Between Islam and Judaism: A Moroccan Journey
by an Admirer of Sephardic Culture

This is the story of a search for identity through the lens of religion. I was born and bred in Fez, Morocco, within a predominantly Muslim family. And yet, what I really like is Judaism. However sensitive and deeply personal this topic might be, I have decided to venture out and put into words my journey, because this human, intellectual and spiritual adventure lies at the cornerstone of my identity. 

I date the beginning of this adventure to the summer of 2015, which I spent in a remote area of the Philippines, working with the local population on a humanitarian project together with classmates from the French École Polytechnique. Without a working network connection, I was cut off from modern civilization and spent the better part of my free time reading the essays of Claude Riveline, himself a graduate of France's Polytechnique who spent his career teaching civil servants organizational management at the Ecole des Mines, the French School of Mines. My hero Riveline has a distinct gift for writing, coupled with a sense of humor and wisdom that seduced me in its vision of Judaism; only today do I fully realize the immense influence his magnificent texts had upon me.

 The dialectic

My relationship to Judaism evolved according to a somewhat dialectic cycle: ignorance, admiration, and understanding. 

Ignorance for the first 18 years of my life, spent in Morocco within an almost exclusively Muslim environment, religiously impoverished by an education rooted in dogmatism. While there can be no doubt that my mother's origins are Jewish, she would almost never speak about it -- I think she herself never understood this very well. Ironically, this isolation nurtured in me a spontaneous appreciation for Judaism, as I swam against the tide of Anti-Zionist animosity around me, which was sometimes discreet, barely perceptible, crouching beneath a popular street expression or a television comment about the conflict in the Middle East, and other times blatant, outrageous, revolting, shouted out by the crowds who would demonstrate and burn the "flag of shame" as they called for the destruction of the country I love.  

Admittedly, the official state position has always been to proudly recognize the millennial contributions of the Moroccan Jewish community and, historically, political leaders have manifestly acted towards a peaceful coexistence and a common effort to achieve national progress, which would be inconceivable without the Jews. And yet, its recent alignments within the Arab League may very much be likened to Anti-Jewish demagoguery, to say the least. Since the Europeans left in 1956, Morocco has initiated a sociological evolution that has gone against what might have been expected from a long French presence. The country is of course not going back to an antiquated Koranic lifestyle, but it is far from experiencing an Enlightenment such as the one that marked the Andalusian period in medieval Spain. As it stood at the crossroads of national independence, Morocco embarked on a journey towards Orientalization that broke with fifty years of European culture that Moroccan Jews held so close to their hearts, inevitably leading to their exile from the country. In just 50 years, more than a quarter of a million Jews, whose community stretches back up to 3000 years, left the country. Today, only a few thousand remain, mostly in Casablanca. But for how much longer?

Admiration and curiosity when, at the age of 18, I chose to go to France to pursue higher education, and found in Neuilly-sur-Seine a flourishing Sephardic community that held a full place within French society at large. At that time, I applauded (and surely exaggerated) the incredible success story of North African Jewry. These young immigrants had left everything behind them to come to a new country, and in one generation had enjoyed a dizzying ascent up the economic, political and entrepreneurial ladders. They were vastly overrepresented among the nation's lawyers, doctors and businessmen. They blossomed in every field of economy and knowledge and supported in many ways the local and global industries that the country so vitally needed.

Understanding, when I eventually realized how shallow my knowledge of Judaism was and decided to act upon it: I felt the dire need to enlarge upon my knowledge of the religious foundations. And beyond the community aspect, I found solace through the study of Jewish texts, self-reflection and spiritual introspection.  I revived my curiosity and internalized a Jewish heritage that must have been mine many generations ago. In doing so, I dived into an enthralling intellectual journey that affirmed total faith in the power of reflection, study, discussion and negotiation as the primary means for achieving peace and progress. This search for spirituality offered a most comforting shelter to this young boy who did not know where to start as he struggled with the contradictions between his own roots and the future he envisioned for himself.

