"here's looking at you, kid." (casablanca)

Morocco is a country of vivaciously colored buildings, people, and tap water. These vibrant hues reflect the landscape and the unknown substances in the water pipes. Our three days here have seemingly stretched into one bus ride, with a multitude of stops, played on the same continuous Moroccan-Arabic song.

Upon arriving the first night after a seven-hour bus ride from Casablanca, we settled outside the medieval city of Taroudant in the Hotel Palais Salaam, a former governor's palace dating back to the 16th century. The richness of the architecture, colors, and gardens compensated for our lack of real food (due to the kosher, vegetarian, no-fresh-produce-in-Morocco diet). The next morning, we visited the souk within the city walls, where Taroudant residents specialize in leather goods. Bargaining proves necessary as sellers often mark up over 60% (though I still managed to buy a leather purse for 100 dirham, or the equivalent of twelve and a half dollars).

Following the souk, we ventured to Arazan, a small town (village?) and the site of a shul over 500 years old, known as the Khmiss Arazan Synagogue. Raphy, our Moroccan-Israeli tour guide who dedicated his life to seeking Jewish remnants in rural Morocco, revealed its story:

"I had heard of a large Jewish population living in Arazan [prior to their emigration in the 60s]... So I went there. I went to the main street in Arazan, and I walked into a cafe. There were some men sitting there and I walked up to them and began to talk with them...

I said, 'Were there Jews in this village?'

'Yes,' they said to me. But these men had been born after the Jews had left, or they were babies...

'Walk through the Kasbah,' one man encouraged. 'Walk through the Kasbah and find Harim. He knows about the Jews.'

I found Harim, he was about 60. I said to him, 'were there Jews here?' He said yes.

'Was there a synagogue?'

And Harim, a Berber-Muslim man, replied in Hebrew.

'Baruch haba [welcome]. Where have you been? I've been waiting for you.'

Harim pulled out a large, wooden key."

Harim explained that before the rabbi of the community had left, he had approached Harim. "If a Jew comes," the rabbi expressed. "And he asks for the synagogue, bring him this key."

Accepting the key almost 50 years later, Raphy attempted to unlock the shul with some difficulty. Upon asking Harim to open the door, Harim replied that Raphy should open it as "he is the Jew who came." Entering the shul, he recited Shema Yisrael.

Undeniably the Raphy-Harim story remains one of Peter's favorites (see Harim, left, and Peter, right). It has become a token story of Kivunim, a story of the value of the Moroccan Jews in Morocco, a story of fundamental human compassion. Emphasizing the "basic soul and character" Harim so embodies, Peter accentuated Kivunim's obligation to return to Arazan to pay tribute to Harim. Harim also possesses childhood memories of the shul; he remains able to chant part of the Torah service and a Berber-Jewish version of Shalom Aleichem. 

In tribute to Harim, Kivunim raised money to restore the shul. On our day in Arazan, we placed a mezuza in the shul and recited the bracha. Harim, the Berber-Muslim man from the village of Arazan, revisited his boyhood memory and sang Shalom Aleichem.

Journeying to Errashadiya, we stopped briefly to buy saffron (100 dirham for four grams). Morocco's herbs and spices, so significant to its food culture, supplement my sensory impression of Morocco.

Until the 1960s, an active Jewish community and its shul existed in the center of Errashadiya. Lack of maintenance and funding depreciated the shul and left it decrepit. Last year, funding from several American Jewish families allowed for renovation. This year, we spent the day painting the shul and reinvigorating it to mint and pistachio green, colors frequented throughout the country. Perhaps Jews (with the exception of Kivunim) may never return to this shul; however, it was powerful to restore a once-vibrant shul to its former glory.

Most unfortunately, this same day of revival, a mysterious wave of nausea seized me, only to produce bouts of vomit along the streets of Errashadiya. I have left my mark in more than one way.

Even undiagnosed digestive dilemmas, however, could not taint my sheer rabab (joy or happiness, also known as my Arabic name) upon visiting the date souk. Who knew of such a thing?

We then ventured to Merzouga via SUVs through the Sahara, accompanied by Moroccan drivers who spoke no English and bore no driving inhibitions. My driver's preferences particularly tested my fragile equilibrium with his sharp turns, aggressive accelerations, and total disregard for large rocks and bushes in our path.

Our hotel Auberge Timbouctou too encompassed the effervescent colors of the country: deep blues and greens in contrast to its adobe outside. Dinner comprised of an array of soups, couscous, and cooked vegetables. By far, however, the warm preserved apricots in a syrup of spices outdid itself.

