Ceci’s Watson Journey

Zarzis is a small town, not even detailed in my trusty Lonely Planet, 50 kilometers south of Djerba on mainland Tunisia. It is now home to the third largest Jewish community in Tunisia, after Djerba and Tunis, and includes 20 families, between 100 and 110 people.

I had the pleasure of being escorted around Zarzis and through the Jewish section by the President of the community. I am greatly indebted to him because with his guidance and company I was able to meet some Jews from Zarzis and understand their history and current life.

The Jewish section of Zarzis is actually a single street located right behind the central souk or market, where most of the Jews also work in jewelry. There are two entrances to this street, both of which are barricaded and heavily guarded by at least 4 policemen 24 hours a day. Located on this street is everything the community needs for their Jewish existence: a synagogue, a boy’s and girl’s school, a kindergarten, to which is attached a recently built “wedding hall” (actually just a large room with no roof), and a room for the shochet, who comes from Djerba weekly to slaughter and provide kosher meat. Reflecting the small size of the community, each family is given a locked box in the synagogue where they can store their sidurim, tallit, tfillin etc. In 1948, the Jewish street was filled with about 300 Jews, but now Muslims also live with them because of their diminished numbers.

The migration of Jews from Zarzis began in 1958 and was comprised of Zionists who wished to populate Israel. At that time, both Djerba and Zarzis had not experienced violence or abhorrent anti-Semitism first hand, so, according to the President, those who decided to migrate at that time were not motivated by fear, but rather by a desire to live in the Holy Land. Some, but not many, Jews migrated in 1967 after reports of violence in Tunis. However, in 1982 the Jews in Zarzis received their first taste of anti-Semitism when Jewish cars and shops were set ablaze and destroyed in reaction to the Sabra and Shatila massacres in Lebanon. During this outbreak of violence, the President’s family temporarily moved to Tunis until order was restored. Afterwards, the migration picked up in earnest. Those Jews from Zarzis who did not migrate were now aware of the possible influence of outside political events on their lives, and, as a result, the President’s family again temporarily relocated to Marseilles during the Gulf War. While they feared the worst due to the violent reactions in 1982, their move turned out to be unwarranted as fortunately, no violence occured. According to the school teacher, currently the migration has almost halted, except for those few who leave for special circumstances, ie. medical treatment.

The relations between Muslims and Jews were both described as and seemed from my perspective amicable. The President seemed to know everyone in Zarzis, Jew and Muslim, and he explained that he was “friendly with the Muslims, but not friends.” He attributed the respectful and problem-free nature of their relations to the strong government and police protection of the Jewish community in Zarzis. Because the Tunisian President Ben Ali “loves and protects the Jews,” 15 uniformed and plain-clothed policemen monitor the Jewish “hara” or section at all times, including the policemen guarding the entrances. I experienced this firsthand as the police called the President about every 30 minutes during the day I was visiting, to check up on my actions and location. He told me that they were on extra alert and were extra protective not only because I was another Jew in Zarzis, but also because I am an American, whom they rarely see in this town.

During my day in Zarzis I spoke to the kindergarten teacher and the teacher at the boy’s school and learned about their system of education. The kindergarten currently has 10 children ages 2 to 5 who learn Hebrew basics along with other typical kindergarten activities. The teacher is a sweet, young, 25-year-old woman who recently took the position after the former teacher got married. She finished high school in Zarzis, but did not receive any special training to teach at the kindergarten. After kindergarten the boys attend the boy’s school and have classes on the Torah and Gmorah from 8:30 to 12:30, and then Hebrew classes in the evening. The morning teacher lives in Djerba and commutes every day to teach his ONE class of 15 boys between the ages of 6 and 17. He offers lessons at 1:30 for the older Jewish men of the town. The girl’s school is similar but they learn Jewish history, Hebrew and the holidays only during the morning. Both boys’ and girls’ educations are supplemented by attendance at the public school during the hours they are not at the Jewish school. There they learn Arabic, French, history, math etc. Most Jews from Zarzis complete high school, but higher education is rare.

Their marriage customs reflect their proximity and close relations with their Jewish neighbors to the north in Djerba. Women usually get married from the age of 18 to 22, a bit later than Djerba because the majority finishes high school in Zarzis. However, the custom of the man’s parents asking the girl’s parents for her hand is the same, and marriage between the two communities is common, given their small size. Men in Zarzis also marry at an older age than women, once they are financially viable to support a family. The kindergarten teacher explained to me that she is not yet married because the only eligible men in Zarzis are her brothers, which portrays the difficulties of living in a town with such a small Jewish population.

While the similarities between Zarzis and Djerba are apparent, I felt one major difference; the Jews of Zarzis seemed to be much less weary, less resistant and more open to an outsider in their midst. Indeed, I was welcomed warmly, felt at home and really enjoyed the kind people I met in Zarzis, a stark contrast to the general behavior I observed in Djerba. I speculate that this may be due to the small size of the Zarzis Jewish community, which has forced its evident assimilation into the town in which they live, and caused them to be accustomed to dealing with “others.”

Sousse is a highly developed seaside city that is one of Tunisia’s largest tourist destinations. In 1956 it was home to 6,000 Jews and three synagogues, while today only one synagogue remains functional for prayer and only around 30 Jews still live there. This number fluctuates because many of the residents live part-time in Sousse and part-time in France. The community sustains itself with the aforementioned 150 year old synagogue that usually receives a minyan for Saturday morning services, but not Friday night (only two people were in attendance when I attended Friday services), and a shochet that comes to Sousse once a month from Djerba to provide kosher chicken and meat. I was lucky during my visit to Sousse because a Sousse-born resident of France had returned for the week and was sponsoring a kiddish on Saturday afternoon, after the prayer service. About 25 people were in attendance, so I was able to become familiar with the community and collect some information.

Although I was able to speak to a number of people, many of the reports were mixed. When I asked if there was a Jewish school in the past, some answered that there was but it has been closed for some time, and others denied its existence. Furthermore, when I inquired about the Jewish migration from Sousse, one man told me that most of the Jews from Sousse migrated to Israel, even though all of the native-born people visiting Sousse and the synagogue at that time lived in France. The woman that takes care of the synagogue told me that Jews began leaving in the late 1950s because of wars and because they thought it was dangerous, even though there were never incidences of violence in Sousse. On the other hand, a couple that had migrated to France in 1989 claimed that many Jews moved after 1967 because they were scared of the violence elsewhere in Tunisia. One last person told me that many Jews were scared in 1967, but not enough to leave Sousse; he argued that they were only compelled to leave after 1969, when the government socialized businesses and Jews were losing a lot of money under the new system. According to these conflicting reports it is difficult to draw any solid conclusions on the migration from Sousse, except that we can safely assume that a wide array of reasons and circumstances led each family to react and decide their own fate personally.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of my trip to Sousse was the presence of a non-Jew at synagogue on Saturday afternoon. This particular person described himself to me as an agnostic, but he was born Muslim in Sousse. He seemed to be very friendly with many of the Jews at the kiddish and there seemed to be little opposition to his attendance. Only one man disapproved enough to express it to me when he told me that he believes “some of the Jews in Sousse are too close to Muslims.” This man does not live in Sousse anymore (he was just visiting at the time), and his sentiments seemed to reflect a minority opinion amongst the current full-time residents of Sousse. According to conversations with them and my own observations, this community is extremely assimilated into Sousse’s society, demonstrated by the following: their knowledge of only Arabic and French (not Hebrew), my encounter with at least one Jewish man that speaks Classical Arabic, the social and non-religious behavior during the Saturday prayer service, the amount and closeness of real friendships with Muslims, and the fact that most of them do not keep Shabbat.

Djerba: The Basics

As I entered Hara Kebira, the Jewish village on the island of Djerba, I waved “hello” to the policemen guarding the entrance and made my way to the center of the town. On this, my first visit to “Hara,” I felt as if I had stepped into a time machine; this is the story of the remaining Jewish communities in the south of Tunisia.

