On my final day in post-revolutionary Tunisia, I headed to
the vast Jewish cemetery at Bourgel aiming to find and pay tribute to the final
resting places of Tunis’ musical superstars of years past. While the cemetery
itself is in a discouraging state of disrepair, the tombs of Habiba Messika and
Cheikh El Afrite, two of said vedettes, are readily identifiable, if not
difficult to reach. There is a feeling one gets when visiting a mostly
abandoned Jewish cemetery in North Africa. In seeking a particular grave, you
often have to wade through trash, sidestep discarded beer bottles, whack away
overgrowth, and climb over other broken graves with names no longer legible.
When you reach your destination, it is both unsettling and uplifting and most
certainly a religious experience.
Cassette digging for Habiba Messika
Tunisians’ memory of Habiba
Messika, the young Jewish singer, actress, and diva, who took Tunis by storm in
the 1920s, is at once fierce and fading. Her cassettes, made from copies of
copies of her scare 78 rpm recordings, are easily available in the myriad CD
and tape shops around the city. Ask just about anyone – young or old – and they
“remember” her. This, of course, is despite the fact that most do not actually
remember. While Messika’s brutal murder by a jealous suitor was front-page news
across the Maghreb and in Paris at the time, it also occurred over eighty years
ago, in 1930, and most were not around to ever see her or hear her live at the
Municipal Theatre, at the Casino in La Goulette, or anywhere else. Much like
her music now, the memories of Messika are copies of copies. Of course, this
makes them no less real but as a result certain details have fallen to the
wayside. Thus her Jewishness, very real at the time, comes as shock to quite a
few when revealed. Messika, like so many other things in Tunis, has been
nationalized.
Stack of broken 78s with Narraci sleeve peeking out
Between meetings and visits to the
archives, I went in search of records. On one of my first days in the country,
I was encouraged by a find in the medina: a stack of shellac, all with purple sleeves
of Joseph Narraci, one of the earliest indigenous (and Jewish) record companies
in North Africa. Unfortunately, not a one contained a Narraci-produced record.
In fact, most Tunisian records, especially 78s, have disappeared, many thrown
out in the transition to vinyl, others captive in storage spaces around Tunisia
and in attics in Paris. What stock does exist – in the medina, brocantes, and
the occasional used bookstore - is either Western rock or Egyptian. If you’re
looking for Um Kulthum on Odeon, you’re in luck, if you’re searching for Gaston
Bsiri, bonne chance. While this was personally disappointing, it also served in
a way as a testament to a phenomenon reported on by Tunisian observers of the
78-era – Egyptian discs were flooding the market. Only by supporting local
artists, critics claimed, could this deluge be averted.
After a little less than two weeks
in Tunis (not nearly enough time), I left feeling nostalgic for a place I never
really knew. Strolling down Rue Al-Djazair, adjacent to the medina, brings one
face-to-face with the once flagship record store of Joseph Narraci, as well as
one of the former cinema districts of the silent and then talkie era. Cutting
over to Rue Charles De Gaulle, transports you to the small empire of Bembaron,
Jewish brothers and impresarios, who began their work by importing harmoniums
and ended by creating a powerhouse label which captured the some of the city’s
most impressive voices. The TGM (Tunis-La Goulette-Marsa) train is a journey
back in time. As it traces the edge of the lake, children pry open the doors to
get that fresh, salted wind in their face, only to be pulled back by the scruff
of their necks by a responsible adult – much the same, I imagine, as it was
sixty years ago. Descending at the La Goulette – Casino stop hurls you straight
into Tunis’ music-hall capital, where Jews, Sicilians, Maltese, Greeks, and
Muslims jostled for a seat at one of the various music venues around town. At
the Casino, one might have caught a show by Messika and Hassan Banane, Cheikh
El Afrite or Dalila Taliana. As I dined at one of the seaside restaurants -
with some of the freshest fish I have ever tasted - I daydreamed of Raoul
Journo, perhaps with Kakino De Paz, crooning about exil in El Ouach ouel Ghorba.
Nostalgia is a double-edged sword
though, as it requires absence to make it its most powerful. During my first
day in the archives, a young graduate student took an interest in me and we
began a conversation. She asked me what I worked on and I told her I was studying
the early years of the North African recording industry. She said I must study
the Jewish musicians then if I was really serious about the topic. Encouraged,
I told her that that was indeed my focus and in fact, I was Jewish. She went
blank. You can’t say that here, she said. Not everyone was as open as she was,
she claimed. Similarly, while Bachir Rsaissi’sRsaissi label draws instant
recognition among those in the know, the uttering of his Jewish counterparts –
Narraci and Bembaron - is met with confusion and the polite protest that those
names, in fact, are not Tunisian. Acher Mizrahi, a favorite of Habib Bourghiba
long after independence, also sounds impossibly foreign to some.
El Kahlaoui Tounsi 45 in a dust-filled brocante
Despite all this (or perhaps
because of it), Tunisia has grabbed my attention in a way I never thought it
would. The Tunisians I spent time with were all supportive of my work, even if
it was not their area of expertise. Many went completely out of their way to
help me and I hope by giving a little more volume to the critically important
history of the music industry in North Africa, I can someday soon return the
favor.
