My Name is Massaba . . .

My most emotional moment during ordination came when the Seminary's then Chancellor, my teacher, Dr. Ismar Schorsch, declared before all those assembled at commencement:  "Jacob Herber, you are now to be known as “Harav Yaakov ben Ephraim Fishel v'Rut."  The name change represented my new identity and sacred status among the Jewish people.  I was now - and continue to be - as our tradition claims a "Kli Kodesh” holy vessel of God charged with the responsibility of transmitting Jewish tradition and bringing people closer to God's Torah.

In today's ultra-informal society people may think it a bit Victorian and snobbish that in "official" settings (i.e. within the synagogue or at other Jewish events or settings as opposed to social venues with friends) I prefer to be addressed as "Rabbi Herber," rather than "Rabbi Jacob" (I happen to have a strong dislike for this moniker) or just plain "Jacob."  I've never been one to stand on ceremony, so my name preference isn't rooted in a need to feed my ego, but in my strongly held belief that I represent a long chain of hallowed, rabbinic tradition; a tradition that deserves and needs to be respected.

I never imagined that I would acquire a third name.

One afternoon as I was taking a break from serving on the batei din we had constituted on Nabugoya Hill I made my way back from the village synagogue to its guest house.  I saw off in the distance a group of men carrying a goat which they had just slaughtered over to a tree.  I was hopeful that the goat would be our dinner.  I'd grown tired of the matoke (a banana version of mashed potatoes which is a staple in Uganda) and fish which seemed to be on every evening's dinner menu.  And while I've had goat's milk and cheese before, I've never eaten goat as an entree.  I was excited on both counts, and I didn't want to loose my appetite (or become a vegetarian) by watching the goat get butchered the old-fashioned way.

I was soon disappointed to learn that I would be eating fish again for dinner - this time with chips (french fries) - because the goat wasn't kosher; it had been slaughtered according to Halal (i.e. Muslim rules of slaughter) by the Muslim men who were butchering the goat from afar.

The man who broke the news to me was Muhammad, a Muslim neighbor of the Abayudaya.  In the district of Mbale, Abuyadaya villages are located in close proximity to Christian and Muslim villages.  It's not uncommon to find Christians and Muslims in the heart of Nabugoya Hill filling containers of water from the Jewish village's electric water pump, or for that matter availing themselves of the medical clinic or elementary, secondary or high schools.  Muhammad related to me how in the aftermath of Idi Amin's oppressive regime Christians, Jews and Muslims have learned to trust one another and work together for the betterment of their people.  So much so that Muslim villagers even feet comfortable enough to slaughter their animals within the boundaries of the Abayudaya village.

As we brought the first of our many conversations to a close Muhammad said, "It is quite obvious that you are very interested in Uganda and our people. I would like to give you a Ugandan name.  Your name is Massaba!”  “Massaba?” I asked, “what does Massaba  mean?”  “Massaba was the first man of Mbale, a legendary figure like Adam, from the Bible,” he replied.  Wow!  I was thrilled.  Who needs goat meat when you get named after a mythic personality?!  For the rest of my wondrous stay in Africa I went by new nom de guerre, Massaba!  Even to this day, when Rabbi Gershom Sizomu and I correspond together via facebook or email I sign off with my Ugandan name.  I may not be the primordial man of Mbale, but I’m proud to bear his name.