Who will watch over our dead?

by Andrew Kaye (Spain)

Making a local connection Morocco

I have the Jewish Museum in London to thank. Their archives afforded me an opportunity to learn about the Mellahs of the Atlas mountains – not ‘ghettos’ in the 20th century sense of the word – but nevertheless enclaves, where Jews were permitted to live and work. The most exceptional photo was of a woman, Malka, the leader of the Asaflou community. On planning Aliyah to Israel, she asked the photographer, “who will watch over our dead?” Before my trip to Morocco’s southern oases, I had an image of these settlements – sixty years hence – populated by a few shepherds and their tribe of goats. I was determined to learn more. After a few days overwhelmed by the smell of incense and the clanging sounds of silversmiths working on tinplate, I was pleased to wave goodbye to the frenzied souks of Marrakech. The famed Tizi n’ Tichka pass presents the ultimate experience in imagining the old caravan routes that traders used to take to Timbuktu. Only the brave cross in a Grand Taxi. A short plane journey is another possibility, but with snowy peaks and crags the colours of Neapolitan flavoured-ice cream: driving through the Atlas corridor is a sight to behold in its own right. I opted for the comfort of a Supratours coach. Within an hour, I felt distant enough to feel a peacefulness that I only ever found fleeting in the ‘Red City’. Riad Ksar Aylan had dinner ready for me on arrival. There was luminescent olive oil and plentiful honey to coat warmed bread with, before a lamb tagine was served. Sated, the next morning Kasbah Tifoultoute reminded me of the abandoned City of Oz. A wizened man was on hand to prepare sweet mint tea as I looked at the reaches of the verdant valleys below. Omar, a Berber, was the perfect guide to take me further afield, to Telouet. The rocks to our side resembled the grainy Harsha bread generously laid on at the Riad for breakfast; white dots sprinkled over the pinkish-browns of women’s blusher. There were minarets in every village we drove through, not altogether different from the church steeples you might see in Alpine towns. Omar grew emotional at one point. He got out of the car and asked me to concentrate on the canyons below. “Jews are Moroccans” he told me. It came out of nowhere. He remembered how he and his community cried when the Jews, his neighbours, left in 1963. He remembered how they made finely crafted shoes – babouches – the popular slippers many tourists take home as Moroccan gifts today. He guided me past olive and fig trees to a Zaouia. Pilgrims occasionally come to pay their respects, but we only had Amazigh farmers for company. Walking with their donkey and hay, they told Omar they remember the elders that Jewish people return to sanctify. Inviting us home for tea, we smelt the herbs along their path and spotted distant mud-mounds that resembled a giant tortoise, its small head rising out of the land, its enormous shell behind. Later we went to postcard-perfect Aït Benhaddou. Shadows dancing behind us in the dimming light, Omar pointed to a walled off cemetery to the north. “Jewish,” he added, with a hint of pride. He was also keen to point out the many examples of Judaica and old window shutters with Magen David designs, which were being sold on the way back to our car. My non-Jewish friends asked me if, before travelling to Morocco, I’d known all of this would be here to discover. “Not quite,” I replied. Today, there are around 2,500 Jews in Morocco, mostly located in the metropolis of Casablanca. Sadly, there might not be so many people in future to recite this poetic past; who can remember the history of the southern oases first-hand. For now, there are Berbers, like Omar, in his seventies. Mistaking me for a Russian, he told me to go home and spread the news of this place and how for generations, Jews called it their land