Djerba itself is a small island off the southern coast of Tunisia, notorious as the “Land of the Lotus-Eaters” in Homer’s epic The Odyssey. As the story goes, after stopping his ship on the island, Ulysses encountered much difficulty in returning them to the ship to continue their journey. For a little while in Djerba, I understood how they feel; long, flat plains dotted with palm trees comprise the interior of the island, beautiful beaches line the coast of the Mediterranean, and the capital Houmt Souk is quaint yet bustling with tourists- it is easy to lose track of time and fall in love with the relaxed atmosphere of Djerba.

The Djerban Jewish Migration

This is not a topic on which many Djerban Jews will divulge, but after building a relationship with one relatively open and liberal member of the community, I was able to ascertain some information. The population of Jews on Djerba in 1948 was anywhere from five to seven thousand. Their migration began in 1948, with Israeli independence, as many Djerbans were Zionists and wanted to “return home” for the coming of the Messiah. The migration picked up again after Tunisian independence and the Suez Crisis in 1956 out of a combination of fear of governmental instability and anti-Semitism. In 1967, the migration increased less because of the fear of violence on Djerba, and more because the strong Zionists that remained on Djerba saw Israel’s victory in the Six Day War as confirmation of the coming of the Messiah. Most of the aforementioned migration was directed toward Israel, but during this time, many Jews also migrated to France, usually for economic and financial reasons or to join their children who moved to pursue higher education. According to this source, small incidences of violence against Jews in the form of rock-throwing have persisted, but no major violence occurred. Currently, the migration has slowed with anywhere from 1 to 5 families per year leaving Djerba.

Hara Seghira

The Jewish population on Djerba lives in two towns: the aforementioned Hara Kebira (“big town” in Arabic) and Hara Seghira (“small town”), home to the famous La Ghriba Synagogue. According to the information on the interior, the original synagogue was built in 586 BC, when, according to one of the many legends associated with this synagogue, a holy stone fell from heaven and a mysterious woman appeared to direct its construction. Maintaining the continued existence of a synagogue on this spot, the currently temple was built in the early 20^th century. During Lag B’omer Jews from around the world make the pilgrimage to La Ghriba to venerate Rabbi Shimon Bar Yishai, a Talmdic scholar who lived over 400 years ago. In recent years from three to five thousand Jews attended, and during the celebration the synagogue’s Torahs, some over 200 years old, are paraded through the streets of the town.

Hara Seghira is presently home to about 50 Jews, and two other functioning synagogues. These should more appropriately be called “prayer rooms” as the one I visited was a small, austere, cave-like room painted blue, with benches lining the perimeter. They are equipped with some sidurim, but the community uses La Ghriba for Torah reading. I heard mixed reports about the schools in Hara Seghira, allegedly there is a yeshiva there, but other reports indicate otherwise, and I never found it. As in much of the rest of the country, women were not in attendance for Shabbat services, and there is not even a designated place for women in the “prayer rooms;” I sat amongst the men, but closest to the door, during Friday evening services. The town does not have its own shochet (kosher slaughterer) or kosher restaurants, so its Jewish residents travel the 7 kilometers to Hara Kebira for kosher food.

Hara Kebira

Hara Kebira is truly the “Jewish neighborhood” of Djerba, as one local resident phrased it. I first arrived on a Thursday morning, right after Shacharit, or the morning prayer, and saw men wearing kippot, holding their tallit and sidur, and rushing off to work. I was in utter shock; this was the first time I saw Jews sporting their kippot in a public place since my trip began, and it wasn’t just a handful of people. It seemed that every man in the street was in the middle of their daily morning routine of prayer then work. Simultaneously, I saw traditionally clad women (long skirts, long-sleeve shirts, head coverings tied in a Jewish, rather than Muslim, style) scurrying around, dropping their young children off at school. I walked down the street and saw a storefront whose small awning said “Brik Itshak,” the name of a Jewish forefather, and a “Kosher” sign in Hebrew on another awning. Furthermore, most of the houses surrounding me were painted white and blue, and many of them had menorot, or Jewish candlestick, painted next to the door. While Hara Kebira is most certainly a Jewish enclave, some non-Jews live in the town, but they are in the minority.

Once the shock settled in, curiosity took over and I began finding people to chat with on the street; at this point I realized that essentially the old-world atmosphere, later confirmed by descriptions of the way of life, caused my initial surprise. One discovery after another revealed to me a Jewish society that has preserved its way of life for centuries, resisting foreign influences and change. Naturally, I was fascinated.

Education

While Tunisia provides public schools for its children and has laws regarding attendance, they are laxly followed and rarely applied. The Jewish community of Djerba provides a Jewish education system to educate its youngsters in a time-honored fashion. The town boasts one or two yeshivot (religious schools; and again, conflicting reports), two kindergartens each with 75 children enrolled, and one boy’s and one girl’s school. All of these schools teach primarily in Hebrew; the children learn the Hebrew alphabet in the kindergarten until age 6, then boys enroll in the yeshiva and the boy’s school, and the girls attend the girl’s school. The girl and boy’s schools teach Hebrew, grammar, Jewish history and the Tanach, while the yeshiva focuses on the Talmud and the Gmorah. However, the girl’s school only meets for a few hours in the morning before lunch, and holds optional classes in the evening, after the boys finish their lessons in the afternoon. Around 70 or 80% of students attend the government’s school when they are not at the Jewish school and learn history, math, Arabic, and later French etc. The decision to attend the public school is made by the parents; the usual reason for a parent to refrain from sending their children to the public school is the fear of Muslim-Jewish interaction. The teachers in the kindergartens and schools are not required to be qualified in any manner, and in the kindergartens, are usually young girls who have only just completed the Jewish education system themselves.

All of the Jewish schools only provide education until Kitah Tet, which translates to 9^th grade or about 15 years of age, after which the (male) student chooses to either go to the government school full time or work, and the (female) student can choose to continue her education in public school or remain in the house. Most Jewish teenage boys begin working after their studies with literacy in Hebrew and maybe Arabic, even though Arabic is their first spoken language and they may speak some French. Most Jewish teenage girls choose to return to the home and remain there until they are married (more on that later). A few girls, more than boys, decide to attend the public school full time after the Jewish school; in classes of about 40, the 12^th grade had 2 Jewish girls in it and the 10^th grade had 4. Quite evidently, the number of Jewish students who not only achieve their Baccalaureate (US equivalent to graduating from high school), but also who attend university, are very few and far between.

I met one girl who is the exception; just from speaking to her for an hour, in the English she had learned in only a few years at the “Muslim” school (as they call it), I could tell she is bright. She spoke to me about her studies- at age 15 she began learning French and Arabic, and a year later English lessons began and she chose her major of Commerce. She expressed to me how much she enjoyed school, how good her marks were, her desire to continue her education and her desire to marry out of love. However, she has a problem; she does not know if or where she will be able to attend university. Her Hebrew is not up-to-par so she does not want to go to Israel, she has family in France so could go there but does not like the French way of life, America is out of the question because she has no family there, and she does not want to go to a university in Tunisia as the only Jew.

This brave girl is defying the norms of her Djerban Jewish society, and as a result, is facing many inherent difficulties. However, this is not the first such story I heard. I met one woman named Dolly who is the former school teacher at the Jewish girl’s school. She believes strongly in the importance of education, and considers the teachers’ lack of qualifications and the young age of students leaving school particularly dangerous and inauspicious. Additionally, she has a generally cynical view of the town’s adherence to traditional gender roles; she told me that she thinks that the girls leave school too early, get married too young and that she does not believe in covering her head, like the other married women in town. Therefore, she ensured that all three of her children (two daughters and one son) went to university in France, and as a result, her daughters are successful and married (of their own choosing) in Israel. She explained to me that when she first sent them to university, the women in the town expressed their concern and disapproval in her attitude and decisions. She dealt with this problem similarly to how she dealt with the problem of covering her head; she “yes’d” them so they would leave her alone while continuing to insist on her children’s education, just as she wears a head scarf in public and removes it when she enters her house.

