Bilad Al Haqaniya?: Otherness and Homeland in the Case of Djerban, Tunisian Jewry
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M.Phil Thesis in Modern Middle Eastern Studies |
| Thesis in PDF format—972 KB |
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Jerusalem will come to me, in the song,
and in the home[1]
Jerusalem is our true country[2]
The priests buzzed around the nothing
that was left there, inspecting it with
itching fingers. One threw the useless
keys into the everything above. Now,
they would learn to make
a meadow a temple, an act or an absence
of
an act, a temple. They weep and then
they learn to be
an altar[3]
Acknowledgements
My greatest gratitude to my advisor, Professor Ronald Nettler, whose
wisdom, patience and faith in me propelled the writing of this thesis.
Thank you also to Gabi Piterberg and Shlomo Deshen for helping me hone my
ideas and theoretical framework. My great appreciation to Sameen Gauhar for her
astute and thorough readings of my work and to Cat Roberts for her exacting and
crucial copy editing.
I would like to thank Fulbright, which enabled the gathering of a year's
worth of fieldwork prior to my arrival at Oxford. Thank you to those in Tunis
and in Djerba, all now dear friends, who facilitated my work. I send my deepest
appreciation to the Ridane and Liscia families, and Professors Habib Kazdaghli
and Besma Soudani in Tunis, and the Haddad and Kabla families and Alite Bitane
in Djerba.
I would also like to thank my dearest friends in Oxford, my daily emotional
pillars: Themeen, Sophia and Cat, and Nadia, Jeremy and Joseph, wholly my
second family. And my most beloved
friends elsewhere: Lini, Holly, Becca, Michael, Meli and Petra. Thank you also to Sanne for these vivid
weeks; may they continue.
Thank you to my father and mother, my sister, Lia and brother, Zach for
believing in my passion for the region, and my often emotional grappling with
questions of religion, politics and culture which that commitment has spurred.
My three year engagement with Djerba has been the most profound quest into the
world and into my self that I have ever known.
Chapter
1: The Question of Home
Messianic
Leanings of the Djerban Jews
Messianisms
Collision with Zionism
Cultural
Doubleness: The Last Arab Jews?
The Interiority of the Djerban Jews
Jews
and Muslims in Djerba: Historical Overview
Transformation
of Djerbas Harat al-Yehud
Chapter
3: The Window of the Festival
The
Purim Narrative and Performance
Djerban
Modifications of the Megilah
The
Lag BOmer Narrative and Performance
CHAPTER ONE: THE QUESTION
OF HOME
Do the Jews of Djerba, Tunisia[4]
perceive themselves to be in exile, even though they have perhaps resided on
the island for over 2000 years? To
what degree is Djerba now, in the 21st century, home for the Djerban Jews? Have
their notions of home changed after the creation of the State of Israel in
1948? In the subsequent thesis, I will examine otherness and homeland in the
case of Djerban Jewry in the modern Middle East. In so doing, I necessarily
discuss the historical, cultural and religious background of the community and
that of its surroundings. The process is a descriptive, ethnographic study of
one Jewish community—and its evolution—in the region; the result is
a grappling with the question of home and how it may be understood by the
community over time.
In the last fifty years, eighty percent
of Djerban Jews have emigrated to Israel or France. [5] Djerbas Jewish population crested at
5-6,000 in the mid forties; it plummeted between 1948 and 1967. There are now
approximately 1,200 Jews within a population of 100,000 Muslims (mostly of
Berber origin and either Sunnis or belonging to the strict Ibadi sect of Islam[6])
on the island; they reside in Hara Kebira and Hara Sgheira, the large and small Jewish
quarters. In the same period, Tunisias general Jewish population fell from
100,000 to under 10,000. These figures reflect a general trend throughout the
Middle East. At this same time, Yemen, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Egypt, Morocco and
Turkey were nearly emptied of their respective longstanding[7]
Jewish populations due to emigration to Israel and elsewhere. Most histories
contend that the Jews left in tandem with various political crises in the
Middle East. I will argue that in addition, perhaps a shifted conception of
home after
1948 created for the Djerban Jews their own unbelonging in Djerba. I will make the
case that the remaining fragment of Djerban Jews have sought to maintain the
Jewish aspect of their identities at the expense of the Djerban aspect, whereas
previously, perhaps both aspects could comfortably coexist without
contradiction. This shift was likely experienced by many such Jewish
communities scattered through the region, however I confine my study to Djerba.
I define identity in the sense of David
Snow's collective identity: "a shared and interactive sense of we-ness;"[8]
my interest is in how and
with whom Djerban Jews identify
themselves, and if this has changed over time.[9]
More specifically, this shared sense of we-ness is constituted by shared
perceptions of a common cause, threat or fate and is anchored in real or
imagined shared attributes and experiences among those who comprise the
collectivity and in relation or contrast to one or more actual or imagined sets
of others.[10] For Djerban
Jews, relation to and distinction from the Muslim Other is integral to the
communitys Self. I use the term myth throughout the thesis referring simply
to a peoples overarching beliefs about themselves and their position in the
universe. My working definition for belonging is a psychological sense of
feeling oneself to be in the right place, at
ease in a broader group. I define at home as at one's ease, as if
in one's own home; in one's element; unconstrained, unembarrassed; familiar or
conversant with, well versed in.[11]
I investigate to
what degree, over the course of the twentieth century, Djerban Jews have felt
at home in their birthplace, and the possibility of simultaneous embracing of
two homes.
In this paper, I rely on feelings of attachment to or detachment from Djerba, as opposed to broader sentiments around Tunisia. My focus here is on the communitys psychological sense of belonging in Djerba—a location they have resided for perhaps two millennia— rather than on Jewish identifications with the Tunisia emerging in 1956 as a nation per se. Tunisias emergence, with its specifically Arab character, perhaps alienated the Djerban Jews; at this time, they were lured by Zionist rhetoric, a point I will develop further.
I situate the dual and ambivalent
identity—of Jew, and of Djerban—within a historical political
framework of the creation of the State of Israel. There is evidence to show
that the events of 1948 caused a shift in the communitys psyche. Exile, at one
time likely abstractly understood, shifted to a newly-born, concrete sense of actual displacement
within Djerba, which perhaps did not exist in the same way previously. Whereas once
the Jews had identified Djerba as home, and felt their belonging within it, in
the new paradigm, notions of home were ascribed more exclusively to Israel. I
examine theories of "Negation of Exile" and of Zionist collective
memory to better understand how identification with Djerba may have been
trumped by other identifications for the Djerban Jews.
In my second chapter, I examine daily interactions and perceptions
as a prism on the belonging of the Djerban Jews. I compare my fieldwork in
Djerba from 2003-5 (group and individual interviews and informal conversations)[12]
to a series of interviews I conducted amongst Djerban emigrants in Israel who
left Tunisia in the early 1950s. In the latter case, I am culling early or
family memories to get a sense of pre-1948 Djerba. I examine commercial and
religious coexistence, and friendships between the two groups to gauge the
Djerban Jews relative belonging or alienation within Djerba. I also use a
variety of secondary sources (travel logs, ethnographies, histories)
delineating the relationship between Muslims and Jews in Djerba, and its shift
in the twentieth century, to contextualize my fieldwork and to substantiate my
claims.
In the third chapter, my focus shifts
from daily interactions to investigate rituals, which I understand as heightened dramas
enacting the communitys collective identity, and the paradigms these dramas
offer. I analyze local Djerban Jewish particularities of the festivals of Purim
and Lag BOmer as windows on the communitys struggle to maintain both its
unique Jewish identity and its Djerban identity. I examine the rituals as part
of a broader cosmology structuring the Djerban Jewish universe. Each festival
contends with the boundaries of the Jews with the Muslim population, the
possibility of belonging in Djerba, and if the island is, or can be home
for the Jews. I read Purim and Lag bOmer as historical continuities, enacting
Jewish ambivalence in their Muslim environment throughout time; my fieldwork
analyzes the shape the rituals take in 2003-5.
Ultimately, the Jews of Djerba are one
microcosm for the larger region: the collision of Western imperialism, Arab
Nationalism, Zionism and secularizing influence of the tourism industry with a
deeply traditional, insular island culture mirrors the larger issues affecting the Middle East, but has had specific
reverberations in Djerba. Mary Douglas asserts that communities construct
barriers between themselves and the forces that threaten them through taboo, or
the spontaneous device for protecting the distinctive
categories of the universe, which protects local consensus on how the world
is organized.[13] Such taboos have structured
how Djerban Jews relate to that which exists outside of their own communitys
core. The Jewish community seems to feel besieged from both the exterior (by Muslim and
imported Western influences) and equally, from the interior (by impurity, and
fear of succumbing to outside influences). For
the Jews of Djerba, the Other is often understood as the embodiment of danger,
threatening dissolution of the communitys Self.[14] On some levels, the community is
dealing creatively with new challenges and adapting slowly. However, ultimately
these outside forces have driven an already closed community more anxiously
into itself, challenging the belonging of the Jews within Djerba. I ultimately
argue that the remaining Jews in Djerba seek to maintain one part of their
identity, perhaps at the expense of the other.
Messianic Leanings of the Jews of Djerba
Awaiting a Messiah to eliminate exile and
usher in redemption has been integral to Judaism since the second Temple
period. According to Mircea Eliade, Messianism seeks to abolish history (or
more precisely, its grievances): When the Messiah comes, the world will be saved once and for all and history will cease
to exist.[15] This
sequence of events is imagined to occur in Israel; for Djerban Jews, with their
profound messianism, Israel has long been intertwined with a mythical age to
come. Jerusalem has been understood as the navel of the world,[16]
the emotional and imaginative core sustaining the larger Jewish community in
Diaspora. Eliade emphasizes that the drive in religion to return to a perfect era or a perfect
place can structure a communitys vision of its mythical past and future;[17]
its present hovers between. This return to a perfect essence—embodied in
both an era and a place—is a reflection of the Djerban Jewish map of the
cosmos. That essence defines the past, and thus the identity of the community;
the possibility of again attaining it creates the communitys felt destiny.
Poised between Temple period and Messianic Age, they are a people who remember
and who wait.
The Djerban Jewish community traces part
of its origin back to the fall of the Temple in 586 B.C. (and the remainder to
post-1492 Exodus from Spain); in this, it posits itself as descendants from
exiles of the Promised Land. In the communitys myth of origin, a stone from
the fallen Temples door was brought to the Hara Sgheira, initially named Dighet, after the word delet
(door) in Hebrew. Although mourning the Temple has been woven into the fabric
of Judaism itself, its manifestations are acute in Djerbas community. A
sugared wheat porridge (Basisa, a symbol of the Temples foundation) [18]
is stirred with a key (its lost key), once a year, acting out a longing to recreate
the edifice. Older men wear black stripes on their trousers to mourn the
temple. A bride places a candle for mourning at her bedside. Two candelabra are painted on newly-married couples
homes, making they themselves into pillars of the Temple to be rebuilt.[19]
Moreover, the Zohar (a segment of the
Kabbalah, the mystical tradition in Judaism) becomes a locus of messianic
longing. Djerban Jews, like many other Jews, believe the Zohar was composed in
the 2nd century by Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai; in fact it is documented
to be written in 13th century Spain by Moses de Leon as a collection
of Bar Yohais lectures. Indeed, le Judaisme maghrebin est, essentiellement, un
judaisme kabbalistique. The Zohar, for these communities entr[ient] la
flamme dune esperance Messianique aux jointures de la vie quotidienne.[20]
The Zohar
elaborates a paradigm in which exile and redemption of the Jews become cosmic exile and redemption.[21]
The exile and redemption of God are even in the equation: in the unredeemed
universe, God is exiled from God. Specifically, God is separated from, seeking
reunion with the Shekhina, his female principle.[22]
Each man can and must become the lactif collaborateur dՎternel desseins: la
prire force le salut du monde.[23]
By following ritual prescriptions, man can bring his community (and thus his
God) closer to redemption. Through prayer, he can help God and His Shekhina
eventually reunite. Each individual thus has the power to impact the cosmos.
Although the Zohars more esoteric ideas
are likely understood only by a small group of scholars in Djerba,[24]
and not by the majority of the community, it nevertheless is a ritual object[25] laden with associations of
great import. Placed at the center of messianic rituals, the book is
symbolically associated with Djerban Jewish ideas of final redemption. For North
African Jews, toutes les donnes de la vie religieuse et communautaire sont
modifies et interpretes en fonction du message de la Kabbale.[26]
Seeking wholeness
or cosmic redemption, in order to obliterate exile—a central issue in
the Jewish faith—manifests itself in Djerban Jewry with particular zeal;
the Zohar mediates.
For example, during Sukkot, Djerban Jews
like other Jews around the world construct a temporary shelter, a sukkah, to commemorate their
ancestors forty years of wandering through the wilderness before reaching
Israel, and to rejoice in the harvest. In Djerba, in addition, Jews suspend a
chair in their sukkahs for Prophet Elijah—the prophet who hearkens the
End of Days—with a copy of the Zohar upon it. In this, the festival of
the gathering of the harvest, here becomes the festival of Gods messenger who
will announce the arrival of the Messiah and the end of exile.[27]
In addition, in Djerba,
circumcision—the rite initiating Jewish males into the covenant with
God—is also linked to the Zohar[28] and to Judaisms prescription for the
End of Days. Baby boys are circumcised on Elijahs chair. Afterwards, the
Night of the Zohar commences and Zoharic melodies call for the arrival of the
Messiah. The Zohar is read at other moments which bind the community: in the
consecration of a new home, upon the commemoration of a death, and a song
memorializing its creation is sung on the Sabbath. It is also prominent in the
festival of Lag BOmer—to this point I later return.
Mysticism and messianism conceptually
merged for many Jews after their exile from Spain in 1492; the mystical texts
justified exile, and offered a vision for its reversal:
By connecting the notions of exile and redemption with the
central question of the essence of the universe, they managed to elaborate a
system which transformed the exile of the people Israel into an exile of the
whole world, and the redemption of their people into a universal cosmic
redemption.[29]
The Zohars power for Jews expelled from Spain into the
Ottoman Empire is noted:
"With the expulsion of the Jews
from Spain in 1492. [they were] welcomed with open arms by the
Ottomans[;].The Zohar...that most unclassifiable of books, itself an amalgam
of narrative, poetic and mystical conglomerate cutting through Christian Spain,
infiltrated almost every aspect of the spiritual, communal and intellectual
life of the Jewish Levant.[30]
Most
Djerban Jews trace their origin to the Spanish expulsion; their Judaism is
indeed inflected with the mystical messianic current which thrived thereafter.
Moreover, in the 17th century, the Sabbatean messianic movement, which
originated in what is now Turkey, was as strong in Morocco and Tunisia as in
the Near East.[31] The movement was initiated in 1665 by Shabbatai Zvi, who was born
to a traditional Jewish family in Smyrna (what is now Izmir, Turkey), and
proclaimed himself messiah, but later converted to Islam upon arrest and threat
of execution. Before his conversion, messianic fervor rippled from the Ottoman
Empire through Europe. Zvis movement triggered contact between North African
communities and religious academies in Palestine. There are records of the
presence of such emissaries in Djerba as early as the 17th century.
One rabbi documents 15 such visitors to Djerbas Jewish villages.[32] Despite this actual contact between
Djerba and Palestine, the Holy Land was still perhaps quite abstract[33] for the Jews of Djerba; the Holy Land, like the End of Days,
remained a possibility, a concept.
The Djerban myth of origin,[34]
cherished as an identity marker, offers a monolithic picture, drawing symbolic
continuity between the Temples fall and the Jews present-day situation.
However, diaspora itself is never a continuous, uniform entity: the actual
period from that ancient initial exile, through the subsequent Spanish exile up
to the present, can hardly be understood linearally. However, Zionisms
narrative was often explained thus, with Temple Days and Israels reclamation
seamlessly joined as inevitable; mainstream Zionism sought a useable past.[35]
Meanwhile, the Zionist narrative, by insisting upon the autochtony of the
Jewish people in Israel, had repressed memories of coming from somewhere else.[36]
This somewhere else was required to recede to create a coherent national
narrative. David Myers references the harnessing of Benedict Andersons
imagined community in the new Jewish states formation: great powers of
imagination were required for an extraterritorial, multilingual collectivity
such as the Jews [37] to create a
unified national narrative. According to Myers, refashioning history enabled
the creation of such a narrative.
The narrative created was often
reductive. Zionism was made to stand in an unending line of messianic
stirrings and rebellions against an evil destiny, which began right after the destruction of the Temple by the Romans.[38]
As Hertzberg states, what is being obscured is the crucial problem of modern
Zionist ideology, the tension between the inherited messianic concept and the
radically new meaning that Zionism, at its most modern, was proposing to give
it.[39]
This new meaning had political and territorial content and required reckoning
with the Palestinian population. It was girded by notions which had emerged out
of Romantic nationalism and German historicism, that the nation is the
autonomous subject par excellence and that the state is the telos of its march
towards self-fulfillment.[40] Indeed, Boas Evron insists upon
contextualizing the State of Israel as a temporal and spatial phenomen[on]
bounded by history and politics, instead of as an articulation of an immanent
nationhood that is 2,500 years old.[41]
Harvey Wettstein suggests that two
millennia ago, the exile of the Jews after the fall of the Temple was a cosmic
jolt and to view ones group in exile is to suppose that what is in some
sense the proper order has been interrupted.[42]
In the Zionist idea, such rupture in the proper order stands in polar contrast
to an ideal of continuity of the Jews on their land. Yet the messianic mythos
of a unified people in a promised land, and the newly-politicized notions of
the ownership of that land would come head to head.
I now examine certain paradigms within
Zionism, and their potential impact on the Djerban Jews. I ultimately use them
as lenses on the shift I argue occurred in that community in the last fifty
years. First, Negation of Exile is a stratagem to create territorial existence
in Israel as the single viable mode for Jews. Zerubavel explains: Zionist
collective memoryconstructs Exile as a long, dark period of suffering and
persecution.[43] The period
of Exile is represented as a hole... an acute lack of positive characteristics[44]
Diasporic Jews, who lived somewhere else,[45]
lived in a void, seeming not fully to exist. Indeed, a recurrent feature of
Zionist thought was the belief that Jews had become exiles from history. According to this view,
diaspora Jews had ceased to be masters of their own historical fates. The
critique of the diasporic condition was based on the premise that vitality in
history required a national body.[46]
In these Zionist tropes, Jews outside of Israel were outside of true existence and true history.
Gabi Piterberg critiques what he calls
the Zionist foundational myth: the negation of exile establishes a
continuity between an ancient past, in which there existed Jewish sovereignty
over the land of Israel, and a present that renews it in the settlement of
Palestine.[47] The
underlying assumption is that from time immemorial, the Jews constituted a
territorial nation. It follows that a non-territorial existence must be
abnormal, incomplete and inauthentic.[48]
I argue that when Israel became sovereign, the Djerban Jews came to see their own
existence as abnormal, incomplete and inauthentic, emptied of the
significance they had originally perhaps attributed to it within Djerba.
Meanwhile, the myths complement was this: the land too was condemned to exile
as long as there was no Jewish sovereignty over it, it lacked any meaningful or
authentic history, awaiting redemption with the
return of the Jews.[49]
This myth (while instituting a forgetting of the Palestinian population) also
furnished a sense of common purpose, or indeed common destiny, for diasporic
Jewish communities awaiting return.
Since the fall of the
Temple, Jerusalem has been laden with past and future, understood for centuries
by Jews as a spiritual concept, a symbol of redemption and completion. For
millennia, Djerban Jews have mourned Jerusalem and called it home. Yet, this
messianic, almost mystical home did not conflict with a sense of belonging
within their physical home in Djerba. If Israel was the bilad alhaqaniya of the Djerban Jews, it became so in a profoundly different way
when it acquired physical and political dimensions in 1948. In this, the
Djerbans began the losing process of their first bilad.
Shlomo Deshen notes
that prior to
the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, [North African Jews] were to
be found only in small communities in the traditional holy cities of Jerusalem
and Tiberias and possibly in one or two other localities.[50]
Indeed, between 1918 and 1948, there were only about a thousand immigrants from
North Africa residing in Israel.[51]
As Israel was perhaps understood abstractly and spiritually, they did not
have to go there
to feel connected to it. Connection could be maintained while on Tunisian soil.
Since the creation of Israel, there are now some 70,000 Tunisian Jews residing
there. The messianic vision of the ingathering of the exiles in the contiguous
sacred land of Zion had been nourished for two millennia. However, the
actualization of that place had fired the imagination of many North African
Jews and had been the impetus of their immigration.[52]
Indeed, an influx of emissaries and Zionist groups had been sent on missions
from Israel to transform the imagined journey to an actual one.
It must be noted that Rabbinic Judaism and Zionism largely coexisted without strife in the Middle East, indeed, the religious ideology that existed in Europe, which saw Zionism as antithetical to Judaism because it tried to bring the messianic age rather than leave that matter in the hands of heaven, did not arise in the East.[53] Whereas Zionism was often the political tool of secularized segments in Europe, in the Middle East, it was generally a more organic outgrowth of traditional messianic thought. Jews of the Middle East had not fashioned, and were thus somewhat remote from, Zionisms political agenda. In this, they were able to incorporate Zionism into their own traditional Rabbinic and messianic framework. Israel was likely understood as the fulfillment of their religiosity as opposed to a strictly political movement. In fact, the Zionism of North Africa was probably most driven by a mystical verve. A 1947 report on North African Jews by the Joint Jewish Committee in Tunisia cautions moderation among new Zionists: Circumstances during the last year have awakened among all African Jews a mystic trend to Zionism and simultaneously have brought a change in their character which has become aggressive and violent.[54] Upon Israels creation, the realities and perceptions of both Jews and Muslims shifted within Djerba itself. Through the creation of a new territory for the Jews, was the first home, Djerba to become a non-territory?
