Maurice Touboul. The Housing Crisis. MT. Early 1960s?
In the course of the recent Arab uprisings, journalists have
paid a surprising amount of attention to the role of music in protests. In
general, this has been a welcome development, especially when one considers the
all but silent soundscape which those writing about the region have reinforced
by ignoring it. However, this has also led to the reifying of the notion that
protest music in the region is imported. This manifests itself in the focus on
style, usually hip hop, over content. Yet, when one digs just a little bit
deeper it become eminently clear that at least in the Moroccan case, the likes
of rappers Bigg, H-Kayne, and El Haqed (L7a9ed) are taking inspiration from much closer
to home, namely the late 1960s and 1970s protest standouts Nass El Ghiwane, Jil
Jilala, and Lemchaheb, who themselves drew on indigenous sources.
In fact, protest music in Morocco and in North Africa more
generally, is hardly new. The phenomenon goes back to at least the rise of the
recording industry in the Maghreb and probably much earlier. Unsurprisingly,
Jews played a disproportionate role here as well. The very styles Jews
pioneered in early Moroccan, Algerian, and Tunisian music, whether cha’abi or
francarabe, can and should be seen as a challenge to the status quo and to the
musical powers that were. Jews were derided at the time for such sonic
innovation and castigated for corrupting conservative ears. Ultimately,
however, these music forms won the day.
Salim Halali. Arja' li bladi. Pathé. 1930s.
In addition to the implicit protest, Jews were considerably explicit
as well. In Tunisia, Habiba Messika sang El Ittihad (Unity) in the mid-1920s and Louisa
Tounsia sang Ana Arabiya (I'm an Arab) a decade later. In Algeria, Salim
Halali sang about his homeland returning to him. Even Zohra El Fassia sang out,
championing the cause of Sultan Mohammed V (he was eventually exiled and then
returned to the throne by the French) in the late 1940 and 1950s.
As Jews dispersed in the 1950s and 1960s, those who stayed
in North Africa past when they were “expected” to, like Algeria’s Alice
Fitoussi, challenged nationalist and exclusionary conceptions of citizenship. In
many ways, it is these musicians who I am most curious about. What can be said
for sure is that wherever North African Jewish musicians went, they and
their instruments didn’t remain silent for long. Whenever there was a breach of
justice, they took pen to paper and vocalized
what was on their minds, thereby giving voice to their compatriots battling
difficult or unfamiliar terrain. Their audience enthusiastically joined the chorus.
Jo Amar was one of these musicians. Despite enjoying
considerable success in Morocco and internationally, Amar was met with deaf
ears by the Ashkenazi music establishment upon aliyah to Israel. To paraphrase
the Moroccan-born Azoulay brothers out of Jaffa: Who would sign Jo Amar? We
would. Before recording for the mainstream labels, Amar enthusiastically belted
out hit after hit for the Azoulay’s Zakiphon imprint. While he sang separately in both
Arabic and Hebrew, it was his song Lishkat Avodah (Employment Office) which
combined the two and became the darling of the Moroccan community in Israel. I would wager that
while many American Jews know Jo Amar well, nearly none have heard this one. In
Lishkat Avodah, Amar masterfully calls attention to the suffocating
discrimination faced by Moroccans upon their very arrival in Israel. In Arabic,
he sings about the separation of children from parents as the former is sent
off to the kibbutz in what is a totally alien environment. There is the utter
sense of despair coming from the great unknown:
Taken from Haifa to Beit Lid…we were to told to keep going… We were separated from our parents… God have mercy on us
Beyond this and the musical dexterity he displays in rhyming
the Arabic flous (money) with the Hebrew kibbutz (collective community), he
reserves his most blistering verbal attack at minute 3:47 in Hebrew and for all
to understand:
I went to the employment office
He asked me where I was from I told him Morocco He told me to get out
I went to the employment office He asked where I was from I told him Poland He told me to please to come in
Of course, Amar sang in good company before leaving Israel
for the United States. In Israel, his cohort continued to strike a chord regarding
passion-stirring issues of the day while his French counterparts frequently intoned on local
living conditions. This track by the Moroccan Maurice Touboul is in part the
inspiration for this post. It is one of the more curious EPs in my collection
and I unfortunately know little about Touboul other than the fact that he was
deeply respected by the likes of Samy Elmaghribi and that he was no one hit
wonder. In La Crise du Logement, he records at least one Moroccan Jewish
attitude to a housing crisis in France and similar to Amar, he calls on God to take note.