The next morning, our Saharan dune voyage followed. More to come, so keep a lookout for further tales of the remnants of the Moroccan Jewish experience and of my digestive system.

Rebecca Abbott

(Kivunim - www.kivunim.org) - a gap year before Barnard

"let scripture be your eden, and the arabs’ books your paradise grove.” -- dunash ben labrat

Our two weeks back at Beit Shmuel have largely comprised of five-lecture days, much essay writing, and little sleep. Lecturing about the history of Islamdom and Jews living under Islamic rule, Cornell professor Dr. Ross Brann spent the entirety of last week with us. His seminars inspired my pre-international trip (to Morocco, Spain, and Portugal) Civilizations and Society paper on Judeo-Moroccan Arabic as a reflection of Jewish identity in Morocco in the Middle Ages. I found this relationship relevant and intriguing as I simultaneously learn modern Hebrew and Arabic and draw my own connections. This research has also reinforced my own notion that even an American Hebrew speaker, or sort-of Hebrew speaker, should learn and study Arabic from Hebrew instead of English.

A small hurricane and two outings otherwise permeated our two stress-filled weeks. For four days straight, the Jerusalem skies unleashed a monstrous combination of pouring rain, hail, sleet, and finally a six-inch blanket of snow. We even had our likely only snow day of the year, as Jerusalem shuts off completely faced with the fear of frozen precipitation.

"I feel sure that science will bring to this land both peace and a renewal of its youth, creating here the springs of a new spiritual and material life. I speak of science for its own sake and applied science."  - Chaim Weizmann (1946)

Last Sunday, we split into three groups to explore Israeli innovation throughout the country. One left for the environmental Park Ariel Sharon in Hiriya, and one left for the Tel Aviv TechLoft and the Google offices in Tel Aviv. I visited the Weizmann Institute, a research university for math and science, in Rehovot. We toured the interactive museum, picnicked on the campus grounds, and then toured the science garden, which consisted of an array of physics-based activities and contraptions. Thereafter, we partook in a lecture with Dr. Daniel Lalush, a French-Israeli Weizmann Institute physicist who participated in an international collaborative team at CERN, Geneva, that discovered the Higgs Boson. The Higgs Boson, or the God Particle, refers to the long-sought particle that completes the Standard Model of physics and explicates why objects have mass and thus exist. This outing reminded me of how the world functioning physically as well as interpersonally and historically is so interesting. Moreover, the Weizmann exhibit and park manifests Israel's emphasis on science, math, and innovation, especially for young people. Israel's overwhelming innovation can attribute to part of Israel's success as such a young country.

Before class Thursday morning, we visited Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock in anticipation of visiting a Muslim country. During Arabic class, we also walked to the Arab shuk in the Old City to utilize Arabic phrases (albeit "Shakespearean Arabic") pre-Morocco.

More on Moroccan adventures to come.

Ma alsalamah.

 Rabab

(Kivunim - www.kivunim.org) - a gap year before Barnard

ask the oracle

Upon leaving Ioannina, Kivunim began its journey to Meteora to visit to the monoliths and monasteries. Even on the bus, the view as we mounted higher and higher appeared striking. The Meteora, the massive castle-like structure of the six monasteries, perched on top of gargantuan cliffs. By the time we started to climb the 200 steps up, the weather had deteriorated to gray, menacing, and cold. This environment reinforced my absurd association with a Lord of the Rings scene filmed in Yosemite.

Reaching the apex, I could understand the monks' desire to seek an isolated refuge on a mountain. The height and view down provided a sense of closeness to the heavens and detachment from general society below. As monks sought to study and live here estimated as early as the 11th century, this monastery has proved its worth as a location and environment conducive to study and spirituality. As much as I have grown fond of Torah Drive off of Old Court Road, the shortcomings of Pikesville have become much more apparent in comparison to Meteora.

We then ventured to Delphi, home of the famed Oracle of Delphi. In ancient Greece, people flocked to Delphi to heed a message from the gods in the Temple of Apollo. The oracle would withdraw from her trance and enter into a psychotic episode, from which an interpreter would provide a cryptic, prophetic answer to the visiter. Her psychosis most likely resulted natural gases from a crevice in the earth at the Temple.