Clifford Geertz attributes cultural
doubleness to the situation of the Djerban Jews, that of a monoform community
potentially thriving in a polyform society.[55]
Discrete unto itself, Djerban Jewish society is also permeable to its
environment, cross-pollinated by local Tunisian mores. Abraham Udovitch calls
the Djerbans the Last Arab Jews: profoundly Jewish in their identity, but
simultaneously, of the Arab world. Geertz examines the difficulty of
maintaining this monoform/polyform duality in the wake of political shifts
like the formation of the Tunisian state, as it becomes threatened by the
loyalty-fusing imperatives of modern nationalism. The creation of an
independent nation—especially with the rise of Pan-Arab fervor[56]
seems to compel the Jews to choose: assimilate or emigrate.[57]
Subsequent political ruptures and crises (especially the Bizerte crisis in 1961
and the 1967 defeat) in the Arab world created new psychological ossification
of boundaries between the Jews and Muslims of Djerba. These crises drove both Jews and Muslims of Djerba, already
insular, deeper into their own respective groups. In the subsequent chapter, I
examine the relative disintegration of this so-called monoform / polyform
duality in the last fifty years.
It is arguable that Djerbas monoform
Jewish community resides, rather, within a somewhat monoform Muslim majority.
Most Djerban Muslims are a Berber minority, within Tunisias Arab majority
population and many are members of the historically despised minority sect,
the Ibadiya, among a Sunni majority population.[58]
Ibadis, belonging to a distinct sect of Islam which developed 50 years after
the Prophets death, refer to themselves as the people of straightness.[59]
Sunni Muslims have typically regarded Ibadis as a Kharijite group, an offshoot
of the 7th century secessionist group. Ibadis themselves reject this
designation, preferring to emphasize their distinctiveness from the Khawaraj.
Ibadi Islam is exacting; in contrast to Sunni Muslims, Ibadis reject the
possibility of the Prophets intercession for sinners and insist that the
punishment of hellfire is eternal.[60] Yet
although the Ibadis part ways with Sunnis on certain doctrinal details, and
have slight differences in prayer practices, they are not ultimately very
dissimilar. Perhaps most important is the perception of the Ibadis difference,
which has rendered the group so marginal in both Ibadi and Sunni communities
and discourse.
The Ibadiya are found largely in Oman, East Africa, Algerias
Mzab valley, the Nafus mountains of Libya, and the island of Djerba. Mentions
of the group in history reflect its members fierce adherence to their sect.
Between the 8th and the 14th centuries, the island was
split between Ibadis of Wahbi (moderate) and Nukkari (extreme) persuasion;
Wahbis gained ascendancy.[61]
In the 9th century, Djerba held fast to Ibadism in the wake of the Aghlabid
invasion.[62] Under the
Zirids in the 10th-12th centuries, bien des faits
confirment linfluence des Abadites en Ifriquiya.[63]
Ibadism had significantly waned in Tunisia by the 11th century,
except for in Djerba, which remains faithful to the doctrine still today.[64]
Brunschvig, describing 15th century Djerba as lՔle berberophone
elaborates on the Djerbans appartenance une secte rligieuse dissidente,
heterodoxie musulemane du harijisme[65]
Ibadis were understood through their difference and its careful preservation.
Ibadis believe that those who have
committed grave sins without repentance are kuffar nima, monotheists who are
ungrateful for the blessings God has bestowed upon them.[66]
Ibadis believe that one must practice dissociation or baraa towards the kuffar nima, be they sinning Ibadis or
non-Ibadi Muslims. This disassociation takes the form of withholding
friendship (wilaya) rather
than outright hostility.[67]
Wuquf is reservation to one whose status is
unclear.[68] This level
of interaction may perhaps apply to the case of the Djerban Jews, understood as
People of the Book, yet not Muslim.
Nur al-Din al-Salimi, an early 20th
century Omani Ibadi thinker, elaborates what association might be permitted
with the corrupt monotheist; although he is likely referring to non-Ibadi
Muslims, perhaps the attitudes can be applied to Jews as well:
The Law allows certain things with the corrupt monotheist
that it does not allow of the polytheist, such as intermarriage, eating their
slaughtered animalsgiving the greeting of peace, saying God bless you if he
sneezes, praying behind him, praying over him if he dies, accepting his
testimony, and interacting with him in all worldly matters just as one would
interact with Muslims with whom one has wilaya.[69]
Especially concerned with ritual purity, Ibadis are
historically insular. The Jews
thus lived among another minority group that was also on the defensive.[70]
One Djerban Jew, who relocated to Paris in the 1980s, but who returns
frequently, confirms:
The Djerban Muslims are not liked by the other Muslims. We used to play cards in Djerba with Muslim Djerban friends, and any Muslim from Tunis was called Berani: outsider. Only pure Djerbans. When people came to Djerba from the outside—like Gabes[71]—you would find them always alone. Now when I go to Djerba, I find the old crowds, the Djerbans who have been there forever.[72]
In this instance,
it is non-Djerbans, perhaps even more than Jews, who are Other. Both the Jewish and Muslim Djerbans share profound appreciation
for strict religious observance and social conservatism. Ibadi Islam and
Orthodox Judaism converge in certain of their preoccupations; both groups are
profoundly self-protective and interior.
Since an intellectual resurgence in the 18th
century, initiated by Rabbi Perez,[73]
Djerbas Jewish community has retained a core of vitality.[74] Perez was the catalyst for intensive
study, construction of many of the Haras synagogues and institutionalization
of religious education centered around the synagogue. Young boys began a rigorous training in Torah at the age of
5, and then later, Talmud and Zohar.
Thereafter, Rabbi Moshe Khalfon HaCohen (1874-1950) became a dominant
force in the community, codifying local Djerban Jewish customs,[75]
and resisting French colonial influence. Meticulous religious observance was at the center of
daily life. Indeed, in this period, an appointed Sheiqh checked whether men had worn their tefilin (prayer scrolls), and
beat with a stick [76]anyone
who had violated the ritual prescriptions.
During the French Protectorate
(1881-1956) and beyond, only Djerba was able to consolidate and maintain its
religious leadership.at the very time when communal fabric everywhere else was
disintegrating.[77] In 1878,
the Alliance Israelite Generale (offering a secular curriculum and French
instruction) opened its first school in Tunis. The Alliance, created in 1860 in
Paris, sought to promote education of Jews throughout the world. In order to
preserve its traditional boundaries, Djerba refused opening a school[78]
and the rabbis threatened excommunication of any attendees. To demonstrate his
commitment to traditional education, Rebbe Khalfon universalized Torah Study
and subsidized education for boys. Meanwhile, in Northern Tunisia, Jews were
typically identified with the French regime and culture, and defined themselves
thus.[79]
The Jews of Tunis began to speak French,
and today many continue to do so.
However, the Djerban Jews have always spoken their own dialect, which
varies in pronunciation and in vocabulary from the dialect of the Muslims, and
is laced with Hebrew learned in their yeshivot. During the French Protectorate,
many of the Jews of Tunis joined the Communist party; such outside ideologies
had little sway in Djerba until Zionism encroached upon the island. Under
French rule, rabbinic judges had been appointed to handle matters internal to
the community such as marriage and divorce. Upon independence, such matters
were handled within the Jewish community informally. After Bourguibas
ascension in 1956, the Jews, as all others, were subject to the new
administration and its legislation. The Jews of Tunis integrated themselves
more readily into this system, some working as bureaucrats and many as
teachers. A Tunisian Muslim who lived in Tunis at this time describes the life
of the Jews in the capital:
I
remember Moshe and Davids jewelry storethey were the most popular people in
the neighborhood. They played
cards. The Jews I knew were not
religious. They were leftist
communists.[80]
While Tunis Jewish community became more
heterogeneous and cosmopolitan, its loyalties scattered, Djerbas community
became all the more homogenous and insular. No Djerban Jew has held any
position of authority in the government bureaucracy at even a local or regional
level.[81]
Not officially denied access to these positions, they simply chose their
enclosure, the sufficiency of their own community.[82]
According to Geertz, the island within an island has been maintained to an extraordinary degree: the Djerban Jewish core of ritual, law and cultural and intellectual fluorescence enabled the community to retain its life-force. On the surface, the community is currently thriving: the population is young and increasing. Youth marry in their late teens. Wives become pregnant almost immediately. Yet, in recent decades, the community has been understood as a relic, the preservation of an ancient and diminishing world. Can this be so if festivals and rituals are observed passionately and meticulously; rabbinic interpretation is continuously privileged; babies are born and inducted? There is even one printing press, printing scholarship in Judeo-Arabic. Despite this ostensible flourishing, there seems to be a keen sense among the population that this place, their home, is not their home and has never been their home. The Arabs are, profoundly, Other. The notion that they, themselves, could be Arab Jews would be wholly alien.
Beginning in the sixties, Djerbas Jews
and Muslims shared
a threatening Other. The tourist industry was burgeoning: secularism invaded
the once-enclosed island. Djerba is typically described in 19th
century and early 20th European century travel-logs as being remote,
intact, unspoiled. The traditional Jews and likewise the traditional Muslims
who surrounded them, would all have to contend with a changed universe. In
Djerba, where there can be little doubt that tradition and religion are taken
more seriouslythan in most of the rest of Tunisia[83]
the collision with secularism would be especially robust. By the 1960s, tourism
would be the single largest source of income on the island. Casinos, bowling
alleys, night clubs and Club Med vacation packages would dot the coast, only a
few miles away from enclaves of traditionalism.
The island had at last been irrevocably
touched by the outside world; continued sustenance for Jew and Muslim alike,
despite themselves, would soon depend on more contact with that world. Despite
this mutual distaste for the rapid modernizing of the island, each group sought
solace within
its own. The landscape of heightened political tension and secular influence
contributed to the self-protective impulses of each group.
Jews and Muslims in Djerba: A Historical Overview[84]:
From the Islamic conquest on, the status
of the Jew in the Arab world was that of dhimmi: protected though subject to
discrimination as a follower of a religion tolerated by Islam. Jews were required to wear
distinguishing clothes,[85]
to pay the jizya tax to the Bey, to live in special quarters and could not
acquire property. Their situation
varied, less stable in periods of economic and political disruption, however,
the Jews or the People of the Book were afforded general security as a
monotheistic minority.
Djerban Jews make periodic appearances in
historical and commercial documents; these mentions give nuance to the Djerban
Jewish position as an especially insular group of dhimmi who nonetheless,
interacted with the Muslim population.
At the end of the 12th century, Maimonides,
traveling to North Africa, notes the Djerban Jewish preoccupation with ritual
purity.[86] In the 15th century, Rabbi
Moses (born in Spain, later a Rabbi in Tunis and Cairo) reveals that Djerban
Jews entrusted their livestock to Muslims during the Sabbath.[87]
In the 16th century, the distinctive dress of Djerban Jews is noted
during the Spanish expedition of Charles the 5th.[88]
Two centuries later, they appear in the Beys fiscal records for payment of the
jizya tax.
The dhimmis status was transformed by
the Pacte Fondamentale in 1857, which abolished many of the previous economic
and social discriminatory measures: security was guaranteed for all our
subjects and for those residing in our Regency irrespective of religion,
language or color.the dhimmi among our subjects may not be compelled to change
his religion.[89] In 1881,
France occupied Tunisia; the Jews (particularly Northerners) felt to be under
Frances protection.[90]
Djerban Jews, however, distanced themselves from assimilation of French
culture, resisting all outside secular influence.
Saadoun states that in the reported
collective memory of Tunisias Jews, Muslim-Jewish coexistence was both
practical and tranquil.[91]
However, by the beginning of the twentieth century, new trends and
revolutionary spirits were brewing in a region frustrated with colonial
domination. Early incarnations of Arab Nationalism and Zionism[92]
collided ominously. In Tunisia, the
nationalistic Destour Party, founded in 1920 under Habib Bourguiba, sought
Tunisias independence. In the subsequent three decades, enthusiasm mounted to
that end. In 1934, a letter written by Joseph Fisher (secretary general of the
French branch of the Jewish National Fund in Jerusalem) several weeks after the
Constantine pogrom,[93]
expresses anxieties about Arab nationalism: I have not the slightest doubt
that this pogrom had been organized and executed by the young Arab nationalist
movement.[94] According to Fisher, the nationalistic movement had
taken on an anti-Semitic[95]
cast, and the press had been inciting the public against the Jews whom it
depicts as a docile instrument of English and French imperialism.[96]
Fisher stresses that while anti-Semitism was originally an imported phenomenon
from Europe, in recent years, it has been adopted and assimilated by North
African elements. He laments: This conflict dates back to the events of
1929. Prior to that year, there
were no anti-Semitic [indigenous] manifestations in the North African
countries. An anti-Semitic movement existed, but it hailed from the European
element and appeared as a foreign import. This time, we are facing a fierce
anti-Semitic movement which emanates from the Arabs themselves.[97] Fisher refers to the1929 Western
Wall riots between Palestinians and Zionists as a catalyst for Tunisian
anti-Semitism.
In
the 1920s-1950s, nationalist sentiment escalated. Meanwhile, Pan-Arabism[98]
and Pan-Islam would be increasingly stressed, alienating the Jews. Yet while
the Jews were alienated from their Muslim compatriots, Muslims were likely
alienated from Jews as Zionist efforts mounted. In 1921, Tunisia sent its first
delegate to the 12th Zionist Congress.[99]
In 1922, a council composed of Alfred Valensi, President of Tunisias Zionist
Federation, and others appealed to Tunisias Jews to contribute to the
Keren-Hayesod fund for the restoration of Palestine, and the return there of
the exiles who, when living at last under normal
conditions, will be able to give full scope to their national genius and,
consequently, contribute more effectively to the progress of civilization.[100]
If Tunisian Jews could only richly contribute to civilization while in Israel,
then their contributions in Tunis were, by default, paltry by comparison.
Non-territorial existence was portrayed, as I have suggested, as incomplete.[101]
In 1927, a confidential memo deplores the
lack of consolidated effort on the part of Tunisian Jewry in Zionist efforts:
Though this country has a Jewish population of over 100,000, the majority of
whom are Zionists and not as Frenchified as the Jews of Algeria, or even
Morocco, the lack of initiative has prevented united work.[102]
In ensuing years, emissaries sent from Israel prompted more initiative.[103]
Even in Djerba, which tended to isolate itself from outside currents, Zionism
was gaining a foothold. Already in 1906, a Djerban sage expressed enthusiastic
approval[104] of the
Zionist movement. The Zionist body, Atereth-Tsiyon, established in Djerba in
1919, would organize agricultural training and education in modern Hebrew in
the forties. The groups membership would grow to 200, including that of the
revered Rebbe Khalfon. In fact,
the restructuring of education in Djerba—supplementing yeshiva school with
secular subjects and opening separate schools for girls—were inspired by
Zionist ideology.[105]
The collision of these two rising trends, the Arabs seeking
recognition of their autonomy as a State on their own soil and the Jews seeking
the creation of an autonomous state on more mythical soil, was foreboding:
tension developed in the 1930s between the Tunisian national movement
(Neo-Destour) and the emerging Zionist movement in Tunisia. The Neo-Destour
prevented Jabotinsky from appearing in Tunisia in 1932.[106]
The Zionist bodies would further consolidate themselves in the rise of
anti-Semitism during World War Two, hoping to protect the Jews against pogroms.
Self-defense instruction was set up as early as 1943 through Mossad Le-Aliyah.
In Djerba too, an operation was sponsored which enlisted 50 youths for 24 hours
a week in training.[107]
As nationalisms grip on Arabs tightened
and as Zionism further ignited Jewish imagination, a gulf was created between
the two groups. Each was locked into different, indeed contradictory rhetoric.
In 1934, the Muslim Young Men distributed a virulent anti-British and
anti-Zionist tract in Tunisia. Imperialism of all kinds here conflate as the
British, the French and the Jews are understood to be united in aim. The Jews
and Western imperialists are seen as working towards the same project, the
occupation of Muslim lands. The creed calls: O Zealous Muslim People! We are
addressing this manifesto to you, O people, hoping that you will aid Palestine
This is a small amount compared to the donations sent by the Tunisian Zionists
to the Zionists of Palestine for land purchases and to strengthen the Zionist
movement.[108] A lurid
description of the crimes committed against their Muslim brethren in Palestine
is included.
These various tracts distributed by Jews
and Muslims during this period, are heightened emotional propaganda intended to
shape each groups vision of itself, its potential and its duties. Meanwhile,
Tunisian Jews occasionally found themselves in a particular bind: Whereas
Muslim elements accused the Jews of collaborating with the Residency, Frenchmen
and other Europeans described them as deserters who increasingly backed the
Neo-Destour.[109] The sense
of mutual alienation was becoming more palpable. During World War Two, Germany occupied Tunisia from November
1942 through May 1943 during which 5000 Jews were subjected to forced labor in
camps.[110] Indeed, [t]he attitude of the [Muslim]
Tunisian population towards the Jews during the six months of German occupation
was basically one of indifference with occasional gestures of friendship, or
inversely, acts of hostility.[111]
This indifference would surely impact the Jews psyche, likely severing felt
connections of many to their birthplace.
A
variety of Zionist organizations were circulating in the Jewish-Tunisian milieu
by the end of the 1940s. Besides the Alliance Isralite Universelle, mostly
concerned with education, Mossad Le Aliya was active between 1949-52. The
Jewish Agency for Palestine sent emissaries from Israel. Other organizations,
based in Paris (like the AJDC) were in close contact with Tunisian Jews.[112]
Some Tunisian Jews emigrated illegally, before the creation of Israel, in
1947-8, aided by a local Zionist underground. By 1948-9, Mossad Le-Aliya was
permitted by French authorities to organize emigration discreetly out of Tunis,
without official legal sanction.[113]
In fact, within a period of just over a decade, in the 1950s and 60s, the
age-old Jewish communities of North Africa ceased to exist.[114] From 1948-49, 6200 Tunisian Jews
left for Israel, 3725 in 1950, 3414 in 1951, 2548 in 1952. The independence
years saw a resurgence of emigration, rising to 6104 in 1955 and 6545 in 1956.[115]
Many also left for France. Between 60,000-70,000 would arrive to Israel, and
approximately 40,000 to France. In 1971, there were only 9,000 Jews left in
Tunisia, whereas there had been approximately 110,000 in 1948.[116]
Upon Bourguibas rise to power, genuine
efforts were made to show goodwill and win over the anxious Jewish
communities.[117] Andr
Barouche, a Jew, was named minister of planning and construction in the
cabinet. In 1956, Bourguiba was at the pinnacle of his popularity with the Jews
by opposing Nassers policy of expelling Egyptian Jews during the Sinai/ Suez
crisis of 1956.[118]
Bourguiba did halt emigration to Israel for the duration of the year, so as not
to anger the Arab world, but permitted it again thereafter. However, despite
the best intentions of the new Tunisian administration, Jewish integration in
an independent Tunisia would not be so simple.[119]
In the case of the North, Jews had been educated at Alliance Israelite
Universelle and Protectorate schools.
Once Arabic was appointed the official language for use in all spheres
in 1955, Jews were linguistically ill-equipped to work in many formal and
bureaucratic settings. Laskier
notes that [not] all Jews adapted to Arabization and, with the passage of
time, during the 1960s-70s, were replaced by Muslims in the liberal professions
and civil service.[120]
Meanwhile, trends of exclusion
in the Arab world continued to set the Jews ill at ease. Andr Barouche was not
reappointed to Bourguibas cabinet after its first reshuffling, and no Jew was
appointed to such a position again during Bourguibas regime.[121]
Tunisia, after distancing from Nasser finally acquiesced and joined the Arab
League in 1958. The government diminished Jewish communal authority with Law
No. 58-78 of July 1958, dissolving the Jewish Communal Council of Tunis and
replacing it with The Provisional Commission for the Oversight of Jewish
Religious Matters. The latter had narrow religious and educational authority.[122]
In 1961, when Bourguiba at last evicted the French from the Northern port of
Bizerte, popular opinion rose against the Jews who were accused of harboring
empathy for the French from the beginning.
However, it must be noted that
despite reverberations of Pan-Arab policies and generally anti-Zionist
attitudes in the region, Bourguibas Tunisia was particularly tolerant of the
Jews and their emigration ambitions. Bourguiba was seen by many to possess a
measured and realistic viewpoint regarding Palestine. He advocated the eventual
recognition of and relative cooperation with Israel, and asked that the Arabs
focus upon their own economic and technological development.[123]
Bourguiba even refused Nassers instructions to break relations with Western
Germany after its diplomatic recognition of Israel.[124]
Indeed, the fact that Bourguiba tolerated the presence of aliyah emissaries
and permitted the Jewish Agency apparatus in Tunis was a unique phenomenon in
the Arab world in the 1950s.[125]
In 1957, the government requested the Emigration office register under a Swiss
name; the general trends in the Arab world could
not be entirely disregarded and Bourguiba was willing to alienate Nasser only
to a degree. However, although the agency was renamed, it was still permitted
to exist. In 1964, the government made emigration more unwieldy for the Jews,
and Bourguiba explained: you must
realize that it is impossible for me to ignore and detach myself from events
which, in the Arab world, are passionately regarded as of major importance to
the Arab states.[126]
Despite this, Bourguiba ignored warnings from the rest of the Middle East to
halt the emigration process entirely.