Certainly not all Moroccan Jewish protest music can be
categorized as "liberal" but all of it took aim at what the community deemed to
be unjust, whether the wanton disregard of Maghrebi interests by Israel’s Labor party or the jailing of Aryeh Deri. Nonetheless, these songs
continue to resonate.
Some sixty years after Jo Amar first sang Lishkat Avodah, his
words remain as powerful as ever. In Kamal Hachkar’s brilliant documentary
Tinghir-Jerusalem, the film’s elderly Jewish protagonists recall Amar’s anthem.
Fast forward to minute 43:11 and watch, listen, and try not to be moved as their
singing of this classic brings Hachkar to tears.
Last year I posted about the staggering amount of liturgical
and festival music released by North African Jewish musicians on major record
labels from the earliest days of the recording industry through at least the
1970s. "These musicians," I wrote, "while mastering and
pioneering secular, popular Arabic music were also deeply Jewish and recorded
religious music, much like their Jewish musical counterparts around the
globe." Passover, the Jewish holiday commemorating freedom from bondage,
resonated loudly with singers and songwriters from across the Maghreb. While relegating themselves to a single benediction or portions of the Pessah
haftarah (a selection of Bible chanted in synagogue on the holiday) on the 78
rpm format, the move to the LP allowed these artists to record the Passover
seder in its entirety, complete with instructions on how to lead the ritual service!
Nathan Cohen. Undated photograph.
Over the last few weeks I have been revisiting these pieces.
Two LPs in particular stand out: Samy Elmaghribi’s La Haggada and Nathan
Cohen’s Haggadah de Paque. What is remarkable about the former is that Samy
recorded this with his children. Ses enfants play the role of reciting the
Passover instructions in French and Samy dutifully performs the requisite
rituals when prompted. Nathan Cohen’s Tunisian version is similarly stunning.
His record gathers a number of Tunisian Jewish musicians around him to
contribute to his sacred sound.
What I’ve done essentially is cut, spliced, and remixed portions
of these two LPs together to make what I hope is an enjoyable aural experience.
You will hear French instructions and an entertaining play by play of what the
holiday is about at the beginning of the track and then back-to-back versions
of the Passover classic Dayenu. Dayenu, meaning it would have been enough for
us, is a fifteen-stanza piece about gratefulness to God (If He had only brought
us out of Egypt…Dayenu. If He had only given us Shabbat…Dayenu). The track ends
with Samy appropriately imbibing the fourth cup of wine.
Listen here to a North African Passover Remix:
Please do make sure to pass this one around but not over ;) Wishing
everyone a meaningful Passover holiday. Hag Pessah Sameah.
Finally, here are a couple of extra goodies. You can find my
post from last year here:
The Casablanca cassette seller dusted off a Felix El
Maghrebi mix tape, taped it with his index finger, and handed it to me. “This,”
he said, “this is it.” Pulling a single cassette from a tower of tapes is no
easy feat. Remembering where everything is even more difficult. But Felix El
Maghrebi, the young Jewish mainstay of the Moroccan pop scene from the 1950s
through the 1980s, is impossible to forget. His voice is smooth and his
excitement is palpable. He is also a mighty fine oud player. In fact, wherever I
have purchased music in Morocco, Felix has affectionately become the focus of the
conversation.
Felix Wizman was born in the southern coastal city of Safi
in 1937. Like many other Jewish families, his moved to Casablanca when he was
just a boy. Le Petit Felix, as he soon became known, quickly found his voice in
the big city, literally. It’s likely his father Meir first noticed his talent at
home but it was the synagogue that provided him his initial stage. By the early
1950s, Salim Halali grew aware of Felix the virtuoso, eventually inviting him
on stage with him to perform. Around that time, Felix was either bestowed or
adopted the stage name Felix El Maghrebi, possibly in deference to his idol,
Samy Elmaghribi. By his mid-teens, Felix was already performing professionally,
both in front of large audiences and at private occasions, especially weddings.
He signed a contract with the Jewish label N. Sabbah likely in the 1950s and
cut a number of EPs with them through the 1960s and 1970s.
Felix El Maghrebi and his oud
His Jewish and Muslim contemporaries remember him fondly and
with good reason. When many of his Jewish musical peers were making new homes
for themselves in France and Israel, Felix remained in Casablanca - singing and
playing his heart out. He was not only an audible presence in the 1960s but a visual one as
well, making consistent appearances on Moroccan television at the height of
his career. He was a familiar face in what must have been a confusing, chaotic,
and yet exhilarating period: the initial years of Moroccan independence.
