The last vestiges of a dying world

ILAN SARAGOSTI SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH BULLETIN

Morocco or Tunisia? My mind oscillated, unsure of which North African hot spot to spend my mid-winter escape. Initially, I had decided on Tunisia, since my father grew up there, but I had promised him long ago that my first visit to his native country would also be his first return, so I settled on Morocco, if you want to call that settling.

As the plane descended to Casablanca, I reflected briefly on the fact that Morocco once had the largest Sephardi population in the world and that seeking out its remnants could give my trip an interesting side-mission. Indeed, it took not more than 10 minutes after landing to see how my being Jewish would play a defining role on this trip.

The first moustached customs agent to inspect my passport looked me up and down and promptly asked me if I was Palestinian. I was initially confused, but then recalled that I had forgotten to ask Customs Canada to leave my place of birth, Jerusalem, blank. No, I answered, in Arabic, one of the few non-swear words in my vocabulary. "Philistine," he insisted excitedly. "La," I replied again. A look of recognition came to his face and he waved me through bitterly. The same drill was then played out three more times with three similar-looking moustached customs agents.

Naturally, these encounters made me somewhat anxious. I knew that Moroccans were used to having Jews in their midst, since more than 250,000 lived in the country until the 1950s. But the younger generation was not likely to be as tolerant, as only 5,000 Jews remain, and the Arab world's view of Israel is odious, to say the least. I decided then and there to keep my passport, and thus my Jewishness, to myself.

Of course, non-democratic countries don't just allow tourists to tramp around untracked. So the attendant at my hotel in Casa that night asked for my passport and of course proceeded to ask if I was Palestinian. Naturally, I answered no. "So are you Jewish?" he asked in French. "My family are Armenian Christians," I lied. He didn't buy it. "No, you look Jewish. You're Israeli." I am a bad liar and I knew it was written all over my face, so I came clean and waited for the verbal onslaught to begin, but his answer almost floored me. "Moroccans love Jews, you are our brothers. But we hate Israel."

Rachid, as he told me to call him, seemed impressed by my Tunisian origins and asked me to join him for his post-Ramadan feast of tajine, tea and pastries. Sitting comfortably on cushions sharing a meal, my secret divulged, I felt confident enough to challenge his assumptions of Jews and Israel. "Most Palestinians are unwilling to accept Israel's existence, that's why there's no peace," I argued. "Jews inhabited North Africa 1,500 years before the Arabs even stepped foot here," I continued. "It's a travesty that they were treated so badly in their final years here." Rachid disagreed with practically all my views, but he continually amazed me with his tolerance.

Though Casablanca has the largest remaining Jewish population – approximately 2,000, down from 78,000 in the 1950s – my time was limited, so I decided to catch the first bus to Marrakesh. I arrived just after sundown on Shabbat and headed straight for the old city in search of the Mellah, the Jewish quarter. Emboldened by my experience with Rachid, I asked passers-by to guide me to the Mellah. After a frustrating game of sign language, a little boy told me to follow him and promptly brought me to the only functioning synagogue left in Marrakesh's Jewish Ghetto. I knocked on the gigantic wooden door and a teenage boy answered. In broken French he told me that services were only held on Saturday mornings.

The little boy, however, had not left my side. He told me to follow him again and brought me to a nondescript house. "Yehudi," he said – "Jew." I knocked on the door and, sure enough, a man with a kippah answered the door. "Hi, I'm a Jew from Canada," I explained sheepishly. "I'm looking for Shabbat services." He also told me that services were only held Saturday mornings, but invited me to have Shabbat dinner with his family.

I spent the entire Shabbat with the Halioua family. They introduced me to a veritable museum holding the last vestiges of a dying world, where the keepers of the last shards of this ancient civilization dutifully follow the same path that has been tread for 3,000 years, well aware that they are the end of the line. The Halioua home was straight out of pictures I had seen of 19th-century Sephardi Jewry and, while the two remaining children spoke French and Hebrew, the parents and grandparents spoke only Arabic and broken French. Still, they were able to communicate important messages to me: They had stayed in Morocco for business and got stuck there; they regret not having left; they get along with their Muslim neighbors but feel a sense of mistrust.

The children see things in an entirely different light. For them, Morocco is the old world, a stepping stone, since after high school they go off to study in France or Israel and never return. The Haliouas already have two adult children living in France and one ready to leave next year.

Synagogue on Saturday morning was by far the most striking and saddest part of the Marrakesh experience. The shul was tiny, but still looked empty. The congregation barely made minyan and, aside from the Halioua kids and myself, there was no one under 60. As we left the synagogue to go for lunch, Mr. Halioua said, despondently, "There used to be 50 synagogues in the Mellah, now we're down to one. There would be lineups outside the medina at Yom Kippur because the synagogues were too packed. Now we can barely make a minyan." And in a few years, you won't even manage that, I thought.

Sunday came and I decided to journey to Essaouira, a picturesque resort town off the Mediterranean, for a much-needed respite from the heavy Jewish experiences. On the bus over, however, my seatmate mentioned that Essaouira once boasted a Jewish population of 30,000 and that the majority of the town was Jewish until the mass exodus of the 1950s and '60s.

The remains of the community were impossible to avoid. In the Mellah, which is still called Rue de la Mellah, Magen David can still be seen above doorframes. A man saw me taking a photo of one of these and asked me if I was Jewish. I told him I was and asked if any Jews remained in Essaouira. "Yes, one," he replied, "His name is Chaim."

We found Chaim's house easily and he took me to see the only two synagogues left. While Marrakesh had been a moving experience, this was downright tragic. The first synagogue had clearly been beautiful in its day, but was pillaged by young locals, the entire back wall being destroyed, the Torah stolen, soggy prayer books and rust-colored tallitot were piled up in a corner. The second shul was in only slightly better condition.

Chaim and I then walked over to the Jewish cemetery, a gigantic walled area on the edge of the old city. Again, the sight was heartbreaking – two German shepherds sauntering around on top of the disintegrating tombstones. While I found this completely blasphemous, Chaim explained that the dogs were necessary, because young Essaouirans had started jumping the wall and hosting parties in the cemetery. Indeed, I could see empty vodka bottles, chicken bones and other garbage strewn everywhere. As we strolled around the gravestones, some dating back to the early 19th century, I felt as though I were walking on a dead, neglected part of myself.

Arriving back in Canada at Chanukah, I recounted some of these stories to my father and his brothers, waiting for their horrified reactions. Instead, they stared back at me with blank faces, unmoved.

"We're glad to have left," my father explained, "The Arabs made us second-class citizens, stuck us in ghettos and often persecuted us violently. Here, we're truly free."

I knew he was right, for nostalgia is always far more romantic than reality. But I could not help thinking that within one more generation one of the richest aspects of Jewish history will be gone, and that an effort should be made right away to preserve whatever is left.

Anyone interested in more information about the Moroccan Jewish community can contact the Foundation for Moroccan Jewish Heritage at 51 Rue Abou Dhabi, Casablanca; telephone 212-22-99-49-40; fax 212-22-99-49-41; e-mail [email protected].

Ilan Saragosti is a freelance writer and filmmaker living in Toronto.

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