Marriage and Women’s Issues

Perhaps the aspect of Djerban Jewish society that most reflects traditionally archaic Jewish lifestyle is the life of the average Djerban Jewish woman. As previously explained, girls do attend a Jewish school in Hara Kebira, but for less hours a day then their male counterparts. Furthermore, their curriculum only prepares them for a life of religious and national devotion, even though women in Djerba only attend synagogue once a year for Yom Kippur, and most of the synagogues do not have a place for women to sit. While a handful of young girls work as teachers in the kindergartens after they finish school at age 15, most return to their house where they help their mothers until they are married.

While marriages are not arranged, per se, in Djerba, they certainly do not reflect usual American or Western trends leading up to marriage. When a man, usually from age 23 to 35, depending on when he finally becomes financially capable of supporting a family, decides who he wants to marry, his parents visit the parents of the potential bride. The groom’s parents discuss the groom’s intention and if the families get along and the bride’s parents are happy with the suitor, the girl is then consulted for approval. I say girl because the average age for a bride in Djerba is 16 to 22, and she usually does not turn down the offer. I should probably mention here that not only has the girl never truly met her groom before, but he will be the first man, outside of family members, with whom she has ever conversed or associated. The strict separation of girls and boys from school is carried into the social sphere as they do not engage with one another in any capacity, until marriage. I asked a group of young girls if they know any of the boys their age in Hara Kebira, and they replied that they know everyone’s name and “story,” but have never spoken to any of them and certainly do not have any male friends.

Once the marriage is decided upon and the arrangements made, the wedding itself takes place over the course of one to two weeks. It is customary to paint blue menorot and fish (sign of good luck for protection) on the sides of the houses of the bride and groom. The wedding almost always occurs during the summer because while there is a “wedding hall” in Hara Kebira, it is not that nice and they prefer to have the ceremonies and events outside. There are smaller events and occasions during the course of these two weeks, with the most notable being the “henna.” An extremely traditional custom is North Africa, not only for Jews but also for Muslims, the families and friends gather for the ritual painting of the hands to celebrate the upcoming nuptial. The wedding takes place during the week and the following day the families go to La Ghriba, dressed in traditional Tunisian garb- brightly colored dresses, accessories, headdresses adorned with gold sequence and beads- to take photographs.

After the wedding period is over, the couple usually begins a family, and the wife stays home to take care of the house and children, while the husband works. When I went one night for dinner at a kosher eatery, I noticed that I did not see any women eating or socializing. Furthermore, even though the women are capable of reading the prayers, they do not attend synagogue on Shabbat, but rather only on Yom Kippur. On my first day in Hara Kebira I was speaking to one man that explained this to me, to which I responded that I was surprised because in Morocco women are always in attendance for Shabbat services and there certainly is a women’s section in each synagogue. He told me that in Morocco they are not as religious as in Djerba. I was and remain confused by his statement; how and why is attending synagogue and praying directly to G-d considered less religious than only preparing for the meals surrounding the prayer? I postulate that in their society “religiosity” is either synonymous or closely identifiable with “tradition” and any deviance from their ancestor’s way of life is automatically considered “not as religious” and therefore, unacceptable. These are just examples of the restrictive lifestyle for Djerban Jewish women, which, interestingly enough, is more extreme than the roles and way of life of their Tunisian Muslim counterparts.

In my conversations with Jewish women in Hara Kebira, I tried my best not to pass judgment on their way of life, but I could not help but notice that at least some of the women that I met seemed unhappy or unsatisfied with the status quo. Perhaps it was because I happened to meet the women that are more visible, and therefore less traditional, but at least some of the young girls expressed their remorse at the lack of opportunities and option available to them. However, these girls and women like Dolly are in the minority; most of the women in Hara Kebira are weary of outsiders (as I felt from experience- not only by the strange and suspicious looks I received from women, but also by being pelted with stones by some mischievous young kids that did not know what this outsider was doing in their town) probably because they resist change and want to maintain the only way of life they have ever known. Another indicator of these attributes of Djerban society is the lack of migration from Djerba; many young people express interest in moving away, but usually do not because of their respect for their parents and tradition, and the difficulty in breaking from conformity in such a close-knit, closed society.

Muslim-Jewish Relations

As in other places I have studied, it is difficult to generalize the characteristics of Muslim-Jewish relations in a particular place. I met people who were not only tolerant of Muslims, but even had Muslim friends, as well as others who did not particularly care to interact with them. It is safe to say that Jews in Djerba maintain normal functioning relationships with Muslims particularly where work is concerned. Relationships beyond practical ones really depend on the person, but I must admit that I met more Djerban Jews that have close friendships with Muslims than not.

When having Shabbat lunch with one family, I asked about the incidences of violence that took place on Djerba in 1985 and 2002 and I was advised “not to talk about politics in Djerba.” Despite this warning I learned that the people of Djerba never felt particularly threatened by these events. As it was explained, they were certainly afraid after each incident, but not enough to leave (even though some people did) because they considered them isolated events carried out by one person who hates Jews, and who is not indicative of general Djerban sentiments toward their Jewish population.

Furthermore, Ben Ali, the long-term President of Tunisia, has a close relationship with the Jewish population and protects them. The entrances to Hara Kebira are guarded 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, by at least 2 policemen each, who do not allow anyone to enter that they do not recognize as residents of Hara Kebira. In Hara Seghira, policemen are stationed around the small town and La Ghriba has as much security as the Tunisian International Airport.

One last interesting point should be made to indicate the level of comfort in being Jewish in Djerba. One night I went to the internet café in Houmt Souk (the capital), and because I am nosy, I noticed that two boys sharing a computer were typing in Hebrew and talking to Israelis through MSN. However, they were not wearing the kippot they normally wear in the confines of Hara Kebira. This indicates to me that they feel safe living their Jewish life in their village, but when they venture outside they must assimilate. Perhaps this provides some insight into why the Djerban Jews are weary of outsiders that penetrate the metaphorical walls of their village.

Shabbat

I have briefly mentioned Djerban Shabbat customs, but I wanted to elaborate on what I consider one of the most obvious indicators of the traditional, old-world nature of this island. After morning services are over the Djerban Jews hit the streets dressed in their “Saturday’s best.” Groups of Jews of all ages and both sexes flood the streets of Hara Kebira every Shabbat and either walk around the small village, stopping to say hello to same-sexed other groups (male and female groups do not interact on the street), or sit on door steps, porch stoops, or anywhere there is a seat to socialize. It seems that truly everyone in the town is outside for the few hours between services and lunch (about 11 or 12 to 2 or 3 pm), socializing, gossiping or catching up. As the entire community is shomer Shabbat, this comprises their entertainment for the Sabbath day, and this tradition has existed for centuries. As I walked around with a group of 16 year old girls, they informed me that everyone we were passing would be asking questions amongst themselves about who the “new girl” (me) is. I told them I would love for them to come to me and ask, but they said that would not happen, that they would only do it secretly, but by the end of the day, everyone would know who I am. C’est la vie in a small town.

Food

Hara Kebria is also home to the region’s supply of kosher food as almost all Tunisian Jews keep kosher. There are over 5 shochtim that work in the town, slaughtering chickens two times a week. Some of these shochtim are sent to various other Tunisian cities to perform the same duties. There are about half a dozen small kosher eateries in Hara Kebira, which serve everything from brik (fried crepe with tuna and egg filing), to grilled meat in pitas and other Tunisian specialties. One night I visited a few of these for dinner and they were frequented by both Jewish and Arab men (no women). Interestingly, one of the owners of these eateries told me that the place is kosher, but they do not have and are not required to have certification signifying it is kosher; the people in Hara trust them. There is also one store in Hara that sells kosher products from Israel.

Before I start, I want to thank everyone for checking up on me through my website.  My mom was home recently and told me that EVERYONE is still reading it and thinks it is great and that makes me incredibly happy.  I encourage EVERYONE to comment or post as they please, and not to be embarassed!  I read and appreciate every single comment I get, and it helps me feel connected to home.  So; again, thanks for your support!

