Reflection 1 - Jewish History in the Old Medina of Tangier and Public Sentiment

While our tour of the Old Medina could be a topic of its own, something caught my eye as we paused to look inside a few stores. The store I chose to look in was called “Berber and Ethnic Antiques.” Inside, there were cases of old jewelry pieces and various antiques. Upon deeper inspection, I found many of these old necklaces contained Jewish symbols, such as the Star of David, the Menorah, and Hebrew inscriptions. There was even an old seder plate on display, which contained faded instructions on how to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Passover.

Ironically, the store owners also sold Palestinian flags at the front of the store, similar to those displayed by protestors on the streets by the Old City and near our hotel since we arrived in Tangier.

In coming to Morocco, I was unsure what to expect regarding the environment toward Jews and the Jewish state. Morocco is the only Arab country that houses a Jewish Museum. It advertises King Mohammed V’s harrowing defense of the Jews living in and hiding in Morocco during the Holocaust, and most recently, it joined the UAE and Bahrain in signing the Abraham Accords to normalize relations with Israel. Before coming here, I had envisioned calm streets controlled by the steady hand of a monarch with strong ties to the West, a familial legacy of protecting Jews, and an interest in combating the Muslim Brotherhood. That idea was promptly squashed when, about a half hour after arriving at the hotel, I heard chants for “Intifada” outside my window. While the government may have one agenda, it is certainly not in lockstep with the general population.

On my walk out of the Old Medina, another building caught my eye. It was a large white-fenced structure that, in large Hebrew letters, read Beit HaHayyim. This directly translates to “House of Life,” a euphemism for a Jewish cemetery. I asked Professor Soraya if I could step into the cemetery for a quick look around, and she earnestly agreed. The security guard beckoned me in after I told him I was Jewish, and I was instantly astonished at how massive and well-kept the space was. I took a quick look around and a few pictures to send to my family. Not wanting to force the group to wait for me, I ran back toward the front gate of the cemetery. Professor Soraya walked to the entrance and asked the guard if she and the group could enter. The security guard excitedly let them in and gave us a tour, with Professor Soraya translating for him.

He brought us to the burial site of Rabbi Mordechai Benagio, who had served as Tangier’s chief rabbi for over sixty years. I read on his headstone that his family had come from Toledo and was presumably forced out during the Spanish Inquisition, along with the rest of the Andalusian Muslim and Jewish population. He then took us to the other side of the cemetery, where he showed us the oldest grave, dating back to the 14th century. It was there that he said something very powerful to the group. He told us that no matter what religion we follow, how much money we make, or what actions we do, we all end up in the same place—in the ground. He explained that he is a Moroccan Muslim and nonetheless feels an obligation to take care of the Jewish cemetery.

The guard’s sense of moral duty and respect for another faith’s burial ground reflected a deep Moroccan ethic of protecting and honoring religious minorities, one that can be seen through centuries of Moroccan royal history. On the walk back to the entrance, the guard reminded me to wash my hands, which is a Jewish ritual before leaving a cemetery. After washing my hands, I sincerely thanked him for his deeply impactful work.

The whole experience has been quite confusing for me. On the one hand, the Moroccan government has gone to lengths unparalleled in the Arab world to honor and protect Jewish people and identity in the country. However, the Jews have been almost entirely driven from the country since World War II and the founding of the State of Israel, and public sentiment is, at best, mixed. That being said, this interaction with the security guard of the cemetery deeply touched me and demonstrated that there are citizens who take the government’s commitment to honoring its once-thriving Jewish community—and building bridges to where they now reside—to heart. Perhaps moments like this show that coexistence is not always loud or political; sometimes, it's found in quiet acts of respect and care.

Reflection 2 - Trip to the Hamaam 

In my time in the United States and traveling to various countries, I have never been to a bathhouse before. I am aware that in many old and new cultures, bathhouses serve as social centers and are considered deep cultural traditions. The Romans constructed public baths throughout their empire; in fact, there is even a city in England today aptly named Bath to mark the ancient bathhouses that are still found in the city. Today, the best-known bathhouses are in Turkey, but they were spread throughout North Africa and the Middle East during the Islamic Golden Age and later by the Ottomans. Bathhouses are also found in Russia as well as in Nordic and Baltic countries. Here in Morocco and in other places in the Arab world, the bathhouse is referred to as a hamaam and is a weekly tradition for many Arabs. It is customary for men to go to the hamaam before Jumu’ah, but people of various religions have been going to relax and socialize at the hamaam for centuries. In my Jews in the Arab World class, I learned that in the time of the dhimmi, to ensure locals were aware of who was who, Christians were required to wear a cross and Jews a bell in the hamaam since it was so common for people of different groups to attend.

