As a Reform Jew, I was nervous before attending my first service at an Orthodox synagogue. I had to travel to Cape Town, South Africa, for business. The city is home to a sizeable Jewish community with a long and interesting history. There is a Reform community in Cape Town, but they had no events planned during the brief time I would be visiting. Arriving on a Sunday afternoon, with limited time to explore the city, I decided to attend Ma’ariv service at one of the oldest and most beautiful Orthodox synagogues in South Africa.

Living in Ghana, where there is no Jewish community, I was thrilled with the idea that I might be able to connect to my People and share a moment of prayer, even if it was in an unfamiliar space. I was anxious, though: was I Jewish enough? Would my Jewish literacy be sufficient to allow me to feel like I was part of this community? Or would I be “outed” as an amateur Jew in a room full of professionals?

Not sure how observant the community was or what their customs were, I decided I should err on the side of caution in terms of my dress and appearance. As a married woman, I covered my hair with a tichel. I made sure my knees, elbows and collar-bone were also covered, wearing a long summer halter-dress with a light sweater and shawl around my neck. I felt awkward, but off I went.

I arrived at the entrance to the synagogue compound early, before anyone had come to open the doors. I walked around the outside of the main building and adjacent grounds, trying to admire their beauty and peacefulness, but the multiple layers of clothing I was wearing made it insufferably hot and uncomfortable in the South African heat, and I kept finding myself having to adjust my head-covering, tug at my shawl, and make sure I didn’t step on the edge of my dress while walking up stairs.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in the heat, a middle-aged man arrived in a baseball cap to open the door to the synagogue. He greeted me politely and asked me if I had planned to join the service. He seemed a little surprised that I was there, but offered to let me sit inside while I waited for the service to start. I followed him into the beautiful and stately main sanctuary, complete with a full balcony above the main floor. He motioned to the mechitza, indicating I could join the service from there.

The mechitza, a wooden divider, topped by a tinted, dark glass, was about six feet in height and 12 feet in length. It was placed at the back of the row of benches that circled the sides of the temple, near the front platform and the Ark, beside a bookcase, with only two rows of seats – enough for about 20 congregants. The man left the sanctuary, and I sat there for a minute, but realised I couldn’t see anything as the balcony above obstructed my view upwards and prevented me from seeing the bimah situated in the centre of the synagogue. The man who had opened the doors was still nowhere to be seen and I was alone. So, I got up to look around.

I took some time to look at the names on the wooden rows of seats: brass plaques placed in memory of loved members of the community who had passed away. Some of the plaques gave just a name, others a detail about the person’s life and impact in the world. I noticed that on the main floor of the sanctuary only men’s names were listed: I wondered if women’s names would be on the seats in the upper balcony, but didn‘t venture there to see. Some tourists came in with a man who talked about how his father had attended this synagogue. They took pictures of the Ark, striding up on the platform to stand next to the menorah, and then they left. I felt curiously out of place.

Finally, the congregants arrived: 12 men, dressed in shorts, sandals, and t-shirts. They took kippot from a basket near the entrance and siddurim from a bookshelf nearby. They obviously knew each other well, chatting comfortably while taking their seats in the pews dedicated to their families, all on the opposite side of the sanctuary from the small area behind the mechitza. I stepped in front of the platform to say hello, and they looked at me curiously and greeted me without handshakes: I assume that my conservative dress gave the impression that I would not welcome touch. One of the men asked if I was there for service, as he picked-up a prayer shawl that was folded beside the bimah in the middle of the room. I indicated that I was, and he motioned to where I could find a prayer book, telling me the page number from which he would be starting. I wanted to ask if it was customary for women to pray behind the mechitza in this congregation or if they could choose to pray in the open, but my fear of entering into an uncomfortable conversation led me only to voice the first part of the question: the prayer-leader’s response was politely affirmative, so behind the glass I went.

It is hard to know if the congregants welcomed me as they assumed I would expect, given the modesty of my dress, or whether I would have been welcomed differently had I, too, been dressed in shorts and a t-shirt with my head bare. Who knows if I created the feeling of otherness by my choice of clothing and not extending my hand in greeting? Perhaps the men were reacting to what appeared to be an observant and religious woman; perhaps they were reacting to the presence of a woman at a service where women were notably absent. Perhaps in my effort to demonstrate respect in a way I assumed was expected I only reinforced a social construction and stereotype of the role of Jewish women in synagogue life.

The experience of separation and isolation I felt behind the mechitza only increased as the service began. Although the siddur was translated into English, there was no transliteration of the Hebrew text, so I found myself completely lost almost as soon as prayers began. I recognized portions of the Amidah, I watched the men bowing in unison, I observed the various moments of silent prayer, and heard the men answering the prayer leader with “Amen.” At the end, all I could do was stand when everyone was standing and randomly turn the pages of the prayer book, seeking desperately to find some kind of inner emotion that might validate my reason for coming in the first place – to feel connected to my People.

And then it was over. As quickly as the men had entered the synagogue, they left, leaving their kippot at the door. I followed, exiting the main gate alone. I removed my shawl to let the breeze cool my throat. I felt strange, inauthentic, and slightly embarrassed. As I walked down the road, looking for a taxi, one of the men pulled over in his car and asked me if I needed a ride. I was surprised at how relieved and grateful I felt for his kindness.

As we drove back to my hotel, the man chatted with me on the way. He said he had been attending evening services to recite Kaddish for his mother, who had passed away some months earlier. He explained how lucky he felt that the other men always came to Ma’ariv services to make a minyan so he could undertake this mitzvah. He talked about the new, young rabbi and his wife who had just joined the congregation and how they were bringing new life to the community. He talked about the close Jewish friends he and his wife had made over the many years they lived in Cape Town and the beautiful wedding they had had in that very synagogue. He invited me to visit him and his family anytime I returned to the city, and encouraged me to attend the Friday Night Live Shabbat service held at the temple, something the new rabbi and his wife had instituted.

I stepped out of the car and he did not extend his hand. I realised he was trying to be respectful of my seeming religious observance and I didn’t challenge his assumptions. After all, it was probably I who had created such perception, I came to realise. He wished me well and made me promise to come back to the synagogue whenever I was back in Cape Town, before he drove away. I walked back to my hotel room and removed my head scarf, feeling ever so grateful to be part of my People.