Before I embark on the second leg of my Watson journey, I wanted to reflect on the previous research I have done on Tunisia, the things I have learned about the country since then, and what I hope to accomplish during one month there.

The Jewish existence in Tunisia dates back 2,300 years when, according to the Talmud, 30,000 Jews were transferred from the Land of Israel by the Roman Emperor Titus. Their long history in Tunisia has had its ups and downs, and by World War II the Jewish population in Tunisia numbered between 90,000 and 100,000. In November of 1942 Tunisia became the first (and only) Arab country to come under direct Nazi control, during which anti-Semitic practices were instituted; Jews were forced to wear Star of David badges, property was confiscated, a fine was levied on the community, and more than 5,000 Jews were sent to a forced-labor camp. Fortunately, the Germans were forced to leave Tunisia in March 1943, after which the rights of Jews were restored, and the community flourished to reach its peak of 105,000 in 1948.

The Jews in Tunisia assumed that their life would return to normalcy after the German occupation, but those hopes were short-lived as the Tunisian struggle for national independence was achieved in 1956. In 1958, in an attempt to treat all citizens equally, the various Tunisian Jewish organizations were consolidated into the Jewish Religious Council, which was regulated by President Bourghuiba. As part of urban renewal projects, the ancient Jewish quarter of Tunis was demolished, along with an ancient synagogue. Accounts of violence against Jews began to increase, especially after conflicts involving Israel, and as a result, by the end of 1967, only around 20,000 Jews remained in Tunisia. June 5, 1967, the day that Israel attacked its Arab neighbors to begin the Six Day War, was a particularly explosive example of violence against the Jews in Tunisia; mob violence broke out, Jewish shops, cars and synagogues were looted, burned, desecrated and destroyed. Although President Bourghuiba appeared on TV and the radio and implored the violence to stop, the Jews were not reassured, and 7,000 immigrated to France

Other examples of violence punctuated the Tunisian Jewish community’s contemporary history. In 1985 a Tunisian guard opened fire on worshippers in a synagogue in Djerba and five people (four Jewish) were killed. On April 11, 2002 the 2,000 year old El Ghriba Synagogue was targeted by an Al Qaeda truck bomber, who managed to detonate close to the synagogue and kill 21 people, 16 of which were German and French (non-Jewish) tourists. As a result of these relatively isolated attacks, the Tunisian government guards the community closely, and increases protection after topical events in the Middle East, such as the Israeli bombing of the PLO headquarters in Tunis in 1985 and the Temple Mount “incident” in 1990. The population, which had begun the post-war era at a peak of 105,000, diminished over the next few decades; the total of Tunisian Jews making aliya to Israel reached 45,000 and those fleeing to France about 60,000. By 1990, only about 3,000 Jews remained in the country today, most of whom reside in Tunis and Djerba.

While in Morocco I learned a few other things about Tunisia. Namely, that it is considered one of the most liberal and progressive Arab Muslim country in the Middle East. The examples provided were the following: many Tunisians do not fast on Ramadan and it is not enforced by the government (as it is de facto in Morocco), most women do not wear head coverings and it is very developed and touristy.

All of this information was compiled from outside research and secondary sources. I hope to use this as a basis for conversations with Jews still living in Tunisia, in order to ascertain their affirmation or rejection of these recognized facts, and further details into these events. I particularly wish to discover the personal stories of this population, with regards to life during the German occupation and the struggle for independence, the incidences of violence, the migration of the remainder of the population and the characteristics of contemporary Jewish life in this Arab-Muslim state with a seemingly less-than-amicable record of relations with their Jewish community.

Sources:

• Wikipedia
• “The Jews of Tunisia” by Mitchell Bard
• “The History of the Jews of Tunisia” by Alexander Rosenzweig
• Refer to the bibliography of my original paper for more sources

Rabat was my last research-related destination in Morocco. As the current capital of Morocco, it acts as its political center, housing all government and ministerial offices, embassies, the mausoleum for kings who have passed away and even the King’s official palace. Historically, Rabat had a thriving Jewish community, which used to reside in the mellah and was serviced by a number of synagogues. Today between 150 and 200 Jews still live in Rabat, making it the 3^rd most populous Jewish city in Morocco, behind Casablanca and Marrakesh. The community is serviced by two synagogues, one used for prayer in the new city and the ancient one in the mellah open for visitors, a Rabbi, a shochet, and a kosher restaurant.

I arrived in Rabat on the Friday after Yom Kippur and spent five days at the house of a very nice, Jewish couple (below), enjoying Shabbat and the first two nights of Sukkot with them and the community in Rabat. Perhaps because the family is more traditionally than strictly religiously observant of Judaism, I noticed that there were some relatively secular and well-assimilated families living in Rabat. However, I also met, interviewed and dined with some of the more religious components of the community, so I believe I have a well-rounded idea of the history of Rabat and its contemporary realities.

Stories of the Jewish population of Rabat’s migration displayed similar trends as other cities: the migrations occurred in waves marked by Arab-Israeli conflicts, poorer people left for Israel around 1948 for a better economic life, later migrations were triggered by anticipation of (after Moroccan independence) and eventually the realization of bad economic conditions, as well as fear. However, for the first time in three months, the “fear factor” was actually supported by 2 concrete examples that would warrant enough fear amongst Jews to cause their flight. These two events were particularly significant in the literature on the migration of Jewish communities from Morocco, and before I left I was expecting to hear about them a lot more frequently.

These events include a Jewish massacre in Oujda in 1948 (a city close to the eastern border with Algeria) and the visit of Gamal Abdel Nasser (the former Egyptian president and “father” of the Arab Nationalism movement) to Morocco. The former is one of only two official accounts of organized violence against Jews in Morocco’s recent history (the other in nearby Djereda during the same year), but would understandably instill fear in a population that was increasingly on edge after the creation of Israel. The latter event would have been frightening for the Jews of Morocco because at the time, Nasser was the symbol of Arab unification and cooperation, particularly against the Arab world’s “common enemy” of Israel. Moroccans came out in hordes to support this hero and the cause of Arab solidarity, which caused Jews to question their status as Moroccans because the support for Nasser portrayed Moroccans identifying increasingly as anti-Israeli Arabs, instead of Moroccans. The two men that mentioned these events described the increasing fear of the Jews in Rabat, as it became more dangerous to even leave the house with a kippah on, and at least part of the reason that people began to emigrate. However, they fervently denied that the Jews in Rabat experienced any sort of violence, persecution or harassment, and still maintained cordial relations with their Muslim neighbors.

What I find most interesting about these events is not so much their effect on and role in the migration, which would vary from person to person and family to family, but rather its lack of prevalence in the current Jewish Moroccan discourse on its own population’s exit. I can think of a few reasons to support this strange phenomenon, but it is purely speculation and not proven through firsthand accounts. The Jewish population with which I speak are those that remained in Morocco, and therefore, one would assume, the segment of the population that was relatively unfettered by news of violence against Jews at that time. This event may have seemed insignificant to them at the time, and for that reason does not even exist as part of their historical memory/narrative of the departed Jewish population. One possible reason for the insignificance assigned to the massacres is proximity; Oujda and Djereda are located hundreds of miles from most Moroccan cities, and is commonly associated with or considered closer to Algeria in many aspects of life.

I believe that the current Jewish Moroccan population does not associate Nasser’s visit to Morocco with the reasons for the Jewish migration because of the Moroccan (Jewish and Muslim) distinction between Jews and Israelis. I have mentioned in other posts the historical fortitude of this differentiation in Morocco; the Jews may not have been frightened of Nasser’s visit because they were confident not only in their position in Moroccan society, but also in the Moroccan Muslim conviction/mentality that separates their Jews from others.

