Heading back

Heading back to Morocco in April. More to come.

Beni Mellal Redux – November 12

Just when you think its over and you start heading back you realize how much Jewish history there really is in this country. It is almost inescapable. I was back in BM for my second anti-Rabies shot. My friend in Casa had told me that there were still a half dozen Jewish women in Beni Mellal. That was the information I had and that is what I went looking for. I started asking around. A man took me by the hand and walked me to an apartment building.

There is a Jewish woman who lives here. Her name is Alice. Everyone knows her.

She wasn’t there. Maybe that was good. What would I speak to her in? Arabic. How would I explain myself and what I was doing? I suddenly felt intrusive. I went back to the man who had helped me earlier.

Alice isn’t there.
Well you have to try her at her hair salon then.
Where is it?

He gave me a set of complicated but manageable directions and then I found her.

Are you Alice?
Yes.
I’m a Jewish American and I know Raphael from Casablanca who I believe you know.

I got a funny look.

My friend here knows English. She said.

There was a man in her shop. Blond hair, blue eyes.

You speak English? I asked.
Yes.

He said he was from Chicago but he wasn’t. He wanted to know where I was from. He didn’t believe me. He didn’t want to hear that I was born and raised in America. He wanted to know my roots, my heritage, and my history. It was all very confusing. How did he know English so well. Did he not believe who I was? I guess it was strange me just showing up like this.

After more questioning I got to the bottom of it. Alice and Raphael were friends from childhood. His name was Raphael too and although I earlier referred to a different Raphael it was confusing and made my whole story seem made up. He was born in BM and friends with Alice from childhood. He had left for Israel with his family and then eventually moved to Chicago. He was from Chicago. She had never left. She had a teenage daugher named Sarah. I met her. She would have fit in in Los Angeles or Israel. A Moroccan Jewish teenage hipster – almost.

I had so many questions. Was Alice married? Was her daughter being raised Jewish? Did she keep Kosher? Did she observe the holidays? What was it like to see her community dissapear? Does she feel safe? Does she think of leaving?

I couldn’t ask any of them. I was frozen. It didn’t make sense to interview, only to enjoy. There were no pictures to take. Just enjoy. And so I enjoyed the moment for what it was: Three Jews talking and having tea together. After a while I put my tea down and thanked Alice and Raphael for the visit and left.

Rissani Part IV – November 10

My friend at the hotel didn’t think I would find what I was looking for.

Did you find it? He asked.
Yes. I said.
Really?
I showed him my pictures and he was visibly impressed.

Baba Sali – November 10

No trip to Rissani is complete with out a trip to the house of the Baba Sali, the famous Rabbi Yisrael AbuHatzeira. His house is still preserved and well known. Folks make pilgrimage to this site. It was fascinating to see his house. It was surprisingly normal and humbling. I was also shown the well where he drew water from which was housed nearby.

Rissani Part III – November 10

I pedaled to the first village and quickly found the requisite old man. He said there was no mellah in the village of Kouighlyn (I now had the name) and there was only one in Rissani. No matter how many times I asked he seemed to be sure. Those around him, decades younger, agreed. I asked them if there were tunnel like structures in the village. It was an excellent game of charades. I had heard that the synagogue was almost underground and until I saw it for myself I didn’t quite understand what I was even asking for. After successfully pantomiming what I was looking for they pointed me in the right direction. The tunnels are called zuqaq in Arabic. An alley is created by the space between mud-brick buildings. What makes these structures unique is that there are dwellings above all this making for an enclosure. Only at the edges does sun peak through. At points you are walking in complete darkness. It is incredibly cool in the zuqaq and so I walked, almost blind, not knowing when I would find what I was looking for. I heard families in the darkness and animals. I finally found some sun. There were four kids there.

Is there a mellah here?
No. They said. Where are you from? Casa?
America.
Give us some money.
You give me some money. I said.
No give us 5 dirham.

