Tziporah Naisi, her hair covered in a faded scarf, bends over a blue plastic basin and twists the excess water from the clothes she is washing. She looks up from her work to gauge the setting sun. From her home on top of Nabugoye Hill, which overlooks the lush foothills of eastern Uganda’s Mount Elgon, she can see her neighbors’ mud houses, the copious banana plants with their large, fan-like leaves and the dusty dirt roads leading to town. But it is the sun’s placement in the sky that concerns her today. She stands up straight, a tall, regal young woman. Her husband is the community’s rabbi and her two small children run and play at her feet. “After I have organized the cooking, I have to bathe and put on washed clothes,” she says. “Then I will go with everyone to welcome Shabbat.”

It is early February and for the Abayudaya—literally “the Jews” in Luganda, their native language—this Shabbat is special. Among the congregants in the modest brick synagogue that serves as the centerpiece of the 600-person community sit four Conservative rabbis—three from the United States and one from Israel. They have come to serve as a beit din, a rabbinic court, to convert those who show a requisite knowledge and practice of Judaism. Rabbi Howard Gorin from Tikvat Israel in Rockville, Maryland, is the leader of the beit din and has brought a Torah with him to offer as a gift from his congregation. And before the rabbis’ visit is through, they will perform seven separate wedding ceremonies to begin the process of consecrating Abayudaya marriages under Jewish law.

For the rabbis, who are supervising more than 300 conversions during their weeklong visit, there is no question about the Abayudaya’s rightful place as Jews.

“I have been working 25 years trying to inspire my congregation to feel the way that you feel,” says Rabbi Scott Glass of Temple Beth-El in Ithaca, New York, to members of the community. Gorin was equally moved.

“I came here thinking I would find some Ugandans who were interested in Judaism,” he says. “What I found was a Jewish community.”

The Abayudaya’s beginnings trace back to 1917, when Semei Kakungulu, a military leader with a following of over 3,000 people, established the town of Mbale and began to study the Bible. Converted to Christianity by British missionaries, Kakungulu came to believe that God loved those who followed the Torah. “Encouraged with this revelation,” relates Joab (Jonadov) Keki, a political leader in the community, “Kakungulu, his sons and the entire community circumcised themselves and promised to circumcise their new baby boys at the age of eight days as God commanded Abraham. This prompted the neighboring communities to name Kakungulu and the members of his new faith ‘the Jews, Christ killers,’ a derogatory statement aimed at discouraging them.” But instead, Kakungulu proudly declared the community Jewish and designated Saturday to be the day of rest. They also began to observe the festivals outlined in the Bible.

Kakungulu’s two youngest sons, Israel and Abraham, now 75 and 80 respectively, have come to meet the rabbis and to participate in the conversion process. After their father died in 1928, they were sent to a school run by Christian missionaries and stopped practicing Judaism.

“I always maintained that I was a Jew,” says Israel. And for the last three years, Abraham has returned to the religion. “It was my father who started this community,” he says. “I have to follow my father’s faith.”

The Abayudaya still live in the rural hills around Mbale, now the third largest city in Uganda. They share much of their way of life with their Christian and Muslim neighbors. Most are farmers, growing bananas, beans and other food to feed their families and trade with each other. Skinny chickens with missing feathers peck at invisible food on the hard-packed dirt around people’s houses and small goats eat vegetable scraps from weathered paper boxes. It is only a rich man who owns a cow.

There is no electricity or running water on Nabugoye Hill. At night the houses are lit by kerosene lamps and stars shine brightly, creating intricate patterns covering the sky. By day, women walk in blazing sunshine to and from the well, balancing large yellow jugs of water on their heads for cooking and washing. Children chew on five-inch sticks of sugar cane, sucking the sweet juice from the stalk’s fibers. The air smells of burning garbage, a sweet, heavy stench that turns pungent as it lingers.

But it is the Abayudaya’s steadfast devotion to Judaism that defines them as a community and distinguishes them from their neighbors. In addition to the synagogue at Nabugoye, four smaller synagogues also serve the community. Six-pointed stars and menoras are drawn in white chalk on the outside of houses. And the Abayudaya children shout “Shalom!” as cars drive by. Next to the synagogue at Nabugoye sits the Semei Kakungulu High School. Recently established, the popular community school—where in addition to lessons in English, science and math, everyone is taught about Judaism—also attracts local Christian and Muslim children.

Rabbi Gershom Sizomu, Tziporah Naisi’s husband and Keki’s brother, stands in front of a packed class of teenagers, teaching a lesson on prayer. The Muslim teacher has just finished a social studies lesson and stands to the side. “When we pray,” asks Sizomu, who was converted in the United States last August by Gorin, “what are we doing?” One hand is raised shyly. “We are asking God for the things we want and we are thanking Him for the things we have been given,” a soft-spoken young woman answers from the front row. Sizomu likes this answer and writes it on the board, emphasizing the part about thanking God.

