Alf Taylor: Souks, Morocco
The souks (back streets of the old city) of Marrakech are a labyrinth of miles of winding, common walls. Even after more than thirty years of navigating them via foot and bike, I still sometimes get hopelessly turned around. There is no east or west. Just circles of brick and adobe. I love the souks of Morocco. Venturing into them, day or night, is your ticket to a time tunnel.
MOROCCO—AN INSPIRATION IN TOLERANCE
Even though my religious convictions do not extend much farther than the golden rule, which I try to carve in stone, I have always been fascinated by the different practices. Morocco’s tolerance of all religions is a thought process that is used in their every day lives. Like religion, issues such as people’s skin color or financial status are not fodder for casual discussion. Business, family, and things like the weather, the tourism, or the modernization of Morocco dominate the sidewalk cafe conversations. So, I watch but don’t speak.
The following story begins with my passion for collecting religious artifacts, both Judaic and Koranic, and ends in a wonderful celebration of tolerance.
The souks (back streets of the old city) of Marrakech are a labyrinth of miles of winding, common walls. Even after more than thirty years of navigating them via foot and bike, I still sometimes get hopelessly turned around. There is no east or west. Just circles of brick and adobe. I love the souks of Morocco. Venturing into them, day or night, is your ticket to a time tunnel.
This night, I was on foot, and had been for longer than I cared. My Moroccan brother, Sarmi Latif, was leading me on a special mission and had taken me further into the souks than my casual bike rides had gone. If he left me now I would sleep in a doorway before I would wander. I thought he was calling the man we were going to see, “the dad”, but found out later he was saying “the dead.” Because everything this man sold was so old the maker had long since gone to meet their own maker. My quest was for an ancient torah scroll that I heard the man had. I had found some pieces of old torahs but had never seen one in it’s entirety. The Scrolls are on two spools. They are hand printed on leather and have to be completed without mistakes. This one was reported to be undamaged, and was complete with it’s original cover and small silver reading hand. No matter how few less rugs I would get to buy this trip, I was ready to spend some serious money to capture it.
We turned down an alley that was so dark I stopped and let Latif go ahead. He had been there before and could feel his way to the door. He knocked ,and moments later, what looked like an eight watt light bulb went on. When I got to the door, it was opened a crack and half of this old face peered out. Whatever Latif said, at first, didn’t cut much ice here. “Imshe. Imshe” is what I heard the old face say. I knew imshe meant “go away” from what you say to all the kids who bother you to be your guide. Latif kept talking until the old man opened the door and allowed us to step inside, but just to stand there. He went away and in a few minutes returned with a tray with a teapot and three glasses. Mint tea (usually overly sweetened), besides being the national drink of Morocco, is a definite sign of welcome to my home. I was in. We went through the usual casual talk (mine always through my interpreter brother) but my mind was fixed on how soon I would get to see what I came for. I glanced around the room and saw why they call this man by his nickname. Not only was everything cluttering the room obviously ancient, it looked like they hadn’t been dusted since ancient times.
“How’s business, pop?” is what I was thinking. I didn’t need this scroll, I only thought I wanted it badly. When the old man went away and returned again, he was carrying, in both arms, a towel wrapped object, which he set on the table in front of us. As if to torture me, he took his sweet time clearing a space to unwrap it. When he took the top away I saw this beautiful green, almost felt like fabric, cover. It was embroidered with a gold metallic thread. The fabric seemed to float more than drape from its softness. The only thing better than finding a treasure is finding a treasure wrapped in a treasure. I was holding my breath without realizing it. When my breath came, it melted into a sigh of disappointment. The old man had told Latif the object was not for sale. On top of that, we couldn’t see it out of the cover, though he said it was in perfect condition.
We left and I was all over Latif. I asked why the old man showed it to us if it wasn’t for sale. He replied it was for sale but not just for money. Along with a tidy sum, the old man was searching for his own treasure. I don’t know if it was for him or a customer, but he wanted a blunderbuss. I had never seen one outside of a pirate movie but I knew they had a trumpet barrel and could shoot nails or whatever you stuffed in them. Latif said he told the old man he thought he knew the whereabouts of one. Latif stopped surprising me about what he can find years ago. I sometimes think he has his own magic lamp to extract the treasures I seek. We found a petit taxi that was navigating the tiny streets at about half of our walking speed but hopped in to head for home. I wake up early, but you can’t always beat a man who gets up at four to pray. I awakened to cafe au lait and a row of hot svenges (deep fried doughnuts)…and no Latif. He either really did know the whereabouts of such a weapon or had gone to rub the ”magic lamp” that he seemingly posses’, to never let me down. A few hours later, up rode Latif on his motor scooter. Over his shoulder hung one of my beat up duffelbags that have carried my rugs away so many times. The shape of the bulge told me he was successful. The gun was shorter than I had imagined, but I couldn’t place where I had even seen one, much less, know it’s size. I hoped it was the right caliber of nails. I looked it over quickly, as guns aren’t my thing. This one had no special craftsmanship, but it filled my every expectations in it’s menacing appearance. Adding the asked amount of dirhams to our gun running excursion, which is unusual in a country where bargaining is expected, Latif zipped back into the street and off toward the souks.
