By Nili Salem B’Simcha
Monsieur Ohayon and his friends have even gone so far as to have the king of Morocco rename the relevant streets in the marketplace with the meanings they held when Jewish life was abounding.
On a whim I wandered westward for a week’s trip to Morocco to explore this passionate culture I’ve learned so much about since living in Israel, that produces delicious matbuha (red bread dip), mesmerizing Sephardic music (like the famous funky tune for “Dror Yikra”), and the stereotypes about the “Moroccan mother” notorious for covering Shabbat tables worldwide with rainbows of rich salatim (appetizers) that would stuff a sumo wrestler full upon completion of only the first course.
Alone in Arab Marrakech, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d done. I was feeling lonely and insecure in a stark marble hotel, with not much to eat but the orange I’d carried in tow and some nuts for the next day. I have traveled alone before, but I wondered whether this time I had made a mistake. I did some sightseeing, but the emptiness I felt was powerful, and so far, no sight of anything Jewish. So I plunked onto the hard bed and davened (prayed), pleading.
