Brothers Across the Nile

Brothers Across the Nile: An Homage from the Igbo Hebrew Community to the Lost Jews of Sudan

The day after the last Shabbat service, I heard about a conversation about the Arab Jew. To my surprise, one of the positions presented was that one cannot be ethnically Arab and Jewish. I was shocked. I thought of our forgotten brothers and sisters in the Arab world, who once lived in Islamic territories that had spawned a beautiful, dynamic, and complex culture—a Hebrew culture.

I couldn’t rest on the thought. I felt like our relatives’ history was fading.

I rested my eyes and dreamed of the quiet sands of Sudan, where a story lies buried, forgotten by most, remembered by few. It is the story of a once-thriving Jewish community, composed of Sephardic families from Iraq, Egypt, Morocco, and Syria. These Jews, far from Jerusalem or Aleppo, built lives in Khartoum, Omdurman, and Port Sudan. They raised families, prayed in Hebrew and Arabic, and helped shape Sudan’s cultural and economic life. And like many ancient peoples caught between politics and persecution, they were eventually forced to leave—quietly, painfully, with more memories than belongings.

As a son of the Igbo Hebrew community, I see their story as a mirror of our own. Our people, too, have known the ache of erasure. We have buried our culture (Omenana), languages, customs, and entire generations under the weight of colonialism, persecution, and dislocation. In the echo of the Sudanese Jews’ departure, we hear the whisper of our own scattered songs, still humming in the background of our collective memory.

A Root Flourishing in African Soil

The Jews of Sudan began arriving in the 19th century, primarily from the Ottoman Empire—especially Baghdad, Aleppo, and Cairo. They came as traders, artisans, and dreamers, weaving themselves into Sudan's social and economic fabric. At their peak, they numbered fewer than 1,000, but their influence was remarkable.

Notable rabbis and spiritual leaders helped build the religious backbone of the community:

• Rabbi Solomon Malka, originally of Moroccan-Jewish descent, was the religious leader in Khartoum, guiding Jewish observance and resolving halachic issues.

• Rabbi Menahem Saadoun, a respected teacher from Egypt, played a vital role in maintaining Sephardic traditions and Hebrew literacy among youth.

These leaders oversaw the functioning of the Khartoum Synagogue, built in 1926. They ensured that even in exile, Sudanese Jews remembered Zion, kept Shabbat, and maintained kosher homes—amid a majority-Muslim culture that often neither understood nor welcomed them.

Among the community were Syrian Jews, primarily from Aleppo and Damascus, who contributed significantly to the economy and communal life. They joined their Iraqi and Egyptian brothers in establishing the Jewish Social Club, kosher butchers, Hebrew schools, and community charities.

Influential Arab Jews: Builders and Visionaries

The Sudanese Jewish community produced remarkable individuals—Arab Jews who stood as bridges between East and West, between tradition and modernity.

• Eli Malka, author of Jacob’s Children in the Land of the Mahdi, was born in Sudan to a prominent Baghdadi Jewish family. His memoir remains one of Sudan's most comprehensive records of Jewish life.

• Victor Harari, an Egyptian-born businessman and philanthropist, helped finance the synagogue and several social institutions in Khartoum. He was known for employing both Jews and Muslims in his textile business.

• Solomon Gaon, while not Sudanese himself, profoundly impacted Sephardic diaspora communities like Sudan’s. His writings influenced Sudanese rabbis and scholars, who drew from his work to shape sermons and lessons.

These men and women were Arab Jews in the truest sense: fluent in Arabic, rooted in the Middle East, proud of their Jewishness, and contributors to the Arab world’s intellectual and commercial growth. They did not see contradiction in this identity—until the state did.

Sudden Darkness: From Hope to Erasure

Sudan gained independence in 1956. What followed was not national rebirth for all, but the slow unraveling of tolerance. The 1958 military coup, led by General Ibrahim Abboud, brought a regime that embraced Arab-Islamic nationalism, aligning closely with Nasser’s Egypt and the rising tide of anti-Zionism.

The Jewish community suddenly became suspect. Under surveillance. Marginalized. Threatened. After the 1967 Six-Day War, anti-Jewish sentiment surged across the Arab world, including Sudan. Many Jews fled overnight, leaving behind homes, businesses, synagogues, and graves.

This pain is not foreign to us.

The Igbo Hebrews know this sorrow. We lived through the Biafran genocide between 1967 and 1970, during which over three million of our people were starved, bombed, and massacred. We, too, know the heartbreak of watching our communities labeled “others,” our faith seen as a threat, and our homeland turned into a battlefield.

What Remains

Today, all that is left of Sudan’s Jewish community are broken gravestones, a decaying synagogue repurposed by the state, and stories passed on in whispers. Many Sudanese Jews resettled in Israel, Switzerland, Britain, or America, carrying with them heirlooms and trauma, Torah scrolls and passports stamped with urgency.

And yet, they preserved memory. They taught their children. They shared their songs. They remembered Sudan—not in bitterness, but in prayer.

Just as we have.

We, the Igbo Hebrews, descendants of Israel and survivors of conquest, carry our own Torah in our hearts and Omenana in our veins. Omenana and Torah link us to our ancestors. We still whisper the names of the lost towns and ancient tribes, and we still say, “We were there. We are still here.”

A Homage from Brothers

To the Jews of Sudan, Iraqi, Egyptian, Moroccan, Syrian—we remember you.

From Nnewi to Nsukka, from Onitsha to the Diaspora, we, the Igbo Hebrews, honor your courage, faith, exile, and survival. We see your story not as separate but as a sibling of our own.

Your rabbis, your mothers, your Syrian merchants and Moroccan scribes—all live again in the telling of this story. You remind us that diaspora does not mean death, and that cultural identity, though wounded, can rise again.

Let us teach our children that identity is sacred, culture is covenant, and memory is resistance.

We stand with you in every candle we light, in every song we sing, and in every prayer we say.

Aniefuna Omenana

Writer. Igbo Hebrew descendant. Tiller of memory. Keeper of our kin across the Nile.