Transformation of Djerbas Harat
al-Yehud
By 1967, 23,000 Jews remained
in Tunisia. After the June riots, in which synagogues were desecrated and
Jewish shops pillaged, most fled the country; within the year, about 7,000
remained.[127] In 1982,
the PLO presence (and Israeli counter-operations) in Tunis caused further
deterioration in Jewish-Muslim relations, prompting successive wave of
emigration. Since 1987, with the transfer of leadership in a bloodless coup to
Zine Abdine Ben Ali, there has been resurgence in protection of remaining
Jewish communities, which in turn actively support the current regime. In light of these waves of emigration,
Djerbas Jewish Haras have taken on a new face altogether. In both villages,
the Muslim population has moved into the homes Jews vacated upon emigrating: in
the late sixties,[128]
the once exclusively Jewish village [Hara Kebira] thus gained a population
of 5000 Muslims . . . . The truncated Jewish population resided in a circle
around [the] center, and most of the Muslims in an outer circle around the
Jewish dwellings."[129]
Davis problematizes the situation further:
The mutual trust established between
[D]jerban Jews and Muslims through centuries of peaceful but separate
coexistence was not automatically extended to the newcomers, who compound
religious and cultural differences with economic ones. The Muslims generally emigrated to find
relief from poverty; conversely, it tended to be the wealthier Jews who stayed
behind.[130]
Such
economic incongruities, rising discomfort of the islands Muslims with Israel
since the second Intifada, and increased Zionism among its Jews have created
an uncomfortable Hara. Perhaps the most striking
shift in the last ten years, under pressure to modernize, many Djerban Jews now
send their children to mixed state schools (with Muslims) in addition to daily
hours of yeshiva education. As much as 80 percent attends the state school on
the Haras outskirts.[131] What is the impact of this increase in daily contact between the communities?
How is it that as the Djerban Jews of the Hara more occupy the same space as
the Muslims, each group retreats more decisively behind its respective closed
doors? The notion of historical and continued permeability
between Jews and Muslims is brandished and perhaps romanticized by Ben Alis
government, and by the Tunisian population at large. The Muslims of Tunis and
even of Djerbas capital, Houmt Souq (who have relatively limited contact with
the Jews of the Hara) call the Jews our Jews; the Jews and Muslims who now
coexist in the Hara at close range are far less likely to speak so positively
of their shared experience.
CHAPTER
TWO: PRE AND POST 1948
In this chapter, I compare boundaries
between Jews and Muslims of Djerba in the first half of the 20th
century, before 1948, to my own fieldwork in 2003-5. I attempt to examine the
shift for the Jews in their identification of Djerba as home, and belonging within it, to
feeling more alienated on the island, and ascribing the notion of home to
Israel. In this, exile—existence in Djerba—became a hole or
lack,[132] in a new
way, inauthentic and incomplete.[133]
I glean my first set of examples from a
series of interviews[134]
I conducted in Djerban moshavim (cooperative villages), towns and cities in
Israel. I interviewed twenty Djerbans total in Tel Aviv, Lod, Netivot,
Betigadi, Brechia, Tlamim, Ofakim, Ashkelon and Jerusalem. My interviewees all
left Djerba (or Southern Tunisia) for Israel between 1948 and 1966,[135]
and describe memories of interactions with Muslims[136]
before their departure. I contextualize my interviews with secondary literature
detailing Jewish-Muslim relations in Tunisia in this period, particularly
focusing on ethnographic and historical writings of Abraham Udovitch, Shlomo
Deshen and Clifford Geertz.
I first examine aspects of the Jews and
Muslims commercial, religious and coexistence, and particularly Jewish
embeddedness within the larger Muslim milieu in the first half of the twentieth
century. I then look at psychological boundaries between the two groups. I have
sought to understand, by means of my own interviews and the secondary
literature, the boundaries existing between the two groups, to what degree
there was permeability and comfort between them, and we complemented they.
Although my data sample is small, it
reveals some notable patterns. I closely examine representative descriptions,
as well as particular and revealing anecdotes, situating them among the
observations of historians. I have followed oral history collection techniques
recommended by Paul Thompson, beginning with a freer form of interviewing in
order to explore the variety of responses obtainable and following with a
standardized survey.[137]
All interviews were conducted in peoples homes. I often interviewed husbands
and wives in tandem and spoke to approximately as many men as women. The
majority of the interviewees were between the ages of 65-80 and had left Djerba
in their teens or early twenties. I uniformly asked my informants to compare
their lives in Djerba to their lives in Israel; this proved a fruitful starting
point. I then asked more specific questions about their memories of
interactions with Muslims.
The emigrants I
interviewed are either from Djerba itself or come from Djerban satellite towns
in Southern Tunisia. At the turn of the twentieth century, instead of sending
periodic peddlers to other towns, Djerba exported groups of permanent settlers
(craftsmen and traders) to the villages of Zarzis, Medenine, Tatahouine and Ben
Gardane. These communities are founded almost wholly of migrants from Djerba,
but are somewhat more dispersed within the Muslim population. The satellite
towns do not share the enclosure of Djerbas own community, and thus
interactions between Jews and Muslims are more varied. Yet because the
inhabitants of these towns were Djerban, I believe it is useful to examine the
interviews together. There are also several interviews from Gabes, a nearby
town.
I found myself in
a beneficial insider-outsider[138]
position. Although not half-Tunisian, I am Jewish and
had lived in Djerba at length. My legitimacy was granted immediately: I spoke
in Djerban Arabic dialect, and we knew many families in common. Most welcomed me unconditionally,
offering hospitality and helping coordinate more interviews in the
neighborhood. I was often queried about the level of my religiosity; I replied
with the Tunisian Arabic phrase: Nshid adeen (I
practice or hold fast to the religion),[139]
providing immediate reassurance to any who questioned my intentions.
My project encounters inevitable
constraints as I have asked for narration of memories of a land left fifty
years previously. As Thompson notes: with interviews which go back further,
there is the added possibility of distortions influenced by subsequent changes
in values and norms, which may perhaps quite unconsciously alter perceptions.[140]
By looking for internal consistency within interviews and seeking confirmation
from other interviews and from secondary sources, I hope to avoid some of the
potential pitfalls inherent in the use of oral histories.
Many spoke nostalgically of Tunisia,
while others spoke caustically of the country they had left. Their narrations
of the Djerban Muslim population may well have been significantly impacted by
their current feelings towards Muslims. The Djerbans are politically
conservative supporters of the Likud (right wing Israeli coalition) party. My research stint in Israel coincided with the
withdrawal from Gaza (July, 2005), which every Djerban Jew I interviewed
lamented as a tragedy; their messianic visions of the land require that it be
inhabited solely by Jews. Despite problems of memory, and how an intervening
political reality (or conversely, nostalgia) may have shaped that memory—
I believe that these interviews help begin to reconstruct a lost reality in
Djerba. Their analysis, and subsequent comparison with trends I encountered in
2003-5, may offer insight into the shift which I argue has occurred in Djerba
in the past fifty years.
Abraham Udovitch,
entitles his groundbreaking study of the community in 1984 The Last Arab
Jews, noting the Jews Arabness.
Geertz elaborates: the
Djerban Jews are as Maghrebian, in their fashion, as the hardiest Muslims, and
as rooted in Tunisian culture. These are Arab Jews and they take about as
much of their character from their surroundings as they do from their faith.[141]
Geertz, notes the shared idiom of Djerban Jews and Muslims, overlapping in
everything from household organization, sexual division of labor,
demographic structure, legal forms, aesthetic preferences and ideas of
gender. [142] However, this embeddedness coexists,
equally prominently, with the Jews enclosure, and the knowledge of
untraversable boundaries such as intermarriage.
Isaachar Ben Ami concurs,
pointing to the "infiltration of local and regional customs"
and "acculturation of the realities of life as a minority group." He
states: "Jews were not a
people who lived apart."[143]
This integration
illustrates the ability of a community, by choice insulated and monoform, to
construct a mobile and mutually beneficial path through the polyform society.
But would the Jews continue to venture into that society with such conviction that they belonged there? With the
creation of their mythic home into a State several decades later, they would
transplant notions of home onto new soil. When the Jews believed themselves to
belong in Djerba, they enacted this, and did indeed belong. Contrarily, they
would later, in an explosion of political factors, perhaps together with the Muslim majority,
forge the new myth of their un-belonging.
I first examine the economic integration
of the Djerban Jews, which was in full flower at the beginning of the 20th
century. In the 18th
and 19th centuries, the Jews had controlled most of the
bazaar—not simply in their own villages, but in the Muslim capital Houmt
Souq.[144] Itinerant
Jewish peddlers and craftsmen circulated in surrounding Muslim villages selling
manufactures, purchasing agricultural products and offering manifold services
as carpenters, harness-makers, tailors and tinsmiths. The woolen textiles
industry provides a window into division of niche labor by Jews and Muslims: Muslims
raised the sheep, Jewish entrepreneurs sold the raw wool and also carded it.
Spinning was the domain of the Muslims. The relationships between Jews and
Muslims were never those of employer and employee, but rather associative in
nature, consisting of commissions, partnerships of various kinds and specific
agreements for discrete transactions.[145]
Indeed, long-term (even multi-generational work) relationships are recorded.
The craft of bucket-making in the early 20th century is discussed in
Boaz Haddads article in Jerba Yehudit, published in Jerusalem in 1978:
The buckets for drawing water were made of leatherThey were produced by Jews, and only the Jews were masters of this craft. These Jewish craftsmen were tied to their Arab customers for the entire year in order to maintain and repair the bucket for them. Each Jewish bucket-maker had a customary claim on the work for a particular Arab, one which passed from father to son. As compensation for his service, the Jewish craftsman was a kind of partner in the Arabs agricultural activity and received a certain percentage of the yield from him. At each season, the Arab would deliver this share to the very home of the Jew—be it a measure of millet or dates or barley or fruit. The Jew would in turn take the produce to be sold in the market of the Hara. The Jewish bucket-maker usually maintained such ties with more than one Arab. Even in the hottest days of the summer, he would travel to their estates and repair whatever was needed.[146]
Jews and Muslims of Djerba relied on each
other profoundly, creating a web of interdependencies. Each craftsman and
merchant occupied a known role, contingent upon others fulfillment of their
roles. Niche
trades bound both individuals and family networks together. Mutual trust and
willingness to assist the other was imperative. The result was both a
logistical and an emotional series of bargains between the two groups.
My interviews illustrate several examples
of cooperative work between Jews and Muslims of Djerba and its satellites at
the outset of the 20th century. Several describe economic ventures between
their families and those of Muslim families in the first half of the twentieth
century. Batsheva, who emigrated from Zarzis in 1956 recounts: My grandfather
gave the Muslims money and they worked in the olive groves. Sometimes the
Muslim kids showed disrespect to my grandfather. But this was unacceptable to
both the Jews and the Muslims.[147]
Batshevas expectation, in line it seems with the expectations of those around
her, was mutual respect and cooperation of the Jews and Muslims. An interviewee
from Houmt Souq in Djerba notes the existence of cooperative ventures between
the two groups, founded on trust: Agriculture was the Arabs. Though there were financial
collaborations. It was a question of trust. The Arabs would work the land. The Jews would advance them the money.[148]
Udovitch has noted that Jews and Muslims on the island often worked together in
the sphere of woolen fabrics. One Djerban man, who emigrated to Israel in the
mid-fifties describes his familys business: My father was a tailor. He worked
with Muslims. They ran the work on Shabbat. They help to make the blankets.
They wove the burnous and the trousers.[149]
This example highlights the sensitivity of the Muslims to the Jews Sabbath
abstention from work. Likewise, Jews would take over on Muslim holy days.
In 1902, forty percent of Jews were
involved in generalized commerce (i.e. textiles and foodstuff), forty percent
made their livings in traditional crafts (cobblers, bucket-makers,
embroiderers) and fifteen percent occupied the typically Jewish trades of
jeweler and money-lender.[150]
However, over the course of the century, their versatility and mobility across
commerce has diminished dramatically. I explore this shift, and what kind of
business relationships later occurred between Djerbas Jews and Muslims in this
chapters latter half.
Shlomo Deshen notes the Arabism of the
Jews in the early 20th century, arguing that the Jews were deeply
integrated into their surroundings, espousing a decidedly positive attitude
towards Islam.[151] He remarks upon the existence of only
one or two violent incidents against the Jews of Djerba in the 19th
century,[152] and
stresses that Jewish Tunisian folktales gathered in the mid twentieth century
reveal more relaxed relations between Jews and non-Jews in Tunisia generally,
than in other parts of North Africa.[153]
Deshen analyzes the relationship between
Jews and Muslims in this period through legal injunctions and decisions
pronounced by sages, especially those of Rebbe Khalfon. For example, Khalfon
requires that one immediately return any items lost by non-Jews because they,
like fellow Jews, believe in the unity of God.[154]
Indeed, a general sense of religious empathy should be expressed. If a Jew
hears a Muslim utter a blessing upon smelling fragrant herbs, he should second
the blessing by uttering Amen! The justification is, again, that the Muslims
also believe in the unity of God. Rebbe Khalfon even consulted a senior Rabbi
in Tunis to get a second opinion. The elder concurred that if the Muslims
blessing was genuinely pointed towards Heaven and not uttered in flippancy,
one should join with an Amen. Even more remarkable is the authorization of Djerban
butchers in explicitly uttering a Muslim blessing. At the end of the 19th
century and beginning of the 20th century, a Rabbi blessing the
kosher meat would add Allahu Akbar to make the meat equally fit for Muslim
consumption. This did not pose thorny theological questions: both blessings
were a form of praising God, and were even understood as synonymous.[155] The Jews, without threat to their integrity, could
appreciate their faiths overlap with Islam. Muslims were not in themselves dangerous per se; Jews, always aware of
their differences could appreciate that Muslims had their own ritual purity
laws. The act of blessing, of consecrating a thing as holy, and separating it
from the mundane, could even in certain moments, be shared. As Muslims had often
appreciated Jews for their monotheism, the Jews could perhaps now feel
sufficiently comfortable and unthreatened to reciprocate.
Batsheva, who left Zarzis in 1956,
describes the relationship between the Rabbi of the town and the Muslim
population:
My grandfather, a Rabbi, used to bless the Muslim children.
He was a very good person. He would offer money to the children. He was very
generous. Once he went to the market to buy peppers. The Muslim child assisting
the shopkeeper said: stop touching, you cant keep touching everything. A
scene was created. The childs
father said: What have you done to the Rabbi of the Jews? The Muslim child
said: he was touching, touching! The father said: You have to apologize to
the Rabbi of the Jews. Of course you must touch if you are going to buy. So he
did, he knocked on the Rabbis door later and excused himself.[156]
The Rabbis willingness to deliver blessings to non-Jews
suggests his respect of the faith of Islam and his general comfort with
Muslims. The Muslims willingness to receive those blessings hints that they
esteemed the Rabbi as a holy man. The clash between Muslim child and Rabbi
illustrates a breach of codes and resulting shame. The Muslim childs father
admonishes him: What have you done to the Rabbi of the Jews? The childs
behavior is understood to be inappropriate and disrespectful of a venerable
elder. The father defends the actions of the Rabbi (of course you must touch
if you are going to buy), and he demands that his child redress his wrong by
apologizing. The shame experienced by the Rabbi must be cancelled out by the
shame the child is induced to feel. The act of apology is a seeking of balance:
mutual respect must be regained between the Jewish and Muslim communities.
I
now examine psychological boundaries between the Muslims and Jews of Djerba in
this time period. I do so realizing that memory is a shifting and multifaceted
entity, remade through the lens of new experiences. Descriptions of Djerban
Muslims by Jews who have lived in Israel for fifty years will likely be colored
by their experiences of Palestinians. Their own politics in Israel (every
Djerban emigrant I encountered was conservative and oriented towards the right)
may have sway in how they evoke their pasts.
One general trend among my interviewees
was defining Jewish-Muslim relations as superior in Tunisia to those in Israel.
Shoshana, who came to Israel from Zarzis in 1956, stated: There were no
problems at all with the Muslims. We bought and sold, we all met in the center.
There were no attacks. But here, the Muslims! No, we do not like the Muslims
here.[157] Nissan
Parparas, (from Gabes, a nearby town in the South) who came to Israel in the
early fifties, concurred: Tunisia was better than Israel! The Arabs with the Jews. All together.
My father said this! They visited them in their homes! Here it is not the same.
We are all afraid of leaving our homes. There we had a nice shop. The Arabs
would buy from us.[158]
The Sefer family, who came in 1966 from Djerba, voiced the same sentiments:
Amos Sefer explained: We came because it was the government of the Arabs.
Though life was nicer there. The people were good. Not like the Arabs in
Israel. His wife Hanna echoed her husband then added: the Jews and Arabs did
not live together, of course, each one on his own, but they were friends.[159]
It is not surprising that the
description of Jews and Muslims in Gabes, a nearby, larger town in the South,
offers a slightly warmer picture of relations between the two groups. Visiting
in homes would be more difficult to imagine in Djerba, which has historically
been more insular. Also, whereas in Gabes, Jews were more dispersed through the
population, in the Haras of Djerba, they formed more cohesive and enclosed
villages. However, the Sefer couple from Djerba emphasizes that although Jews
and Muslims did not live together, Jews and Muslims were friends. Framing relations as
friendships contrasts to later descriptions of interactions between the
groups.
In these descriptions of contrast between
Muslims of Tunisia and those of Israel one could imagine the oversimplification
(and even the creation of a binary) of the issue, especially after fifty years
of shaping new—and violent—impressions of Muslims within Israel.
However, many descriptions of the situation in Djerba and Southern Tunisia
continue along this same vein without forming contrast to Israel. Zahara
Parparas, from Gabes, who emigrated in the early 1950s noted: We lived well
with the Arabs. My father had a shop and the Arabs would buy from us.[160]
Abraham Boucharis remembers: When I was in Djerba, the Muslims were our
friends.[161] I asked
thereafter if this friendship was in work or in life, and he replied: in
everything. It wasnt very
difficult. Again, ease of interaction between the two groups is
highlighted.
In some cases, it was emphasized that
Jews and Muslims inhabited the same sphere. Abraham Cohen, who left Djerba in
the mid 1950s notes: Our lifestyle was like the lifestyle of the Arabs. Yes,
we had Arab friends.[162]
Shuda, who emigrated from Tetahouine in the same period describes her childhood
there: No we werent afraid of [the Muslims]. We wore the same clothes as them. Yes, Muslim friends. Or,
friends of my fathers.[163]
Her mention of the wearing of the same clothes suggests that neither group
was excessively preoccupied with creating external signals of
differentiation.
Zachino, who left Djerba for Paris in
1984, describes his youth in the fifties. He lived in Houmt Souq, Djerbas capital,
in which Jews were interspersed among Muslims: When we were young, there were
really Arabs who were almost Jews. When they spoke, you would think they were
Jews. The Arab children would even come with us to the yeshiva. They were real
neighbors. We knew their grandparents. They were real friends. The Arabs would
sell us milk right from the goats. This has disappeared, but because of
modernity.[164] Not only,
according to his memories, did Jews and Muslims inhabit the same general
landscape, they crossed into each others more private spheres. His friendship
group was a mixed one, to such a degree that Jewish colloquial phrases were
adopted by Muslims. He notes that he knew the grandparents of his friends: the
connection extended beyond schoolboy friendships, more profoundly into entire
family networks. The connections were constituted by real feeling and mutual
trust: These were real friendships. We left the house open in Houmt Souq.
Sometimes people would steal though not often. If you were stolen from, it was
not because you were a Jew. It is a very specific thing, the relationship
between the Arab and the Jew. Of course there are no mixed marriages. But the
relationships were more than work. Zachino did not feel targeted as a Jew. He
seemed to feel that his Jewishness was appreciated by Muslims. Zachinos memories diverge profoundly
from descriptions of professional and personal relationships at the end of the
same century.
Ilon, who left Burdogan in 1962, speaks
of the towns Rabbi mediating small disputes between Jews and Muslims: If
there was a problem between a Jew and a Muslim, they would bring it before the
Rabbi. He would listen to this one, and then to this one, and then he would
give his answer. Muslims attributed credibility to the verdict of the Rabbi
suggesting ample trust and respect between the groups at this time.
In several incidents, Muslims came to the
aid of Jews in their times of need.
Abraham Cohen, who left Djerba in the mid fifties, remembers the
assistance of a Muslim during an emergency: There were scorpions. We would
kill them. Once, one was in the mattress of my brothers bed. He was bitten.
They looked for the medicine of the Arabs. A country remedy. Milk from the
camel. An Arab came to bring him this.[165] There was a mutual acknowledgement
between the two groups that each had a particular niche of expertise. Djerban
Muslims were more associated with agriculture and livestock, a connection to
the land; it was perhaps reasonable to seek the assistance of a Muslim for a
country remedy. Shuda describes essential occasions of Muslim aid in times of
need: Once a Muslim saved a Jewish child falling down a hill. If not for the Muslim, the child would
have died.[166] When the
Germans passed through Tunisia in 1942, Shuda recounts how her family took
refuge in Muslim dwellings until the Germans departed:
When the Germans came, we knew nothing of the Germans. We
didnt know what to think. So we went to the caves. Where the Muslims lived. We
went from one cave to another. For three days. While the Germans were passing
through. We were in hiding. Life
there in the caves was dirty. It was messy. There were tics. In the morning, no
water. We wanted coffee, we went
to the Muslims. We drank coffee
under the trees. They brought water. Fatima brought eggs.[167]
This is ostensibly the first time Shuda has entered a Muslim
home. Although she first describes the Muslim dwellings as alien (dirty,
messy), she then reframes the experience, remembering the hospitality she
received therein. The Germans are an uncategorizable other; representing
danger. The Muslims by contrast, although different from the Jews, became a
pole of familiarity here. It is the local Muslims in this case who provide a buffer
zone against a more distant and foreboding Other.
Most interviewees
recalled that mutual respect between Jews and Muslims of Djerba was the norm;
those I have referenced above spoke more energetically of interactions between
the two groups. However, a number of interviewees spoke more ambivalently, and
even with hostility about relations. Ilon tells of his wifes recent visit to
Djerba: I didnt go. I dont
really want to go. I dont like
the Arabs, it is just that way.[168]
However, later when discussing his childhood, he said of the Muslims: I studied
with them in school. They were my friends. Within the same half hour, he
expressed great discomfort around Muslims, and then memories of early
friendships with them. Ilon did not waver between the two; rather, he expressed
each reality fully in turn.