The last question begs to be asked: so why did I finally encounter these reasons in Rabat? Unfortunately, I do not have an answer, but rather a postulation. The man who originally mentioned it to me is originally from a small village in the mountains not far from Oujda, and perhaps it is a more salient event in his mind because at one time, it touched particularly close to home. Furthermore, he is very well-educated, has been a teacher in Morocco since 1960, and lives in the city that Nasser visited, all of which may attribute to his knowledge on these events. Therefore, I conclude that this man was the exception, rather than the rule, and it was by chance that I heard about the massacre here (I may have heard of it from others originally from nearby villages, currently living in other cities now). However, it is peculiar that I only heard about Nasser’s visit one time here, as Rabat was the city that experienced it firsthand.

Both times I visited Marrakesh, I had the same, inauspicious first impression; the beautiful aesthetics of the city were overshadowed by the aggressiveness and rudeness of its inhabitants. I do not even believe that my preconceived notions on Marrakesh, ascertained from other travelers and Moroccans alike who had visited, influenced these impressions. Marrakesh is Morocco’s top vacation/holiday destination, particularly from Europe, and attracts millions of tourists a year who seem to love the antiquity, hustle and bustle of the medina and the modern and Western aspects (read: nightclubs) of the Ville Nouvelle. The Moroccans, on the other hand, resent that this sharp increase in tourism has also caused a drastic rise in the cost of everything in Marrakesh, but acknowledge that it is a fun place to go for a few good nights out.

While I did not have the chance to sample the nightlife for myself, I was able to conduct my research. I obtained much of the information from the president of the Marrakesh Jewish Community, who also organized for me to live on the second floor of the 500 year old Synagogue Alzama, located in the mellah. From there, I had Shabbat dinner with another couple living in the synagogue, and Shabbat lunch with another family who is one of the last remaining Jewish families living in the mellah.

This synagogue was built in 1492 by the megorashim, or Jews that fled Spain after the Inquisition. When the megorashim first arrived, tensions existed between them and the native Jewish community, who looked like their Arab neighbors and had different religious and cultural practices. They built this synagogue in order to preserve the Spanish methods of Jewish observation, but over the years, the tensions alleviated as the communities began to integrate. After its construction, it also became a yeshiva or Talmud Torah and recruited religious men from many rural regions all over Morocco to come and study. The community supported these scholars; each family in the mellah would “adopt” a student and sponsor them during the course of their studies. The room that I stayed in for the weekend was actually a classroom a few centuries ago.

Before Israeli independence, Jewish life in Marrakesh was normal for about 500 years (after the Inquisition from Spain).  However, as religious Jews aware of the diaspora and the Promised Land, this community was always “wishing to go home.”  Around the time of independence about 60 years ago, the Jewish population of Marrakesh reached 27,000! But that began to decline with independence because the devout community came to the realization that the time had finally come to return home.

Even before Israeli independence, the Jewish Agency was working to build the new country of Israel, and after 1948, came to Morocco to help move Jews to Israel, relatively secretly.  Many of those that moved during this time did not understand politics and made their decisions based on the following information: there was a Jewish disaster in Europe, a land for Jews in Israel was created, and there was war with Muslim Arabs.  Although King Mohammed V, who had saved the Jews from the Hitler and Vichy regimes during World War II, did not want to see his Jewish population emigrate, he did not block the migration.  The numbers of Jews from Marrakesh that emigrated from Morocco increased with every major conflict in Israel because they represented opportunities for the Jewish Agency to come to Morocco and recruit new émigrés.  One other reason for the increase in migration was that despite the good relations between Arabs and Jews, the Jews always felt that this was not their own land.

The French house that stood where the Beth El Synagogue in the Ville Nouvelle stands today was bought by a Jewish man in 1959.  Before Moroccan independence in 1956, Jews were not permitted to live in the Ville Nouvelle, but afterward, they began to buy property and moved from the mellah into the new city.  Recognizing the need for a synagogue for the new Jewish inhabitants of the Ville Nouvelle, Beth El Synagogue was built and is still in use today.

Maybe because I was embedded in the religious sector of the current community in Marrakesh, I was most exposed to the “Zionist reason” for emigration. However, this may have some merit considering not only the existence of such a religious establishment for over 500 years, but also because the majority of tzadikim, or old, wise, sanctified Rabbis, came from the areas around Marrakesh and the Marrakshis have historically glorified these tsadikim with pride and religious fervor.

Currently, there are about 240 Jews living in Marrakesh, serviced by 3 synagogues (one in the Medina, one in the Mellah and one in the Ville Nouvelle), a kosher restaurant, a Rabbi, and a shochet.  Most of the Jews in Marrakesh are older, with only about 12 children under the age of 18 years old remaining.  In present-day Morocco, about 3000 Jews reside, 2000 of which in Casablanca and the other 1000 spread out amongst the other larger Moroccan cities.  The President of the community argued that it is good for Morocco to maintain its Jewish population because it shows the rest of the world that Jews can and do live well here.

Fes is probably my favorite Moroccan city, and I regret that I was only able to spend about 12 days there total. It is considered the religious and cultural center of Morocco, and is the home of the largest and oldest medina in North Africa, the oldest university in the world, and a beautifully modern, developed, and European Ville Nouvelle.

While in Fes I met many Jewish and Muslim people who were willing to talk about the Jewish history in Fes, and the relations amongst the two communities, historically and into the present day. In 1947, the official Jewish population of Fes numbered 14,140, while some people claim that at its peak, the population reached 25,000. Today, the Jewish population consists of about 70 or 80 Jews, most over the age of 60 years old. Despite this, the community still maintains all of the historical Jewish sites including a few old synagogues, the vast Jewish cemetery and the accompanying museum (under construction when I visited), a synagogue for regular use, a community center that houses not only a butcher shop, but also a kosher restaurant, and a mikveh. Much of the information I will provide in this post actually comes from many meetings with one man, who is the city’s Rabbi, Chazan, Shochet, and Sopher and who also has an extensive private collection of Jewish artifacts from all over Morocco.

The Jewish narrative in Fes reflects many of the other cities on which I have researched, but there are a few particularities worth mentioning. Like Jews in other cities, and other Jews in Fes, the Rabbi argued that the Jewish migration from Fes increased after every war between Arabs and Israelis. These decisions were partly based on a fear of instability in Morocco, which he claimed was unfounded because the Moroccans not only were good to the Jews, but also let them decide whether they wanted to stay or leave. Interestingly, in conversations with some elderly women still residing in Fes, I learned that many couples with children decided to move with their children when they left for university because they did not want to constantly travel back and forth. While I had heard this reason for migration in the past, I heard it many more times and more pronouncedly in Fes, leading me to believe that perhaps an attachment to family and a fear of a dwindling Jewish community played a more significant role than of fear of threats from Muslims. This was further reinforced by each interviewee consistently claiming that in the past the relations between the communities were more than just safe, but friendly and fluid; one woman reported that when she would play as a young child in her neighborhood she never even knew the difference between the Jews and Muslims.

As in the case of the other cities, the destination of the earlier waves of migration (in the 50s and early 60s) was Israel, whereas beginning in the mid 1960s, the Jews began emigrating more to France and Canada. However, the role of money and financial stability seems to have played a less clear role in Fes than in other cities. It was often a factor not mentioned or less discussed (than in interviews in other cities) in interviews with Jewish Fassis. What I did lear was that after 1973 some rich Jews left for Canada and France, but many stayed because they had established lives here. Overall, it seems that the connection to a Jewish community and families was the driving force behind the Jewish Fassi migration, and as more Jews began to leave, more followed because they desired and required the type of vibrant Jewish life that Fes used to provide its Jewish population.

I want to tell one last story, told to me by a Muslim woman, in order to highlight some important issues facing this community in the present day.  About 7 years ago, a poor, Muslim man saw a rich man and decided to steal his belongings and kill him afterward.  After the investigation, it was discovered that the rich man was Jewish, and many people in Fes construed the crime as a religious hate crime.  However, this woman contends that this man was just poor, looking for anyone who had money, and probably did not even know that the man was Jewish.  She argued that in his state of desperation, he would have stolen from and murdered a Muslim, that religion did not play a factor, and that sometimes, people look to blame problems on the issues highlighted in the media.  However, she argued, violence against Jews, for being Jewish, has never existed in Fes, ad there was no reason to believe that his motives were anything but monetary.

