the Jewish school there. However, even I knew there was something missing. We barely celebrated any holidays, and didn’t learn much about Yiddishkeit. Hungry for more, I decided to join a religious kibbutz in Israel.
After a few weeks of being on the kibbutz, I realized just how much education I was lacking. I knew I had to fill in the gaps with a stint in yeshiva if I would have any hope of catching on. I found my way to the yeshiva in Kfar Chabad. I loved every minute, and decided to become a Chabad chassid.
The Rebbe sent me many letters, encouraging and blessing me to spread Yiddishkeit in Zambia. Whenever I went home for Pesach or Tishrei, I made sure to reach as many Jews as possible and include them.
After a couple of years in yeshiva, I was planning on joining Kvutza, where Israeli bochurim stay on in New York after Tishrei and continue learning in 770. To my surprise, the Rebbe told me to go back to Kfar Chabad after Yom Tov, instead of staying in New York.
I scheduled a yechidus for my final days in New York. I wrote a letter explaining my history, and gave it to the Rebbe, standing nervously before him as he read it. The Rebbe told me to do all I could in Zambia to further Yiddishkeit. Even though I’d be staying in yeshiva, the Rebbe told me to write to the Zambian Jewish community and ask them to post my letters on the bulletin board for all to read. I could explain the inspiration and significance of each holiday, helping the community even from a distance.
I did that for a while, until my father asked me to come back home for a year to help out with the business. The Rebbe agreed, asking me to continue spreading Yiddishkeit while I was there. I rode my motorcycle all around the small villages, looking for Jews and helping them put on tefillin.
After a while, my father decided to close his business, and my family moved to South Africa. It’s been many years, but Zambia still holds a special place in my heart.
I sat back in my chair, taking a moment to digest everything I’d heard. One thing struck me powerfully, and I asked if he still had the letters from the Rebbe.
“Yes, in my archive,” he replied. “Feel free to take a look.”
I rifled through the stack of yellowing papers, and soon found what I was looking for. It was incredible to see just the envelope, with its blue and red stripes around the sides, 770, Brooklyn, New York on one side, and an address in Zambia on the other. On the backside of one letter, the Rebbe had written the address and “Zambia” in his own handwriting.
I found a letter where the Rebbe gave Yerachmiel many brachos and encouragement to spread Yiddishkeit in Zambia.