Perhaps remembered comfort has been mediated by years of discomfort
around the Arab population in Israel. Louisa, who left Djerba in 1948, spoke in
less hazy terms:
I dont know if I miss the Hara. I dont like the Arabs at
all. I came when I was seventeen. I came pregnant. But when I gave birth to my
first son, I was in the Hara. There were Arabs, we were afraid. We were all
girls in my house. My father was very afraid for us. There was not a single
boy. He didnt want us to go out at all. We didnt go out. Now that we are in
Israel, there is no more fear.
Nothing. You come, you go, there is nothing to be afraid of. There it
was Arabs, Arabs, Arabs. Everyone was afraid.[169]
For Louisa, the
Muslims of the Hara were a threatening presence. As a girl, without a brother
in the house to protect her and her sisters, she felt herself to be
particularly vulnerable. In Israel, by contrast, she did not have to worry
about these alarming Others. She frames her fear as an inverse to previous
comparisons between the Muslims of Tunisia and of Israel. For her, Muslims were
more potentially dangerous in Tunisia, a land where she did not feel herself to
be at home. In Israel, however, even though there were Muslims, she felt that
her security was assured by being in the country
she felt was her own. She later elaborates upon this dichotomy of threat and
security:
Muslims like to bother and harm you. Who will discipline
them? Who? They do everything to the Jews. But not here. If they do something,
there is someone to take charge against them. We have God, who governs all. And
the government.
Louisa did not feel that Tunisia offered her ease or
recourse to security. In Israel, she feels she has the blessing and protection
of both God and of the government. Gad, who left Djerba in 1963, echoes this
sentiment: I saw how Jews behaved with the Arabs in Djerba. Oh Sidi, what can I do for
you. I am a Jew. I stay in my place. O Sidi, go ahead. Arabs werent good to Jews.
They took our money. Why should I be beneath them? They said come here, and I
came. The police there were not ours.[170]
For Gad, living in Tunisia entails a hierarchy where Jews have to pander to
Muslims, are made to feel inferior, and dont have recourse to power
structures. For Louisa too, it is Israel which provides this empowerment;
moreover, in her messianic framework, it is the single place which assures
redemption: There is nothing like Israel. Once all the Jews are in Israel, and
they come from everywhere, from America too, the Messiah will come. And the Arabs must leave one by one, so
we are not afraid.[171] Louisa understands her presence in the
land is part of fulfilling a greater project. Meanwhile, she understands the presence of the Arabs in
Israel to work actively against that project.
My interviews offer a variety
of contradictory perspectives. They also display certain consistent trends
which I can locate within the secondary literature. In the first half of the
20th century, commercial cooperation between the two groups was not only a norm,
but was indispensably part of the tissue of daily interaction. Not only
religious tolerance, but mutual religious appreciation and respect were
typical. Although friendships between Muslims and Jews were not uniform, they
do not seem to be uncommon. Most, despite having chosen to leave Djerba (or Southern
Tunisia) attest to their memories of comfort within it. Batsheva narrates her
childhood; although her memories sound nostalgic, they perhaps reveal a general
truth: I remember everything from Zarzis. My friends and the school and the
sea. It was so lovely there in the morning. We would have fresh fish always for
lunch. The way things tasted
there! She then transitions into her familys decision to emigrate to Israel: Then everyone wanted to go to Israel. It wasnt
because of fear. It wasnt because we thought the Muslims would kill us! We had friends among them.[172]
For Batsheva, both her young life in Zarzis and her departure for Israel were
natural. She had felt home in Zarzis.
Then, with the creation of Israel, the mythical home became real. Once Israel was real, they wanted to
go there. Yet Batshevas vivid descriptions of Zarzis suggest that her first
home still holds considerable emotional resonance.
I was positioned more decisively as an
outsider in relation to the Djerban community in Djerba, necessitating a
different approach to the collection of interviews. My presence in Djerba was
baffling and uncomfortable for the Jewish community; indeed, I do not believe
the community would have interacted with me at all had I not been Jewish.[173]
I was told that an unmarried woman of my age could not reside within the Hara.
I first moved into a hotel in Houmt Souq, the capital of the island; after
several weeks, I found an apartment rented out by a Muslim family inside the
Hara. Many Jewish families questioned my loyalties. Interactions were predicated on the sharedness of our Judaism. I was
frequently asked about my practice of Judaism in America.
Whereas I conducted all twenty interviews in
Israel on tape, the many more interviews and informal conversations I conducted
in Djerba (over multiple extended visits) are reconstructed (on the same day as
the conversations occurred) in my notes. The community in Djerba was uncomfortable
being recorded and reacted suspiciously when I took notes during conversations.
I was able to
interact most meaningfully with females and spoke extensively to Djerban girls and women of different ages, both
individually and in groups.[174]
My study is necessarily limited by the gender strictures of Orthodox Judaism in
a particularly insular setting,[175]
however, after
several months I could speak to the husbands of my female friends in their
homes. I asked them generally
about their lives in Djerba, and about the nature of their interactions with
Muslims. My proposition in this
chapter, the comparison of two groups which are not perfectly parallel[176]
(as well as the comparison of memory and living experience) is inherently
limited. Regardless, I still believe it is a fruitful and revealing exercise
and may offer certain important (if qualified) insights about the communitys
shift over time.
For example, whereas my interviewees who
had left Djerba in the early fifties called the Djerban Muslim population both
Arab and Muslim, Djerban Jews now solely call Djerban Muslims Arabs,
conflating ethnicity and religion. Does this shift in naming indicate the Jews
are increasingly distancing themselves from Arabness? Arab for the Djerban
Jew has come to connote the threatening other. Arab stands for local Djerban
Tunisian Arabs, Palestinian Arabs and the broader Arab world, which the Jews
perceive to be against the State of Israel. Many Djerban Jews have become
acutely aware of news emanating from Israel. The majority have sought access to
Israeli channels on their satellite televisions. Some listen to the news in
Hebrew, and the latest political developments in Israel are fodder for
conversation among all social groups. I argue that this connection to Israel has,
for many Djerban Jews, eclipsed their connection to Djerba; they have come to
think of Djerba as a non-home. They have come to see their existence within it
as fundamentally characterized by a lack. The
particular strain of Zionism which captivated the Djerban Jews asked for a
mystical fulfillment of their peoplehood on a (from afar) still mystical land.
For the first time, their shared abstract fate, reuniting with other Jews in
the Holy Land had become a concrete possibility; upon this shift, they believed
their we could only be realized on the site of that fate.
I first examine, in parallel to the first
section of the chapter, commercial relations between Jews and Muslims in
Djerba, and how they have evolved.
As previously stated, in the beginning of the 20th century,
forty percent of Jews were involved in generalized commerce, forty percent made
their livings in traditional crafts and fifteen percent were jewelers and
money-lenders.[177]
However, over the course of the century, the Jews versatility and mobility
across commerce has reduced greatly. In 1978, by contrast, only ten percent
worked in commerce, twenty percent had occupations in traditional crafts, and
sixty percent worked in the Jewish employments of jewelry and money-lending.
The Muslim population was no longer dependent on the Jews for many necessary
niche skills. Geertz suggests that this shift is an unnerving indication of
where the Jews are (and are not) now situated in Tunisian society. He explains the nature of their shift
to the peripheries:
The
cosmopolitan side of Jewish life—in which if they were not precisely like
everyone else, they were at least among everyone else, striking deals and
forming alliances—is dissolving. And with it is dissolving the
sense—theirs and that of their neighbors—that, distinctive as they
may be, they belong where they are.[178]
Yet, cooperative economic ventures still exist between Jews
and Muslims in Djerba: A middle aged man explains: they are not official,
there are no cooperative organizations, but there are examples of Jews and
Arabs working together. One young woman confirms: Yes, there are
cases—where each put in half, or one puts in the capital. I have heard of cases. In 2004, there
were some evident cases of collaborative work. Goel, a young Jewish man, was associated with a Muslim in a
pizzeria, and that the benefits were: fifty/ fifty. The son of a Rabbi
employed Muslims in his clothing shop in Houmt Souq. Alex, in his mid twenties,
employed Muslim assistants in his cell phone shop. During Jewish holidays and
Sabbath, the Muslims took over the enterprises. Alternately, Muslims did not
work on Fridays, their own holy day of the week. There were cases of Jews and
Muslims working together and of Muslims who worked for Jews, but none of Jews
working beneath Muslims. Sufficiently financially comfortable in Djerba, Jews
did not have to work under a Muslim and to do so would have been socially
unacceptable.
Although cooperative ventures were not
abnormal between the Jews and Muslims, there is no longer a network of profound
interdependencies. Muslims work professions once held exclusively by Jews and
no longer seek out Jewish expertise in certain fields of commerce and textiles.
They have even entered jewelry-making and selling, once solely the province of
the Jews. Muslims can now purchase their wedding trousseaus from Muslim shops
in the capital. The intimacy and loyalty involved in obtaining such items from
Jewish shops is still part of Djerbas legacy; it is not, as it once was, the
rule.
The
Jews and the Muslims of Djerba now seem to coexist religiously, but pay less
personal deference to each others faiths and men of religion. Religious
tolerance is instituted by the law, and its breach is severely punished. Ben
Ali portrays Tunisia as a state of religious tolerance, and his government even
pays the salary of the Grand Rabbi of Tunis.[179]
Tunisia has severely cracked down on Islamist movements in the last thirty
years, suppressing veins of Islam opposed to religious pluralism. Moreover,
since a series of unfortunate incidents, Bourguiba and then Ben Ali have been
scrupulous about the protection of the Jewish community. In 1985, four Jews
worshipping inside the Ghriba synagogue were murdered by local Muslims. In
2002, an al-Qaeda linked bombing at the entrance wall of the al-Ghriba
synagogue killed 17 German tourists, but none of the Jewish population. As a result, all synagogues in Tunisia
are now flanked by police. Moreover, since the 1990s, Djerbans have been
permitted to return to Tunisia from Israel. Although consulates set up by Israel and Tunisia in 1996 were closed after the
outset of the Intifada, the Tunisian government has since eliminated obstacles
to Israeli entry in the country.
This said, despite religious tolerance, there is little if any
actual warm religious exchange. A Rabbi blessing Muslim children in the streets
of Djerba would today be inconceivable. The blessing could neither be
comfortably offered by the Rabbi nor comfortably received by the Muslims.
Deshens remarkable examples of Rabbis blessing kosher meat adding Allahu
Akbar at the end to make the meat equally fit for Muslim consumption would
also be difficult to imagine today. Indeed, an acute sensitivity to the
privileging of certain Jewish terms over Muslim terms has developed among Jews.
In expressing gratitude, the Djerban Jew will use the Hebrew phrase for thanks
be to God, Baruch Hashem, and never the Arabic equivalent, ElHamdulilah. Every time I used the Arabic
phrase with a Jew, I was chastised: That is what the Arabs say! What, are you
an Arab? Zachinos memory of Muslim children accompanying Jews to their
yeshiva remains bounded within its time. Moreover, the Purim festival offering
of alms and sweets to the Muslim community has become obsolete. Examples of
religious exchange, once not uncommon, are now increasingly rare in Djerba. As
both Jews and Muslims have retreated into their own religions, forums of
sharing and mutual appreciation have nearly disappeared.
I now examine
psychological boundaries which may have developed between the Jews and Muslims
of Djerba in the past fifty years. I first focus on interaction and exchange
between the two groups, and how these are narrated. I look at how Djerban Jews
discuss their own attachments and notions of belonging or not-belonging in
Djerba. I then compare these descriptions to how the Djerbans seem to now
relate to Israel.
However,
these shifts do not occur in a vacuum. Particularly after the PLO operated out
in Tunis in the eighties[180]
and since the Intifadas outbreak, Djerban Muslims have empathized with
Palestinians plight. Many, along with the growing trend in the Middle East,
have also come to see the West as collaborating against the Arab world, and
view Jews as part of this project. Meanwhile, the Jews of Djerba sympathize
acutely with Israel and support (to a degree) the Bush administrations policy
there.[181] Feelings
of un-belonging among the Djerban Jews are intimately connected to these
broader political sensitivities. 18-year-old Nissia notes that the
situation has become tenser in her lifetime:
Things have changed very much. After the Intifada. The
Palestinian issue has controlled the whole situation. We had a subject in an
exam once in our [mixed] school. You were supposed to write a letter to a
Palestinian boy and tell him to be patient. It was very difficult for the
Tunisian Jews. One left the paper blank. I wrote about Hitler and the six
million souls. You were supposed to write against the Jews, that was the
assignment. I wrote using the history of the Jews.[182]
External realities have certainly altered for the Jews of
Djerba, yet a larger structure of loyalties has created conceptual internal shifts for the Jewish
community. The Hara has become, more so, an island within an island. The Jews
have defensively retreated into an almost anxious adherence to ritual purity
laws to maintain boundaries, and feel a profound attachment to a Home located
elsewhere. I now explore a series of interactions between Jews and Muslims of
the Hara, which point to a general Jewish feeling that Djerba is simply not a
viable home, and they do not feel at home residing there.
First, the case of Muslims
speaking in Djerban Jewish dialect in the early 20th century would
not likely be replicated in Djerba today. The linguistic barrier between Jews
and Muslims in Djerba is subtle though pronounced. Djerban Jewish dialect
varies in pronunciation[183]
and in vocabulary from the Muslims dialect, and is laced with Hebrew. Some core verbs and adjectives are
divergent: for the verb to be able to, the Jews say tgiddi; Muslims prefer tnajumi. Upon using the opposite verb
in each context, I received startled reactions. A Muslim cabdriver noted that I
was Jewish. A group of 16-year-old Jewish girls looked frightened to hear me
use the verb of the Muslims, and questioned my loyalties. Pronouns also differ: for familiar and
collective you, Jews say ntin/ ntun, and Muslims, nti /ntum. Jews use the term of endearment aazi for small children; Muslims
say azizi.
To express much or many, Jews say borsa, Muslims, barsha,
Not even a brief
conversation can be conducted without continual reminders of difference. One
woman who had never attended a mixed school, expressed irritation that she
could not understand when the Muslims spoke: Everyone [from our community] who
goes to their schools learns how to speak like them. Me, I have no idea. A
Muslim hairdresser said, No, we all understand each other. There is no real difference in our
speech. In reply, her younger assistant imitated the Jewish womens coo to
their babies: Aazi! Aazi! While the dialects of the groups have always been
distinct, a shift in attitudes has attached stigma to the use of the other
groups dialect. Although some Jews make adjustments to their word choice and
pronunciation when interacting with Muslim customers, this was not the
norm. Many Jews of the Hara used
Hebrew words selectively so that Muslims could not understand. They often
called the Muslims of the Hara ilGoyim, the Hebrew word for non-Jew[184]
(which has acquired a pejorative connotation), and children and teenagers
switched into Hebrew when near Muslims. The use of Muslim words has become
taboo, in the sense of Mary Douglas use of the term. Using only Jewish words is an attempt to
keep the groups discrete, and thus to [protect] the
distinctive categories of the universe.[185]
Linguistic barriers have ossified in
Djerba; so too have boundaries in dress and self-presentation. In the first
half of the 20th century, Shuda points to the general similarity in
(modest) dress between Jews and Muslims; in 2004, Jews and Muslims of Djerba
wear distinctly different, even mutually-alienating clothes. Jewish girls wear
long skirts and long sleeves, and upon marriage, cover their hair. Most of the
Muslim girls do not choose revealing ensembles but wear trousers and rarely
cover their hair. Wearing the hijab has become almost obsolete for Tunisian
Muslims, except for elders. There are thus immediate physical signals which
distinguish Jews from Muslims on the island. The occasional movement of Djerban
women and girls out of the Hara and into the Muslim market space of Houmt Souq
creates subtle ripples of notice among Muslims. Although the Jews are known to
be Djerban, they occupy specific coordinates on Djerba, within the Jewish
Haras. The feeling of not belonging outside the Hara is generally widespread among
Djerban Jews; some, however, do not believe they belong inside it either. That
unbelonging is perhaps mutually reinforced by both the Jews and Muslims of
Djerba.
In one instance, Savite, 16-years-old,
took me to a Muslim-owned supermarket at the Haras edge to help me buy
provisions. As we entered, she clutched my elbow and hissed in my ear: They
dont like us. We have to get our things and leave fast! We crossed through
the many aisles as Savite appeared to be anxious and unhappy. She sanctioned
only the purchase of the cheapest cleaning products: Why should we give them
our money? and refused all the local food available, only putting a single
package of crackers into my cart. She scrutinized the crackers carefully, even
though the same crackers are sold in the Hara. According to Savite, the crackers were the only items we
could trust in the store to be Kosher. Savites profound discomfort in the Muslim
environment, and her desire to evade all interaction were narrated through her
fear. She was afraid to be alone (two girls by themselves) and afraid to be in
a setting of the Arabs. Savite avoided interaction with Muslims in the Hara
scrupulously. She assumed they did not like her, and articulated her
discomfort and dislike of them.
Savite was always conscious of boundaries
and purity. Although there were other items in the store which would be deemed
kosher (like fresh fruit and vegetables), the assumption was contamination
until proven pure. The crackers she suggested were sanctioned by the High Rabbi
of Tunis, and were pre-wrapped. Everything else was porous, subject to the
un-kosher and thus unclean, touch of the Others. For Savite, there were
circumscribed safe zones and danger or taboo zones. She did not feel safe, at
ease, and thus did not feel at home at a grocery store a five minute walk
from her own house.
This same sense of
peril was expressed in reference to Muslim homes in the Hara. I rented an
apartment above the home of a Muslim family, and the Jews of the village
expressed surprise and distaste. Many asked if I was afraid and would not
approach my home. A group of
several girls (aged 15-17) was particularly anxious and adamantly refused my
invitation to visit my home. Standing nearby one day, smells of cooking
emanated from the Muslim house. The girls cringed and one said: No we wont
come in. We dont like the way it
smells. The smell of the Goyims cooking, chiiii, it makes me sick to my
stomach. Im afraid to go in. Why
arent you afraid? The threshold of the Muslim home was an impossible boundary
to traverse without compromising themselves. Even smelling un-Kosher food made them feel
they had transgressed. They would sidestep areas of the Hara with higher
concentrations of Muslims to avoid such moments. Avoiding the spatial or
linguistic realm of the Others meant protecting and articulating the
communitys own realm. Each upholding of a taboo, was an assertion of self; the
neglect of these taboos would have alternately created a felt dissolution of
that self.
Doly, a fifty-year-old Djerban
Jew who is fervently attached to Israel, and particularly vehement in her
discomfort in Djerba explains: I have lived here. I am not proud of my
culture. I did not spend happy
times here. This place did not treat me well. Interestingly, Doly recognizes
that she is a product of a composite culture, and that she cannot deny that she
comes from
an Arab milieu. She acknowledges both that she is of this place, and that this
place has not treated her well. Perhaps this accounts for the forcefulness of
her descriptions, and for the dividedness at her core. It is not enough to
display indifference to an alienating milieu; perhaps because she recognizes
the degree to which she is steeped within it, her rejection must be more
complete. Doly speaks of her alienation from her first language—and indeed
from the cultural legacy of Arab civilization: I hate Arabic. I use it to get
by. There is no good Arabic literature.
French literature, yes.
Hebrew, yes.
Doly claims there are only two Muslims
she has ever trusted. The first is Anis, a young friend of her aunts from
Houmt Souq, the capital of Djerba. She considers Anis to be polite, literate
and lovely. The other Muslim she trusts converted to Judaism. Not when he
married a Jewish woman, but later, thereafter.[186]
He had boils and dreamt he went to Jordan and was healed. Before going he
promised that if healed, he would convert to Judaism. Both followed—he
went and was healed. He became deeply religious, more religious than us, and eventually the wife
could reconcile with her family as they saw the religiosity of her
husband. And his skin was
dark—he wasnt even one of the lighter Arabs. This one, I could
respect. For Doly, trust and
respect for Muslims were absolutely out of the ordinary. In the latter example,
it is only through trials by water and fire, and an ultimate casting off of
Islam and otherness that the man gains her trust. Although that trust was
earned through conversion to Judaism, there are still marks of her feelings of
distance, expressed in racist idiom.
Dolys perception of un-belonging in
Djerba is often bound up in her feelings towards not only the Muslim population
of the Hara, but of her more general conception of Muslims. Her sentiments seem
to be filtered through the lens of her attachment to Israel. For Doly Arabs
are a danger and an impediment to Jewish flourishing in the Holy Land. When she
speaks of the Arabs, she does so globally. Her feelings about the Muslim
population in the Hara are clearly informed by the emotions behind her
politics: The Arabs are overtaking the world. How will the Jews, who outlived the Moabites, and all the
ancient tribes—so tenacious the Jew is—survive? Out of a million,
maybe maybe 20 good honest Arabs. Their character is not honest. I know. I have
lived here. You cannot trust them. They all take four wives, have 10 children
each and overtake the world. Dolys core fear seems to be the engulfing of the
Jewish people. She fears their inability to survive cohesively—either in
diaspora (Djerba) or territorially (Israel). Her denigration of Arabs seems to
become a coping mechanism. Doly is reflecting
upon her discomfort in Djerba, but she is also expressing a solidarity with
Jews she believes are in threatened situations. I believe her current venomous
feelings towards Muslims stem both from her more proactive seeing of Israel as
home and her resulting distancing from her surrounding environment. She
differentiates between her feelings for Tunisia and Israel: Yes, this is my
country (Tunisia), but that is my house (Israel).Why should I share my house?
Its mine. Denying Israel is spitting on your mother and father. Intimacy
towards Israel has trumped connection to Djerba, and has made Dolys true ease
around the Muslims in her neighborhood impossible.
