More than once, our bus got stuck on a bumpy side road, as a beat-up pickup in front of us loaded up sheep and goats, urged on by dark-skinned men dressed in tribal garb.

When we finally got through the rural villages, we arrived in a city. Huge photographs of the king of Morocco peered down at me, whether inside hotels or on the street intersections. Interestingly, it seemed that unlike other dictatorships, the people in this benign kingdom greatly admired their king. 

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)