Heading to Tagadirt – Oct 27

I headed to Tagadirt roughly the same way I came. On my way back I encountered a group of men and women doing laundry in the pool but the one of the many palmaries. They quickly offered me a cup of tea and I obliged having been trekking through the heat for hours. They also offered me a very large handful of fresh dates and nuts that I couldn’t figure out how to eat. This lived up to all my expectations of an oasis.

I entered the small village of Rahala and noticed the first taxi I had seen all day. I had been wandering through dirt streets surrounded by mud brick homes and a taxi just seemed sort of out of place. Even more out of place was the Obama ’08 sticker in his back window. I went up to the driver and asked him if he had lived in America or spoke English and he hadn’t and didn’t. He simply loved Obama. He then directed me to his front seat where an Obama hat sat on the dashboard. He then gave me a ride to Tagadirt and pointed out the adult Jewish cemetery that would have been slightly difficult to find without him. I thought if this isn’t inspiration I don’t know what is. A family pointed me to the cemetery. Graves were discernable but only a few really resembled finished graves. Only one had a Hebrew inscription on it but it was impossible to read as it had been broken and scattered.

I was approached by a tall teenager who wanted to show me the children’s cemetery and the synagogue. I was suspicious of him and have thus far relied on my instincts quite well. He rushed me out of the Jewish cemetery and towards the other Jewish cemetery, the one reserved for children. We walked into town to the mosque. Next to the mosque was a cemetery but it was clearly a Muslim cemetery. I told him that. He said that it was a Jewish cemetery. I pointed out why it wasn’t a Jewish cemetery (it should have been obvious to him) and then a boy of about 10 confirmed that I was right. Then they both took me to the mellah and to a serious of closed doors that I tried to open but couldn’t. The younger boy pointed out the Jewish school, “Mosque,” and oven. The oven door was open but I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at. I had been looking for a synagogue and the building I was in could have once been a synagogue but I will wait for confirmation from some friends. They again rushed me out of there. I was annoyed and couldn’t shake them. I then stumbled upon the Baal Hamaayan foundation that was the water source for the Jewish community in Tagadirt. One of the last buses was leaving soon and Akka was not the type of place you wanted to stay in over night. I thanked the boys but the older one insisted on walking me back to the original cemetery. I obliged and eventually headed back to Akka and caught a grand taxi back to Tata.

Akka – Oct 27

I hoped on the first (9 am) bus to Akka and arrived only to really begin to understand what the middle of nowhere means. Every time I think I have found the middle of nowhere I realize that I was previously at the edge of somewhere and I am crossing into nowhere only now. Akka is an oasis, a palmary, close to the Algerian border. It is an ancient caravan route and an ancient area of Jewish settlement. Akka is composed of the city Akka and small douar or villages (about 7 in total). I initially had to set up and figure out which villages I was exploring. After interviewing a few of the towns elders I realized that I was going to visit two villages: Zawiya and Tagadirt. How far was Zawiya? Zawiya was the northern most village and about 8 kilometers by foot through dry riverbeds and through mud brick villages from where I stood. I enlisted the help of a high school student who walked me to Tagadirt and from there I continued on my own. It was some of the most stunning scenery I have yet to see her. Everything you could want from an oasis including intense heat, palm trees and sudden pools. I finally reached Zawiya. In these villages I was clearly an outsider. I couldn’t even attempt to blend in. Some men directed me to the Jewish cemetery. The pointed to a distant mountain and told me to walk until there and I would find the cemetery. In a way these were some of the clearest directions I have gotten in Morocco but of course nothing is that simple. I climbed over rocks and hills until I reached the mountain but found rocks. I had a feeling I would be looking for desecrated graves that would resemble rocks. It’s a funny thing to be looking for rocks amongst rocks. I combed the edge of the mountain only to find nothing or rocks or possibly a cemetery but in reality nothing. There was a group of 5 local woman herding sheep on the mountain. They were coming my way. I shouted to them in Arabic to ask where the cemetery was. I was afraid I would scare them but that definitely was not the case. In perfect Moroccan Arabic one shouted back: I don’t know Arabic, I only know Chleuh (Berber). She was too young for that to be true. They headed towards me and I finally communicated that I wanted to see graves. They waved me on to follow. So here I was at the edge of an oasis by a mountain with women herding sheep following them to find the Jewish cemetery. They didn’t identify the cemetery as Jewish when we arrived. Only that it was an infidel’s cemetery. I knew I was in the right place. We had a good laugh throughout the process, especially when they tried to squeeze me for a few dirhams.

I searched as widely and as carefully as possibly. I had clearly reached the Jewish cemetery of Zawiya but none of the graves were in a good condition. They had all been destroyed and theoretically for reasons associated with superstition. Surround the graves were broken tagines, clothes, and hairbrushes (Interesting note: When I passed by a Muslim cemetery earlier in the morning I noticed a broken tagines everywhere. I’m now wondering if there is significance to the practice of breaking pottery in a Jewish cemetery or if it just a cemetery that is needed). I was about to head to Tagadirt when I noticed a couple of structures in the near distance. I walked down towards them pretty sure I was at any moment going to be stung by scorpion and found that they were mausoleums for tzaddikim. The graves still maintained their shape and I made out three distinct graves in two separate buildings. Unfortunately I could not find any Hebrew inscription anywhere but it looked to me like tzaddikim that were once visited but no longer. They were Berber independence symbols on the wall and I even found a Star of David crossed out. It was disappointing and exciting all at the same time.