Hey everyone!  As part of my few requirements for the Watson Fellowship, I must submit 3 quarterly reports on my progress and the triumphs and challenges I am facing as the year continues.  Copied below is the report, which provides a good idea of the things I have learned since I have been in Morocco, outside of the research-related posts from before.  Enjoy!

I began my “Watson Journey,” as it is entitled on my blog, in Morocco, the homeland of my paternal grandparents. I was immediately struck by the metropolitan nature of my first destination, Casablanca, and was further awed by the beauty and variety of landscapes and cities that this country has to offer. I was additionally comforted by the familiarity of many Moroccan cultural characteristics; I found not only the food reminiscent of home, but also the warm, open and hospitable nature of most Moroccans, regardless of religion, which constantly reminds me of home and particularly, my grandparents’ house. However, I quickly learned, and continue to observe that, in any grouping of people, whether it be by locality, country, religion, or nation, both good and bad people exist. I believe that one of the intended or unintended outcomes of the Watson year is to develop the judgment necessary to navigate amongst the good and the bad, to learn when to trust others and when to be careful, and in my experience, there is no better place to innocuously do so than in Morocco.

Moroccan aesthetics were not the only thing to catch my attention within my first few weeks; as I began to explore my research topic of the Jewish migration from the country, I was bombarded with other aspects of the Jewish existence in this Muslim country. Originally, I intended to become acquainted with and assimilate into the Jewish community in Morocco, in order to learn about their stories and experiences during the times when other Jews were emigrating, and to gain access to trustworthy Muslims in which to interview on the same topic. Within the first week I noticed that while oftentimes this topic was not a preferred one for conversation amongst the Jews I had met, someone was always equipped with an equally interesting and relevant issue, usually pertaining to contemporary Jewish life. Continuously finding myself intrigued by the realities of their life in a Muslim context, its triumphs and facilities, as well as its challenges and failures, I decided to expand the scope of my research to include the present day. Currently, I am studying the causes of the Jewish migration, from both the remaining Jewish and Muslim Moroccan perspectives, as well as this phenomenon’s effect on the remnant Jewish and Muslim populations, in terms of the resulting realities of a minority Jewish community living a Jewish life in a Muslim context.

The following report will highlight the successes and failures I have experienced over the last three months in realizing these, albeit broader in scope than originally intended, research goals. However, I will also discuss the progress of my personal goal(s) for this year, which most importantly include a search for my personal identity. This question is probably most prescient in Morocco because of my Moroccan heritage, so I really spent the last 3 months discovering whether or not I can identify with Moroccans, perhaps not in language, but in the intangible aspects of identity that are transmitted in terms of character, values, and mentality.

Due to the extremely open, warm and welcoming nature of Jewish Moroccans (and Muslims as well, for that matter), I am very happy to report that I have been able to familiarize myself with the Jewish community here. About 2000 Jews reside in Casablanca and about 1000 throughout seven to ten other Moroccan cities. I have spent around 4 to 6 weeks in and out of Casablanca, particularly observing and engaging in their religious and cultural celebrations, attending synagogue, holiday parties, many dinners/meals at people’s homes and making friends and contacts throughout the community. I spent the remainder of my 3 months here travelling to 7 other cities that still have Jewish populations ranging from 30 to 250 people (Tangier, Meknes, Fes, Essaouira, Agadir, Marrakesh, Rabat). While I only was able to spend from 2 to 8 days in each city, the small size of its population facilitated meeting Jews and discussing with them their personal lives and stories, the specific history of the city, and how life is for them today. Generally, many of these cities display similar migratory trends: some of these cities’ populations are often the result of internal migrations from small mountain/desert villages into the city, Jews left Morocco in significant numbers after each Arab-Israeli war or conflict, each wave of migration displayed similar trends of causes and destinations, and ultimately, money, comfort and well-being played the most prominent factor in determining the Jewish decisions to either remain in Morocco or leave. Unfortunately, outside of Casablanca and Marrakesh, it becomes clear that Jewish life in these cities is in the process of becoming extinct, as none or very few Jews under the age of 40 now reside there. However, those that live in these cities are able to find most of what they need to live a appropriate and devout religious life (access to a synagogue, Rabbi, kosher food, etc.) Within Casablanca, on the other hand, the Jewish community, while smaller than earlier in history, is still vibrant; over 30 synagogues are still in use just within the city, kosher food, stores and restaurants abound, and a rich cultural life maintains the unity of the community.

From discussions with both Jews and Muslims, the historical and contemporary relations among Muslims and Jews in Morocco are 95% of the time characterized as “good, no problems, we are all Moroccans.” Many Muslims that I have spoken with express their appreciation for their Jewish counterparts, and many even convey regret that they do not have the same close relationships with Jews as their fathers did because the community is so small now. However amicable these relations may appear on the surface, after 3 months I observed that a mutual respect exists between the communities, but also a racism on both sides that generally keeps the two communities separated on a cultural and friendly level. The biggest problem is reiterated time after time to me by both Muslims and Jews: because Muslim-Jewish interaction has decreased as the Jewish population has diminished, young Muslim Moroccans only know about Jewish people from what they see on TV on Israel, which fuels not only misunderstanding and perhaps even hate, but dangerously blurs the identity-distinction historically distinguished amongst Moroccans since 1948 between Israelis and Jewish Moroccans.

On a personal level, I have been able to make progress on certain goals. First, both my Arabic and my French (an unexpected goal/accomplishment) has improved greatly in the past 3 months. I still use the Classical Arabic when I have a chance, but I have also become conversational in the Moroccan dialect! Furthermore, upon arrival I knew absolutely no French, and now I can understand main ideas of a conversation, and hold a simple conversation myself. Both of these languages will prove helpful when I reach my next destination, Tunisia.

As part of my search for identity, it was important for me to pinpoint or classify a generally Moroccan mentality or state of mind. I understand that this is a nearly impossible task because no 2 Moroccans (or any people in the same “group”) think alike, but I believe that a general sketch of the important values in Moroccan society, and how those translate into a particular mentality, has finally begun to emerge. The first, most noticeable value observed by someone travelling alone is what is called “Arab hospitality,” or what seems to be for Moroccans almost a cultural obligation- for example, it would be completely possible to live in Morocco for 3 months and never pay for a single meal. I have been invited to dine with everyone from a taxi driver, to men working in shops in the medina, to Jews at synagogue and more. Even while many Moroccans do not speak English, they almost universally know how to say the translation of the traditional Moroccan welcome “Marhababik,” or “you are welcome.” The second most prevalent component of the Moroccan mentality is based in the long-established and well-ingrained value of a gender gap, which manifests itself in very structured and rigid, although evolving slowly, gender roles. While women are awarded all of the freedoms and civil liberties as men according to the law, the customary practices and every day lives of women vary significantly from their male counterparts, and as a single women travelling alone, I am frequently made to feel uncomfortable or inappropriate and am often judged for my free and independent mind and research. I hear the following question often, from both Jews and non-Jews: “You are alone? What does your father think of this?” Unknowingly, these people are reflecting the aforementioned values and mentality because for them a woman proceeds from the protection of her father to that of her husband, and it is difficult for them to imagine a woman living and travelling alone not only without protection, but also without permission. Many more examples of the gender gap affecting my every day life exist, but essentially reflect the same lesson: Moroccans are caught between traditional values and morals defined over thousands of years of history and a desire to develop the country and lift it out of poverty and towards development. While in the United States these two are mutually exclusive, for a large portion of the Moroccan population, both are desired and pursued simultaneously.

As in the case of all other Watson fellows and all researchers conducting fieldwork, my triumphs are accompanied by plenty of challenges. The first and most pressing research-related challenge is in the logistics associated with obtaining the Muslim point of view on Jewish history and contemporary life. While I have met and interviewed Muslims in Morocco, the majority of my information comes from the Jewish point of view. I have met most of the Moroccan Jews I know here through synagogue or the community’s office, which in my experience constitutes the more religiously observant segment of the Jewish population in Morocco. This segment, for reasons I have not yet been able to decipher, tends to be more close-minded and racist and therefore, do not associate with non-Jews outside of the work environment. This has made it difficult for me to find Muslims to interview through that avenue. Another logistical issue lies with safety- I have found this topic to be relatively sensitive, and therefore I must be careful with whom I choose to discuss it.