For the purpose of the beit din, the synagogue has been transformed into something resembling a bustling government agency. Families wait outside for their turn to sit across from one of the two panels of rabbis on either side of the bima. The conversions are done by family and after the name of each person is recorded, the rabbis ask questions. “What have you learned about Adonai?” Over and over the answer is the same: “Adonai is One.” One man adds: “He is the giver of life and He takes life. He preserves life in people. I trust in Him forever.” When asked, “What has Adonai done for the Jewish people?” the same man replies, “He gave them the land of Israel.”

The Abayudaya’s practice of Judaism developed from readings of the Torah. The community learned to observe Shabbat and to eat according to the laws of kashrut, as well as to believe that Israel is the homeland of the Jewish people. But because they lived in almost complete isolation from the outside world, some of their observances were out of step with modern Jewish practice. Sizomu says that visitors have helped them to be more in accordance with Jews around the world. “In the 1960’s we had the First Secretary of the Israeli Embassy in Uganda come to meet us,” he says. “He found that on Pesah we would slaughter the paschal lamb, as we thought it was a commandment. He advised us that Jewish people all over the world don’t do that, so we stopped.”

It has been in the last 10 years that the Abayudaya have had the most contact with world Jewry. In 1995 Rabbi Hershy Worch visited from Australia. “He taught us about the eruv, the area within which you can carry something on Shabbat,” Sizomu recalls. “Before that we didn’t carry anything.”

Contact with American Jews, in particular, has been significant. A chance meeting in 1992 between Sizomu and an American college student named Matt Meyers at a synagogue in Nairobi, Kenya, led to an enduring friendship. Meyers and others helped to spread the word in the United States about the Abayudaya, eventually catching the attention of a small nonprofit group in Washington, D.C., called Kulanu. The organization, which is devoted to helping lost Jewish communities around the world, has helped the Abayudaya attain money for education and even a small line of electricity that runs to the primary school.

The conversions mark a historic turning point for the community. “We are certain that the Almighty God knows we are part of the Jewish people,” Sizomu affirms to the congregation on Shabbat. “But we recognize it is important that other Jews around the world understand this as well.” Although the Abayudaya are not eager to move to Israel right now, he says the Jewish state could serve as a “safe haven” in the future.

Like other Jews, the Abayudaya have suffered at the hands of others for their beliefs. Under Idi Amin’s rule in the 1970’s, it became illegal to practice Judaism and punishment could be severe. Local leaders acted as spies for the government, says Aaron Kintu Moses, who was a child at the time. He recalls his father trying to build a sukka in the garden with his Bible in hand. A local official came by and threatened to turn him over to the government. His father paid the man to go away, but did not give up his practice. “We would hide ourselves in our room and pray silently,” Moses says. “I remember we were afraid.”

The community lost many members during this time, despite the efforts of Sizomu’s grandfather, who was the spiritual leader. He sent secret notes to the other synagogues encouraging them to maintain their commitment, but many people converted to other religions. The community is still trying to recover from the losses. “We do not allow marriage outside of the community,” Moses says. “We believe it will only weaken us.”

The Abayudaya have also taken steps to ensure their safety. In 1990, local officials tried to kick them off their land and arrested a group of young men for refusing; they were released without a trial after four days. “They still commanded us to leave,” remembers Keki. “But we came back here.” After one of Semei Kakungulu’s sons made a phone call to a central government official, the matter was dropped—but it left a seed in the minds of the men. “These people harassing us were local officials,” Keki says. “We realized that…to serve the Abayudaya’s purposes, some of us should become local officials.”

Two years later, Keki was elected Youth Secretary, one of nine leaders in the local government and a post he held for four years. And last January, he won the top job of chairman of the district, a position akin to mayor. As he rides his bright yellow motorcycle the five miles from his home to Nabugoye, he waves and greets his constituents, and they all call back, “Hey, J.J.,” referring to him by his nickname. “They think of me as a respected man,” Keki says. “This will last after my term ends and will help protect the Abayudaya.”

As their contact with Americans has grown, so, too, has the Abayudaya’s sense of their place as part of world Jewry. And so they have begun reaching out. They now have a fledgling business: They sell brightly colored crocheted kippot for $10 on the Kulanu Boutique Web site (www.kulanuboutique.com). The site also offers talitot, a recorded CD of their songs and the Hebrew prayers set to African melodies sung at Shabbat services.

As this Shabbat comes to a close, the rabbis sit under the shade of trees discussing biblical texts with about 10 Abayudaya men. Glass is having a spirited discussion with a young man named Israel who is curious to know why Isaac favored Esau over Jacob even though Jacob was more deserving of his blessing.

The conversation turns to Israel’s own life and his strong sense of faith. He had a job in Kampala, Uganda’s capital. He worked seven days a week. However, “I couldn’t live without the Shabbat and I couldn’t live without my people,” he says. He moved home, but had trouble finding work. He held fast to his convictions and eventually came up with an idea to start a construction business. He found work and is thriving.

“He believes all of this was as a result of his observance of Shabbat and his trust in God,” Glass says.

For the Abayudaya, faith and patience has gotten them this far, and the future looks bright on the horizon.

Stacey Schultz lives in Washington, D.C., where she is a senior editor for U.S. News & World Report.