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It was a short boat ride to Morocco. But when we docked in Tangier, I was grateful to be with an organized tour
Tuesday, August 07, 2018
A short boat ride across the strait separating Europe from Africa, but culturally, a world away, Morocco beckoned
"D
o you think it’s safe to go to Morocco with 12 loaves of whole wheat bread and 8 bags of peanuts?” I asked my friend.
“Stop! You need to stop the sentence after ‘Do you think it’s safe to go to Morocco?’ ” she replied.
But I had made up my mind. It was the summer of 2008 and I had just finished teaching Jewish studies at the Chabad House in the southern coastal town of Marbella, Spain. A short boat ride across the strait separating Europe from Africa, but culturally a world away, Morocco beckoned. I wanted to visit the still-vibrant Jewish community in Casablanca and see the remnants of Jewish life in Fez, something I’d never get to experience once I returned home to New York.
I booked a one-week trip with a Spanish tour company. What could be unsafe about it? I baked numerous loaves of whole-wheat bread, which I’d supplement with fresh fruit and vegetables I’d find in the Moroccan markets.
It was a short boat ride to Morocco. But when we docked in Tangier, I was grateful to be with an organized tour. The port swarmed with young, swarthy-skinned men who shot us furtive glances, and seasoned porters with hefty muscles, waiting to off-load cargo.
We climbed onto our tour bus, and I soon became entranced by my surroundings — enough that I could relax. Morocco has an iconic landscape of desert, mountains, and sprawling oases, dotted with Kasbahs (fortresses) and primitive villages.
Marrakech
After our experience in Tangiers, I couldn’t imagine how long it would take us to get all the way to Marrakech. Marrakech used to be reached via ancient caravan routes; now, modern roads allow for safe, speedy passage. The town’s red-mud ramparts are a sight to behold, as they change color according to the time of day. Within Marrakech, the heart of the city is the marketplace of Jemaa el-Fnaa.
For 1,000 years, this has been the final port of call of the great trans-Saharan caravans, which were laden with spices and slaves, salt and gold. Today the center boasts snake charmers, souks, and fruit vendors who will squeeze you a cup of fresh fruit juice.
In Marrakech, we were given half a day off from the tour, and I eagerly asked the tour guide about Jewish life. He directed me to the Mellah. Fortified by sunbaked mud-brick walls and located near the Royal Quarter, the Mellah was a city within a city. On its winding, dusty streets the Jews had their own synagogues, fountains, and markets. I took a short taxi ride to the Mellah, but when I got there I was sorely disappointed. There was no sign of any Jewish life amid the tall, red-earth buildings.
An Arab appeared and offered to be my guide.
“I want to see where the Jewish people live,” I said.
The guide led me to a simple structure with ornate doors and a hollow in the wall the shape of a mezuzah. “This is the rabbi’s house,” he said.
“Where is the family now?” I asked.
“They’ve all gone to Israel.”
(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 604)
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