Another trend among the Haras Jews was
to first speak with neighborly respect of the Muslims, but to later articulate
the ultimate barriers between the groups. Doly introduced me to a Muslim of the
Hara, Neziha Benjamia, and asked if I could rent the apartment above her home. In the
period leading up to this agreement, Doly repeatedly referred to Neziha as a
good woman, and said that Neziha would also describe Doly as a good woman.
When I asked if they were friends, Doly said: We have known each other for
years. Are we friends? No. Later,
Doly would say less kind things about Neziha: She is not honest at all. She
just wants your rent money. No, I dont think she is particularly good. You can
never trust the goyim; dont say I didnt warn you.
Alex, Dolys son,
treated Muslims in a neighborly, even friendly fashion, yet later articulated
different feelings. Alex owned a popular cellphone shop at the entrance of the
Hara two years ago and recently moved his shop to Houmt Souq to facilitate
access of his Muslim customers to his shop. His relationship with them seemed
warm and fraternal. He slapped Muslim guys on the shoulder and even flirted
with some of the Muslim girls, who in turn flirted back. He gave them rides in
his car, called them brother or sister and grinned at them upon parting. However,
when asked later if these customers were his friends, Alex said: Of course
not! I know all of them, I have
grown up with all of them, and they would stab you in the back. They have their
thing, we have ours. Anyway, their heads are all full of water. Thats the only
reason the Jews of the Hara have survived this long. Ostensible surface
comfort covered not only deep mistrust but old wounds. Alex told me a story of
his schooldays when a group of Muslims he had assumed to be his friends had
made a scathing comment about Alex being a Jew. Whereas in my first set of
interviews, recalling pre-1948 Djerba, examples of friendships had not been
uncommon, not a single Jew I interviewed in the Hara in 2003-5 ever described
Muslims as their ashaab (friends). Muslims, so frequently the source of
discomfort and feelings of unbelonging in their own small village, were to be
tolerated in a neighborly fashion.
Alite, a young
married woman with two children articulates this feeling of unbelonging, which
seems to be connected to difference and separateness:
No, this place, we are not comfortable here. This place is
not mine. There is no moment when I dont feel different. I was at the hair
dresser and she had a plate of food and offered me some. I had to say no, I
dont eat that. I am here but I dont want to be. But no, we dont have any
plan to leave. Here, we will always be foreign, always be strange. Even though
we have been here for thousands of years, this will never change. People dont
think we belong here. We dont see ourselves as belonging here.
Alite emphasizes that even though the Jews have been a very
longstanding presence on the island—indeed according to the Djerban Jews,
for two millennia—there is a sense of difference and alienation which
cannot be bridged. She recognizes the duality of this un-belonging: not only do
people think the Jews dont belong here, we dont see ourselves as belonging
here. She states her strangeness in Djerba as an unchanging fact, to be simply
accepted. Yet was such strangeness a given even fifty mere years ago? Despite the current sense of the
Djerban Jews that they are subject to a permanent, unalterable reality, there
is evidence that other realities have been sustainable for the Djerban Jews.
However, some Djerban Jews
claim to still feel profoundly at home in Djerba. When an American journalist[187]
came to the island to witness the festival of Lag BOmer and interviewed
Djerban Jews, many attested to their comfort there. The journals interest was
to portray Djerba as an exceptional case of Jewish-Muslim coexistence, compared
to strife in Israel and Palestine. It is
possible that these testimonies are somewhat skewed, but I do not doubt that
they were proffered with emotional honesty. The trend I have witnessed is not
monolithic, and many among the older generation of Djerban Jews who have lived
in Djerba all of their lives, would choose to live nowhere else. However, these
testimonies all display a particular angle of the Djerban story.
A Djerban Rabbi told the journalist:
If we can make a living in
Djerba," he said, "why should we move to Israel or
anywhere else? Tunisia is the light of our sight. We live in
comfort and peace.
Perhaps we could earn more money living in France or Israel,
but there is no
place better than Djerba. If I can make a living at home,
why move?[188]
For the Rabbi, who has spent his whole life in Djerba, no
other place could offer such ease and intimacy. He looks at the question on a
pragmatic level as well: with both financial and psychological comfort in
Djerba, it would be unreasonable to live elsewhere. The Rabbi then noted that
Djerban Jews had more in common with their fellow Tunisians than they do with
the transplanted Europeans, Russians and Americans who hold political and
religious power in Israel today. An elderly Djerban Jew, Hai, concurred:
"I feel at home here. There are interesting places to study outside
Tunisia, but maybe not to live. From my childhood I've lived here. The Jewish
community feels secure here in Djerba. We feel the government helps us live in
a secure way. We have deep roots in Djerba.[189]
Trabelsi, prominent in the
community echoed this sentiment, though perhaps to some degree he panders to
the romanticized version of coexistence the journal sought:
Why does coexistence work in Djerba? There is no reason why
we shouldn't coexist. Jews, Christians and Muslims-the only difference between
us is where we pray. We've lived here from father to son. Djerba has always
been stable. Our houses are surrounded by Muslim houses. We live together. We
visit our friends on their religious holidays. We work together. Muslims buy
meat from our butchers. When we are forbidden to work or cook on the Shabbat,
we buy bread and kosher food cooked by Muslims. Our children play together. We
have freedom to educate our children, teach them in Hebrew school after class,
worship as we please.[190]
As Trabelsi notes, Jews and Muslims do live together and
work together. Both communities have shared the island for generations. Muslims
do buy meat from Jewish butchers. And Jews do buy pizzas and pastries (both
deemed kosher) from Muslim shops in the Hara. However, he glosses over certain
facts to provide a more satisfying picture of coexistence. For example, when
the Jews are forbidden to work or cook on the Shabbat, they are also
forbidden to buy anything. No monetary transactions of any kind can occur on
the Sabbath. Moreover, my experience indicates that before the beginning of the
Sabbath, every single Djerban Jewish family prepares a series of Sabbath meals
kept hot in a communal oven. Accepting home-cooked food from Muslims is out of
the question. Trabelsis
descriptions may contain a general nugget of truth, but they misportray daily
interactions
between Jews and Muslims on Djerba. He is the only Djerban Jew I heard (in
2003-4) frame his relationships with Muslims as genuine friendships. The overly
rosy tableau in his testimony is how he thought
he could best portray Djerba to the West. He does not mention the shift in
relations between the groups in the wake of thorny politics surrounding
Israel.
In a parallel instance, when Le
Monde came to
Djerba in spring 2004 to do a story on the Jewish community in Tunisia, a
carefully choreographed lunch meant to portray Jewish-Muslim coexistence was
staged at Dolys house. A group of Muslim intellectuals from Tunis and Houmt
Souq were brought to Dolys courtyard. Doly is understood to be more modern
than many of the other Djerbans as she had sent her daughters to study abroad
in Israel, and perhaps this is why she was chosen to host the event. She made a
lavish meal and the event was photographed profusely. The lunch discussion
focused on both the historical and current thriving of Jewish-Muslim relations
on Djerba. I later asked Dolly if Muslims would ever be at her table in normal
circumstances (she could not eat at a Muslim table because of kashrut laws, but
Muslims can eat at Jewish tables).
Doly replied: Never.
Thus far I have focused how the
Jews perceive themselves in a Muslim environment. In this, I have sought to gauge to what degree the Jews feel
at home within it. I now, for a more complete picture, examine some Muslim
perceptions of life in the Hara. As I have suggested, due to Ben Alis desire
to portray the continuity of Jewish-Muslim coexistence, most Muslims in Tunis,
or even in Houmt Souq, echo this portrayal. A Muslim taxi driver in Houmt Souq
describes the Jews as many Muslims of Tunisia might describe them: No, there
have never been any problems here. There are very good relations. Tunisia is
proud of this. Muslims, Jews,
Christians, we all live together. Everyone is Tunisian and proud to be. Many Tunisian Muslims carefully
distinguish between the situation in Palestine as separate from that of
Tunisia.
However, the Muslims of the Hara do not
idealize the tension between the two groups. The Benjamias, a Muslim family, has lived in the Hara for
almost ten years. I was the tenant of the Benjamias, renting their upstairs
flat, and thus had ample opportunity to interact with them (to the dismay and
concern of many Jews of the Hara). The Benjamias seemed to resent living amidst
the Jewish population and would regularly denigrate Jewish habits. During
holidays, Neziha, the mother, would first smile and say joyous, joyous. But
then, soon after, she would add: Uch, it is so dirty and noisy in the streets.
And all they do, all the time, is just walk in circles through the streets.
When asked about Sabbath, which also involves much socializing in the streets,
she rolls her eyes, and says: Oh God, the girls are walking in circles again!
And the Jews of the Hara only follow their rules because they are afraid of
their Rebbe! Know that! For
Neziha, a practicing Muslim, attacking the piety of the Jews—implying
that it is triggered by fear of authority—allows her to feel superior.
Moreover, her home is slightly more humble than some of the surrounding Jewish
homes, another source of resentment. Civil in interactions with Jews, Nezihas
general dislike is only thinly veiled.
Lubna, the
Muslim hairdresser in the Hara is frequented by almost all the Jewish women and
girls, particularly before festivals. They enter Lubnas small room (part of a
converted house) on the main road in the village, through the gauzy curtain
which separates it from the street. They sit on the sprawl of divans for hours
waiting for their turns, conversing with each other and with Lubna on the
latest gossip. They treat the space almost like their homes, coming in wearing
bathrobes and slippers, leaving to check the chicken on the stove, coming back,
peering in to see if anyone interesting has stopped in. The exchanges between
Lubna and the women seem quite intimate. She can ask how a womans eight
children are, by name. She can rattle off every single festive occasion on
which the girls will parade in to get their hair done and eyebrows plucked. She
even has a vague notion of what the holidays are. Just before Purim, she says
to me, quietly: Oh, I know this next one! This is the holiday where they eat
sweets and play in the streets with those horrible firecrackers. Once when I
am at the hairdresser alone, Lubnas assistant asks, why dont the girls ever
wear trousers? Its just strange!
I have not mentioned that although I wear skirts in the Hara, I wear trousers
elsewhere, but she has suspected this and seeks a common reference point.
Lubna never
states that she does not like or trust the women of the Hara. She does not,
however, claim to have friendships among them. She interacts with them in the context of performing a
service, and never exterior to it. The Jewish girls, when asked how they feel
about Lubna, initially reply enthusiastically: Shes been around here forever;
she straightens hair better than anyone we know. When I ask if they consider
Lubna to be a friend, they respond: Of course not or, shes goyim or I
dont really trust her; you never really know with goyim. One 23-year-old
woman says: I like her well enough but I get the sense that shes two-faced.
She pretends to like us, but actually doesnt at all. None of them do deep
down. This sense of not being liked, of feeling alien
in the eyes of Muslims, seems to be a pervasive sentiment among the Jews.
Miryam, a practicing and
veiled Muslim in her mid twenties who lives in the center of the Hara depicts
the interactions between Jews and Muslims more positively:
Everything is okay. I respect them and they, me. I have a
really dear [Jewish] friend, Isabel, from the Hara. I know her from school. I go to her house all the time.
There are examples, see? The Hara is a very hard place. The people of the Hara
are very hard. They dont trust.
Miryam describes a relationship of mutual respect between
the Jews and the Muslims of the Hara, but points to a lack of trust on the part of the Jewish
population. Miryam deplores that the Jews do not feel wholly comfortable and
safe and respected in Djerba. She acknowledges that her friendship with Isabel
is an anomaly.
Anis, a young intellectual secular
Muslim, who is one of the two Muslims Doly has claimed to truly
respect—and perhaps even trust—offers astute observations about the
community. Anis lives in Houmt Souq, and in the past worked in a clothes store
with Lavy, a Djerban Jew. He is close friends with the Kabla family, marginally
observant Jews who live in Houmt Souq. Anis explains that Judaism fascinates
him and that he wants to understand the faith better. He attends all the
festivities for Jewish holidays at the Kabla home, yet has never been invited
to a table inside the Hara itself. However, Anis has many ties to the Hara
after having worked with Lavy and seeks to cultivate friendships therein. When
asked if there are true friendships between Jews and Muslims in the Hara, he
explains: No, not friendships in the real sense of the word. Respect, yes.
Neighborliness, yes. But the Jews do not feel comfortable enough around the
Muslims, and the Muslims do not feel comfortable enough around the Jews. But
before 1948, it was otherwise; that, they tell me, was another era.
CHAPTER THREE: THE WINDOW
OF THE FESTIVAL
I have examined the texture of daily
interaction between Jews and Muslims in Djerba in order to analyze Jewish
notions of home and belonging on the island; to arrive at a more complete and
nuanced vision, I now analyze two rituals as portals onto the same complex
question. Rituals function as highly concentrated enactments of the
sacred-symbolic universe of a community and can offer insights about how that
community situates and imagines itself in the world. According to Eliade,
mans specific existential situation of being in the world has its direct correlate
in the experience of the sacred.[191]
I have chosen to look at two such
experiences of the sacred, rituals within Purim and Lag BOmer. These
relatively minor festivals in the Jewish calendar are quite significant among
Djerban Jews. The community emphasizes the particular Djerban performance of
the rituals and seems to have a special (even self-defining) relationship with
the festivals. My focus is Djerbas local customs and the local emphasis the rituals receive.
The Djerba-specific effigy-burning on Purim[192]
and pilgrimage
of Lag bOmer perhaps provide prisms upon the current situation of this ancient
Jewish community in the Middle East. Both contain rituals which act out the
boundaries and ambivalence that are historical grappling points for Djerban
Jews. The festivals particular
manifestations in 2004-5[193]
may help explain the communitys position in the region right now.
Purim is a window
on the communitys endeavors to keep itself intact, at all costs. It is a
comment on the triumph of the Djerbans Jewishness in what is sometimes
understood by them to be an alien environment. I look at the dark allegory at
Djerban Purims core, and attempt to explain why it remains such a powerful
symbol among the Djerban Jews. I assert that Haman, the biblical villain,
becomes a stand-in for acting out aggression against the Muslim population, as
typical feelings of impotence are reversed.
Purim has been
alternately understood as the most worldly, the most expendable, the most
ambivalent and the most essential holiday in the Jewish sacred calendar. It has
been analyzed as a zone of boundary dissolution, a time of class and gender
reversal akin to Bakhtins medieval pre-Lent Carnivalesque.[194]
Purim has been read as a symbolic narrative of victory of the minority,[195]
and thereby as a boundary marker between itself and the dominant culture. It
has been suggested that Purim is a kind of counter-carnival in which the
barriers between Gentile and Jew are not broken down but rather reinforced.[196]
I will adopt and modify this latter position and attempt to contextualize this
darker reading within a post-1948 framework. I will examine local Djerban
ritual practices and narratives surrounding them and attempt to understand
their implications.
The festivals
core normative components (reading the Megilah, exchanging confectionaries, the
masquerade and playing games of chance) as well as its Djerban folk customs
(the effigy burning of Haman) may have been maintained on the island through
centuries, even millennia. In offering my allegorical interpretation, I do so
with a view of the holidays historical continuity but suggest as well that a
series of historical political ruptures may have given the allegory new
symbolic content and clout. I contend that political change, and thus erection
of new psychological boundaries, has perhaps pushed the Djerban Jews more
deeply into their Jewishness, to the exclusion of affinity with their Tunisian identities. Purim is ritually expressed in 2004 as
it has always been expressed. Perhaps, however, the current attitudes and
feelings surrounding the festival give important insight into the shift to
which I have alluded.
The
Purim Narrative and Performance:
Now in the 12th month,
which is the month of Adar, on the 13th day of the same, when the King's
command and edict were about to be executed, on the very day when the enemies
of the Jews hoped to get mastery over them, but which had changed to a day when
the Jews should get mastery over their foes, the Jews gathered in their cities
throughout all the provinces of King Ahasuerus to lay hands on such as sought
their hurt. And no one could make
a stand against them, for the fear of them had fallen upon all peoples.[197]
In the historical
hour of Purim, Persia reigned over 127 states from India through Ethiopia.[198]
The spring festival recalls how Esther, the wife of the Persian king,
Ahasueros, rescued the Jews from a massacre orchestrated by Haman, the evil
advisor of the king. The victory feast and celebration were instituted by
Mordechai, Esthers uncle. The name of the holiday comes from the Hebrew root
puru meaning lots, after the lots cast by Haman in order to determine the
month for the communitys slaughter. Esther and Mordechai are said to find
their parallels (and perhaps inspiration) in Ishtar and Marduk, the Babylonian
gods who also dealt out their peoples fates.[199]
I first outline how Purims
normative components are performed in Djerba. I then analyze the implications
of the effigy burning of Haman, a local Djerban custom. The center of the
Purim festival (in any Jewish community) is the reading of the Megillah, or the
narrative of Esther. The narrative is celebrated with two public readings,
written as if it were the royal proclamation, which form a major part of it.[200]
The Megillahs interactive format and the adoption of costumes of the
characters within it contribute to the feeling of actually reenacting the
historical event. Every time the name of the dreaded Haman is spoken, children
must make an angry ruckus with groggers (rattles), in order to blot out the
memory of Amalek, as Haman was said to be a descendant of Amalek, the ancient
persecutor of the Jews. Purim
is a commemoration, but also an active acting-out, in which everyone assumes
the roles of (and attempts to emulate) those in the narrative. During Purim,
every man strives to be like Mordechai, the Jew unapologetically proud of his
faith, and like Esther, willing to risk her life for her people.
In Djerba, the identification
with Mordechai is potent. The Hara enacts, through the character of Mordechai,
the possibility of reversal of the order they know and of ascendance. Although no longer performed in 2004 or
2005, Udovitch notes that in 1984, one young jeweler masqueraded every year as
Mordechai, and drove around the Hara Kebira, having rented a splendid
horse-carriage especially for the occasion.[201]
The enactment pays homage to the moment in the narrative in which Mordechai,
Esthers uncle, a proud and public Jew, is honored by the King (after he warns
the latter of a plot against his life.) The King asks Haman, his evil advisor,
what deed would best bring honor upon a man. Haman, assuming the King wants to
honor him, suggests a public and luxurious spectacle honoring that man. The
gleeful reversal comes when Mordechai (Hamans enemy) is honored instead of
Haman.
Moreover,
like Mordechai, who became the honored counselor of the King, the Djerbans
frequently point to their close relationship with the current President of Ben
Ali and speak effusively of Ben Alis warm policies towards the Jews. As
Tunisia has suppressed Islamist opposition in the last several decades, it has
simultaneously cultivated friendly relations with its internal minorities. The
Djerban Jews are conscious of these special efforts, and of their special niche
carved by those in power.
Another universal
component of Purim is the sending of portions (generally confectionaries) to
friends and giving charity: They were to observe them [the days of Purim] as
days of feasting and merrymaking, and as an occasion for sending gifts to one
another and to the poor.[202]
Hamantaschan, cookies shaped like Hamans three cornered hat, or his ears, are
consumed. Purim thus becomes a holiday of the exchange and spread of bounty.
Because of the traditional masquerade, however, theoretically the rich and the
poor are meant to be indistinguishable: this is the highest form of giving in Judaism,
not explicitly charity, it will not induce shame.
In Djerba,
Hamans ears cookies are consumed with relish. In a parade of abundance,
every family brings sweets to relations, friends and the poor. In the 19th
and early 20th century, alms were also given to the Muslims,[203]
however, this is no longer practiced. I brought sweets to my Muslim neighbors
who had lived in the Hara for a decade and they were pleased but perplexed: No
one has ever brought us these before.
Games of
chance are also uniformly integral to the Purim festival. The Megillah states:
Haman, son of Hammedatha the Agagite, the foe of the Jews, had plotted to
destroy the Jews, and had cast pur—that is, the lot—with
intent to crush and exterminate them. But when Esther came before the King, he
commandedlet the evil plot, which he devised against the Jews, recoil on its
own head![204] During
Purim, the Jews cast their own lots. By playing games of chance like dice (for
money) they pay homage to the dramatic reversal of their fortune, to the
precariousness of chance, and to what is understood as the invisible hand of
God intervening and determining their salvation.
In Djerba, games of
chance like dice and dominoes occupy the entire day. The games are couched in
chance, but luck is understood as a commodity some possess. One 11-year-old girl who had been
particularly lucky, and saw herself as an especially good player noted:
sometimes I win and sometimes I lose, but my hand knows how to spin, just
watch! Djerbans rarely explain success in terms of ingenuity or luck, but more
commonly attribute it to God. Like the common saying of Djerban Muslims, in
which all is maktub, or written, the Jews believe that only Rebna yarf, only our
God knows. In this, the success of the Jews on Purim was pure Providence,
scripted from the beginning.
Daniel Boyarin
describes Purim as the quintessential holiday of the Diaspora: It is the only
Jewish holiday that celebrates an event which took place in Diaspora.[205]
Largely assimilated into Persian culture—indeed, Esther had been made
queen without any question of her religion[206]—
the Jews were dramatically rendered alien with Hamans decree. Esthers name means hiddeness: she is advised by her uncle
Mordechai to wield that hiddeness,
to unmask herself and her people only in the crucial moment. Mordechai, by
contrast, is a public Jew. He refuses to bow to Haman; he refuses to remove his
mourning sackcloth when he comes to the Kings palace after the decree of
annihilation of the Jews. In tandem, the two characters explain the condition
of the Jews in a diaspora which was initially comfortable, but in which events
go awry.
In their Purim
victory, perhaps the Jews acquired an acute new awareness of themselves:
estranged, triumphant, self-protective, exacting. Fisch notes that the name of
God is never mentioned in the Megillah, suggesting that this is because God was
particularly behind the scenes in this context; man—gaining a new
awareness of his fragility and his otherness, and beginning to define himself
accordingly —acted. Thereby, man redeemed his people. But in the process he became a
different man.