This continued back and forth for a while and it was actually quite fun because we all were good humored about it. Then an old man appeared. A blessed old man.

Is there a mellah here?
Yes, this is it. This street here.
Is there a synagogue?
Yes, just half a “block” down.

I opened an unmarked very short door. The four kids followed me inside. I had found it. 700 years old. All mud-brick. Unbelievable condition. Almost perfect. Hay covered the ground – perhaps it was used for storage. It was so dark but two slits allowed concentrated light in. The slights gave just enough light to illuminate the space. It concentrated two beams of light on where the Torah would/should be read. I had never seen concentrated light like that before. It looked solid. You could clearly see the ark and where the nerot tamid would sit. By now news of the American in the village had reached many young ears. Now me and about 25 12 year olds filled the synagogue.

Are you American Idriss? (I had told them that was my name – it sounded close enough to Chris I thought.)
Yes.
Give us money.
No.
Are you Christian?
No.
Muslim?
No, Jewish.

I was so excited just to be there. Perhaps best discovery since arriving here. The old man was waiting outside. He was amused by all the commotion. Wanted to know about me. Did I know anyone from this village? He remembered folks – the Shetrits, Abitbols, and then he struggled to name others. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember but he was proud of what once was. I headed with my bike and my gang of 25 12 year olds to the main road in town. They started calling me Barack Obama as I think this was the only American that came to mind and they thought it was funny. So me and my minions had headed towards town. It was quite a sight. I was stopped by some young folks my own age that wanted to know what was going on. I was saved from the 12 year olds. We sat and talked and then I pedaled off completing the circuit.

Rissani Part II – November 9

I woke up early on Sunday and headed straight for the Jewish cemeteries. There was an old one and a new one adjacent to each other. The older one was in a significant state of decay although there were still two graves with Hebrew on them (although this looked as though it was added at a much later date). The conditions in Rissani are extreme. The heat is impressive even in November and for sure some of the destruction was heat and sand related but there was clear evidence of human tampering (discarded hairbrushes and clothing and other signs). I photographed as much as I could and then moved past the cemetery to find the newer cemetery. The graves were evenly spaced and in unbelievable condition. There is no wall around the cemetery but apparently there is a guardian.

Rissani is an important city in modern Jewish history because it is this city that produced the Baba Sali whose pilgrimage in Israel attracts hundreds of thousands annually. I returned to the hotel and had a nice, long conversation with the owner’s brother who works at the hotel. The mellah was right behind the hotel and in fact his parents had bought the hotel’s land from Jews. A few years ago an acquaintance of his mother’s returned to Rissani and happened on the hotel. She asked my friend if he knew Zubeida and he said: Yes, this is my mother! The two reunited for the first time (something that seems strange/impossible but almost very common here).

One of the main reasons I had come to Rissani was that I had heard that there was a 700 year old synagogue right outside of Rissani. My new friend at the hotel hadn’t heard of the synagogue nor did he know that there was a mellah there but he suggested I rent a bike in order to properly explore. The first village was some 5 km away and I could easily complete the 25 km circuit in an afternoon with a bike. The villages were all mud-brick and set in a series of palmeries. It was officially a plan. I had a fried potato sandwich (which seems to be the specialty in Rissani) and was off on my bike which only had one defective break.

Rissani – November 8

I arrived in Rissani successfully avoiding the hustle. I was happy to get there. I spent Saturday just get my bearings. Rissani is not very big. Another town with tremendous history that has been changed by tourism. Everyone knew I wasn’t from there and all wanted to take me to their uncle’s hotel in Merzouga (where the famous dunes are). I told them that I had no intention of going to Merzouga and that I was staying in Rissani for a few days. They were surprised/taken aback/proud/disappointed.