Once I have ascertained a suitable interviewee (Jew or Muslim), I have encountered the issue of blatant “sugar-coating.” As a good judge of character and situations, I am aware when people either do not always tell me the truth or make the truth sound better or “sweeter” than reality. For Jews, the reasons are one or a combination of the following: 1. they do not trust me, 2. they do not want to seem racist, and/or 3. they fear that if they say something negative against Muslims or the government someone will find out and it will hurt/negatively affect them. For non-Jews the reasons are essentially the same, but are heightened because sometimes they know that I am Jewish so they choose what they say carefully, and also because they know that the government protects the Jews and speaking badly about them can lead to dire consequences from the government. Based on the research I did before the trip, I was expecting this lack of sincerity and feelings of distrust, and for these reasons have worked hard to develop relationships with people before conducting interviews, in order to gain their trust and be able to differentiate the truth from the sugar-coated stories I hear.

The personal challenges I have faced also came as little surprise to me. Loneliness, while at times cherished, can at others be debilitating- particularly as I spent the Jewish holiday season without my family and seeing others together and enjoying each other’s company, usually after some time apart. Compounding this loneliness were cultural misunderstandings on my part from the first two months here, which hindered my attempts to make real friends. More specifically, it took me a while to realize that the gender gap I observed, for example, in street cafes occupied only by men, reaches into the inner crevices of the Moroccan mind and mentality, and prevent the type of male-female platonic relationships that I am accustomed to at home. The greatest personal challenge I have faced since entering this part of the world is truly grasping the every day consequences and realities of such an ingrained cultural value, and figuring out how to deal with such notions that are so contrary to everything for which I stand. As a guest in this country, I have learned that I must compromise some of what I consider my personal freedoms, for the sake of assimilation and safety, but I am still searching for a way to balance these accommodations and my independent and free personality and spirit.

With all of this being said, I think that my original personal goal of a search for identity is becoming evident. Both the values of hospitality and gender roles in Moroccan society are reminiscent of my grandparents, my parents, and my home, which is something I have always known. What I have learned in these three months is where exactly these ideals originated. Now I see that my grandparents have, in fact, transmitted them to their offspring, and I am thankful to them for instilling in me the importance, for community and human connection, of an open-door policy for one’s home. I have always, and now even more so, truly identified and agreed with this aspect of my upbringing, and through my time in Morocco, I have experienced first-hand and appreciate the benefits this particular value can offer. However, I am also very much a product of the free, equal and liberal environment where I was raised and a maternal feminist grandmother that taught me from a young age that girls can do anything boys can. And I do not think that this is something I can compromise in the long run, even though I will make such accommodations this year, out of both respect and fear. So I suppose after Morocco I consider myself a Jewish American, highlighted by streaks of the Moroccan mentality.

Agadir is a lovely beach resort city located on the Atlantic Ocean in the south of Morocco. After many years of reconstruction after an earthquake in 1960 completely devastated the city, Agadir is now one of Morocco’s top beach resort destinations. Wealthy Moroccans, as well as Europeans from the United Kingdom to Russia, frequent the cty year round because of its gorgeous weather and beaches. I intended to take a quick, 2-day trip there after a hectic hiloulah-weekend in Essaouira, in order to unwind, get a tan and take a break from work before heading to Marrakesh. However, as I seem to always manage, I found some Jews and stayed a few extra days to learn about their community in Agadir.

I met the first Jews sort of by accident- I read in my trusty Lonely Planet that there is a great restaurant on the beach called Chez Mimi, who’s cuisine reflects Mimi’s origins- French, Spanish and Jewish. I went figuring maybe I could chat with Mimi a little over dinner, and that would be that. Well, it turned out that Mimi wasn’t there when I sat down for dinner, but I was thrilled anyway because they had kosher meat available on the menu AND served alcohol. This is my kind of place. About halfway through the meal, Mimi’s husband, Alan, approached my table asking if I had asked for Mimi. After explaining to him that I had, a little about myself and why I wanted to meet her, he returned to my table with his and my dinner and we dined together while talking about Jewish things. He informed me that I should return the next afternoon when Mimi was working, as she would be happy to meet me and talk to me. I couldn’t believe my luck when he reported that in 2 days a Yizkor was being held at the synagogue; it was a rare occasion for most of the community to gather because they rarely even receive a minyan on Shabbat. The following is a summary of what I learned at the Yizkor about the Jewish community in Agadir.

The Jewish community in Agadir was very numerous when the earthquake struck in 1960; it did not discriminate between Muslims and Jews and many from both communities were lost during this tragedy. The city decided not to try to sift through the wreckage nor to rebuild the old medina that was the site of ruin and destruction, but instead, built a cemetery right on top of the former medina. Both a Muslim and a Jewish cemetery can be visited today, eerily on top of the exact spot where the city used to stand. In the years following the earthquake, the new city of Agadir was built further down the hill from the old medina. Many of the Jews that survived the earthquake moved to Marrakesh (a few hours away) or other cities in Morocco.

The community that currently resides in Agadir numbers about 80, approximately 20 families, and consists of mainly older people. This number fluctuates as many Jews only reside in Agadir for vacation and usually have other homes in Europe. After the earthquake, the city gave the Jewish community a piece of land on which to build a new synagogue, and this stands today. Unfortunately, they do not usually receive a minyan for Shabbat, and Jewish life is relatively limited in the city. However, the Jews here live well; many of them own thriving businesses in this bustling tourist city, get along well with their Arab neighbors and live comfortably. Mimi and Alan even explained to me that they have more difficulties with the 4000 French people living in Agadir than the Arabs. They reported that this community is racist because they consider themselves superior to the other communities in Agadir, they only associate with one another, and they even behave nastily to the couple because they close the restaurant on Friday afternoons for Shabbat. On the other hand, they argue, the Arabs respect their establishment and their decisions and the couple maintains very strong relationships and even friendships with the Moroccans residing in Agadir.

While it didn’t end up being a true “get away” because I was able to meet Jews and learn about the Jewish history of the city, I truly enjoyed my time in Agadir. Its modern and European appearance did actually make me feel like I had left Morocco for a few days, which was a nice change after about 6 weeks in the country. Think- Eilat, Israel. Furthermore, I felt completely at home with the Jewish community there; everyone was excited to meet me and talk to me and I was even able to make contacts for my travels later in the year.

Every year, Jews from all over the world travel to various Moroccan cities for hilouloth, celebrations commemorating tzadikim, or famous, wise Jewish scholars and Rabbis from the past. Dozens of these occur a year, and as part of my research on the history and culture of Jewish Moroccans, it was only natural for me to attend one. I was lucky that one such hiloulah, for Rabbi Chaim Pinto, was being held the weekend of September 18^th in Essaouira, in the south of Morocco. As his descendant, the great Rabbi David Pinto currently lives and works in France and has yeshivot and a devout following across the world. His organization Hevrat Pinto organizes the hiloulah every year.

Rabbi Pinto lived during the turn of the 18^th century, at a time when roughly half of Essaouira’s population was Jewish. He is famous as a “great rabbi and tzadik,” although the only additional details I attained about his life and his work was only through the internet (http://www.judaicaplus.com/Tzadikim/pinto.htm), rather than at the hiloulah itself. Some Jews (less than 50) still live in Essaouira; however, because I was busy with the weekend’s events, I did not have time to delve into the details of the community’s recent history or present situation. I did find out, though, that there is a synagogue open in the city now, but it rarely receives a minyan, even on Shabbat.