Jeffrey Rubenstein
reads Purim, somewhat facilely, through the lens of the Carnivalesque and the
dissolution of boundary.[207]
I believe that in Djerba, rather, identity is ultimately reinforced in the
course of the festivals rituals. Despite any identity-blurring play which may
occur during Purim, the Jews of Djerba are always deeply cogent of exactly who,
according to them, is Mordechai, and who, Haman.
Elliot Horowitz,
writing on Purim in pre-modern and medieval contexts, notes the festivals
more violent anti-Christian undertones.[208]
He collects a variety of historiographies on effigy burning of Haman, noting
the resemblance of the gallows to the cross: it was imagined they designed to
insult the Christians upon the death of Jesus Christ.[209]
Indeed, it was even suggested that Jesus himself may have perished while doing
time on the cross in the character of Haman[210]
The concern was widespread enough for the issuing of a Theodosian decree in 408
preventing Jewish mockery of Christianity and its symbols on Purim.[211] Purim effigy burning has been recorded amply from the
5-12th centuries throughout Europe and the Ottoman Empire.[212]
Horowitz particularly notes the echoes of the Purim story felt during the rise
of Nazi Germany. Indeed, these
violent rites were never entirely abandoned by the Jews, even in relatively
modern times[213] and Djerba
is just such an instance. The fact that this ancient rite has been maintained
deserves serious consideration, and may provide important insights about the
community and how it perceives itself and its Others.
The Jews of Djerba
often claim that their Purim is unlike Purim elsewhere. In fact, it is difficult to know if
effigy-burning is practiced elsewhere in North Africa or the Middle East at
this time, however it seems unlikely. However, perhaps no other Jewish
community in North Africa has retained its traditions so completely intact
without succumbing to secular influences. Even in transplanted Djerban
communities, the practice has become obsolete. One woman from the moshav Betigadi in Israel notes: Yes our
moshav is just like the Hara Kebira.
We do Purim here like we did it there.[214]
When asked about the effigy she says, apologetically: We tried to maintain it
for a few years after we came to Israel, but then it died out. That is real
Djerba through and through. You have to go to Djerba for that.
Purim is typically
understood as a minor holiday in the Jewish calendar, in that work on it is
permitted,[215] unlike on
the Sabbath and the major holidays. However, the festival is accorded special
weight in Djerba and most do in fact cease work. In 2003, more young men were
continuing to work, describing the day as a women and childrens holiday.
Many noted that this was a recent shift due to increased desire of the young to
make money. This said, the Hara is taken over by the holiday, its allies full
of women carrying platters of sweets and children playing games of chance.
Neighborhood Muslim shopkeepers selling toys and Kosher candy line the
streets.
I now analyze the
festivals particularities in Djerba. I compare my observations with those of
Abraham Udovitch who collected his fieldwork in the late seventies/ early
eighties. My notes confirm many of his, but also diverge, suggesting perhaps
subtle shifts which have occurred not in the content of the holiday, but in the
meaning behind that content.
Udovitch has collected and translated a series of couplets sung on Purim
on the way to the burning of the Haman effigy:
Haman who is buried/ May he be
really dead
Haman who is choked/ May he be
scorched
Haman who, is sad/ May his foot be
under clay.
Haman, who is scorched/ May his foot
be in the market.[216]
The couplets are
reserved for anyone perceived as an enemy, who is encountered en route.
Because of the proceedings early hour, the boys do not necessarily encounter
any Muslims on their way. The song reveals an anxiety: even though Haman has
been buried, is he actually dead? Can he take on other manifestations? Is he
still a threat? It is not sufficient to hang Haman on the gallows as occurs in
the actual narrative; his body must be completely obliterated. Perhaps the most
pertinent part of the song to our discussion is the verbal shift between the
hypothetical and the real. For example, line two, May he be scorched is
capped by the shift in line four: Haman, who is scorched. In this, an act of
imagination is transformed into an act of will. The victory is not only
anxiously played out; it is lived.
Describing
the morning of the ceremony, Udovitch notes: the effigies of Haman, his wife
and ten children are placed in bags filled with paper and wood, and children
set fire to them, beat them with fronds and sing of their destruction.[217]
I did not witness the effigy burning the first time I was in Djerba (2004), as
no one in the Hara explained when and how the event would be taking place. As
girls and women are not permitted to attend, they only answered my questions
vaguely. However, I did see the burning the subsequent year when several of the
women of the community acquiesced and told me the children would lead me there
because it was such a special Djerban tradition.
I witnessed
a slightly different variation on the event described by Udovitch. The
effigy-burning was described in vague terms and no one could pin down when it
would occur. Most said that it typically began early in the morning, but it was
unpredictable; at some hour, the boys will just start running! I was told by
numerous people that no one ever knew when the event would begin. It was
repeatedly described almost as a kind of spontaneous conflagration, as if the
appropriate hour would be collectively, viscerally intuited by its participants.
Indeed, I arrived at 5:30, and it did not begin until 8:45.
The boys and
a supervising group of men headed to the courtyard of the local synagogue where
studies were held. Hamans stuffed body was already prepared: he wore a dirty
pair of childrens trousers and a flannel shirt and did not have a head. Haman
was nailed to a gallows which structurally resembled a very large crucifix.
Attached to its perpendicular arms were Hamans wife and ten children. They
were represented by computer print-outs.
The only icon available to represent a female was that of a princess,
and thus Hamans wife was a princess. This initially confused me, and I
wondered if somehow Queen Esther was being burned. The ten children were
represented by various computer print-outs (googly-eyed faces, clowns, aliens,
etc).
As the men
anchored Hamans body to the wooden structure, the boys threw startlingly loud
firecrackers in a constant stream. The men had already prepared a pit in the
courtyard and at this point filled it with leaves and twigs and newspaper. They
then jutted the structure into the pit. The ambience was light-hearted and
quite boisterous. The childrens faces were smeared with chocolate from the
mornings exchange of sweets. They ran around the pit in excitable
circles.
The men
doused the entire structure with lighter fluid, and flames began to rise. The
children stepped too close to the fire, receiving reprimands from the men.
Hamans wife and children burned much more readily as they were made of paper.
At one point, several of the boys became impatient waiting for Haman to be
consumed by flames—the culmination of the entire event. They came
dangerously close to the fire, continuously swatting the effigy with a lit palm
frond. The men watched and did not reprimand once, even though the children
were closer to the fire than they had been before. The moment was crucial; the
event was incomplete until Haman was destroyed.
The event
seems to be understood as a playful jaunt for the children and teenage boys (young
girls can attend, but pubescent girls and women are not permitted: I was
allowed to watch as I was a visitor). Before and after the event, women and
girls of all ages were eager to share their perceptions and to hear my
reactions: Watch the little boys get Haman! They are unstoppable!; Did they get Haman good this
time?; Did you see Haman? Wasnt it fun?! In each instance, I was proudly
asked if I had seen Haman, and if I had had fun. No one suggested that the
event was an unnerving spectacle. The emphasis of course was always on
getting the villain, and coming out on top. Upon showing my photographs of
the conflagration to one woman she said: It looks like Osama Ben Laden hit the
Hara! Scary!
Although
generally couched in playful fun, during the pinnacle of its performance, one
can observe an almost mystical fervor of its participants. The romp around the
fire is frenetic. Firecrackers are
pelted aggressively at the ground (one even exploded at my ankles, which seemed
a deliberate gesture on the part of several boys who were hostile to the
presence of an observing woman). The movement and clamor as Haman is burned
rises to a fevered pitch.
Meanwhile, although the Muslims of the Hara are not permitted into the
courtyard to observe the spectacle, many reacted uncomfortably to the general
atmosphere of the festival. A few when asked what they thought of Purim
cringed, gesturing vaguely to the air around them, pockmarked by the constant
rupture of small explosive devices. One woman
lamented: Uch, why wont they stop already; cant anyone get some peace around
here?
Although the
Muslim population had never witnessed the effigy-burning, they seemed to sense
the aggressive mood in the air. After the effigy burning, the children entered
the streets with their firecrackers. The firecrackers were consistently thrown
too close to the Muslim shops. A band of Muslim children from the Hara
typically congregate at the roundabout at the entrance to the village; I noted
the Jewish children aiming their firecrackers in the general direction of the
Muslim children. It was not uncommon to see children playing out the aggression
of their parents (insulting or avoiding children from the other group) on
normal days of the week, however this mood was particularly pronounced on
Purim. The celebration was not only for survival
and continuance; it was also for vengeance. The identification between Haman as
foe and the Muslims as foe was not explicitly drawn during the festival.
However, a later narrative confirmed my suspicions.
Djerban
Modifications of the Megilah
One
prescient gloss of the Megilah (the Purim narrative) was relayed to me by a
group of three Djerban women in the moshav of Betigadi in Southern Israel. All
in their late sixties and early seventies, they had all emigrated to Israel as
young wives within the decade after 1948. I did not hear such glosses in Djerba
proper, but would not be surprised if they still circulated. The narratives
reveal Djerban preoccupations with purity and with divine providence. Although
my general contention is and has been that there was a greater psychological comfort between Jews and Muslims in the
early 20th century which then diminished, this story illustrates
certain boundaries and conceptions which, I believe, have always been present
for Djerban Jews. Even when there
was greater movement between the monoform community into the polyform
society—in the form of warmer shared cultural perceptions, shared
blessings and more diverse economic exchange—intermarriage would still be
of the greatest taboo. It is this taboo which has enabled the Djerban community
to remain so very intact.
The women
all concurred that their most powerful memories of Purim had occurred in their
childhoods in Djerba. They told me the story of Esther collectively, revising
and amending each others contributions. Three elements deviated from the
typical Megilah story, the implications of which I will now examine.
In the
Megilah, Esther is introduced quite simply as a maiden shapely and beautiful.[218]
The women of the moshav insisted that Queen Esther was not initially
beautiful—rather she was quite plain, even ugly! They explained:
Esther was not beautiful at first! God made her beautiful so she could save
us! Otherwise how could she save us? Esthers beauty is
understood as a means of redemption planted in the midst of catastrophe, and
thus the most deliberate of godly choices even though Gods name is never
mentioned in the story. For the Djerbans, salvation was preordained. Indeed
their messianism would accept no other outcome.
Secondly,
throughout their narration, the women referred to all the Persians in the
Megillah—The King, Haman, the people of Shushan—as Arabs. This
indicates, perhaps, that the identification with the story is less subconscious
and allegorical than, in fact, literal. The story was a three dimensional and
participatory entity for these women. They fasted for Esther and understood
Esther as a tool of God—as they each, more subtly were tools of God,
simply by being observant Jews. Their men could be Mordechai, parading around
the Hara Kebira, publicly proud of their Judaism. The Persians in the Esther
story, and especially Haman, were understood explicitly as Arabs. Their
obliteration was imperative to the proper enactment of Purim. Eliot Horowitz
has noted the possibility for ritually acting out aggression through the Purim
festival; this reading of Persians as Arabs, and the ensuing burning of the
Persians, could hardly be understood otherwise.
Perhaps the most dramatic departure from the Megilah story was the Djerban
womens explanation of Esthers marriage to the Persian (Arab) King, Ahaseurus.
In the Megilah it is written: The king loved Esther more than all the other
women, and she won his grace and favor more than all the virgins. So he set a
royal diadem on her head and made her queen instead of Vashti.[219]
The Djerban women, unable to tolerate the notion that Esther, (a Jew) might
marry and lie with Ahasueros, a Persian (Arab) had found an escape clause. They
explained: Esther did not marry Ahasueros! It was a fake wedding, because he
was an Arab—a goy!—and a Jewish woman could never marry an Arab. So
an Arab woman was found to lie with Ahasueros! When I asked what happened to
Esther once the Jews were saved, the women replied, without missing a beat,
that Esther surely properly married a Jewish man. Maybe even a Rabbi.
The Djerban
taboo against intermarriage was so ingrained that popular imagination had
salvaged the Megilahs disregard of the issue. The women were all familiar with
the actual Megilah: women too are enjoined to hear and participate in the story
during Purim. In Djerba, they congregated in the womens section of the
synagogue on the eve of Purim to hear the story. When the men went to the shul
for a second time the subsequent day, they came home and repeated the story yet
again to their wives. Were the women conflating the text with a popular story?
Was the distinction clear in their minds? Is what you have described to me
what is written in the Megillah? I asked the women. This is what happened,
they replied.
The
essential question which marks Purim—the threat of disappearance, whether
through assimilation or annihilation, is at the crux of the Djerban Jewish
identity. Remaining a monoform community right
now is becoming increasingly challenging for the Jews, and it is only through
the scrupulous maintenance of boundaries that they can retain their own
coherence and unity. There is no time in Djerban
Jewish history in which either women or food could be exchanged with the Muslim
community. However,
broader psychological boundaries are another question entirely. How have the
Djerban Jews perceived
the polyform community which has always surrounded them? How do they now
perceive them?
The Purim festival allows a
glimpse into the boundaries between the two groups, and a moment in which the Jewish facet of the Djerban Jewish
identity is enacted perhaps at the expense of the Djerban facet. In burning the
effigy of Haman, the Jews express that their only way to feel safe, to belong, is to overcome and indeed
destroy that element which threatens them. This, as a broader cosmology,
reveals a core fear that there is no room for reconciliation with that Other.
This fear, at bottom, is that letting in and trusting the other, relinquishing
ones boundaries, is akin to disappearing. The local Djerban manifestations of
Purim display the most protective, insular and distrustful mechanisms of the
community, which enable its own perpetuation, but at a cost.
Like in the case of Purim, Lag BOmers
local manifestations provide a window upon the communitys preoccupations with
boundary, and questions of home, but offer a different resolution to the
problem. I analyzed Purim as a ritual moment in
which psychological boundaries between the Jews and Muslims became more
ossified. Haman is burned in enclosure: triumphant victory over the enemy is
enacted behind closed doors. The mood provoked by that act then permeates
through the streets, and is acted out again in smaller bursts of aggression
through the explosion of firecrackers near Muslim shops.
However, in Lag BOmer, the Jewish
community showcases itself with pride to the surrounding Muslim community. By
articulating itself undefensively, I do not suggest that the Jewish community
dissolves its boundaries; rather it imagines a vision of maintaining certain
boundaries while still interacting more positively and fluidly with the Muslim
community. Ultimately Lag BOmer is an
opportunity for the Jews to celebrate their distinctiveness, and the duality of
their Jewish and Tunisian identities.
The Djerban version of Lag BOmer entails
a pilgrimage to a local
saint in addition to commemorating Shimon Bar Yohai, (Rebbe Shimon),
understood to be the writer of the Zohar. As both North African Jews and
Muslims venerate holy men,[220]
the rite may furnish mutual identification between the groups. Also, because
Rebbe Shimon wrote the Zohar during the Roman conquest of Jerusalem, and the
Djerban Jews associate the holy figure with their own messianic longings, the
holiday is evocative on deeply Jewish levels. During the festivities, the
Djerban Jews both firmly situate themselves in Djerba and celebrate their
connection to Israel.
In this, perhaps they resolve the paradox of their identities by claiming two
homes. I read this ritual in 2003 as a suspension, an acting-out of what has
been and could be possible for the Jews of Djerba.
The Lag BOmer Narrative and Performance
Lag
BOmer serves as a cessation in a period of mourning. In between the second
night of Passover until the day before Shavuot (a seven week period), the omer, a unit of measurement
designating the barley offered to the Temple were counted, to mark the days
before the offering. This counting process
emphasized the link between Passover (which commemorates the Exodus of the Jews
from Egypt) and Shavuot (which commemorates the giving of the Torah to the
Jews). The reminder was that escape from oppressors and ensuing redemption
could not be complete until the Jews possessed the Torah, their Holy Book. This
seven week period is also one of mourning for a plague which occurred during
the lifetime of Rabbi Akiva: no weddings or parties can occur, hair may not be
cut. However, on Lag BOmer, the 33rd day of counting the omer, the
mourning prescriptions are lifted: celebrations commemorating Rebbe Shimon
ensue.[221]
Bar Yohai, a student of Rabbi
Akiva, was a sage who lived during the Roman conquest of Jerusalem (70 A.D.)
When the Romans outlawed the Torah, he spoke out and a death sentence was
pronounced against him. Bar Yohai went into
hiding for twelve years with his son in a cave (miraculously supplied with a
river and carob tree), and according to the story, composed the Zohar,
unlocking the deepest mystical secrets of the Torah. Although the Djerban Jews
understand Shimon Bar Yohai to be the Zohars writer, its authorship is
documented to Moses de Leon in 13th century Spain, who collected Bar
Yohais commentaries. It is the
Djerban myth, however, which informs their understanding of the mystical book
and its origins, which is most pertinent here.
According to Kabbalistic tradition, Bar
Yohai died on Lag BOmer, and miraculously, the sun would not set until he
passed on. The tradition of lighting candles and bonfires here originates.
Rabbi Abba, sent to transcribe Bar Yohais words notes the powerful light
emanating from the body of the sage: The entire day, the house was filled with
fire, and nobody could get close to the wall of fire and light. At the end of
the day, the fire subsided and I was able to look at the face of Rabbi Shimon.
He was dead, wrapped in his Tallis (prayer shawl), lying on his right
side—and smiling.[222]
The parallels between this description and those of Djerbas local saint are
quite astonishing. I explore their possible implications imminently.
Pilgrimage and veneration of
holy men have been acknowledged as important components of religiosity among
North African Jews. These practices have been read as both assimilation of a local
Muslim practice and as linked to the Kabbalah.[223]
Certainly, the influence of popular Sufism cannot be underestimated. In North
Africa, the saint cult has probably been the most widespread expression of
Islam from the late middle ages through the early modern period[224]
and has become a universal aspect of Islamic expression.[225] Absorption of this ethos has inflected
Judaism in the region. Indeed, for
both Jews and Muslims in North Africa, saints—called zaadiks in the case of the
Jews—can perform miracles associated with the curing of illness and
salvation of individuals of the entire community.[226]
Ben Ami mentions folk medicine practices linked to the shrine of a zaadik:
people leave bottles of olive oil, jewels, coins, etc in the tomb overnight to
receive the blessing of the zaadik. Barren women leave a belt on the tomb. Streamers and ribbons are hung on
branchescandles and glasses [are sold] in the zaadiks name.[227]
Such practices are equally linked to Muslim saint visitation. The pilgrimage at
the center of the festivities in Lag BOmer rings familiar with both groups.
Lucette Valensi[228]
points to the localization of mysticism in the case of Djerba: religion was
expressed with reference to a common tradition, but in vernacular form. For
example, Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai (and Meier Baal Ha Nes, another 2nd
century Rabbi of Palestine also associated with mysticism), were shared as
reference points by the larger Jewish community. However, their cult in North
Africa was also associated with a third figure, a local male or female saint.[229]
The commemoration of the death of these two mystical rabbis coincided with
celebration of this local saint.
In Djerba, this local saint is
a young girl, the Ghriba, the strange or marvelous one, and Djerbas most
important synagogue—also called the Ghriba—was constructed in her
name. In another legend, the island itself was called Ghriba by the Jews upon
their arrival in 586 B.C. after the fall of the Temple. The Ghriba synagogue
was renovated in the 1860s; however, the date of its original construction is
not precisely known. There are known to be at least six synagogues in North
Africa with this same name.[230]
It is the only synagogue in the Hara Sgheira which can hold the Torah scrolls,
and it is the place where all new married couples
come to be blessed and photographed. It is the single synagogue visited by
tourists (the other synagogues in the Haras are small and inconspicuous prayer
corners.) As the site of the most important pilgrimage in Djerba, it has become
a symbolic center both within the Haras and in emigrant communities.
According to local legend, the
site where the Ghriba synagogue now stands was once a deserted stretch of land
untouched by the inhabitants of the Hara Sgheira. A girl mysteriously arrived
on the island one day and constructed a hut of branches in that place. Some
claim she had an aura of purity about her, and out of respect, none approached
her. Others note the Jews were afraid of her,
not comprehending her presence on the island, and did not approach. One night,
flames engulfed her hut. Afraid she was performing some kind of magic, the Jews
did not come to the girls aid. The next morning, the hut was reduced to ashes,
but her body and even the features of her face were intact.[231] This description is eerily similar to that of the
body of Shimon Bar Yohai. Both figures seem to be identified with mysticism in
Djerba. I later read the Ghriba as performing a mystical function for the Jews
of Djerba, as a kind of mediating figure between the people and God,
elaborating upon a thesis of Udovitch.
Like
Purim, Lag BOmer creates a carnival of sorts. But whereas in the former, the
idiom was disguise, the latter embraces revealing—perhaps even
displaying—the communitys more intimate truths. I now outline the
pilgrimage and the procession, which accompany Lag BOmer in Djerba. I then
examine the festivities I witnessed in 2004, ultimately
reading the holiday as a suspension of some of the typical norms which governed
the Jews and Muslims of the Hara at that time. However, the mood of the Hara
could not, of course, be completely reversed: certain pervasive realities
continued to impinge even upon the carnival.
On the first day of the
holiday, (the 14th of Iyar on the Jewish calendar) the Jews of the
Hara Kebira go to the Ghriba synagogue in Hara Sgheira to light a commemorative
candle for Rebbe Shimon and Rebbe Meier. The next day, visitors do the same.
Under the ark where the holy Torah scrolls are kept is a niche hollowed
out.marking the place where the body of the mysterious girl was found.[232] The women of the community place candles and uncooked
eggs in this niche. Each egg is inscribed with the name of a girl of
marriageable age, or of a married girl, who has not yet given birth. The eggs
are left overnight. Upon their hardening, each appointed girl must eat the egg
to fulfill the wish.[233] This niche is the shrine Ben Ami
describes—the gifts left therein are gifts of supplication to the Ghriba.
The pilgrims then leave the synagogue and brandy and dried fruit are bestowed
upon the Rabbis who chant a hymn to Rebbe Shimon. The men rejoice in Bar
Yohais name all night long, in a vigil with the Zohar.