In less than an hour we were examining our prize on top of one of the many long sofa seats that run along the walls in Latif’s house. Spirituality aside, the scroll was the holliest thing I had ever seen. We unrolled enough if it to know the old man was on the square about it’s condition. The rules I brought from home were that I was not to let it touch the ground or take it into smokey areas or a bathroom. On the airplane, I let the cabin attendant have a peek and she switched me next to an empty seat, and overlooked the nothing in the seat during takeoff rule. She also told her associates of my find, and made me quite popular across the Atlantic.
Washington, D.C.
The Bnai’ Brith Klutznick
National Jewish Museum
1992
Dr. Ori Soltes was the museum director who dropped what he was doing and greeted me on my unannounced arrival to the museum. It could quite possibly have been due to what I was openly carrying under my arm. Mae West said, “Those who shock easily should be shocked more often,” and I wanted to make my entrance with full shock value. I showed him pieces and pictures of my religious artifact collection. I had even brought some old Koran scriptures, to which he said he had never heard of such in a Jewish museum. Dr. Soltes was young and full of adventure. He spoke a multitude of languages, including several African dialects. We spoke of Morocco’s history of religious tolerance and Kings Mohammed the Fifth and the then king, Hassan the second’s protection of the Jews exiting Europe. We decided, on the spot, to have an exhibit of religious artifacts from both faiths. Ori, as he insisted I call him, took out his scheduling book and picked a date a little more than a year from then. The next opening in his schedule was for how quickly he could zip off to Morocco with me. Shortly thereafter, we were off on the first of our two trips together. The thing that stuck in my mind is how he picked up everything around him, from magazines to empty boxes, and read every word. Touring the synagogues and Jewish burial grounds with Ori gave me an insight into Judaism some people would do anything to get. Though most of the historical facts went either over my head or in one ear and out the other, I reveled in his brilliance.
The opening night
October, 1993
Formal, you say?
I didn’t know anyone at this most prestigious event other than the museum staff, Albert Aflalo, one of Morocco’s leaders of the Jewish community whom I had introduced to Ori, and my good friend from the Moroccan Embassy, Ambassador Mohamed Belkahayat. One of the faces I definitly recognized was Andrew Azule, the adviser to King Hassan. Since this exhibition was in honor of King Hassan and his father, Mr. Azule’s presence was omnipotent. In three or four museum rooms, along with my now seemingly paltry collection, were beautiful cabinets full of incredible metal and textile objects from both faiths. These were on loan from various Moroccan museums and private collections. The exhibit didn’t have the color or sparkle of my usual Moroccan textile exhibitions, but ye of little faith, stand back.
I hadn’t realized a party had been planned at the Ambassador’s residence for certain guests (numbering 200). When my wife Judi and I arrived, I noticed our place cards were set a few tables apart. I was aware of this being standard procedure at formal parties, but, protocol be damned, I’m not going to be robbed of sharing this night with my love, so, I switched them and sat beside her. I’ll never be back, so what’s the difference? By now my part in the gig was pretty much over and I was just another guy noshing down on the Ambassador’s food and wine. The speeches began with the Ambassador’s welcome and thanks to certain people, including myself. Dr. Soltes and several others took their turns giving thanks to the kings and Morocco, the museum, and so on. While they were talking I started daydreaming back to the first day I walked into the museum in my scuffed up tennis shoes and worn jeans, carrying the Torah. I looked over at Judi. I said, “Honey, the Jewish and Muslim community are celebrating together, maybe for the first time in this city, and I made the call that made it happen.” A squeeze on my leg was her “Not now, Honey. They’re talking” signal. So, I went back to daydreaming.
Organized religion aside, tonight I was having the time of my life…thanks to a little help from “the dead”.