Er Rachidia Part II - November 7

I decided that when I woke up in the morning I would make my decision about whether to stay in Rachidia or head straight to Rissani. I had figured out last night that I would at least stay here until midday in order to meet with Latifa whom I had met the night before and to see if Brahim brought the key for the third synagogue. I woke up and decided to stay the day and night in Er Rachidia. It was the best decision I could have made. I left my hotel and ran into my faux guide but that was quick and relatively painless. I headed towards Brahim’s shop where I ran into Latifa and her sister. Brahim and I had a quick conversation and then I waited there for about 30 minutes. His shop was busy and he clearly couldn’t leave right when I showed up. He was finally relieved of his duties by a friend and he prepared to leave. He put on a heavier jacket and put a small hammer into his pocket. He went to check on his scooter and had to fill it up with a little bit of gas (which he kept in the store and used a funnel to fill up the tank). We were only going a couple blocks at most so all the ritual was very perplexing to me. We hoped on his scooter and we were off. The ride was much scarier today as instead of cruising around the small streets of the bookshop surrounds we traveled on Rachidia’s major thoroughfare. I realized he was taking me to the cemetery and not the third synagogue. He had told me yesterday that it was quite far and I didn’t realize that he planned on taking me there. We drove past my hotel about a mile and half. There was a very large cemetery (Beit Haim in large Hebrew letters) with mud-brick walls. Brahim knocked loudly on the door a few times but the guardian (I was surprised to find out there was a guardian) didn’t hear or didn’t care to hear. It was still very interesting. Later in the day I would walk back there and from a vantage point above the cemetery climb a small wall and peer over. Although many graves were destroyed or were now hidden because of the extreme weather conditions here it was definitely a sight to see. Suddenly Rachidia seemed much more than just a city one drives through en route to the Sahara. Here was a city where you could still visit three synagogues and a cemetery.

We hoped back on Brahim’s scooter. We made a wrong turn or so I assumed. Could there be a second cemetery? I had read that there was a second cemetery. We drove towards the northern entrance to Rachidia and eventually made a right turn down a dirt road. As I tried not to fall off the scooter I noticed two green doors with Hannukiot on them. We had come to the second cemetery. Now the hammer came into play as he unlocked the gate. We entered the cemetery to find 3 tzaddikim: Rabbi Moul Tria, Rabbi Moul Sidra, and Rabbi Yahia Lahlou. According to tradition Rabbi Lahlou came from the Holy Land to this area during the First Temple period. The walls around the cemetery are high so it would be difficult to get in (unless you had your own hammer). Near the grave of Moul Sidra grows a tree. The tree was dressed with all sorts of women’s clothing. I asked Brahim about this and I heard the same story I have been hearing all along. That local women believe that bathing at Jewish grave protects or heals and thus the clothing so close to the Moul Sidra.

We hoped back on Brahim’s back for a third time. Again we took an unfamiliar route. He drove me now to a third cemetery! He opened the gate, which was also decorated with Hannukiot using the same hammer method from the second cemetery. This cemetery was medium sized and again surrounded by mud-brick walls. The graves were laid out in three sections: Adults-children-adults from north to south. Many of the graves had been destroyed or desecrated and I couldn’t discern any Hebrew inscription until I arrived at the northern most spot in the cemetery. There almost every grave (maybe some 3 dozen) had a Hebrew inscription usually separated from the grave itself. In other cemeteries you saw these types of inscriptions but very rarely. These inscriptions were chiseled onto fairly flat stones and resembled some of the oldest graves I’d seen in Morocco such as the one I found in Ifrane. There was Yehuda ben Moshe, Avraham ben Massud, and so on. Completely legible and in perfect condition. It was a real treat and again made staying in Rachidia for the day very worth it. Brahim then took me to a river close to the cemetery. The waters were running rapidly due to the recent raining and flooding. It was a perfect way to end our journey.

He drove me back to his shop. There were a bunch of men there waiting to go to Friday prayer. They all greeted me warmly and wanted to know of I knew Shlomo or Isaac from Casablanca. Then they asked me if I know Chleuh. I told them “no” in Chleuh to which they all had a big laugh.