As we veered off from exploring Jewish remnants to ancient Greek ones, I became unexpectedly grateful for studying Edith Hamilton's Mythology in my eighth grade English class. The stories became relevant in my high school English classes, where Greek mythology references appeared as often as Biblical references in literature, especially in Shakespeare. However, standing above the amphitheater in Delphi, I wanted to simply FaceTime with Edith Hamilton and show her how Mythology became real for me.

Leaving Delphi, we briefly stopped in Chalkida before continuing to Athens. Chalkida is home to a Romaniote Jewish community, very few whom are left now. The Vice President and President of the community introduced us to a shul there, renovated with funds from the Rothschilds, and then to the oldest Jewish cemetery in Greece. In front of this cemetery, a most unusual memorial stood solemnly. On one side of the entrance, a statue of Greek Jewish officer Colonel Mordechai Frizis, killed in World War II, faced forward, while, on the other side, a statue of Greek Orthodox Metropolitan Bishop Grigorios paralleled him. Grigorios remains famous in the Chalkida community for hiding the Jews (in a country where 50,000 Jews from Saloniki were deported) and their Judaica (including Torahs) in his own church.

Two things in particular about the cemetery intrigued me: the old tombs, which resembled small houses, and the plethora of orange trees planted within the graveyard, whose vibrant fruits contrasted with the brooding weather and colors of the tombs.

Kivunim then journeyed to its final destination of the Balkans international trip: Athens.

We stayed at the Parthenon Hotel, which I found funny in itself. Obviously, we would have preferred to stay at the Parthenon itself, but it seems as if Kivunim's funding would not cover that bill.

After a Greek dinner (with Israeli influence) at Chabad, the next morning we toured the new Acropolis Museum to preface our Parthenon tour. We discussed the relationship and relevance between people of antiquity and people of the post-modern era: a "big picture" perspective on the general Kivunim mission and theme, how we can better understand ourselves by understanding the ancients and their perspective. I also remember  learning this basic reasoning for studying history in my first world history class in middle school - a lesson that only took about six years to resonate with me.

Moreover, we contemplated the Parthenon itself on a hill. What is the psychological effect of Athenians constantly looking up? To illustrate the nobility, excellence, and power of Athens? To further emphasize their superiority? Perhaps to some Athenians, the majesty and grandeur of the Parthenon symbolized their own money and manpower, and, rather than standing proudly, the Parthenon glared down at them. Perhaps to some Athenians, they resented this obnoxious factor.

We also toured several synagogues and a Jewish museum in Athens. At one synagogue Etz Chaim, we met the Chief Rabbi of Athens, who shared with us his family's survival story through World War II.

Born in Larissa, a historical Jewish community for 2000 years, he lived there until the age of 17. He then moved to Paris to purse rabbinical studies and later learned at a yeshiva in Switzerland. By 1943, Saloniki had already deported its Jews and rumors began to propagate throughout the country.

The rabbi's father quickly gathered the family and fled to Mount Olympus, where they hid in the forests as the Germans passed through the country. He then told us a story which would fall under the category of hashgacha pratis, according to my high school davening. Crawling into a shed in the mountains as it rained, the family huddled next to the farm's animals. The rabbi mentioned how that night the kids were crying and screaming, and the father moved them to the opposite side of the shed. The next morning, they discovered the shed's roof had collapsed and killed all the animals underneath it.

Forced to leave the farm the following morning, the family trudged aimlessly through the still pouring rain and mud. Spotting a field, the rabbi's mother ran over and pleaded the farmer for water. The farmer, however, had other ideas. Recognizing the rabbi's mother as the daughter of one of his best clients, who sold produce, he then took the whole family in and hid them for the remainder of the war. The rabbi emphasized his deep feeling of G-d always present in the life of his family.

A final note: Greece is a beautiful, spectacular country with infinite superlatives that one can attribute to it. However, what provoked me the most to think and question and ponder was the absolute abundance of graffiti. Bitter graffiti, swastikas marked public buildings such as libraries and banks. The general feeling I drew from Greeks surprised me as one of unrest, one of melancholy, and also somewhat one of anger. After witnessing thousands of people storming the streets of Saloniki on November 17, screaming and chanting and protesting, I recognized the irony of these bitter riots that have struck Greece the last few years. Perhaps the Greeks, birthed in the birthplace of democracy, possess an inbred desire to showcase and utilize their rights and responsibilities as citizens of a democracy (in response, of course, to a failing economy and government efforts to cut public funding and raise taxes). Simply put, one could say, this is democracy at its both best and worst. 

Rebecca Abbott

(Kivunim - www.kivunim.org) - a gap year before Barnard