In the subsequent few days, a
joyous atmosphere permeates the courtyard adjacent to the Ghriba synagogue.[234]
A local orchestra plays Jewish folksongs, candles are lit in the synagogue,
reunions of families and friends erupt in the courtyard and in the surrounding
street. Wares are hawked loudly and kebabs, ice cream, egg crepes and beer are
consumed.
The climax of the celebration
occurs around the 17th of Iyar, on the Jewish calendar (the second
or third day of festivities), with the procession of the menara. The menara is a large
candelabra, shaped like a hexagonal pyramid, mounted on wheels. According to
Udovitch, it has five ascending levels which:
represent the [D]jerban view of the
hierarchy of beings. At the base are the Jewish people made up of the twelve
tribes of Israel; then come the various famous rabbis of Tunisia whose names
mingle at the third level with those of important biblical personages, such as
Abraham, Isaac, Rachel and Leah. At the top of the third level an
inscriptionreads: This candelabrum is in honor of Rabbi Meir Baal Hanes and
Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai, may their merits assure us of protection. Over this,
the name of God, Shaddai,
is inscribed in a star of David then, finally, the tablets of the Law, in
silver, crown the whole construction.[235]
The menara is cloaked in wisps of silk
and chiffon, sold to the crowd to adorn the structure. Women gather around the menara,
sprinkling it with rosewater each time a sale is made. The local orchestra
plays with gusto and the crowd is rapt.
The procession, the
culmination of the several days of festivities, begins in the main courtyard
and crosses through the whole of the Hara Sgheira, stopping at every small
prayer house, arriving back at the Ghriba synagogue. Although only one
kilometer is traversed, the procession takes hours, due to the constant stops.
During the procession, blessings are auctioned away every few paces. The event
is boisterous and participatory.
In May 2004, the festival
created a somewhat permeable mingling space between Djerbans, returning
Djerbans, tourists and Muslims. Men, women and children moved through a fairly
small shared space: the interior of the courtyard and the single street between
courtyard and synagogue. First, it must be noted that shared space for men and
women is an absolute anomaly for the Djerban Jews. During other festive times
in Djerba, like weddings, there is a gate
between the men and womens areas. The men dance and consume alcoholic
beverages; the women sit fairly demurely, chatting and passing plates of
sunflower seeds. I was admonished for tapping my hands on my chair: Girls
dont dance while men are around. At the pilgrimage however, people mill
around one space, moving about lightly and comfortably. European tourists
dance. Djerban men dance. Djerban women sway easily in their chairs. Muslims
clap.
Traki Cohen who had emigrated
to Israel in the early fifties recounted returning to the Ghriba eight years
ago: There was a young Muslim woman, beautiful, cute. She sat down next to us. I said to her: I am Djerban. She said, I must tell you the truth: I
am not Jewish. But the Jews, I
really like them.[236]
Traki had earlier expressed ambivalence about Djerba: What is there left in
Djerba? Just Arabs and the
Ghriba. But upon recounting this specific anecdote, she noted: There are some
good Muslims.
One large Muslim family from
Bizerte, a city in the North of Tunisia, visited the Ghriba for the first time.
They had come on a trip to Djerba without realizing their vacation would
coincide with the Jewish festival, of which they had never heard. The mother
and daughter were veiled. They walked around the pulpit where the Rabbi stands
in the synagogue, admiring the elaborate woodwork. The father explained in a
quiet voice to his son, this is where the Jews pray. Isnt it beautiful? The
mother and daughters walked around in circles examining the synagogue. I
approached them and asked if I could answer any of their questions about the
community, explaining that I was a Jewish American who was living in Djerba
briefly. They welcomed my approach and asked a series of questions about the pilgrimage and the reason for celebration.
They then invited me to stay with them in their home the next time I was in the
North.
The Benjimias, a Muslim family
who has lived in the area for more than a decade, was reluctant to attend the
pilgrimage: Why should we come, no one has invited us. Their 11-year-old
daughter, Rim, clamored to attend, and her mother sharply reproached her. Her
older teenager brothers had been before without her. Upon my invitation, she
said: Ill think about it. I know
it is festive, but I dont know if I want to make the effort. It is so noisy
and crowded. Although I wanted to volunteer to take the daughter, I feared
alienating the Jews of the Hara, so just expressed my hope that they would all
come along. In the late afternoon, one of the two brothers came on his
motorcycle, and seemed to be enjoying himself a good deal, staying for several
hours. Rims mother elected to not attend, and did not facilitate her
daughters attendance.
During the procession itself,
I witnessed many Muslims who had not themselves attended the festivities peer
out of shops or from doorsteps of their homes to watch. Some of the children even joined in.
There was also a string of reporters from abroad who had come to write on the
festivities. They had heard that an American student had been living in the
community, and were eager to get my perspective. They commented effusively on
the example of Jewish-Muslim coexistence Djerba provided in a time such as now.
I agreed, though noted that it was not quite as good as it looked, and
perhaps they should spend a bit more time in the Hara to get a more rounded
perspective on Jewish-Muslim relations. Most only stayed for the duration of
the pilgrimage and then proceeded to write articles perhaps romanticizing the
relationship between the two groups. The joyously inclusive atmosphere of the
Ghriba obscured some of the harder realities of day-to-day coexistence.
After the procession, the
Tunisian minister of Tourism, Abderrahim Zouari
made a speech in the packed interior of
the Ghriba synagogue to a mixed audience, acknowledging the important role the
Tunisian Jews had played in the construction of [Tunisias] culture and its
civilization.[237]
He continued, approximately: We are proud to have the Jews in Djerba. May the
Jews and the Muslims of Djerba always live happily side by side. Let this be an
example for the rest of the world. Each statement he made was punctuated by
cheers—of tourists, of Jews, and of Muslims.
Perhaps Lag BOmer is the one
festival in which the Muslims can participate. Both the mood of the holiday and the
official governmental platform point to a specific vision for coexistence for
the Jews and Muslims of Djerba. Although the
Muslims do not know the details of the symbolic structure of the menara which
is paraded through the joint quarters, they seem to sense that something
significant is being displayed. For the Jews, ferrying the lavish
menarah—a source of immense pride and historic continuity, and a symbol for
the hierarchy which structures their very existence—through the mixed
Jewish Muslim quarter, seems to be a potent and ambivalent moment. Particularly
in Hara Sgheira, where the Jewish population has waned to only a handful of
families, it is understood that this procession is now moving through
predominantly Muslim
space. These homes, vacated during waves of emigration to Israel and France,
were previously occupied by Jews. Yet in 2004, the Jews of Djerba must contend
with a changed reality: their neighbors are now Muslim.
Lag BOmer contrasts starkly
with the typical observance of Jewish holidays, during which the community
becomes particularly impermeable to outsiders. Sacred space is usually
cautiously protected and doors firmly closed. During the Sabbath, meticulous
restrictions are observed: cars are not driven, lights not turned off or on,
girls do not even brush their hair.
The entrance of a Muslim on a motorbike or car reverberates in waves of
discomfort through the community. During the Sabbath, the Jews do not leave the
confines of the eruv, the demarcating line which permits the carrying of
objects during the Sabbath. The eruv circumscribes a zone of exemption where,
for example, strollers can be pushed and platters of food can be carried.
Shlomo Deshen, after a stint of fieldwork in Djerba in 1992 notes: The eruv of
the Hara is remarkable. It was designed so as to exclude the central area of
town where the shops were located. The eruv snaked around the market area,
excluding it, and including only the Jewish residential area. The Djerban eruv
had the effect of enclosing the community.and also discouraged the people of
the community from wandering into the Muslim village center so close to them.[238]
The eruv is constituted by a metal wire, which stretches continuously between
the rooftops of the Hara. On the ground in parallel, there are molded reliefs
at the base of the walls of the homes at the villages edge to simulate town
gates.[239] As the
Jews do not venture beyond the eruv during the Sabbath, there seems to be an
equal wish that others note that invisible line, and do not venture in. In Lag
BOmer, that taut line, physical and psychological, which separates Jew from
Muslim, briefly ceases to exert its full force.
I have established how the
festival is a celebration of the Jews locating themselves deeply in Djerba,
creating a space to showcase their own traditions, and
to—briefly—relinquish some of the communitys typical boundaries.
It is equally a celebration of the particular Jewishness of the community and its
messianic, and indeed, mystical vision. I examine this aspect of Djerban Jewish
identity through a brief study of the symbols and songs,
which form such an integral part of the Lag BOmer festival. Without desiring
to enter into the esoteric complexities of the Zohar and larger Kabbalah, I
will examine Udovitchs mystical reading of the festival, and add my own small
twist.
In interpreting the ritual
through Zoharic symbolism, Udovitch reads the pilgrimage as a wedding feast:
One of the major themes of Zoharic mysticism is that of the
mystical marriage of the community with its Lord, through which the hidden
meaning of the Divine Word is revealed in its infinite fullness. In Zoharic
symbolism, the community represents the feminine principle, and God the
masculine principle. In [D]jerba, to lead the menarah clad in brides finery in
a procession is, in the end, to lead the community to its Lord.[240]
As the community seeks its Lord, I
believe there is a symbolic intermediary, a kind of helpmate. I will read the
mythical saint-figure of the Ghriba as that helpmate, identifying her
symbolically with the Shekhina, a crucial figure in the Zohar. This symbolic
investigation will allow me to further explore Djerban Jewish notions of exile
and homeland, and how they are particularly manifested in the festival of Lag
BOmer.
The Kabbalistic conception of
the Shekhina diverges radically from the conventional Rabbinic conception.[241]
In Rabbinic thought, the Shekhina literally the indwelling, namely of God in
the world—is taken to mean simply God himself in his omnipresence and
activity in the world and especially in Israel.[242]
God and the Shekhina are, ultimately, indistinguishable. However, from the
earliest Kabbalistic thought, the Shekhina becomes a quasi independent
feminine element within Him.[243]
The Shekhina is also symbolically identified with the Jewish community, and
with the soul. According to Waite, in mystical thought, it is She who enables
the Name of God to be expressed on Earth, or God to be realized in the heart.[244]
The story of the Shekhina in
the Zohar, and the Djerban myth of the Ghriba, bear some striking parallels
which deserve exploration. My readings, in the realm of the symbolic-poetic,
ask if the figures may on any level be associatively bound in the mind of the
Djerban Jew, and why this may be important. Although these readings are not verifiable, both my
fieldwork and the historical theoretical material I have consulted suggest that
these associations do exist. Scholem notes the symbolic continuity between mystical
symbols and cumulative historical experience of the Jewish people.[245]
Understanding these two figures in tandem enriches the imagery of exile and
redemption surrounding each, and I believe ultimately forms a symbolic whole.
Ultimately this composite human[246]/deity
figure explains much about Djerban Jewish connection to both Djerba and to
Israel, and thus the complexity of Djerban Jewish notions of home.
First, both Shekhina and
Ghriba are protective forces, shielding the people from harm. Both are
initially betrayed by the community, but do not abandon it. In the instance of
the Shekhina, her exile from God is generally imputed to the destructive
action and magical influence of sin [on the part of humanity].[247]
She is betrayed by the community when they sin, but retains her faith in the
Jews, following them into exile: Wherever they [Israel] went into exile, the
Shekhina went with them.[248]
In the case of the Ghriba, the community does not trust her, and allows her hut
to burn, not understanding that she is pure and virtuous. After this betrayal, the Jews recognize
their error, and make the site of her death the sanctified place upon which
they erect their synagogue. The Ghriba seems then to forgive, yielding into
this new role and becoming a protective force for the community as their
saint.
Second, both Shekhina and
Ghriba also serve as mediators. The Shekhina is imagistically portrayed as the trunk of the community[249]—thus
the mediating force between the community and God. In this, she was never
separate from man as long as he observed the commandments.[250]
Moreover, it is prayer which connects the community to the Shekhina, and
thereby to the Holy One.[251]
Connection to, and protection by the Shekhina is constituted by observance of
the law, and continuous prayer.[252]
The Shekhina is ultimately understood [to be] either the House of prayer or
else abides therein.[253]
The Ghriba assumes the same mediating function between the people and God. Like
the Shekhina, she helps to enable the communitys expression of its
religiosity. In fact, she can be understood as the body of the synagogue itself; the illustrious house of
prayer is constructed over her remains.
In this symbolic
constellation, the Shekhina and Ghriba are both helpmates, she who brings the
community closer to God—and in Djerba, this means closer to a messianic
age. Both figures are thus
intimately connected to Djerban notions of Israel. She can be understood as the composite figure who helps to
rectify exile; simultaneously, however, she embodies exile itself. I examine now this last
proposition more closely: she embodies exile itself. The Ghriba/Shekhina is
also perhaps a stand-in for the entire community: she is the stranger in an unknown land.
Do the Djerban Jews, on some level perceive themselves as this stranger, this
private, virtuous young girl who feels to be surrounded by an unwelcoming and
indifferent majority? Have they too constructed their huts upon an isolated
patch of land, and then constructed gates? Presupposing the hostility of the
exterior, does it thereby become hostile? Likewise, the Djerban Jewish
community both burns and
saves itself
through its own boundaries and gates. Without them, they would not be able to
keep their traditional religious community intact. Perhaps like other Jewish
communities in North Africa, they would succumb to assimilation. Yet with these gates, do the Djerban
Jews alienate themselves from a part of their own identity? Do they forget
their own inevitable Djerbanness?
To return to the symbolic
paradigm again, both Ghriba and Shekhina emerge to help mediate the longing of the community for an end to
exile and the beginning of an age of redemption. Indeed, each figure came into
existence in parallel: just as Rebbe Shimons body remained intact despite the
flames of revelation, so too did the Ghribas. The Shekhina, part of Yohais
grand vision, was drawn into this world by the fire which burns in the hearts
of the patriarchs.[254]
Both the mediating roles of the Ghriba and the Shekhina, like that of Bar
Yohai, became activated by the flames.
Moreover, each figure, when
she is made complete,
signals the beginning of redemption. And it is the community who assists in this act of
completion. The Shekhina is often described as a field of Holy apple trees, a
field to be tilled,[255]
whereas one typical epithet for the Ghriba is a field of dreams.[256]
To fertilize each mystical or mythical figure, through the act of prayer, is to seek fulfillment and
wholeness. Offering the Ghriba eggs inscribed with wishes for marriage and
fertility is asking for perpetuation of the community. In the Zoharic vision, that
perpetuation aims to usher in an era of messianic redemption. For the Jews of
Djerba then, both female figures perhaps auger in a messianic age.
The Ghriba, as an associative
correlate of the Shekhina, may allow the Djerban Jews an access point to the
movement towards redemption, a more tangible means of interacting with the
Zoharic imagery. In participating in a deeply distinctively Djerban rite, namely
supplication of the Ghriba, the community expresses its commitment to both the rich legacy of Djerban
Jewry and to an age, in the Promised Land, in which Shekhina reunites with
God.
The identification of the
figure of the Ghriba with messianic longing (and by association, with the
messianic imagery in the Zohar) can be corroborated by several of
songs—excerpts of which I have translated below—which are central
to the Lag BOmer festivities, and are designated as Songs for the Ghriba.
They are addressed, it seems, to both Rebbe Shimon (Sidi Bar Yohai) and to the
Ghriba. Djerbas local saint, who is in more intimate proximity, within the
niche beneath their very own Torahs.
1 Rouhi
maa il Galut/ Saboori, yaa
Yerushalayim yetawasalni
Fi il Ghena, wa
fil biyoot[257]
My soul is with Exile/ Be patient, O
Jerusalem will come to me
In the song, and in the homes
2 Yaa
Sidi Bar Yohai/ Semuaa li Israel/ Wa ila kalam meliha
Jiina il Meshiah/
Kulshi yewuli meliha[258]
O Sidi Bar Yohai/ Listen to Israel/ And
to the good words/
The Messiah will come to us/ Everything
will become good.
Both songs, integral to this
festival of the Ghriba, remind that despite the connection to Djerba, past or
present, this community will always feel intimately bound to their notion of
another homeland as well. Myths of origin explain how a community
conceptualizes itself in the greater universe: indeed, the connection to the
fallen Temple of 586 B.C. will always be central to the Djerban Jewish
identity. The question which remains, however, is whether things can become
good on
Djerban soil proper; can the Djerban Jews remain in Djerba while retaining a
spiritual connection to Israel, or has this possibility been trumped by a new
politicized and territorial connection to that land?
Perhaps this question requires
another angle of analysis. I now
shift to the Djerbans who have left Djerba, and now reside in Israel, and their
relationship to both the pilgrimage to, and the synagogue of, the Ghriba. Most
first-generation Djerban immigrants to Israel[259] live in moshavim—enclosed cooperative
communities of several hundred. Some even feel a bit like replicas of the
Haras. One woman who lives in Betigadi, one such community explains: The
atmosphere here is like Djerba.
They do the holidays like in Djerba. The same bread, the same couscous.
The moshav and Djerba are the same.[260]
Another woman confirms: The moshav is just like
Djerba. We do everything the same. We do Shabbat the same way. Kippur the same way.[261]
A family who came to Israel two years ago noted similarly: It is like Djerba
here. The holidays, Shabbat. The moshav resembles Djerba. In the moshav,
everyone is religious, just like in Djerba. In the city, things are mixed.[262]
In these villages, Djerban
Jewish Arabic is the almost exclusive tongue for first generation immigrants.
Djerban rituals are preserved (though not entirely: for example, the
effigy-burning of Haman is not performed), and local Djerban dishes are
prepared every day. The older Djerbans have remained distinctly Djerban, declining to assimilate into
the Israeli experiment of diversity. Particularly in Betigadi, primarily
composed of first generation immigrants (many of their children have moved to nearby
towns), the Djerban lifestyle has been preserved. In
younger moshavim like Tlamim and Brechia, where second generation immigrants
have built homes and begun raising their own children, assimilation is more
stark. These latter moshavim are
more marked by Hebrew-speaking, though continue to retain many Djerban
traditions. The moshavim illustrate that the Djerban Jews were always deeply
conscious of their Djerbanness, and were in no way willing to efface it for an
Israeli identity.
In Ofakim, a small village in
the Negev, the Jews constructed a replica of the Ghriba in 1956,[263]and
maintain a yearly pilgrimage on Lag BOmer. Like in Djerba, a large menara is
brought in procession around the town and prayers are auctioned away. People
come from all over the place. Though here, they dont have the cave of the
Ghriba with the eggs; that is only in Djerba.[264]
Ilon Khalfon, who pioneered the construction of the replica of the Ghriba
notes: We specifically made it to resemble the Ghriba so we could remember the Ghriba.[265]
A second-generation immigrant notes: In the synagogue, they have maintained
the same rules and the same tunes of the prayers. We used to have a Rabbi ten
years ago who had come directly from Djerba with the prayers, no questions.
After he died, there was no substitute.[266]
The reconstruction of the Ghriba and its pilgrimage indicate that for the
Djerban emigrants (first and subsequent generations) maintenance of the Djerban part of their identities is
essential.
Moreover, the Djerban version of
Lag BOmer in Israel has not been eclipsed by the Israeli version. Israeli Lag
BOmer concentrates on the Bar Kohkba Revolt (132-35 AD) against Roman
dominion. Zerubavel quotes a brochure on the holiday directed to primary school
students: the Zionist movement turned [Lag BOmer] into a holiday [that
promotes] national values: the struggle for freedom, military heroism, and the
hope for redemption.[267]
The celebration of Bar Kokhba is ironic, as his revolt ended in defeat; he is
instead remembered as a legendary hero who led the people to freedom.[268]
This particularly Israeli commemoration has in no way subordinated Djerban
versions of the festival. Every Djerban I interviewed in Israel emphasized the
importance of the Ghriba and of Shimon Bar Yohai in the festival, sidelined
elements in the Israeli version.[269]
In Jerusalem, a Ghriba center
was established 15 years ago.[270] Its founder notes:
Most of the Djerbans in Israel are proud of their heritage.
The Ghriba is something which connects the Djerban Jewry here. Every Djerban
can tell the story about Dighet and the door and the Cohenime coming from the
Temple after the second destruction.
They are very proud of their heritage. They know Djerba is a unique community.[271]
The mission statement of the Ghriba center
is explained on the newsletters:lassociation veut sauvegarder le patrimoine
du judaisme tunisien, lenseigner et le propoger le plus possible.[272] The letter further elucidates
the desire to mark the ancient nature of the Djerban Jewish community, and to
offer Tunisian Jews a vital cultural source of connection to their original
roots. One article in the publication commemorates the great Djerban Rabbi
Khalfon, noting that the Rabbi, after the Balfour Declaration of 1919, created
a Zionist group in Djerba called Atheret Zion. The article
elaborates on the Djerbans: leur conception englobait Judaisme-sionisme unis
et jamias diviss. For
the organization, there is both a sense of immense continuity between Djerba
and Israel and a notion of deep Djerban distinctiveness, which demands
preservation.
Concluding
Questions and Remarks
Udovitch, interpreting the Lag
BOmer pilgrimage through Zoharic imagery, notes that the community
symbolically meets its Lord. However, my ultimate query is, is it simultaneously
able to meet itself? Can
it meet its Others, its surrounding community? It is my contention that the community has been increasingly
less able to meet its current context in the last fifty years. As the majority
of the Jews have departed Tunisia, those who have remained have become,
perhaps, more psychologically alienated from their surroundings. This is due to
the escalating hostilities in the Arab world, (in recent years, the Intifada),
and perhaps to the Djerban Jewish notion that they can no longer fully retain
both Jewish
identity and Djerban
identity.
In the last fifty years, a
spiritual concept was made tangible. Eliades mythical eternal return became
a temporal return. Exiting the realm of myth, a reality with complex
consequences was bequeathed upon the Djerban Jews: those who left, indeed, but
also those who stayed behind. Whereas previously, Djerban Jews could express
their connection to Israel as a remote messianic land, an almost mystical
possibility, they can no longer do so.