Felix El Maghrebi’s Raya Moghrabiya poignantly captures
the Morocco of the time. It is a military march of sorts, a nationalist hymn
focused on unity. “Be happy, brothers,” he exhorts over and over again in the
refrain.
Take a listen to his golden voice:
Felix Wizman dit Le Petit Felix dit Felix El Maghrebi died five
years ago on March 6, 2008. Through his song, his memory lives on.
P.S. If anyone has information on the N. Sabbah label,
please be in contact with me directly.
-->
Jewish Morocco is back for 2013. Lots of big changes are in
store over the next few months. In the meantime, some new music is in order. I
wanted to start off the New Year with something dynamo, a selection to get
everyone off their feet. As this blog has revealed, North African music has
never shirked from addressing the most taboo of topics in song. In fact, drugs,
politics, and sex have been dealt with extensively since the very first
recordings were made in the Maghreb.
Moroccan Jewish musicians continued this tradition upon
arrival in Israel. Jo Amar sang about discrimination, Sami Amar chanted about
war, Judah Assaraf weighed in on politics, Maurice Lusky satirized drinking,
and Petit Armand revealed the trappings of family life. Searching through my record collection
for this post I discovered a particularly curious phenomenon in light of the
propensity of these pop stars to take on anything and everything. To my
delight, the mini skirt came up (pardon the pun) in chanson after chanson. Even
the universally respected Sliman Elmaghribi, the subject of a future post, weighed
in on the fashion phenomenon.
Sliman Elmaghribi. Mini. Zakiphone. 1960s.
Moroccan Jews were not alone in taking up the cause of or
against the mini skirt. Whether or not they knew it, Jews were often “singing in
unison” with their North African Muslim counterparts, who addressed skirt
length in countless records.
Salem Djilali. Atagua Mini Jupe. Boussiphone. 1960s (c/o Toukadime)
So without further ado, I present you with Mini by Esther
Elfassy. the Moroccan-born, Israel-reared chanteuse who has been featured on
this blog before. Elfassy provides us with what may be the definitive Arabic
ode to the mini skirt. Take a listen to her 1970s hit (written by Moshe Ben
Hamo, recorded in Jaffa, and pressed in Holon) below and pass along.
I've put together an all vinyl end of 2012 Judeo-Maghreb compilation that sets the right tone for the holiday season. It's Tunisian tango, Algerian "All About the Benjamins," and the one and only Line Monty - all in one mix.
I recommend playing this LOUD at your holiday hafla. Feel free to pass this one around.
Track List:
Jose de Suza aka Youcef Hedjaj. Consolacion (Guitarra). Metronome. c. 1970s.
Cheikh Zekri. Qoulchi maa el flous (Everything with money). Dounia. c. 1970s.
Samy Elmaghribi and Salim Halali are still played at the Astor, Fez's last kosher restaurant and bar
Hadj Belaid fresco in Tafraoute (2012)
Some three years after first discovering the magic of
musician Haim Botbol in a record store in Casablanca, I returned to Morocco to
find his music in cassette stalls across the country. In fact, I got an even
deeper sense of the critical importance of music in the Maghreb on this trip.
In Tafraoute, in the country’s deep southwest, frescos of musical instruments
like the rebab and images of musical standouts from the 1940s like Hadj Belaid
adorned walls throughout the region’s ancient villages. At a pizza joint along
the Tizi-n-Tichka pass, a banjo on a chair was displayed prominently. When the
restaurant’s owner wasn’t making pies, he would strum a few chaabi notes. And
in Casablanca, by the former Lincoln Hotel, a cd seller played Samy
Elmaghribi’s version of Gheniet Bensoussan for passersby.
After years of collecting Moroccan and then North African
music in general, I was interested in not only finding dusty recordings from
Tangier to Fez but also to collect musical memories. I was interested in how
Moroccans, Jews and Muslims, understood and remembered their Jewish pop icons
of yesteryear and so I went looking.
