Ovadia the Convert is a fascinating personality. A former member of the Christian clergy, he traveled to the Islamic lands, where he was able to convert to Judaism and study Torah. A witness to the murderous crusades, he became an accomplished scholar, who composed several liturgical poems. His life story and literary contributions have been preserved, in part, in the Cairo Genizah.
A Puzzling Piece of Papyrus
Elkan Nathan Adler was puzzled. As the first European to enter the Cairo Genizah, he was in possession of a huge and extremely rare collection: 25,000 ancient manuscript fragments. One of those fragments appeared to be a strange “marriage” between the Jewish and Christian worlds. It was a beautifully composed elegy for Moses, titled “Mi Al Har Chorev,” composed of six rhyming couplets, written in perfect, elegant Hebrew letters. Adler supposed that it had been written for the holiday of Shavuot or perhaps Simchat Torah. But above each delicately inscribed line, hovered musical notation that obviously originated from the Italian Church.
Adler dispatched the fragment to the Benedictine fathers of Quarr Abbey, situated on the Isle of Wight off the coast of Britain. Perhaps they would be able to identify the notation and shed some light on the rare find. The priests’ decisive response arrived during April 1918: The music notes were Lombardic style neumes (predecessors of today’s notes and staves) used by European Christians in the late 12th and early 13th centuries.
Compounding the mystery was the fact that the style of the Hebrew lettering could not be attributed to any location in Europe. Moreover, the paper itself was thick, slightly tan, and clearly Egyptian—a type used in many Genizah manuscripts of the 12th century.
The manuscript fragment was considered a rare treasure, puzzling scholars and students for decades. In 1947, famed musicologist Eric Werner examined it, and made a highly accurate transcription of the neumes:
Its style is closely akin to that of the Gregorian plainsong Church, if we disregard one or two embellishments which seem alien to Gregorian style … Of course, the fact that our manuscript is so similar to Gregorian tunes is not surprising since it is today proved beyond any … doubt that the root of Gregorianism lies in the music of Palestine and Syria …
He then quoted a catholic musicologist, Father Dechevrens:
Gregorian chant is the music of the Hebrews, and there is for the totality of the Roman Catholic melodies but one modal system – not that of the Greeks, but of the sacred nation of the Hebrews.
In short, both Werner and Dechevrens admit that it is not so strange to see church notations associated with a clearly Jewish piyyut (poem), as their original source was the “sacred nation of the Hebrews” to begin with. He almost seems to imply that the fragment proved that Gregorian chant, although used in the church still today, was applied to Jewish piyyutim and sung in synagogues during the middle-ages, independent of any Christian influence.
But there is a more powerful, likely explanation for the odd manuscript, which lies with its author.
In November 1964, Professor Norman Golb made a tremendous discovery. He took it into his head to compare the handwriting of the mysterious piyyut with that of another piece of parchment from the Genizah. It matched. The author of both fragments was a Jewish convert named Ovadia HaGer (Ovadia the convert), formerly Johannes of Opiddo.1

An Unlikely Inspiration
In approximately 1070, twin boys were born to Dreux and Maria, residents of Oppido Lucano, Italy. They named the elder Rogerius and the younger Johannes. Dreux was a Norman nobleman, and Rogerius, as the scion of the household, was sent to learn the arts of war and chivalry. His younger brother was designated as the family scholar and sent to study priesthood.
While still a young child, Johannes heard of a mind-boggling occurrence: The Archbishop of Bari (a Roman Catholic archdiocese in southern Italy), Andreas, had converted to Judaism. The high-profile proselyte didn’t only send shockwaves through the mind of the youngster; a range of Church officials of varying strands of Christianity were also astonished. Johannes writes in his memoirs (the primary source of this information), “The Greek sages and the sages of Rome were ashamed when they heard the report about him.”
Andreas had left Bari, forsaking his homeland, his priesthood, his following, and his glory, and headed to Islamic Constantinople (Istanbul) where he underwent a brit milah (circumcision). His life from that day onward was dogged with hardship—particularly non-Jews who pursued him with violent intent—but G‑d consistently saved him from their designs. He was pursued not only because he had brought dishonor upon the Church, but also likely because of the large number of non-Jews who converted following his example.
Andreas eventually left Constantinople and journeyed to Egypt where he lived out the rest of his days.2
Shortly after hearing of the extraordinary events concerning the Archbishop, young Johannes had a strange dream. He envisioned himself serving as a priest in Oppido when he saw a man standing to his right, opposite the altar. The man in his dream called his name, “Johannes!” What the vision subsequently said has been lost to history, as the fragment found in the Cairo Genizah was torn. It is safe to conclude, however, that it had something to do with the previous account of Andreas that Johannes recorded. Possibly, the man commanded him to become a Jew as well.
Nevertheless, it was 20 years before Johannes himself converted to Judaism. How he spent that time remains a mystery. It is assumed that he furthered his studies in the Church.
A Crusade Against Judaism
The next fragment of Johannes’ memoirs discusses the first crusade. He was approximately 30 years old at the time.
He describes an eclipse which took place in February of 1095 or 1096 as being an important omen for the evil to come. He quotes the prophet Joel:
The sun shall turn into darkness and the moon into blood before the arrival of the great and awesome day of the L‑rd.3
He describes the Frankish soldiers questioning among themselves why they bothered to travel to Jerusalem to fight their enemies, while their own hometowns harbored heretical foes. This kind of sentiment was what spurred the anti-Jewish actions of crusaders. Golb writes, “It is clear that he knew of the persecutions and possibly was a witness to some of them.”