Calling Islam into question

It goes without saying that Judaism's vision and mission are not universal in that it does not encourage proselytism. And yet, I found in this quest an echoing resonance. As it turns out, Islam and Judaism share a lot more than the layman might think. You will find in both an elaborate framework of prescriptions and a myriad of symbols, rituals and habits that meticulously shape the believer's daily life. Both Islam and Judaism share the conviction that the worldliest acts, from how to dress to what to eat, have the power to impress profound marks upon one's soul. In reality, the distinction I want to emphasize lies not in their spiritual foundations, but in the intellectual, economic and social state of their respective communities in this third millennium.

Today's Islam sadly lacks a sense of reformation, a culture of education and the acceptance of diversity. It is as though Islam were a possessive lover that does not tolerate another love, an absolutist force crushing the progressive voices that go against the herd as they seek to adopt their own version of it - call it "reform," "toned-down" or "secularist" if you will. It is a sad observation that there is no equivalent to the Jewish reform movement within the Arab world, let alone the acceptance of female Imams. From a historical perspective, I see it as the poisoned legacy of a millennial culture of expansion through conquest that led Islam from North Africa's westernmost Moroccan tip to Asia's farthest reaches, and yet failed to reform itself time after time.  Today there is a growing divide between the traditional conservative faction of Islam and a large secular current that has set its internal clock to the Western timezone. The risk is high that the two communities may turn against one another in the near future, to the detriment of both parties and the world at large. This would be a truly sad moment in history, and a profound change in mindset seems like a necessary and minimum requirement towards avoiding it.

 The price to pay

The price to pay for my westernization was a relentless and inevitable de-Moroccanization. Over the years, this initial propensity could only become more accentuated. And while I held a Moroccan passport, I thought and acted like a European and considered myself European. Was it an inferiority complex, an attraction towards the country that gave me the language and culture I love? As I contemplate it again, I view it more as a lack of substance in my Moroccan nationality. For lack of a comprehensive and engaging education and an effective and adequate Arab culture, how could it ever have been otherwise? In the absence of the most necessary conditions for a true national conscience to blossom, there is no way for me to look at things as if they could be otherwise, no way but to be a "de-Moroccanized Moroccan," a defector who left to never come back.  And from now on, my identity is both Jewish and Muslim.  In fact, my circle of close friends comprises more Jews than Muslims, and I invariably dedicate a portion of my weekly free time to the study of Jewish thought and the Hebrew language.

I have entrusted you, dear reader, with my most intimate writing. My relationship to these two religions constitutes the lifeblood of my identity. Recently, one of my close Moroccan Muslim friends confided to me that he himself had been through a period when he seriously considered converting to Judaism. This is a reassuring proof that I am not alone pondering over such "big questions." Another subset of my Moroccan Muslim friends were educated in the lycées of the French Alliance in Casablanca, Rabat or Meknès and could hardly identify with my questioning. They were educated in a predominantly French environment within Morocco, and hold a wholly different vision about Islam and the country, which they consider a fertile breeding ground for modernity and progress. Most of them retain sincere and strong ties to their country and wholeheartedly imagine its chances of economic prosperity and entrepreneurial success. They live according to the country's heartbeat and embrace as their own its challenges and sufferings. Paradoxically, this is most likely because they evolved within a strongly secular and westernized Morocco, where they would speak the language of Molière with greater command that that of Muhammad; would learn more about France's most arcane canton towns than about Morocco's regions; and would frequent Casablanca's fancy Corniche where alcohol flows freely, so far from my own life under "Prohibition."  

To be sure, I myself hold Morocco dear: it is the land that my Berber ancestors populated and cultivated for many centuries before me. My Moroccan roots will continue to follow me my whole life, for how could I forget the land of light and sunshine, the country where summer is all year long, its mild weather, the easy laughter of its people, and so much more... But my Morocco remains a land of vacation, a place I only go back to because my parents live there, or when I feel an irrepressibly strong urge for mint tea. Even more recently, I learned that some of these same friends had met and studied alongside young Jewish Moroccans at high school. Both had embarked before me on this deep initiation to Europe under the French banner. France literally flowed into them through its books and poets, its kings and heroes, its classicists and romantics, its John and Jane Does and its many geography books. Their vision of Judaism is above all the fruit of these Sephardic friendships that blossomed under the sun, whereas mine came later and in a more serious, more intellectual and more abrupt way.