I started in Tangier and found very little. I figured a
Mediterranean port city with a once large Jewish community would herald in an
auspicious beginning. Being there during Ramadan hampered my efforts in many
ways. Most medina shops were closed during the day. A general lethargy had set
in. Additionally, Marcel Botbol’s music club, just outside the medina, was
closed and I soon learned he was switching venues but wasn’t due to reopen
until the following month. Undeterred, I kept searching. Walking up and down
medina thoroughfares and side streets, I finally happened on a store selling
clocks that a friend had mentioned. A half dozen sun faded Mohammed Abdel Wahab
LPs were displayed prominently in the window. He must have had more stock, I
thought. He did but he was too tired, he told me. I pressed him but I decided
to let it go. Considering that he had been holding on to records for some
thirty years past their utility and interest for most people, I could
sympathize with his exhaustion. Besides, there would be other opportunities.
The interior of Le Comptoir Marocain de Distribution de Disques (2012)
Where Tangier yielded little, Casablanca was a black gold
mine. I returned to the places which had launched this musical journey for me
three years ago: Le Comptoir Marocain de Distribution de Disques on Lalla
Yacout and Disques Gam in the opposite direction on Boulevard de Paris. At Le
Comptoir, also the home to the Tichkaphone label, I snagged a dozen Botbol
cassettes. It’s safe to say that Le Comptoir represents one end of the record
store spectrum, organized and immaculate, whereas Disques Gam is the other end,
chaotic, hot as hell, and magnificent. Gam Boujemma is the store’s proprietor
and a repository of musical knowledge. You have to know what you’re looking for
here and I did. With every record or cassette he pulled out, I was deluged with
hard to come by oral history. Stories of Samy Elmaghribi performing at the
nearby Cinema Lux fascinated me. As did his reverence for Albert Suissa. I
walked away with a few prize items from his archive including a couple EPs on
the N. Sabbah label and Botbol’s only release for Philips.
Two Giants: Albert Suissa on N. Sabbah and Botbol on Philips (2012)
In Morocco, the musical medium of choice corresponds
directly to the seller’s knowledge of the industry. Those selling records
should be placed at the top of the hierarchy, followed closely by cassette
purveyors and CD distributors a distant third. Also, a couple things happened
in Morocco in the 1970s that should be noted. One, the music industry was
nationalized. Two, cassettes appeared, allowing records to be transferred
directly to tape and distributed widely. The era also represents one of the
last gasps of the prominence of Jews in the Moroccan music scene.
Janatte Haddadi's beautiful short on Coq d'Or
The Casa medina was once a musical mecca for Moroccan Jews.
It was here where Salim Halali’s club Coq d’Or, now a textile factory, once
stood. Albert Suissa continued to live and write music in the mellah until a
late age. So I was elated when I stumbled upon one of the remaining few cassette
sellers in Casa’s medina. His stall was impossibly tiny. Floor to ceiling tapes
lined its walls. With my eyes quickly scanning the now all too familiar
artists, I noticed something peculiar. In his collection were dozens of Israeli
releases of Moroccan Jewish artists from the Holy Land. While the Zakiphon
labels had been removed, these were clearly Jaffa-based releases of Cheikh
Mwijo, Raymonde, and Sliman Elmaghrebi. Here was evidence of a fascinating
chapter of music moving beyond closed borders.
Found: Samy Elmaghribi in a Casa cassette seller's attic(2012)
I told him what I was looking for and he had everything. I
walked away with long sought after Felix El Maghrebi and Zohra El Fassia tapes complete
with hand written song titles. On a whim, I asked if he still had records.
Without flinching he took a rickety ladder and propped it against a wall of
cassettes and started climbing towards his attic. He pulled down two large bags
of 45s. I started to comb through them as my heart raced. What would I find?
The occasional Samy Elmaghribi EP surfaced as did the odd Botbol cover
(including an Algerian release) but unfortunately none of the covers matched
the records and none of what he had was what I was looking for. Despite this, I
had learned a great deal in this encounter.
Hadj Belaid recording on Baidaphon c. 1940s
Before finally heading to Fez, I spent a week with my
girlfriend and friends traveling in the Marrakesh area and to its east. Toward
the end of the week, we visited the village of Telouet, home to a breathtaking
Glaoui casbah. As we left, it started to drizzle and then pour. A nearby café
provided us shelter and piping hot mint tea. On our way in I had noticed a 50s
era HiFi system at the entrance. Where there was a record player, I thought,
there must be records. I started asking the right questions. Within a moment my
hosts informed and then showed me that it still hummed along, in fact, it
played beautifully. They put on a couple of Western LPs and then brought out
two black plastic bags of 78s. These were all priceless 1940s recordings of
Hadj Belaid on Pathé and Baidaphon. We were all having a great time. A waiter
took a lighter to one of the records to show me this was no plastic we were
dealing with. This was shellac! Handshakes were had all around and then I
excused myself to finish my tea.
