We are a people scattered, flung far
to the distant corners of earth, like
innumerable grains of sand blown
across the desert dunes.
In nearly every nation, Israelite
strands are found, dotting diverse
landscapes in the great diaspora,
human gems hidden in the crags.
You will find us nestled along the
coastal provinces of the Persian Gulf,
melanated Afro-Iranians filling
ghettos like Sistan and Baluchestan.
We are the Bantu, traces of the Semitic
tongue rooted in sub-Saharan speech.
You hear it among the Igbo, Yoruba, and Fulani,
who flavor the continent like a seasoned broth.
The triangular trade deposited us in lands
stretching from the West African coast to
the Americas to the frigid shores of the UK,
and beyond. Ships were never to sail empty,
thus, they set off from Britain laden with
trade goods bound for West Africa, where one
slave, in 1700, cost roughly £3 of traded goods,
such as cloth, guns, gunpowder, and brandy.
Israelites were captured and sold to British traders
in exchange for their cheap goods, then a path
was set due west across the Atlantic, the dreaded
“Middle Passage” that landed us in the West Indies,
where slaves fetched £20 a head—a decent profit.
Those who survived the harrowing voyage, plagued by
disease and death, and other unspeakable evils,
lost much more than freedom in the New World.
We lost heritage, identity, history, and
culture. We lost husbands, wives, children,
and parents. We lost our names, and were
given new ones, sir names of plantation owners
and slave masters: Robinson, Jenkins, Brown,
Blake, Duncan, Butler, and bywords besides.
We were called everything but Yah’s children,
the chosen of the Most High, true Israel.
Yet prophecy holds that it is in these distant
lands to which we have been scattered and
exiled that we would awaken, realize our betrayal
of the Most High, and repent. We are now
returning to Yah as we regain our senses
and reclaim our lost heritage. Soon we will
be gathered before the One we serve,
and we will no longer be a people scattered.
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