The museum room was filled with a mixed group of attendees, ranging from curious teenagers to seasoned adults, all gathered to hear the stories of Mr. Joe. He was an 80-year-old Pan-African historian, a man known not just for his wisdom but for the warmth of his voice and the way he could paint history like a vivid mural. He adjusted his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and with a twinkle in his eye, began to speak.

"Alright, everyone. Y'all comfortable? Good. Now, let me take you back, way back, to the crossroads where the story of the Jewish people and the African peoples begins. This isn’t just a history of books and battles; it’s a story of faith, resilience, connection, and the shared struggle of two peoples searching for their identity in a world that kept pushing them aside.

Now, long before there were the modern borders and divisions you see today, we had ancient civilizations—Egypt, Canaan, and the fertile lands that stretch across the Nile and beyond. Around 4,000 years ago, in those lands, there emerged a man named Abraham. According to the Jewish scriptures, Abraham was the beginning of what would become the Hebrew people—he left Mesopotamia for Canaan, carrying with him a promise from God. His descendants, the Israelites, lived, struggled, and thrived in these ancient lands, which is where our story starts.

You see, there were times when the lives of the Israelites intertwined deeply with African civilizations. The Hebrew Bible itself talks about how Abraham’s descendants, during a famine, found refuge in Egypt. There, a man named Joseph—yes, the one with the fancy coat—rose to power in Pharaoh's court. It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though, because over time, these Israelites went from honored guests to enslaved people under a later Pharaoh’s rule. This story is the bedrock of Jewish identity: slavery, liberation, and the covenant with God. And that Exodus story? Oh, it's not unlike the story of our own ancestors, who endured enslavement but never let their spirits be broken.

Now let’s leap forward a bit, past the parting of seas and wanderings in the desert, to the time when the ancient kingdom of Israel rose and fell. When the Israelites were finally scattered—whether it was because of Assyrian invasions or the later Babylonian exile—they began to spread across the world, some making their way into Africa. Yes, you heard that right. Jewish communities sprouted up all across North Africa, from Ethiopia to Morocco, centuries before the emergence of Europe as a power center. There were Jewish traders in Carthage, Jewish scholars in Alexandria, and even the Beta Israel community that settled in Ethiopia. To this day, they carry traditions that trace back to King Solomon himself.

But there’s another story that’s just as important, though it often gets left out of the history books. It’s the story of shared struggle—one that spans centuries. When we think about the Jews and the African peoples, we’re talking about communities who faced invasions, displacements, and a constant fight to keep their identity alive. And later, in modern history, our paths crossed again in unexpected ways.

Let me tell you about something that happened much, much later—many centuries after the ancient Israelites had scattered and Africa had been torn apart by colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade. The Black Hebrew Israelites emerged—a group of Native Black Americans who began to see themselves as descendants of the ancient Israelites. You see, after generations of slavery and oppression, our people were searching for a story that gave them hope, that reconnected them to a lineage of resilience. They read the Hebrew Bible, and they saw their own struggles reflected in those pages—the oppression in Egypt, the cry for freedom, and the covenant of survival.

These Black Hebrew Israelites weren’t the first or the only group of Black folks to find kinship in the Israelite narrative. For many Native Black Americans, the story of Moses and the Exodus was like a mirror—an ancient cry of 'Let my people go!' that they heard echoing in their own fight against slavery and segregation. In the antebellum South, enslaved Native Black Americans sang spirituals about crossing the River Jordan, finding deliverance, and walking in the footsteps of those who had fought for their freedom thousands of years before. It was the same spirit, y'all—the same hope for a promised land, whether that was freedom in the North or something deeper, something spiritual.

Now, let’s talk about more recent history—the kind of history some of you may have heard from your grandparents or seen in old photographs. It was the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s. During this time, Jewish Americans and Native Black Americans found themselves on the same side of the fight for justice. The Jews had their own painful history of persecution—centuries of exile, pogroms, and the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust. They knew what it was like to be marginalized, to be treated as less than human. And so, when Native Black Americans were out there marching for their rights, many Jewish brothers and sisters were right there beside them—linking arms, standing up to injustice, and sometimes giving their lives.

Remember the story of Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, and James Chaney? Two Jewish men and a Native Black American, murdered together in Mississippi during Freedom Summer in 1964. It was a tragic moment, but also a testament to how deeply intertwined our struggles were. We fought for civil rights together because we knew that until all of us are free, none of us truly are.

But I gotta be real with y’all—it wasn’t always perfect harmony. Just like any family, we had our share of disagreements and falling-outs. As time moved on, and as people began to find their footing in this country, tensions rose. Some Native Black Americans began to feel like Jewish communities had moved on and weren’t as invested in the fight. And some Jewish folks felt that their struggles were being overlooked or minimized. It’s complicated, and it’s human. But the foundation—the understanding of shared suffering and resilience—is still there. We got different histories, but our spirits know the same kind of struggle.

And today? Well, we’re still figuring it out. There are folks who are working hard to rebuild those connections—to remember that both Native Black Americans and Jewish people have deep roots of survival, that we’re stronger when we stand together. And that’s what I want you to remember, y’all. History isn’t just a collection of stories; it’s a guide to what we can become if we let it. We’ve both been through exile, persecution, and pain. But we’ve also both known hope, resilience, and the power of community.

The Torah and the Bible have both been tools of faith and liberation, and those ancient words have traveled across deserts and oceans, from the sands of Egypt to the plantations of Mississippi, giving strength to anyone searching for a way forward. It’s not just about the past—it’s about what we do today, how we stand up for each other, how we lift one another up.

So, as you leave here today, I hope you take with you the spirit of these stories—a shared heritage of endurance and the promise that even in the face of hardship, we can find our way to freedom, together."

Mr. Joe smiled at the group, his eyes filled with both sadness and hope. The room was silent for a moment, then filled with applause—a tribute to a story that belonged not just to Jewish or Native Black American history but to humanity.

COMMUNITY CHRONICLES is collection of shorts stories that are a result of the rabbit holes I pursue when something peeks my interest to research. I use this collection to start important conversations I hope the culture wants to have. This short story should not be considered as the total sum of a shared history but an entry point for you to do additional research to learn more. This story is based on factual happenings. Reach one, teach MANY.