My adventure searching for religious Jewish women in Morocco started exactly 21 days ago it has been a arduous and, a times, unfulfilling journey mostly up and down the coastal side of the country. The model of Sephardic Jews like the Berber who once lived in Morocco are all gone, they have all immigrated to France, Spain and Canada, the one left are the grandparents. Morocco is an extinguishing Jewish community and its people don’t inhabit the main squares in the ancient Mellah (the original Jewish neighborhood in every Medina of Moroccan cities), they stay at home or they work in seldom Kosher stores that are impossible to find if you don’t just wonder around yourself asking just about everyone you meet on the street to show you exactly where they are (since almost every city in Morocco has no easy address method).
It is very different reality that they one I had imagined, but with some luck and a lot of time spent wondering and asking “droit and gouche” I did it, I found the few. I spoke to them. I had a meal with them. We met for Shabbat. We set and spoke. It was good, but not as spiritual and deep as the times I had in Israel, but still, it was a real Moroccan experience with people that probably are somehow related to me and my Spanish Jewish family. So I did what I came here to do.
And now I go. Now, I take flight. The wind has changed and, like Mary Poppins, it is time for me to go. It is time for me to pack and make the comfortable uncomfortable once again because when it becomes such I lose my eyesight, I turn blind and the photos I take become too obvious.
The wind has blow and I must go. So tomorrow I take the first flight for Djerba, Tunisia where the journey begins once again. I.N.S.H.A.L.L.A.H.