Le Cristal in Fez, still bustling (2012)
My last few days in Morocco were spent in Fez. For the first
time, I stayed in the Ville Nouvelle. I was captivated. For the tourist and the
historian, some of the beauty of Morocco, even in its “modern” counterpart to
the medina, is the (at least superficially) unchanging landscape and
architecture. Thus my hotel in Fez was located right next to the now defunct
Astor Cinema, which was next to the still in operation Astor Bar (home to Fez’s
remaining kosher restaurant) and a stone’s throw a way from independence era
café’s like the Cristal. You quickly started to get a feel for what Jewish Fez
must have looked like in the 1950s and 60s.
I was not disappointed by what I found in Fez’s medina. After
paying homage to the record-turned-cd label Fassiphone, right outside the old
walls, I launched myself into the city’s infamous myriad alleyways. It was not
before long before that I located the cassette district. One seller’s stash of
Jewish musicians was significantly reduced. About seven tapes were all that
remained. He was eager to sell, including what appeared to be his most
master-like recordings, but I held off.
Botbol, tea, and towers of tapes in Fez (2012)
A twist and a turn later and I had found my man. “Mohammed”
cut a handsome figure against a background of thousands of tapes. He saw me
staring and ushered me “in.” A dozen pleasantries later, short introductions, a
sip of wormwood infused tea, and the cassettes jumped one after one into the
tape deck. Mohammed was a former musician and played often with his Jewish
counterparts. His familiarity with the scene was astonishing. When I asked
about Botbol, Mohammed mentioned he knew Jacob, the father, and then dutifully
put on a recording, which he sang every word to. This pattern of singing along
with the uttering of an artist’s name repeated itself with a range of
performers from Cheikh Mwijo to Samy Elmaghribi. The mere mention of Zohra El
Fassia, the grande dame of Fez, brought a large smile to his face. He started
recalling the heyday of places like the Astor and Cristal and others. I
couldn’t resist, I bought way too much from him but it was worth it. He then
took us to his gorgeous medina home for another cup of tea. His roof view
rivaled any in the city. I asked him to see pictures but instead I got his
address with a request to keep in touch. I couldn’t have been happier to
oblige. Mohammed wasn’t sure if anyone still sold records in Fez but
I was happy nonetheless. Not everything has been transferred to CD so getting
your hands on tapes is the next best thing.
Prized records including Botbol, bottom row (left) (2012)
Zohra El Fassia on Polyphon c. 1940s (2012)
I took the long way out of the
medina and I’m glad I did. A few missteps and backtracks later and I had
located what may be Fez’s last record store. The owner, much older than
Mohammed, was also a former musician. Hundreds of records were arranged in some
of the most creative ways I had ever seen. He displayed his most prized
records, including a not-for-sale Botbol, on one side of the store. At his desk
were beautiful black-and-white and sepia photos of his former life. Behind him
were cassettes of Morocco’s most influential stars including Samy Elmaghribi,
whom the proprietor called the best Isra’ili singer in Moroccan history. I
painstakingly combed through piles of LPs and EPs and pulled out impossibly
difficult to find cuts. As I continued to look high and low for records, which
seemed to be hiding everywhere, I saw a dozen 78s in the corner. I gently
removed them from the shelf. Sifting through these treasures one by one, my
heart skipped a beat. There it was…a 70-year-old recording of Cheikha Zohra El
Fassia made for the Polyphon label. I showed it to the owner. He put on his
glasses and said zeena (beautiful). Sadly, the record itself was beyond playing
condition but its near forgotten presence in this store still sings volumes to
me.
Looking out towards Jewish cemetery in former Sidi Rahal synagogue (2012)
Over the summer, I divided my short time in Morocco between 1) doing some of the research that initially launched this blog (rediscovering remnants of the former Jewish communities of Morocco with a focus on the south) and 2) working to get a better understanding of the role of Jews in the Moroccan music scene in the middle part of the 20th century. Some of the places I visited for the first time included Asni, Sidi Rahal, the Valley of the Roses, Tourbiste, Zaouiat El Bir, Tinghir, Tinjdad (Asrir), and Goulmima. As usual my intent is to put these places on the blogoma, to share my impressions and photos, and to hopefully start a conversation by those who remember these places. Here are some musings on a few of these locales.
