Synagogues in the Islamic World: Architecture, Design and Identity 9781474468435

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Synagogues in the Islamic World

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Synagogues in the Islamic World Architecture, Design, and Identity Edited by

Mohammad Gharipour

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Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © editorial matter and organization Mohammad Gharipour, 2017 © the chapters their various authors, 2017 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun—Holyrood Road 12 (2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in 10/12 pt Trump Mediaeval by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Spain by Novoprint A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4744 1171 4 (hardback) The right of the contributors to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498). The publisher is pleased to acknowledge the support from the Center for Jewish History and from the Cahnman Foundation for the publication of this book.

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Contents



Figures and Tables 

Introduction  Mohammad Gharipour Chapter 1 Architecture of Synagogues in the Islamic World: History and the Dilemma of Identity  Mohammad Gharipour Chapter 2 Prologue—Historic Relations between Muslims and Jews  Reuven Firestone

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PART I  SYNAGOGUE AND THE URBAN CONTEXT Chapter 3 Synagogues and the Hebrew Prophets: The Architecture of Convergence, Coexistence, and Conflict in Pre-modern Iraq  Ethel Sara Wolper Chapter 4 Reflection of Sacred Realities in Urban Contexts: The Synagogues of Herat  Ulrike-Christiane Lintz Chapter 5 Synagogues of the Fez Mellah: Constructing Sacred Spaces in Nineteenth-century Morocco  Michelle Huntingford Craig Chapter 6 Emotional Architecture: Cairo’s Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue and Symbolism’s Timeless Reach  Ann Shafer

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PART II  SYNAGOGUE AND THE CULTURAL CONTEXT Chapter 7 The Prevalence of Islamic Art amongst Jews of Christian Iberia: Two Fourteenth-century Castilian Synagogues in Andalusian Attire  Daniel Muñoz Garrido Chapter 8 The Ottoman Jews of Nineteenth-century Istanbul and the Socio-cultural Foundations of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue  Meltem Özkan Altınöz Chapter 9 The Architecture and Ornamentation of the Nahon and Bendrihem Synagogues of Tangier: Modernization and Internationalization of the Jewish Community  M. Mitchell Serels Chapter 10 Synagogues and Sacred Rituals in Tehran: An Ethnographic Analysis of Judeo-Persian Identities and Spaces  Arlene Dallalfar

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PART III  ARCHITECTURE AND INTERIOR DESIGN Chapter 11 Decorating Synagogues in the Sephardi Diaspora: The Role of Tradition  Vivian B. Mann Chapter 12 Djerbian Culture and Climate as Expressed in a Historic Landmark: The Case of El-Ghriba Synagogue in Djerba, Tunisia  Nesrine Mansour and Anat Geva Chapter 13 Synagogue Architecture in Kerala, India: Design Roots, Precedents, Tectonics, and Inspirations  Jay A. Waronker Chapter 14 Immigrants’ Sacred Architecture: The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue in Eilat, Israel  Anat Geva Chapter 15 Epilogue—Sensitive Ruins: On the Preservation of Jewish Religious Sites in the Muslim World  Susan Gilson Miller

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Bibliography  About the Contributors  Index 

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Figures and Tables

Figures and Tables

Figures 3.1 The Great Synagogue of Baghdad  3.2 Map of Baghdad  3.3 Exterior view of Dhu’l Kifl  3.4 Minaret of Dhu’l Kifl  3.5 Plan of the Ezekiel Synagogue  3.6 Interior of Dhu’l Kifl  3.7 View of Al-Qosh  3.8 View from the courtyard facing south in the Nahum Synagogue  3.9 View facing west, showing the women’s section in the Nahum Synagogue  3.10 View facing south from the courtyard entrance of the Nahum Synagogue  3.11 Ark in the Nahum Synagogue  3.12 Courtyard of the Nahum Synagogue  3.13 Dome of the Nahum Synagogue  4.1 Herat, 2005, elevated view from the northwest  4.2 The Jew named Hakim (i.e., physician) Nehoray Nur-Mahmud  4.3 The Qandahar Gate in Herat, Afghanistan  4.4 Map of Herat  4.5 Radiating axes of a typical qala (fort) construction layout  4.6 Attarbashi house (style: Qajar; built 1850–90)  4.7 Section of the Attarbashi house (2010)  4.8 Tehran’s Jewish quarter known as Sar-e cal  4.9 Map of the Jewish Quarter’s center showing the four synagogues, the Jewish mikva (bathhouse), and the stores formerly owned by Jews 4.10 Access upgrading in the Old City of Herat, 2008  4.11 The Mullah Garji, or Mullah Ashur Synagogue, in 1973  4.12 The Hariva School, formerly the Mullah Samuel or Mullah Shamawel Synagogue. Entrance and courtyard after restoration in 2009  4.13 Interior view of the Hariva School after restoration by the Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme in 2009  4.14 The Gol Synagogue or Gulaki Synagogue converted into the Hazrat Belal Mosque  4.15 Courtyard after conservation of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue  4.16 Floor plan and section of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue with the mikva (ritual bath) in the center beneath the synagogue’s courtyard 4.17 The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: roof repairs during the Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme in 2007  4.18 The Mullah Yoav Synagogue in 2007: interior of main hall after conservation showing restored frescoes  4.19 The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: interior of the richly painted main prayer hall  4.20 The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: interior view looking towards the heikhal (ark), 2009  5.1 One side of the heikhal (ark), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah  5.2 Map of the Fez mellah 

