There’s a quiet warmth to Igaal S. that draws people in before he even says a word. He radiates love in an unspoken but unmistakable way, like the steady beat of a drum that anchors a song. It’s in the way he listens intently, offers a gentle smile, and moves through the world with humility and grace. This quiet love, paired with his deep-rooted sense of community and culture, forms the foundation of his remarkable journey—one that began in a small Ugandan village and continues to inspire everyone he meets.
When you ask Igaal S. where he comes from, he’ll tell you Uganda—a land of vibrant music, sprawling villages, and a Jewish population so small, you could fit them all into a modest auditorium. But Igaal’s story is anything but modest. Born in Mbale, Uganda, not in a hospital but at home with the assistance of a midwife, he’s always carried a sense of being uniquely placed in the world. “I’m the eldest of five siblings and the son of Uganda’s chief rabbi.” Yes, you read that correctly—the chief rabbi.
Igaal’s father is a trailblazer, the first Ugandan to become an ordained rabbi, a title he earned after years of study in the United States. “Before him, rabbis in Uganda weren’t formally trained. He’s the first to study at a rabbinical school and bring that back home.” As the chief rabbi, his father is a teacher, a leader, and a bridge for the small but dedicated Jewish community of Uganda. Growing up in the shadow of such a figure could be daunting, but Igaal found his own rhythm—literally.
Music has always been Igaal’s sanctuary. From an early age, he was drawn to percussion, finding joy in the beats of African drums and the melodies of Jewish prayers. No one taught him how to play; he simply picked it up and never put it down. “Back home, we blend traditional Ugandan melodies with Jewish songs,” he says, his face lighting up as he describes the fusion. “We sing prayers like L’cha Dodi with Afrobeat rhythms. It’s unique and joyful.”
Igaal’s love for music wasn’t just a pastime; it was a way to connect with his identity. Yet, even the strongest rhythms couldn’t drown out the dissonance he felt growing up Jewish in Uganda. “People would say, ‘Jews killed Jesus,’” he recalls. “We’d tell them, ‘That wasn’t us.’” For a small community of just around 2,000 Jews in a country of over 46 million, misunderstanding was common, but Igaal’s pride in his heritage remained steadfast. Being both black and Jewish has always come with challenges, but Igaal sees right past those and looks at the gifts. “I enjoy it. It’s not common. I like being unique.” Little did he know at the time, his ability to stand out in a crowd was about to get a whole lot stronger.
At age seven, Igaal’s family moved to California, where his father attended the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies at American Jewish University. It was his first time leaving Uganda, and the culture shock was overwhelming. “Everything was different. Everything is simple here. The roads, the running water, and even the electricity. Back home, when it’s night, it’s pitch dark. Here, it’s like daytime at night.” Because he was from Africa, people came to him with predjudice sometimes harsh and sometimes just downright ignorant. Frankly, they still do. “People think I’ve never seen a phone before, people have cars…some people think we move around with animals like lions. I used to make fun and tell them I have a pet monkey, but that’s not true.”
For the most part, Igaal kept to himself—naturally laconic. Attending a Jewish day school in Los Angeles, Igaal struggled with the language barrier and felt isolated. “I stayed in my head, overthinking everything.” While to the outside world, Igaal was silent, in his head was a cacophony of doubts and regrets—big unanswerable questions that he would soon learn that only the bottle could snuff.
After four years in the U.S. and a year in Israel, the family returned to Uganda. Igaal, now a teenager, faced a new challenge: reintegrating into a world that felt both familiar and foreign. It was during this time that alcohol entered his life. Upon his return, his friends threw him a homecoming celebration. It was here where he took his first sip of alcohol. “The first time I drank, I felt free. I could talk, dance, and be myself without fear of judgment.” But the euphoria came with consequences: blackouts, hangovers, and a growing dependency.
By the time he reached high school, alcohol had become a central part of Igaal’s life. Nicknamed “Mr. P” by his friends for his love of pombe (Kiswahili for alcohol), Igaal was known as the life of the party. Yet, beneath the surface, he was struggling. “I valued alcohol more than anything. It became my closest companion…my escape.”
Igaal’s drinking escalated during his college years, exacerbated by the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic. “My mom used to complain, ‘You only have one love—the love for alcohol. Nothing else.’” In hindsight, he now realizes she was right. “I valued it more than anything else. “I would say, ‘This is my very good wife who can not forsake me for anything. Girls may leave you, but the bottle was very faithful and truthful to me.” Clearly, it was a very toxic relationship.
Eventually, his parents intervened, sending him to a rehab center in Uganda. The experience was stark and isolating—four people crammed into small rooms with limited resources. It didn’t work. After leaving rehab, he went to his sister’s wedding where he decided to drink. He hit the dancefloor and thought the party would never stop.
Igaal’s struggles continued. A brief stint working at Jewish summer camps in the U.S. provided some structure, but he always returned to Uganda and the familiar pull of addiction. It wasn’t until 2024, when a family friend recommended Beit T’Shuvah, that a new possibility emerged. At first, Igaal was reluctant. “It sounded like a wonderful place…but I didn’t want to go.” But deep down, he knew he needed a change.
When Igaal arrived at Beit T’Shuvah in September 2024, he was scared. “I didn’t know what to expect, but the community surprised me. Everyone was so welcoming.” The kindness of the residents and staff helped Igaal feel at ease. “People were very loving and people brought me snacks and drinks. I said, ‘Wow, this is another heaven on earth. I wouldn’t think that people would be very so nice to me. I thought people wouldn’t like me because I’m different, but they accepted me as I am.”
Music once again became his anchor. Playing percussion with the Beit T’Shuvah band, Igaal rediscovered his joy and sense of purpose. “When I play, I feel spiritually connected. It’s a way to serve—to give back.” He’s also embraced new opportunities, from reading the Torah during Shabbat services to interning in the kitchen. “I have learned how to smile and be confident. Before I would only smile when I would see a bottle in front of me. Before it was hard to speak in public—to communicate. Now I’ve made friends.”
Today, Igaal’s dreams are big. He hopes to stay in the U.S., find stable work, and eventually create a place like Beit T’Shuvah in Uganda. “The love and care here are unmatched. I want to bring that to my community back home.”
As Igaal continues his journey, he stands as a testament to the quiet power of love and gratitude. His gentle spirit and profound humility inspire those around him to reflect on their own lives with kindness and grace. Igaal’s story reminds us that transformation often happens in stillness, in the unspoken moments of connection and care. Whether he is offering a warm smile, a djembe solo, or a heartfelt prayer, Igaal radiates a sense of peace that proves redemption is not only possible but deeply beautiful. Love is a rhythm we can all dance to and at the center of that, keeping the beat, is Igaal.