In Sidi Rahal's Jewish cemetery with temps rising to 117 (2012)
Sidi Rahal
At the end of August, we left Marrakesh and headed east. Thankfully, we opted for the air-conditioned rental car. By the time we arrived in Sidi Rahal, the temperature had already risen to 117 degrees. Bsara, piping hot pea soup, seemed like the most sensible lunchtime option. It was also being served at one of the few restaurants in the shade. Another bowl? The owner asked. No, I said with a smile. This used to be the mellah, he offered, and we were soon off.
Sidi Rahal, once home to over 500 Jews, multiple synagogues, and the other trappings of communal life, had long interested me. It was visited in the 50s by a number of travelers who chronicled its final Jewish years. It had a vibrant past but now it seemed dusty. We walked for about 2 miles along the wadi. Surprisingly there was a sidewalk of sorts. Along the way it was clear that knowledge of the Jewish cemetery was common currency. We spotted the cemetery. It was on a dangerously dry hill. As we started to ascend, we spotted a pickup truck. We introduced ourselves and told the men where we were going. As luck would have it, the guardian of the cemetery was with the truck driver. As mazal would have it, the truck had just come from Casablanca. We arrived at the very moment that a new marble grave marker was being laid for the tzaddik Hagai Peretz. Maktoub I thought.
Witnessing the reconsecration of Hagai Peretz's tombstone (2012)
What remains of Sidi Rahal’s Jewish past is its extended cemetery walls. Few tombs have survived the weather and neglect. The mausoleum containing the tombs of Haggai Peretz and Yaakov Nahmias remains. The extended Nahmias family, scattered across the world, makes an annual pilgrimage to the tomb as attested to by the logbook on site. The remnants of a small synagogue exist, as does a fondouq for Jewish pilgrims.
We headed back to the car but not before purchasing a 5-liter bottle of water. Skhoun chweeya, I said to the owner of the hanout. He smiled just enough to make me happy.
The Valley of the Roses
Our initial plan was to continue east until Figuig and then cut up to Debdou before making our way back west. Needless to say, our plans would eventually change.
Jewish woman in Tillit c. 1950s
After leaving Sidi Rahal, we skipped Tazarte due to the heat. We made our way straight to the Valley of the Roses. A number of iconic
images from the area photographed in the 1950s by Elias Harrus, former
head of the AIU, occupied my thoughts as we approached a remarkably more
fertile area than Sidi Rahal. I knew of two villages – Zaouiat El Bir
and Tillit - that once had Jewish communities. Upon arrival in the
Valley, almost everyone we met pointed us the mudbrick village of
Tourbiste as the site of one of the oldest Jewish communities in
Morocco’s south.
Tourbiste is located above Ait Said (2012)
I had never heard of Tourbiste, nor could I find it on a map. A series of vague directions and a short drive along a winding road and we had found it from a distance. To get to Tourbiste we had to literally ford a river. A halved tree spanned the diameter of the water, acting as a bridge between the village and the rest of the Valley. As we crossed the river, I made the mistake of looking down, only to notice how swiftly the current was moving. The halved tree was impossibly thin. I had flashes of vertigo. It was too late to turn around and yet it was difficult to keep going. I closed my eyes and slowly moved forward…and then I fell in. I was fine but shaken and eventually made it across. As we walked toward Tourbiste, which reminded me in architecture of Ighil N’Oro, we passed mostly women but some men who offered us the fruits of the land. Person after person gave us delicious peaches, apples, and figs. Tourbiste itself, incredibly tiny, felt like a ghost town. Women were working the fields. I later learned that the men worked in the larger cities of the north. Upon arrival, I quickly saw something that resembled a synagogue and I heard male voices inside. I softly and then loudly knocked on the iron door. A woman answered who spoke little Arabic. Were there men home? I asked. A man came to the door and quickly we were invited inside to eat along with what amounted to be the village’s elders.
