Moroccan Dreaming

It’s on a Jewish study trip to Morocco (with the inimitable Melbourne educator Paul Forgazs) in the city of Fez that I dream of my deceased Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Azriel Goldfein. We are in our daily Gemara class, but I’ve fallen behind and asked him to help me catch up on the last pages of a Talmudic tract or Masechet. He is reluctant but concedes saying he only has a few minutes…

How odd I think when I wake, to dream of my austere Ashkenazi Torah teacher in this most Sephardi of lands. But then, on reflection, perhaps not so odd for Fez was once a place of Jewish scholarship and academic excellence. It is still regarded as the intellectual capital of Morocco, Casablanca being the economic and Marrakesh the political. It was here that Maimonides fled to escape the radical Almohad Muslims. It was here he is said to have studied at one of the oldest universities in the world. It is here in one of the supposedly 13,000 seductively serpentine alleys in the Melah (ancient Jewish area) you can find the tiny house that Judaism’s greatest philosopher revered by all Jews, Ashkenazi and Sephardi, lived for a few years before migrating to Egypt. An incongruous sign alerts you: “4meters to Moroccan Restaurant at the Philosopher Maimonides House”. I wonder what the illustrious Rambam would have made of this…

He may well have liked the idea of being associated with a place of hospitality and food – he appreciated the Jewish ethos of hospitality and wrote a good deal about a good diet in his extensive Halachik and medical works. I am, however, not so sure he would have appreciated the current scholarly debate about his stay in Fez. It begins with the speculation of how he could have maintained his Jewishness under the rulership of the fanatical Almohads, who unlike most Muslim rulers demanded conversion or death. There is evidence that Maimonides accepted some form of conversion to Islam which he himself did not regard as worthy of martyrdom as he viewed it as a purer form of monotheism than Christianity. His famous epistle to the beleaguered community of Yemen provides some support for this. Once he made his way to a more enlightened Islamic centre in Egypt he could discard his pretended Muslim identity and resume his Jewish leadership.

The historical and current relationship between Jews and Muslims in Morocco is as fantastical as the great Maimon’s conversion. It is a story of some horror and yet more of honour. There were times of forced conversion and even brutal intimidation of Jews and other non Muslims. Yet, for the most part, Jews thrived, built countless Shuls and houses of learning, and practiced their Judaism without fear. They did not suffer the endless pogroms auto da fes and expulsions as they did in Christian Europe. In modern times (before 1948) some 200,000 Jews lived here and, unlike the rest of the Arab countries, Morocco did not force them to leave. Under the centuries old monarchy Jews have been protected and fully accepted by their fellow citizens. The current King’s closest advisor is a Jew.

I felt more comfortable wearing my kippah in Moroccan cities than I often do in Melbourne city. The community may have shrunk to several thousand, but in Casablanca you can find a minyan, kosher food, a Jewish school to send your kids to, and most astonishingly Jewish Dayanim sit as respected officials in the Casablanca Court.

On Shabbat our Australian group had a sumptuous kosher meal of Moroccan delights at the home of Dorit, a local Jewish woman. She is a passionate Casablancan who insists that the community is not dying and that the relationships between Jews and Muslims is about coexistence and not mere tolerance. There have been tightly controlled pro-Palestinian protests, but anti Israel Graffiti has been removed immediately. While Dorit may be starry eyed, she did make her point when she got her burly Moroccan Muslim assistant to carry some kiddush wine back to our hotel for our meal the next day. As there’s no eruv I wouldn’t carry items, but here was a Muslim acting as my Shabbat helper (so called Shabbos goy) carrying alcohol he probably wouldn’t drink as a Muslim in a Muslim city! It would be hard to find an example of this back in Australia today…

At the end of our trip we had a brief hike through the High Atlas Mountains, a hauntingly beautiful range of mountains with Africa’s second highest peak, Mount Toubkal.

The beauty of these High Atlas Mountains lies in its dramatic, rugged scenery, snow-capped peaks and lush valleys, ancient paths, red rock canyons, and diverse flora and fauna. We made our way in jeeps and on foot through impossibly narrow winding roads and pathways which only the stubbornly strong mules could venture with ease. As always, the strongest impressions are made by people, and it’s here the proud and resilient Berbers have lived for centuries. Their angular faces and traditional dress distinguish them from their compatriots.

And it is in these high and winding mountain paths that there are traces of small, abandoned and ancient Jewish communities. It is here Paul introduces us to  the High Atlas healer and mystic, Jacob Wazzana. An ascetic who never married, occasionally prayed with his Muslim counterpart, and was apparently contemptuous of convention. There are  lots of myths, but no written records of his life. While some of his detractors both then and now (in the Moroccan Jewish community in Israel) suggested his strength came from demons, many in Israel consider him a saint. In the Atlas Mountains his name rings with honour among the Berbers and his tomb in Aguim is revered and visited by many expatriates. This place moves me in unexpected ways and I pen a poem:

In these high Atlas Mountains there are moments when you dip down into your heart,

There are quiet moments to meditate on the cliffs you have climbed and the crevices where you have cracked,

In these moments there are mountains where you have fallen and tiny rivulets you have refreshed…

High mountains edging into eternity,

Atlas awaits your return like a patient old friend.

There is a tradition of great Jewish learning and spirituality in this ancient African civilisation. Perhaps my dream of my Rosh Yeshiva was a reminder of this and about finding time to explore some of the precious tracts of our history.