A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Okay,” Manelisi says. “Now we get on a good road.”

The radio is on — a contemporary blend of rock and hip-hop; I am comforted by the disc jockey’s speaking in English.

“Did you grow up in the village?” I don’t know what it was called before “Nateville.”

“No,” he says. “We are from pineapple farmers in Hluhluwe.”

As we are leaving Durban, we pass what look like slums — shacks with tin roofs, homes made of random scraps of wood, metal, and brick. Boys walk barefoot along the edge of the road.

“What direction are we traveling?” I ask.

“North,” Manelisi says.

“And what time does it get dark?”

“In winter, between five and six.”

Outside of Durban, the expanse of land seems infinite and undiscovered. The tires of the bakkie hum as they roll along the highway. In the distance, electric lines rise like giant twenty-first-century figures. Small bunkerlike houses dot the landscape.

“What is that?” Ricardo asks, pointing to an animal at the edge of the road.

“Baboon,” Manelisi says, as he changes the radio station to one where the DJ speaks what I assume is Zulu.

The landscape is richly green and hilly in the late-afternoon light. I put down the sun visor and look at the children behind me in the small mirror. Ashley and Ricardo have been lulled to sleep by the ride and the wind in their faces. Nate, awake, seems unusually quiet.

“You okay?”

“What if it was all a fantasy, what if it’s not like I remember?” he asks.

“It will be different,” I tell him. “Things change, you’ve changed, but whatever it is — it will be.”

And we lapse into a long silence.

“We’re here,” Nate shouts enthusiastically, as we turn onto a secondary road. As soon as the car stops beside a small group of buildings in the middle of nowhere, Nate jumps out.

“Ninjani,” he says, greeting everyone. “Ngikukhumbulile kangaka! You have gotten so big,” he says to the children.

“Ninjani,” I say, getting out of the car and helping Ricardo and Ashley climb out of the back.

“I am Sakhile,” a man says, putting his hand out to me — he looks younger in person. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“We will take you to your room,” he says. “And then we must begin, we are off schedule.” He waves the printout that Sofia sent him.

The village is smaller than I imagined, less a village and more a small grouping of about fifteen to twenty houses with dirt paths between buildings. Sakhile leads us to the school; others walk behind us, carrying our bags and watching from a distance, as though wondering who we are, that we are being treated so differently.

“This is our school,” Sakhile says proudly, showing me a low building that looks like a suburban recreation center. “We set you up in here because the toilet is good.”

“Thank you.”

“I do not mean to rush you, but we must go quickly or we will miss sundown.”

I catch a glance of the sheet Sakhile is holding — various elements have been highlighted in yellow, green, or pink.

4:30 P.M. ARRIVAL

4:35 P.M. GREETING OF THE VILLAGE OFFICIALS

4:40 P.M. FAMILY SHOWN TO QUARTERS

4:45 P.M. WASH UP

5:00 P.M. PREPARE FOR LIGHTING OF CANDLES (SEE ATTACHED)

5:15 P.M. SABBATH BLESSINGS

6:00 P.M. DINNER

PLEASE PROVIDE BOTTLED WATER FOR THE FAMILY AND ENCOURAGE THEM TO DRINK.

I had no idea how deeply orchestrated all of this would be — we are being handled like rock stars or heads of state.

Ashley pulls a nice dress out of her carry-on bag and quickly changes. I go into the bathroom and wash my face and hands.

“Life here is simple,” Ashley says. “I like it — it’s like being on a camp-out.”

“Yes, but this is the way it is all the time,” I say. “The basic elements are the daily struggle. No one here is worrying about what college they’re going to get into.”

“That’s good, right?” Ricardo asks.

“It’s different,” I say, ushering the kids down the hall.

At a table in one of the classrooms, they have set up silver candlesticks, a silver goblet, and a loaf of challah covered in a cloth.

The entire village is here, filling the room, eyes on Nate.

Ricardo and Nate take their places at the front of the room and begin to sing “Lekhah Dodi” as Ashley walks down the aisle — draped in a white lace shawl and matching kippah, which I have never seen before.

When the song is finished, Nate begins: “Thank you for inviting me and my family to celebrate this special occasion with you. My family doesn’t have many traditions, we are not very religious, so these traditions are really those of my ancestors. What I take away from the Friday-night service is the importance of pausing to take notice of each other, to give thanks that the week has passed and that we are still here — and, in the middle of our busy lives, to make time to connect with our families and our heritage. Mostly, I want you to know how glad I am to be here. I would like to introduce you to my brother, Ricardo, and my sister, Ashley, who is now going to light the Sabbath candles.”

Ashley steps forward. “On the Sabbath we say three prayers, one while lighting the candles, one for the bread, and one for the wine. Tonight, in the absence of my mother, I will light the candles.”

Everyone pushes closer to the front. All eyes are on Ashley, as if she is going to perform a magic trick. She lights the candles, then covers her eyes and recites:

“Baruch atah Adonai, E1oheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.”

Ricardo says, “This is the blessing for the bread: Praised are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who brings bread from the Earth.”

“And the blessing of the wine,” Nate says: “Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha’olam borei p’ri hagafen.”

The service is turned over to Nate. “Since I was here two years ago, I have been through a lot. It is our tradition after a death for the immediate family to grieve for a year, and so, since my mother was killed this past year, I have gone every Friday evening to the chapel at my school and I have spoken to my mother. I have prayed for my mother, for my family, and for all of us. And while this may not be the traditional way, I always conclude with this prayer, which I think works well whether one is Christian or Jewish:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. …”

As Nate begins to recite, the whole village joins in — those who don’t know it by heart have cheat sheets. Goose bumps run up and down my spine.

“And in the Jewish religion there is a special memorial prayer we say, Av Harachamim — and I would like to ask Ashley and Ricardo, who also lost his family this year, to join me.” The children solemnly recite the prayer in English. And when they are done Nate says, “We would now like to invite you to come and taste the challah bread and have a sip of wine — grape juice for the children.” Ashley and Ricardo break the challah, and the village children each come forward for a piece of the bread.

“Like candy floss,” one of the children says, and Ricardo laughs, and the ice is broken. And as children can do so effortlessly, we instantly go from the most solemn to joyous.

There are small cups of wine for each of the adults. “Good stuff,” one of the men says to me as he waits to get another cup. “Thela iwayini.”

“One per customer,” Nate says.

“Ubani iugama lakho?” the man asks me — I don’t have a clue.

“He wants to know your name,” Nate says, translating for me.

“My name is Harold.”