The weekend itself is held at a very nice hotel set aback from the medina and the main strip of hotels lining the beautiful beach in Essaouira. A gigantic tent is constructed in the parking lot, housing the dining area for the weekend for approximately 800-1000 people (my guess). Although it comes with a hefty price tag, all of the meals from Thursday evening through Sunday afternoon are catered by a kosher catering company based in Casablanca. Aside for meals, the schedule includes all of the daily prayers (conducted in a makeshift synagogue in one of the hotel’s banquet rooms), visits to Rabbi Pinto’s house and grave, study sessions with Rabbi David Pinto, and the actual hiloulah after Shabbat on Saturday night at his grave. The majority of the people in attendance are Jewish Moroccans that currently live in France, while Jewish Moroccans from Israel and Canada, and non-Moroccans from the US, Argentina, and Mexico (usually followers of Rabbi David) all make the journey to Morocco for the event.

As an outsider, never having experienced a hiloulah before, I certainly had no idea what I was getting myself into, and regrettably, I cannot say that now, after it is over, I really understand the hiloulah, with regards to its purpose, significance and meaning for the Jews that attended. The reasons are many: 1. all of the events, speeches, study sessions etc. were in French and were rarely translated for me by a nice woman who spoke some Hebrew, 2. everybody spoke French, making asking questions and receiving thoughtful answers difficult, and 3. never experiencing what seemed to me as saint worship in the past, I was in awe for much of the weekend. The latter became the subject that intrigued me most and caused me to be extremely skeptical, if not cynical, toward the entire cultural experience (side note- many will refer to this as a religious event; however, from my perspective religion was solely the background or the least-common-denominator for those in attendance, not the main attraction).

A description of the customs will elucidate my aforementioned attitude. The main events of the weekend seem to focus around the meals; Rabbi David made grand entrances during the dinners, complete with his Jewish “posse,” Moroccan government officials, and police serving as escorts. The governor of Essaouira was in attendance for 2 of the dinners, and during the first, gave a speech on behalf of the King, saying “This is the way it should always be between Muslims and Jews.” The many courses during each meal were punctuated by bouts of men chanting and singing praise toward Rabbi Chaim, Rabbi David and sometimes, toward G-d.

There were organized excursions during the day to Rabbi Pinto’s home and his gravesite, but it was the actual hiloulah celebration after dinner on Saturday night that was the main event. The hundreds of people in attendance piled into buses at about midnight and gathered outside the gate to the cemetery. Once Rabbi David arrived, we began to file in through the double doors to the cemetery; men entered first and remained on one side of the entrance-walkway of the cemetery and the women followed in afterward to their own side. Once everyone was inside, Rabbi David, followed by a mob of Jewish men screaming and singing the same chants as in the dinner tent, walked through the cemetery and into the “house” built to protect and commemorate his ancestor’s great tomb. As many men as could fit in this small building crammed inside and continued the jumping, screaming, and chanting for about an hour. The windows to the structure began to fog as the men jumped and shouted endlessly, without seeming to tire. Some men were even trying to jump inside or to simply catch a glimpse of the action through open windows. After two rounds of men filtered in and out of the building (about 2 am), the women were finally allowed to enter the building, and pay their respects to the man they revere so intensely.

The entire experience was definitely an interesting for me, in Jewish, cultural and academic respects. The singing and chanting during the weekend represents for me the lasting impression of the hiloulah itself; it was the physical demonstration of prayer and praise for the Rabbi, which seemed to be familiar to all of the people that attended. Therefore, one postulates that this particular type of worship was the means by which they transmit this cultural importance of the festival. One chant that rang through the tent and graveyard incessantly throughout the weekend was “Howaja,” which means in Arabic “He is coming.” After inquiring who the “he” is, most people answered “he” is Rabbi David, who represents his ancestor Rabbi Chaim, while some acknowledged “he” is the messiah, or G-d himself. The fact that this popular chant is in Arabic portrays the particularly Moroccan, more so than Jewish, nature of the festival. Other songs and chants were in either French or Hebrew and only one referenced G-d specifically: “The Holy Blessed One, we love you” (translated from Hebrew).

I, even as the descendant of Jewish Moroccans, felt like an outsider and that the traditions for the hiloulah were completely foreign to me. It was specifically the chanting that made me the most uncomfortable because I could not fight the feeling that it felt contrary to the Judaism I am accustomed to, and borderline un-Jewish The first Jewish story I remember learning in Hebrew school, after “G-d created the Earth in 6 days,” was about the founder of Judaism, Abraham. His father was a pagan and owned a shop that sold idols. As the story goes, G-d spoke to Abraham and told him that there is only one G-d so idol worship is a sin, and that he will begin the first monotheistic religion. In response, Abraham destroyed all of the idols in his father’s shop and Judaism was born. But an idol is not just a statue; the most observant Jews refuse to even hang up photographs of loved ones because they consider it a type of worship to something that is not G-d. With this Jewish teaching as one of the foundations of my faith, I was completely taken aback at how much the customs of the hiloulah resembled saint worship. Here were Jews, not merely paying their respects to an important tzadik, but actually praying to him and his descendant as if they were divine themselves. While I stood at the graveyard with all of the chanting in the background and the crying and praying men and women all around me, I could not conjure up any sort of spiritual emotion, as hard as I tried. At that moment I decided that the cultural boundaries were just too great for me to really share the spiritual emotions that the Moroccan Jews very clearly felt during the festival. And maybe, while it seems “un-Jewish” to me, for them this is just one more way to practice their Judaism. One Argentinean Ashkenazi Jew explained it best: “I am here because of Rabbi David, who showed me the great tzzadik Rabbi Chaim Pinto. And we pray to him because when we do, it brings us closer to G-d.”

One last story really drives the point of saint worship home. I met an Ashkenazi American Jew from New York City that established a relationship with Rabbi David a few years ago and has been attending the hiloulah for the last few years. A few years ago, a friend of his took a photograph of Rabbi David as he was lighting a candle for Rabbi Chaim’s memorial, and he was eager to show it to me. After seeking his friend out and showing it to me, the two men were beside themselves due to the eeriness of the photo; taken before the candle was actually lit, a glowing light surrounds the wick of the candle. They zoomed into the illuminated spot and pointed out what they thought was an image of Rabbi Chaim. Sure, it was pretty strange, but it probably was the result of the camera settings. However, they were convinced of the spiritual significance of this photo; that Rabbi David elicited the image of his ancestor without even lighting his own remembrance candle.

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Three other issues are worth mentioning. I inquired with skepticism on why people attended and celebrated the hiloulah, why they respected the rabbi, and what they actually knew about him. The reasons seemed to be twofold: 1. many of the attendees are followers or supporters of Rabbi David and were invited by him, or 2. it is something they have been doing with their families for years. Interestingly, while everyone I spoke to was quick to say that Rabbi Chaim was a “great rabbi,” no one seemed to really know what it is that he did during his life that made him so great. Therefore, I argue that this observance is more cultural and traditional than religious, partly because the real Jewish meaning or significance of Rabbi Chaim’s Jewish life has been lost or is unknown to the present generation. The other evidence for this argument is the aforementioned lack of prayer and focus on G-d.

Secondly, I was unhappy with the level of segregation between men and women throughout the weekend, with women always taking a backseat to the men. Even in the dinner tent, which resembled more a bar mitzvah party than a synagogue, men and women sat separately. This further reflects the specifically Moroccan cultural nature of the hiloulah, as such “seating segregation” is even common at Shabbat dinner tables.

The last feeling I could not fight over the course of the weekend was how commercial the venture seemed. Maybe it was the colorful and catchy flyer I saw online before the weekend, advertising a fixed discounted price, including airfare from France, transportation for the weekend, and food. But it got worse- I spent $200 on food for the weekend, which works out to over $20 a meal. I understand that kosher food is expensive, but I could not help but feel that someone was making money along the way. Furthermore, “special priveleges,” such as opening the door to Rabbi Pinto’s grave’s building, were auctioned off during the dinner on Saturday night, whle Jewish vendors also brought their goods to sell throughout the weekend. These examples only added to my suspicions of the commercial nature of the event.

At least the food was good.