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Amran. His name means moon. That was the first thing I learned from him at around two o'clock, one dark morning, at Jim Morrison's famed Polly Magoo's bar in Paris.
"Amran," I repeated. "You must be Arab then."
He laughed and softly remarked, "Not exactly. I am a Moroccan Jew," he said in half Arabic, half French.
For a second, we stared at each other in an awkward silence, and then it happened. We hugged. We hugged as if we had not seen each other for a long time; and, to tell you the truth, that was really how it felt. That dark morning, Polly Magoo witnessed not only the encounter of two drunk Semites, but also the reencounter of two sisterly cultures, separated by nothing but circumstances.
I don't know if Amran looked Arab or I looked Jewish, but, nevertheless, we looked alike. We were both from the same country, and we spoke the same language. His Arabic was even better than mine was. While I was sometimes sneaking in French words to compensate for my poor Arabic, his Arabic, on the other hand, was perfect. In the center of the Quartier Latin, only one French word escaped this stranger I had just met. It did not slip out accidentally. He released it voluntarily, softly and painfully, keeping its Arabic counterpart imprisoned within. "Ana Juif Maghrebi"* he whispered. The term "Yahoodi" was missing. I felt awkward. My own culture had disfigured this man's identity, and to his and my chagrin, rendered it taboo in Morrison's tabernacle.
Yahoodi. In both Hebrew and Arabic, "Yahoodi" means Jewish. In modern Moroccan usage however, it is also an insult. I am pretty sure it has always been used as such but never as much as after the first Israeli-Arab war that broke out following the creation of the state of Israel.
In June 1948, riots in Oujda and Djerada killed 44 Jews and wounded scores more. 50,000 others fled in terror. "The Palestinians had their Deir Yassin, and we had our Djerada," Amran said laughingly. "Most of the Moroccans did not even know that a large majority of the Moroccan Jews were against the tactics used by Israel. Just take the case of activist Abraham Serfaty or fiction writer Edmond El Maleh. They are both Moroccan Jews who are sympathetic to the Palestinian cause."
I agreed, but the term "Yahoodi" was, once again, missing. It bothered me, but I did not say anything. I quietly thought of Moroccan writer Said Ghallab, who had once written in Les Temps Modernes, "the worst insult a Moroccan could possibly offer was to treat someone as a Jew."
Amran continued with the Djerada massacre. "But you know, you really can't do anything about it. When ignorance reigns, terror follows. Nazi, Apartheid, KKK propaganda were all a bunch of misinformation. Even Israel, how do you think it came into existence? Herzl, first, and Ben Gurion later convinced their followers that there were no people in Palestine. It was a land without a people for a people without a land.
"Therefore, the Zionist settlers made sure those non-existing people did not exist at all, and the rest is known history, as you should know. Even today, the Arab does not exist. The Arab has been degraded to an insult."
Was he reading my mind? I still did not say anything. "When did you leave the country?" I asked.
"In 1973. My parents left the city of Fez when I was still a kid and moved to Montreal like many other Moroccan Jews. Throughout all those years, all my parents did was talk about returning to Morocco, but deep inside, they knew it was impossible. We had the protection of the king and the government, but you should know that whenever you live under someone's protection, it means there is fear, that you have to watch who is walking behind you every time you go shopping or every time you come out of temple.
"My parents just had to leave, and that was their Diaspora. Irony of ironies. Our Diaspora started when that of the European Jews ended. People thought the creation of Israel would solve all Jewish problems, but it really didn't. It solved Ashkenazi problems. The creation of the state of Israel just meant more ignorant Arab animosity against us, and, consequently, our forced exile.
"Who said we wanted to leave Morocco in the first place, and who said we wanted to go to Israel? Even the Moroccan Jews that went to Israel want to come back. 64 % of them, to be exact. Our Promised Land is Morocco, Fez our Jerusalem. We have been there before the Romans, and it's ours as much as it is Arab!
"It was very painful for my parents to leave the country and even though I don't remember Morocco at all, I also share their pain. Now, my parents are all alone. My two brothers live in Los Angeles and New York, and I am here in Paris."
I bought the next pitcher. It was way past three and Polly Magoo's, despite French law, was still open. "God bless Morrison," I said in a vain attempt to talk about something different.
"God bless Morrison, Rabbi Amran Ben Diwan, and King Hassan II."
That was undoubtedly the oddest trinity I had ever heard of. Amran Ben Diwan was a famous 18th century Rabbi known for his piety and miracles, not only by Jews but also by local Moslems. Each year Jews and Moslems visit his tomb at the sanctuary of Azjen. I wondered if Amran was named after him. I wondered if he believed in him. I wondered if I believed.
At around 4:30 a.m., Polly Magoo finally closed, and we bid farewell to Morrison. We walked down the Quai de Montebello, past Notre-Dame, to Place Maubert MutualitÈ, helplessly looking for an open bar. We couldn't find anything, so we gave up our search, and continued our conversation sitting on a sidewalk, under the moonlight. We talked politics, religion, and literature. We talked about everything, and we could have gone on forever, for life, till the day one of us died, and, unfortunately, we did.
At around 6:30 a.m., our conversation was interrupted by a distant cry for help. An Arab looking girl was being molested by a group of apparent xenophobic skinheads.
"Leave her alone," shouted Amran. I thought they would beat him to death, but they left quietly. The girl was too ashamed to thank him and ran away.
"It's time to go home," I said. He agreed, and as we started walking towards the metro station, a car behind us slowed down.
I feared the worst.
One of the skinheads from before pulled his head out of the window and shouted, "Dirty Arab, you will pay for this!"
Amran smiled. I smiled. The sun was rising and the moon disappeared, and so did Amran. We bid farewell at the metro station and hoped to see each other soon.
Since that day, Amran and I corresponded regularly. We wrote about the same topics that had sealed our union at Polly Magoo's bar. Two years ago, however, the writing came to an end. I received a letter from Montreal, from Amran's father. He explained how his youngest son, only 27 years old, had died in a car accident right outside Paris. He found my unopened letters in Amran's mailbox.
For the last two years, I go back to Paris, and I go back to that moonlighted sidewalk where Amran and I talked for hours on end. I call it my pilgrimage to the sanctuary of Azjen. I know I will never see Amran again, but who knows, someday there might be a miracle. I pray. I pray for Amran and I ask him to pray for me. After all, I do believe.
* "I am a Moroccan Jew"
FAYCAL FALAKY is "... your laid back writer who doesn't have anything to lose because he doesn't own anything. I am the light traveler unbound to anything but dreams and French literature. I am that free nomad from Morocco who, despite learning english as a third language, still managed to get better grades in college than the future President of the United States..."
Mr. Falaky currently resides in France. This is his first piece for the G21.