A few years later, Johannes converted to Judaism, assuming the name Ovadiah. He probably chose the name Ovadiah because Ovadiah the Prophet was said to have been a Jewish convert from Edom.4 His inspiration to embrace Judaism seems to have been a combination of Andreas’s example and his own long-term immersion in the false teachings of the Church.
His disillusionment with the teachings of Christianity is confirmed by a letter of recommendation penned by Rabbi Baruch of Aleppo, Syria, on his behalf. Ovadiah described his noble ancestry to the rabbi, and related that due to “what he read in the books of their error, he returned to the L‑rd of Israel with all his heart, with all his soul and with all his strength … ”
When he arrived at the beth din (Jewish court) in order to convert, the judges questioned his motivation. The Jews were “in sorrow, oppressed, despised and scorned,” they said. The first crusade, which he himself witnessed, should have been a more than adequate deterrent for any potential convert.
Ovadiah replied that he knew it well enough, but that he came only out of love for the Jewish nation. Having ascertained that his motives were pure, the judges warned him about the strict Torah prohibitions he would have to observe, but cushioned them with descriptions of the reward he would accrue for keeping the mitzvot as a Jew. When he accepted the conditions, they immediately circumcised him, and when he had healed, he completed his conversion with a dip in the mikvah.
The letter concludes with an injunction that the reader should be careful to respect and refrain from causing harm to Ovadiah, because someone who wounds the feelings of a convert transgresses three negative commandments, and someone who oppresses him, infringes upon two. The purpose of the letter is also clarified: “That it might be kept by Ovadiah the Convert in all communities of Israel to which he might go.”5
This letter was likely put to good use, as Ovadiah soon took to the road, destination: Baghdad.
Persecution in Baghdad
On his way to Baghdad, Ovadiah narrowly escaped a fleeing army which attempted to harm him. When he arrived at the city, once again his life was put at risk. In an era where every day brought news of Crusader success, it was not surprising that the local Muslims wanted to kill the light-skinned Norman on sight.
He eventually escaped and reached the Jewish community, where he waited at the door of one of the synagogues. He was given a room to board in a synagogue and provided with food. After some time, Rabbi Yitzchak, one of the Torah teachers, directed him—like the legendary Rabbi Akiva—to sit at the back of the classroom to learn the aleph-bet, Chumash and Tanach along with the children.
During the time Ovadiah spent in their community, the Baghdadi Jews endured much suffering at the hands of their overlord, Vizier Ibn al-Shuja. After numerous attempts to wipe them out failed, he imposed a special headgear, lead necklace and belt to be worn by every Jewish man. Every Jewish woman had to wear unmatched shoes – one red and one black – and a small, brass bell, either around her neck or on her feet.
He appointed gentile male and female oppressors to concoct ways to afflict them further. He also levied taxes upon them. If a Jew would die having not paid his tax, his body would not be released for burial before the taxes were paid. If a Jew died penniless, he would have to be redeemed by his brethren, otherwise the local non-Jews would have him cremated.
Ovadiah’s Travels
After a sojourn of several years in Baghdad, Ovadiah decided to return to Syria. He described arriving in Aleppo during the siege of Roger of Antioch (circa 1118 CE). He also relates how, to his deep gratification, the Jewish community of Damascus put up a collection for him and supported him while he remained with them. In 1121, Ovadiah left Damascus for Banias, to the north of Israel. There he engaged in a fascinating discussion with an apparently eccentric Karaite named Solomon ibn Ruji, who claimed to be Moshiach. Solomon predicted that Jerusalem, then in the hands of the crusaders, would be liberated in two and half months! Ovadiah, not easily taken in, asked an incisive question:
“I have heard that you are a descendent of Aharon the Kohen. Now, today it is 19 years since I converted, but I have never heard that the Jews are seeking salvation through a Kohen or Levi, but rather through Eliyahu Hanavi and King Moshiach, who descends from King David … ”
He then asked Solomon to give time a sign to prove his claim.
The imposter casually responded, “I do not eat bread, nor do I drink water!”
Ovadiah did not stop there. He pressed him, “So, what do you eat?”
Solomon proceeded to outline a generous diet! “Pomegranates, figs, almonds, nuts, sycamore-fruit, dates and apples which grow from trees and shrubs, and I drink milk.”
Ovadiah must have revealed his plans of continuing on to Egypt, because Solomon tried to persuade him to head to Israel and await the ingathering of the exiles, which he would soon orchestrate. Ovadiah declined, informing Solomon that he would proceed to Egypt and return to the Holy Land with the Egyptian Jews.
Solomon had no rejoinder.
Considering the clearly Egyptian paper upon which he wrote his memoirs, and the fact that they were eventually found in the Cairo Genizah, it is clear that Ovadiah did indeed arrive in Egypt. In addition to his fascinating diary, he recorded a number of beautiful piyyutim: Mi Al Har Chorev – “Who on Mount Sinai” in praise of Moses, Baruch HaGever Asher Yiftach BaHashem – “Praised is the man who trusts in G‑d,” and V’aida mah – “That I might know!”—a plea that he should “know what to speak within the gates … teach me!”
All of these poems have Lombardic musical notation, a fact which originally puzzled numerous scholars. But knowing who Ovadiah was immediately solves the riddle: an Italian monk, familiar with the classic Church musical notation, who converted to Judaism. When he wrote his beautiful Judaic poetry, he knew only one method of recording the melody to accompany it – the notation of his youth.
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