(Here's another one, for the 8th and last night of Hanukkah, a story from an old journal that could have happened yesterday.)
When We Finally Arrive.
We were warned against it, a Muslim country, too risky, especially with the kids. In the end, despite everybody's warning, we went anyway.
It was May 2003: 14 suicide bombers attacked Casablanca, killing 45 people, including 12 of the jihadist. Three Jewish sites, a Spanish restaurant and a 5-star hotel were bombed. Salafia Jihadia, an offshoot of the Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, claimed responsibility. Out of the 100 people who were injured, 97 were Muslim.
Two months later we're on the road, driving along the highway that borders the Rif mountains, in a Peugeot 206. Mohammad our driver has assigned me the tight back seat with the kids, while Tom sits with room to spare in the front, talking man to man with Mohammad.
We've just been dropped off in the mellah, the Jewish section of Fes, looking for the Cimetiere Israelite de Fes, adjacent to the Royal Palace. Before our good and faithful guide Mohammad drives away, he points down the road and says, "It's there." But where?
We find the cemetery door partially hidden behind a guy selling CDs, with the instructions, like in a fairy tale, to ring 3 times. We ring as instructed and wait. And wait. Finally the caretaker arrives and opens the door with the intensity and ferocity of a lion. He has the skin of one too, brown and leathery with a scar running down his face.
As we walk through the maze of graves, Gabay points out descendants of Maimonides from the 16th and 17th century.
As you may recall from your Jewish history lessons (hah!), Maimonides was a brilliant philosopher, astronomer, physician, rabbi and Torah scholar, a polymath responsible for writing the basic tenants of Talmudic law.
(The scholar I mentioned in my last post said that Maimonides moved from Fes to Egypt with his entire family and doubted very much any of his descendants were buried in Fes. But I object: I saw their goat cheese graves with my own eyes!)
It's our last night in Morocco. We'd planned to go out on the town but decide to spend it at our riad, the palatial but homey Dar el Ghalia, in the heart of the old city. The courtyard, with its 8-sided star shaped fountain, is an island of peace and tranquility, and the intensity of the Medina slips away. Hassan brings us tea.
At dusk we climb the steps up to the rooftop garden to have our meal. Here, all of Fes-el-Bali opens up before us. The mechanical call of the first prayer, slowly revving up like an old 78, travels from minaret to minaret across the landscape.
Our meal finished we rest against the comfy pillows and soak up the mystery of this medieval city and its people. I think about the owner Omar Lebbar, who grew up in the Dar el Ghalia, with 60 siblings and servants, all living under one roof (his grandfather had three wives). Now, there is only Hassan, his helper, and the four of us. Business is bad, Lebbar tells us. Americans no longer travel here. Since 9/11 and the bombings, his business has been decimated. We can attest to that: we're the only guests we've seen all week. I can't help but wonder, is it reality, or only tall shadows that we fear? (July 2003)
Happy Hanukkah Everyone!