Approaching Tourbiste from its agricultural fields (2012)
We washed our hands and we were introduced to the Cheikh, muezzin, and other notables. We dug into delicious lamb tagine. It was just after Ramadan and people were happy. What better group to inform me of Tourbiste’s Jewish past? I thought. And so I asked and everyone looked at me like I was crazy. There never was a Jewish community here, one said. Another mentioned Zaouiat El Bir and Tillit. Are you sure? I asked. A resounding, “yes,” filled the air. We finished eating with them, thanked them, helped two young boys with their English homework, and were on our way. As we walked back, crossing dangerously worn wooden bridges, I began to wonder how Tourbiste had become constructed in people’s minds as Jewish. Was it ever really Jewish? Hadn’t others told informants that this village was seemingly never Jewish? I let these questions linger.
Zaouiat El Bir Judeo-Berber family names (2012)
Zaouiat El Bir
The Jewish cemetery in Zaouiat El Bir is almost impossible to miss. It’s located right next to the local Post Office, along the main road. The cemetery itself has a few curiosities. First, the family names of the former residents are listed on a plaque in the cemetery and all of the families bear the Berber patronym “Ait.” While this is not surprising given that the former Jewish community would have been comfortable in the local Tashelheit and Moroccan Arabic, I had never seen this before. Second, a hand painted sign in the cemetery mentions the Jewish exodus from Spain in 1492, pointing to real or imagined Iberian refugee origins for the local Jewish community as well. The juxtaposition was fascinating.
I had the pleasure of meeting with the guardian of the cemetery, a man in his 80s. I asked him the usual question about the location of the mellah, when the last residents left, etc. But this time I came with musical questions as well. Had he heard prayers in Hebrew? He had. I also asked him if there were any local, relatively famous Jewish singers. If so, did they perform Chleuh ahwash and ahidous? I had caught his attention. As he began to sing what he called Jewish ahwash, I cursed myself for leaving my digital recorder in the car. He beautifully sang a few more pieces, we had tea and sweets, and we continued east.
Handpainted sign marks the Jewish exodus from Spain in Zaouiat El Bir (2012)
Tinghir
We spent a couple of days in Tinghir, touring the city with our friend Kamal Hachkar. Hachkar is the visionary behind the film Tinghir-Jerusalem: Echoes from the Mellah. He has done incredible work historically reconstructing Tinghir’s once populous Jewish community and is using his documentary to have necessary, difficult conversations about Moroccan identity. His film is now touring the US and I strongly recommend going to check it out.
Clip from Tinghir-Jerusalem
Tinghir’s mellah is well preserved in many ways. The mellah gate can still be seen, as can its unique architecture. We had the pleasure of attending a presentation on Tinghir’s Jewish past at the local community center with remarks by Hachkar and a professor from Agadir. About 100 Tinghiri youth were not only in attendance but engaged. Watching this conversation happen was one of the highlights of this short trip to Morocco.
Tinjdad, Goulmima, and back to Fez
Jewish cemeteries in Asrir, Tinjdad (2012)
It was starting to rain by the time we reached Tinjdad. An older man on an even older bicycle, pointed us to Asrir, the douar which housed one of the region’s still identifiable mellahs. Yossef Chetrit has written about the former community of Asrir. Some of the Jews there used to own farmland and apparently the largest landowning family in the area was Jewish. As we walked through the mellah and toward the bright pink walls of the cemeteries, the sky opened up. Intense gusts of wind and rain made it difficult to see and walk. The doors of the cemetery were locked and the walls were too high to scale comfortably. A man with a sickle approached. Since my last travels in Morocco, I had trained myself to embrace this type of encounter rather than be petrified. He offered to give me a boost but I was afraid that once inside the cemetery I wouldn’t be able to pull myself back out. I decided to try to jump up and grab the top of the wall myself and to some how hoist myself to a position where I could see what was inside. One, two, and I was up. I peered down. Literally nothing remained. It was unfortunate but not uncommon. It was raining even harder and so we left.
When we finally settled in to Goulmima and spent an afternoon visiting the mellah there, I got increasingly interested in drastically altering our itinerary.
I was fixated on the prospect of returning to Fez. My deep passion for the Maghreb’s musical history was pulling me to the city once home to one of Morocco’s greatest female singers, none other than Zohra El Fassia, and to a host of other musicians like the Botbol clan. I dreamed of chatting with those who remembered the music scene and maybe even finding a stash of 78s buried somewhere deep in the medina. With only a few days remaining in Morocco, we hurriedly made our way back west and north.
You can find more photos of my recent travels to Morocco on the Jewish Morocco Facebook page (which you can also “like”). My next post, which I’m putting the finishing touches on, will be on record digging, cassette collecting, and musical memory in Jewish Morocco. Stay tuned.
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