When it was first suggested we go to the hamaam, I was a bit trepidatious, as communal bathing was firmly out of my comfort zone—let alone being washed by another person. A few days later, it was decided that all of the males on the trip would be accompanied by a young man who works at the front desk of the hotel to go to the hamaam. We bought traditional soap sold in a jar, as well as scrubbing gloves for each of us. We were told to leave our phones and wallets at the hotel and bring a towel and about 100 dirhams to make sure we had enough to pay for a full hamaam experience. The man who agreed to take us, Muhammed, led us for twenty minutes through winding streets and a fish market. Though I had an increasing desire to head back, I did not know the way and, without my phone, knew the only way I was getting back was after going to the hamaam. When we got there, we were told to strip down to our underwear and leave our bags in the front room. When we opened the door to the bathing chamber, we were greeted with a wall of steam and what I imagine a communal shower in a prison looks like. It was filled with old men sprawled out on the floor while they were vigorously scrubbed by equally undressed men. We were told to wait in the corner until it was our turn, and my biggest concern was regarding the hygienic state of the communal scrubbing floor. To my relief, the employees gave the floor a quick scrub-down before motioning for me to lay prone in the middle of the room. Once I was settled on the floor, I found the experience to be quite relaxing, and had I been more comfortable with the local language or in the presence of friends, I could understand how it was a social venue.

Though most of my time in the hamaam was spent on a shared tile floor and most of it felt like a form of friendly hazing, I felt clean and refreshed afterward. I texted my friends from home that I had discovered a new activity for us to try, as there are several Russian and Turkish bathhouses near where I live. But I feel as though the intimidating crowd, lighting, and subpar cleanliness of the local hamaam was part of the experience. Overall, I am glad I went, and I feel that I now understand why locals enjoy going to the hamaam as a weekly social outing. I would love to take my friends to experience something similar, though I am not sure how similar it will be back home.

Reflection 3 - Shabbat in Marrakesh

This past Friday, after arriving in Marrakesh, I checked my phone to see if there was a synagogue service nearby; I knew there was still a tiny Jewish presence in the city. A Hebrew-language travel site listed Shabbat services about an eight-minute walk from our hotel, so I grabbed some of the nicer clothes from my suitcase and headed over.

When I reached the address, I was met by a tall cement wall and a guard post. In Arabic, I asked the guard if this was the synagogue; he smiled and pointed to a buzzer beside the reinforced gate. Before I could press it, someone opened the gate and invited me inside.

I had no idea what to expect. I’d heard Morocco still had Jews, but until that moment I hadn’t met any. Worried no one would speak English, I started rehearsing Hebrew in my head to refresh my speaking skills just in case.

Inside, the first thing I saw was a huge portrait of King Mohammed VI alongside an official document—presumably authorizing the synagogue to operate in Morocco. I grabbed a prayer book called a siddur and sat down in one of the pews. Immediately, the Hebrew sounded a little “off” to my ear. Moroccan (and other Sephardic) Jews pronounce many letters the way they are pronounced in Arabic: they articulate ayin (ע, which corresponds to Arabic ع) rather than flattening it into an alef (א); they pronounce resh (ר) with a roll, like Arabic ر, instead of the guttural ghayn (غ) sound more common in standard Hebrew; and they pronounce ḥet (ח) like Arabic ح, a softer breathy “h” sound, rather than the harsher خ. I could still follow along and understood the words, but the sound was so close to Arabic that it felt surreal.

Their melodies were different too, so it took me a while to figure out where we were in the service, and the siddur layout wasn’t what I’m used to which meant that it took me even longer to find the correct page. Afterward, everyone exchanged traditional Shabbat greetings and slipped into French or Hebrew conversations.

My Hebrew is serviceable—hardly eloquent, but enough to hold a conversation—so I joined the Hebrew speakers to find out what came next. When I said I was from New York, several people switched to English. The rabbi invited about twenty of us to his home for dinner, so I walked there with a mix of Moroccans and travelers.

Around the table were a plastic surgeon and his wife from São Paulo, PhD students from Manchester, a French father taking a weekend break from his family, a philosophy student from Belgium, and two Marrakesh natives who had recently moved back—an older woman and a younger man. Conversation alternated between English, Hebrew, and French; I tried some Arabic with the younger returnee. He’d gone to university in the U.S. and spoke flawless American English, so at first I thought he was just another expat. Turns out he grew up here, owns a few local houses he rents to tourists, and loves living in Marrakesh.

Naturally, everyone wanted to know what being Jewish in Morocco is really like. The older woman, who’d lived in Canada and the U.S. for decades, said she actually feels safer here because of the monarchy’s long-standing protection of the Jewish community. Many of us found that surprising, but both she and the young man seemed genuinely content. Even the rabbi—who splits his time among France, Israel, and Morocco to keep a Jewish presence in the city—seemed at ease here.

While the dinner conversation felt familiar—Jews everywhere talk, laugh, and argue in similar ways—the Arabic-inflected prayer service and these nuanced glimpses into Jewish life under a Muslim monarchy were experiences I’d never had before.