Now that Israel exists as a State, they have come to couch the question in
politics of us versus them. As Djerban Muslims emotionally identify with the
Palestinians, Djerban Jews emotionally identify with the Israelis. This us
versus them question has been transplanted in a new and virulent form onto Tunisian soil.
Meanwhile, this shift has coincided with
more concrete contact between Jews and Muslims on Djerba. The Hara has become
mixed due to emigration of Jews, and more Jewish children have been attending
mixed state schools for part of the day with Muslim children. In another
atmosphere, this increased contact might help forge better understanding
between the groups. This may occur in some cases, but I believe that the
opposite situation has become the norm. Although boundaries between the two
communities have always existed and have been maintained scrupulously to avoid
assimilation and inter-marriage, they were perhaps never of the ilk of the
boundaries which have developed in the last fifty years and now characterize
much of Jewish-Muslim interaction on Djerba. The remaining Djerban Jews in
Djerba have imagined themselves into another landscape; in this, they have
rendered home single and elsewhere.
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[1] Excerpt of Tunisian Jewish folksong, sung by Louisa Boucharis in Moshav Betigadi, Israel. August 2005. Translation mine.
[2]Excerpt of Tunisian Jewish folksong, sung by Shoshana Cohen in Netivot, Israel. August 2005. Translation mine.
[3] By Nomi Stone, written on Poetry Fulbright in Djerba Tunisia, 2003-4.
[4] Djerba is located in the Gulf of Gabes, off the coast of Tunisia and has an area of 510 square kilometers with a population just over 100,000. Its capital is Houmt Souq.
[5] Northern Tunisians typically emigrated to France, having attended French schools under the Protectorate. Southern Tunisians (especially Djerbans), had resisted foreign secular influence and kept their young in traditional yeshivot, more generally emigrating to Israel.
[6] Deshen, 1997. Ibadis have been historically most prominent on the island, though in recent decades, Sunni Muslims have become a more substantial element. The Tunisian government publishes no exact statistics. However, Ibadi presence and legacy on Djerba are generally emphasized by Djerbans and other Tunisians in describing the character of Djerban Islam.
[7] Some North African Jewish communities (such as Djerba) predate the
Islamic conquest. Saadoun, 444.
[8] Snow, 1.
[9] In the case of Egyptian Jewry, Beinin asks whether Egyptian Jews saw themselves and were seen by others as Egyptians or as Jews. (5) I frame the question of identity thus for Tunisian Jews, examining felt identification with a group or with one group in definition against another.
[10] Snow, 2.
[11] Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edition, 1989.
[12] I lived in Djerba from February-May 2004. Between September 2003 and February 2004, I made frequent visits. I returned in April 2005. As the community is composed of Orthodox Jewish who adhere to gender separation, the bulk of my interviews are of females. I further elaborate on the problems of my fieldwork in the subsequent chapter.
[13] Douglas, xi.
[14] The
most profound taboo for the Jewish community has often been understood as
intermarriage; reproduction of the community depended on certain boundaries
with the majority population. Udovitch, 57. Although in
Islam, due to patrlineality, marriage between a dhimmi (non Muslim) woman and a
Muslim man is acceptable, intermarriage in all forms is taboo for the Djerban
Jews.
[15] Eliade, 1959, 107.
[16] Israel is represented
as the center of the Earth. The
religious man desires to live as near to this sacred space as possible and
comes to regard it, the place of his abode, his own land, as the center of the
world. Boyarin and Boyarin, 1993, 714.
[17] Eliade, 1959.
[18] Basisa comes from the Arabic root Asas, meaning foundation.
[19] Valensi, 1989, 82.
[20] Chouraqui, 127.
[21] This vision was honed
by Isaac Luria in the 16th century in Safed, and percolated into
North Africa thereafter. Scholem, 1969, 110.
[22] Scholem, 1969, 70-117.
[23] Chouraqui,125.
[24] Chouraqui, 130 emphasizes particular Zohar literacy among North
African Jews.
[25] Deshen, 1975, 251-259, speaks of the ritualization of literacy in which texts become ritual objects; this paradigm applies to much of the current use of the Zohar in Djerba.
[26] Chouraqui, 128.
[27] Udovitch,
and Valensi, 1984, 34.
[28] Ben Ami, 2003, 185 notes similar ceremonies in Jewish communities in Morocco, Iran and Iraq.
[29] Scholem, 1971, 42-3.
[30] Alcalay, 180.
[31] Valensi, 2002, 894.
[32] Udovitch, 1984, 17.
[33] For Jews of North Africa,cette prire nՎtait quun voeux pieux : personne ne pensait alors serieusement que Dieu les prendrait au mot et renvrrait les Juifs dans leur pays. Chouraqui, 308.
[34] The Djerban Jewish myth of origin is discussed on page 9.
[35] Hertzberg, 16.
[36] Boyarin, and Boyarin, 1993, 715.
[37] Meyers, 5.
[38] Hertzberg, 17.
[39] ibid.
[40] Piterberg, 3.
[41] Evron Boas in Piterberg, 16.
[42] Wettstein,
47-8.
[43] Zerubavel, 18.
[44] Zerubavel, 19.
[45] Boyarin and Boyarin, 715.
[46] Myers, 4, emphasis mine.
[47] Piterberg, chapter 3, 2.
[48] ibid.
[49] Piterberg, ibid, 2.
[50] Deshen,
1974, 31.
[51] Chouraqui, 302.
[52] Deshen,
1974, 35.
[53] Goldberg, 1996, 26.
[54] Stillman,
1991, 467.
[55] Geertz, 2.
[56] Tunisia
joined the Arab League in 1958, two years after its independence.
[57] Geertz, 2.
[58] Deshen, 1996, 134.
[59] Hoffman, 1.
[60] ibid.
[61] Lewicki, 5-16.
[62] Lewicki, 5.
[63] Idris, Tome Premier, 745.
[64] Lewicki, 5.
[65] Brunschvig, 328.
[66] Hoffman, 1.
[67] Hoffman, 2.
[68] Al-Nami on www.islamfact.com.
[69] Nur al-Din al-Salimi in Hoffman, 2.
[70] Deshen,
2005, 4.
[71] Gabes is a town in Southern Tunisian, approximately a two hour drive from Djerba.
[72] Zachino Kabla, Paris, January
2006.
[73] Udovitch, 16.
[74] Particularly after the introduction of the printing press to Djerba in 1903, intellectual activity has increased. In the past century, the Jewish community of Djerba has produced close to 500 published books. Udovitch, 1984, 84-5, notes that for a community this size, this impressive level of literary productivity is unusual, and, with the exception of such specialized communities as academia, may be unprecedented."
[75] Goldberg, 22.
[76] Udovitch, 18.
[77] ibid, 20.
[78] Deshen, 1975, 252.
[79] A number of Tunisian Jews (mostly from the
capital) acquired French citizenship in the 1920s and 30s. Saadoun 448. However, it was rare for a Djerban Jew to apply for French
citizenship; in my interviews in Djerba, I was told there were only several
cases.
[80] Nouman Kacem, Washington D.C. January 2006.
[81] Udovitch, 1984,
confirms this; in 2003, Djerban Jews do not know of any instance in which a
member of the community has worked in the government.
[82] The Djerban Jews who opt to mix more freely with the Muslim
communities live in Houmt Souq, the islands capital, instead of within the
Haras. I know two Jewish families in the capital; generally less religious,
they are somewhat shunned by the Haras Jews.
[83] Sylvester, 96.
[84] Jewish-Muslim history has often been framed in one of two polar models. The neo-lachrymose conception of history emphasizes the continuity ofpersecution from the time of Mohammed until the demise of most Arab Jewish communities in the aftermath of the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. The notions mirror-image is the common Arab claim that Jews were always well-treated in the lands of Islam. Beinin, 14-17. I attempt to offer a history in neither mold, acknowledging the challenges the community has faced without overemphasizing them. The notion of a neo-lachrymose history was coined by Salo Baron in 1928. A more thorough discussion is offered by Cohen, 1994, xv-xvii.
[85] Saadoun, 445.
[86] Maimonides, traveling through Djerba in 1165, portrays the community unflatteringly, noting its ignorance and superstitions and obsession with purity. Udovitch, 12; Idris, 764.
[87] Udovitch, 13.
[88] Udovitch, 14.
[89] Stillman, 184.
[90] Tunisian Jews were generally well-treated under the French. However, unlike in Algeria, where the French
granted full French citizenship to Algerian Jews under the Cremieux Decree of
1870, Tunisian Jews were not automatically offered such citizenship.
[91] Saadoun, 450.
[92] By 1898, the first
Zionist youth movement had appeared in Tunis. Chouraqui, 299.
[93] In 1934, a Nazi
incited pogrom, (triggered by anti-Semitic broadcasts) in Constantine, Algeria
left 25 Jews dead and many injured.
[94] Stillman, 365.
[95] Anti-Semitism finds
its original context in Europe. In
the Middle East, anti-Jewish sentiment generally rose in tandem with the
Arab-Israeli conflict and is more precisely anti-Zionism. At this time, the tropes and images of Anti-Semitism were harnessed in
the Arab world. Further discussion by Cohen, 8.
[96] Stillman, 366.
[97] Stillman, 366.
[98] Particularly upon the ascension of Nasser in Egypt in 1952.
[99] The 4th
Zionist Congress, in 1900, deplored the absence of Zionist propaganda in
Africa. The 5th Zionist
Congress the subsequent year announced the creation of new Zionist groups in
Fez, Algiers and Tunis. In 1924, the first Zionist journal in Tunis was founded
by Felix Allouche. Chouraqui,
299-300.
[100] Stillman, 320.
[101] Piterberg, 2.
[102] Stillman, 322.
[103] Ds 1943, lOrganisation sioniste mondiale et les parties politiques semploient rorganizer le movement en Afrique du Nord. Chouraqui, 302.
[104] Deshen, 1996, 142.
[105] Udovitch, 88. These curricula retained Djerbas core religious training, as opposed to those offered by the French-sponsored Alliance schools and opposed by Djerbas rabbis.
[106] However, a close examination of the relations between the Zionists and the Neo-Destour shows that despite the attitudes of the Neo-Destour to Zionism, the Zionists were not significantly harmed. Saadoun, 450-1. Before Israels creation, hostility to Zionism as a movement was not yet widespread in Tunisia.
[107] Laskier, 282.
[108] Stillman, 382.
[109] Laskier, 263.
[110] Abitbol, 130.
[111] Abitbol, 136.
[112] Laskier, 258.
[113] Laskier, 265.
[114] Deshen, 1974, 34.
[115] Laskier, 265-6.
[116] Deshen, ibid, 34
[117] Stillman, 172.
[118] Laskier, 289.
[119] Laskier, 265.
[120] Laskier, 265.
[121] Stillman, 173.
[122] Stillman, 173.
[123] Sylvester, 193.
[124] Sylvester, 195.
[125] Laskier, 291.
[126] Laskier, 305.
[127] Stillman, 174.
[128] Jewish emigration led
to plummeting prices of realty, enabling less wealthy Muslims to acquire Jewish
property cheaply. Deshen, 1997, 98.
[129] Deshen, 1997, 98.
[130] Davis, 480.
[131] Ouzi Kidoushim, head of Djerban yeshiva school in Paris, son of David Kidoushim, head of yeshiva in Djerba. January 2006; Alite Bitane, Djerba.
[132] Zerubavel, 19.
[133] Piterberg, 2.
[134] I conducted 19 interviews in Djerban Jewish Arabic dialect and one in French. The translations are mine and are confirmed by Zachino Kabla (a Djerban Jew in Paris) and by Nooman Kacem, (a Tunisian Muslim in Washington.)
[135] Except for one family who left the Hara Kebira in 2003 for Betigadi, Israel.
[136] Many of my interviewees use the terms Muslim and Arab interchangeably, not differentiating between religious and ethnic or pan-national categories. This appellation contrasts with Djerbans in 2004 who almost exclusively use the term Arab.
[137] Thompson, 117.
[138] Abu-Lughod,1991, 173, notes the benefit of being a halfie anthropologist whose national or cultural identity is mixed by virtue of migration, overseas education, or parentage in providing a unique insider/outsider perspective in fieldwork.
[139] Ifsomebody has very strong views, especially from a minority standpoint, it may be essential to show a basic sympathy with them to get started at all. Thompson, 202
[140] Thompson, 110.
[141] Geertz, 2.
[142] Geertz, 2.
[143] Ben Ami, 2003, 12.
[144] Geertez, 3; Udovitch, 101.
[145] Udovitch, 103.
[146] Boaz Haddad in Udovitch, 105.
[147] Batsheva Cohen, Lod, July 2005.
[148] Zachino Kabla, Paris, January 2006.
[149] A. Cohen, Tlamim, July 2005.
[150] Geertz, 3.
[151] Deshen, 2005, 2.
[152] Whereas,
since 1970, there have been multiple violent incidents.
[153] Deshen, 2005, 16.
[154] ibid, 17.
[155] ibid, 19.
[156] Batsheva Cohen, Lod, July 2005.
[157] Shoshana Cohen, Netivot, July 2005.
[158] Nissan Parpares, Netivot, July 2005.
[159] Hanna and Amos Sefer, Netivot, July 2005.
[160] Zahara Parapares, Netivot, July 2005.
[161] Abraham Boucharis, July 2005.
[162] A. Cohen, Tlamim, July 2005.
[163] Shuda Gapsy, Tlamim, July 2005.
[164] Zachino Kabla, Paris, January 2006.
[165] A. Cohen, Tlamim, July 2005.
[166] Shuda Gapsy, Tlamim, July 2005.
[167] Shuda Gapsy, Tlamim, July 2005.
[168] Ilon Khalfon, Ofakim, July 2005.
[169] Louisa Boucharis, Betigadi, July 2005.
[170] Gad Mazel, Ashkelon, July 2005.
[171] Louisa Boucharis, Betigadi, July 2005.
[172] Batsheva Cohen, Lod, Israel.
July 2005.
[173] After living in the Hara for a month, I announced that an American (Christian) friend might visit. Many reacted with discomfort about bringing a non-Jew into the Hara.
[174] I regularly spoke to
about 10 school-aged and 15-20 teenaged girls, and about 6 young married women,
8-10 middle aged women and about 5 middle-aged men. I spoke sporadically to a
much larger cross-section of the community; I have included here only the most
representative and relevant interviews.
[175] By contrast, I was
often able to speak to Djerban Jewish men in Israel. As the community did not
feel itself to be a minority on the defensive, it had relaxed some of its
strictures.
[176] This is the case in gender and in age. I was able to
interview more men in Israel than in Djerba as the community was less
strict. I also interviewed mostly
elders in Israel with remaining memories of Djerba whereas I interviewed a
broader age group in Djerba.
[177] Geertz, 3; Udovitch, 106-9.
[178] Geertz, 3.
[179] Alfassa, online posting at www.sephardiccouncil.org/index.html.
[180] Arafats presence in Tunis in this period perhaps triggered heightened consciousness of the Palestinian situation among Tunisian Muslims.
[181] Djerban Jews opposed Bushs support for Israels withdrawal from Gaza and qualified withdrawal from the West Bank. However, they appreciate the Bush administrations general stance of support for Israel.
[182] Nissia Z, moshav Betigadi, left Djerba for Israel in 2003; July
2005.
[183] Jews often pronounce
the letter sin as sh, in contrast to Muslim pronunciation of s.
[184] Goy in Hebrew means
nation or people. It is also
colloquially refers to non-Jews.
[185] Douglas, xi.
[186] This
example of intermarriage is very anomalous for a religious Tunisian Jew and was
condemned by the Jewish community.
[187] Delinda Hanley of The
Washington Report.
[188] Hanley, 46-49.
[189] Hanley, ibid.
[190] Hanley, ibid.
[191] Eliade, 1969, 9.
[192] The effigy-burning of Haman is probably now obsolete in all other Jewish communities in the Middle East. In Israel in the 1940s, effigies of Hitler (and in the 1950s-60s, of Nasser) were occasionally burned during Lag BOmer; the tradition is said to be perhaps borrowed from an earlier custom of burning of the Jews archenemy on Purim Zerubavel, 102.
[193] I witnessed Purim in the springs of 2004 and 2005, and Lag BOmer in 2004
[194] Rubenstein, 247-277.
[195] Udovitch, 1984, 75.
[196]In one interpretation, Purim reinforces the solidarity of the group and reaffirms the qualities that differentiate this in-group from the outside world. Fisch,, 69. Horowitz, 9-54, makes a similar point.
[197] Book of Esther, 9.1-2
[198] Book of Esther, 9.1
[199] Encyclopedia Judaica 13, Purim, 1390.
[200] Boyarin, 1994, 3.
[201] Udovitch, 76.
[202] Book of Esther, 9.22.
[203] Deshen, personal
conversation, July 2006.
[204] Book of Esther, 9.24.
[205] Boyarin, 1993, 2.
[206] Despite parallels felt
by Djerbans in the story of the Persian Jews, it must be noted that the
question of assimilation was answered differently in each community. The
Megilah describes a confluence of cultures in which religion seems secondary.
By contrast in Djerba, the Jews and Muslims are very conscious of differences
in faith.
[207] The egalitarian implications of getting so inebriated that one cannot distinguish between Haman (the antagonist) and Mordechai (protagonist) are noted. Rubenstein, 247-277. While the masquerade encourages abolition of socioeconomic difference, and even in some instances, acceptance in blurring gender, this applies less to shift in interaction with the Muslim population in Djerba.
[208] Horowitz, 9.
[209] Basnage, Jacques in Horowitz, 10.
[210] J.G. Frazer in Horowitz, 24.
[211] Horowitz, 36.
[212] According to Horowitz, ibid, the custom was
perhaps most practiced in the Geonic period (9th-10th
centuries). The late Middle Ages witnessed a flowering of the phenomenon.
[213] Horowitz, 38.
[214] Betigadi, Israel, July
2005.
[215] Encyclopedia Judaica 13, 1392.
[216] Udovitch, 76.
[217] ibid.
[218] Book of Esther, 2,7.
[219] Book of Esther, 2,17.
[220] There are a number of documented cases in which Jews and Muslims of North Africa venerate the same holy men. Ben Ami, 1993, 14.
[221] Encyclopedia Judaica 10, 1356-58.
[222] Simmons. Online posting at www.aish.com. Also, the theme of fire and light was explained as symbolizing the light emanating from the Rabbi upon his death. Zerubavel, 98.
[223] Valensi, 2002, 886-927.
[224] Ronald Nettler, personal conversation.
[225] Trimingham, 219. However, popular mysticism was often challenged by
more legalistic sects. The 19th century Wahabi revival movement (and
subsequent Salafistic reform movements) sought to purge Islam of superstition
and heresy. Particularly
antagonistic to Sufi practices, Wahabis destroyed saints tombs in their
conquered territories. (105-7).
[226] Ben Ami, 2003, 200.
[227] Ben Ami, ibid, 202.
[228] Valensi, 2002, 897.
[229] Valensi, ibid, 897.
[230] Udovitch, 124.
[231] Udovitch,124.
[232] Valensi, 2002, 899.
[233] Udovitch, 126.
[234] Originally
a fondoq housing pilgrims and livestock, the courtyard now hosts the
festivities.
[235] Udovitch,127.
[236] Traki Cohen, Moshav Tlamim, Israel, July 2005.
[237] Alfassa, online posting.
[238] Deshen, 1997, 104.
[239] Udovitch, 32.
[240] Udovitch, 131.
[241] Lodahl, 1992.
[242] Scholem, 1969,105.
[243] ibid.
[244] Waite, 346.
[245] Scholem, 1969, 2.
[246] Although the Ghriba becomes a saint, it is never forgotten that her original manifestation was a young girl. Likewise, the Shekhina is understood to have risen from the dust. (Scholem, 1971, 100) Although she is godly, she is also understood in human terms.
[247] Scholem, 1969, 108.
[248] Megilah 29a in Lodahl, 81.
[249] Waite, 347.
[250] Waite, 359.
[251] Waite, 361.
[252] R. Nathan Neta
Hanover, Shaarei Tzion,
Prague 1662 in Idel, 317, discusses a kabbalistic ritual (which originated in
Safed) in which, through prayer, you should make your body a chariot for the
Shekhina. Thus through the act of
prayer, one assists the Shekhina in reaching God. In Lurianic Kabbala, a
similar image to the same end is emphasized: the act of prayer (described as
lifting up the sparks of ones own soul) in turn uplift the Shekhina:
Everything serves man to concentrate his mind and to lift up the sparks of his
own soul which are, at the same time, the sparks of the Shekhina. Scholem,
1971, 189.
[253] Waite, 370.
[254] Waite, 357.
[255] Waite, 374.
[256] Djerban folksung, sung by Yaacov Bshiri on Lag BOmer.
[257] Louisa Boucharis, Betigadi, Israel. July 2005, Song for the festival of the Ghriba, translation mine.
[258] ibid, translation mine.
[259] There
are probably several thousand first generation immigrants from Djerba in
Israel, and many more of subsequent generations. Deshen, 1997, estimates 20,000 of the latter.
[260] Cohen, Shoshana. Betigadi, Israel. July 2005
[261] Boucharis, Louisa. Betigadi, Israel. July 2005
[262] Rachel Zouza, Betigadi, Israel, July 2005
[263] Ilon Khalfon, Ofakim, Israel, July 2005
[264] Dvorah Cohen, Ofakim, Israel, July 2005
[265] Ilon Khalfon, Ofakim, Israel, July 2005
[266] D. Peres, Ofakim, Israel, July
2005
[267] Zerubavel, 99.
[268] Zerubavel, xviii.
[269] Zerubavel, 99-100.
[270] Ephraim Hazan, Jerusalem,
Israel, July 2005.
[271] ibid.
[272] Association El Ghriba:
Jerusalem, 2004.