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5.3 View of the aisles and contemporary tevah (pulpit), Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah  5.4 Stucco wall decoration, Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah  5.5 Ladies’ gallery, Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah  5.6 Interior view of tevah (pulpit) and ladies’ gallery, Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah  5.7 Interior view showing the tevah (pulpit) and heikhal (ark), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah  5.8 Close-up of the tevah (pulpit) showing its wrought iron canopy, Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah  5.9 Floor plan and elevation from eastern pisé wall to the tevah (pulpit) over the cellar showing the incremental growth of the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue  5.10 Close-up of the mikva (ritual bath), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah  5.11 Entrance to the Debada Synagogue  5.12 Interior of the Debada Synagogue  5.13 Plan and interior of the synagogue in Dar al-Ma from The Synagogues of Morocco: An Architectural and Preservation Survey  6.1 The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.2 ʿAdly Street, downtown Cairo, showing the synagogue in the center  6.3 Cairo’s Ismailiya District, 1907, with synagogue site marked  6.4 The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, outline superimposed on 1930 cadastral map of Ismailiya District, Cairo  6.5 The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, ground floor plan  6.6 Interior and heikhal (ark) wall in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.7 Ark of the Sha’ar Hashamayim  6.8 Ark crest in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.9 Ark platform, the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.10 Ladies’ gallery in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.11 Heikhal (ark) wall in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.12 Frieze around the mezzanine of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.13 Dome showing original painted ornamentation in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.14 Mezzanine of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.15 Stained-glass windows in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.16 Gilded frieze in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.17 Rear courtyard and annex of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.18 Façade overlooking the street of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.19 Façade ornamentation, the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue 6.20 Reconstruction of the “Court of Israel” in the Temple of Jerusalem  6.21 Ark with tree-shaped lamp in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.22 Entrance to the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  6.23 Door handles in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue  7.1 Map of Cordoba showing the location of the synagogue in red  7.2 View of the Calle Judíos showing entrance to the synagogue on the right  7.3 Map of Toledo showing location of the synagogue in red  7.4 View of the exterior of the El Tránsito Synagogue  7.5 Drawing of the El Tránsito Synagogue by Palomares, 1752  7.6 Monumental entrance to the Silva House, Toledo  7.7 Detail of ornamentation showing the coat of arms of Samuel ha-Levi  7.8 Ceiling of the Hall of Comares in the Alhambra  7.9 Interior of the El Tránsito Synagogue  7.10 Ornamentation of the upper part of the prayer-hall, El Tránsito Synagogue  7.11 Fountain of the Lions, Alhambra  7.12 Representation of the gate of Jerusalem on the southern wall of the Cordoba Synagogue  7.13 Arabic inscription on a honeycomb decoration panel, Cordoba Synagogue  7.14 Arabic inscription frieze around the prayer room of El Tránsito Synagogue  8.1 Cover of Time Magazine, April 10, 1972 

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8.2 The Tofre Begadim Synagogue, exterior view, Istanbul  149 8.3 Religious composition of Galata, nineteenth century  150 8.4 The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, exterior view with horseshoe arch  150 8.5 The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, interior view  151 8.6 The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, interior view  151 8.7 Dome of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue  152 8.8 The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, Azara  152 8.9 Santa María La Blanca, a former synagogue, Toledo  153 8.10 El Tránsito Synagogue, Toledo  154 8.11 The Cordoba Mosque, Cordoba  157 8.12 The Madrasa of Köprülü Mehmed Pasha, Istanbul  158 8.13 The Sirkeci Train Station, August Jasmund, Istanbul 158 9.1 Map of Tangier and its synagogues, ca. 1900  162 9.2 Tangier street  165 9.3 Charity boxes dedicated to various communal funds  166 9.4 Courtyard of the Nahon Synagogue  167 9.5 Entrance to the Nahon Synagogue  168 9.6 Wall and ceiling of the Nahon Synagogue featuring the Mudéjar work  169 9.7 Chandelier in the Nahon Synagogue  170 9.8  Tevah (pulpit) of the Nahon Synagogue placed against the wall to allow for ­additional seating  170 9.9 Interior of the Nahon Synagogue, showing the colored glass above the doors  171 9.10 Bimah (pulpit) of the Nahon Synagogue  171 9.11 Ark of the Nahon Synagogue  173 9.12 Ark of the Nahon Synagogue  174 9.13 Rimonim (Torah finials) of the Nahon Synagogue  175 9.14 Rimonim (Torah finials) of the Nahon Synagogue 176 9.15 Chandelier in the Nahon Synagogue 177 9.16 Tevah (pulpit) in the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue  178 9.17 Exterior of the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue  179 9.18 Exterior of the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue  180 9.19 Heikhal (ark) in the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue  180 10.1 Daniel Naby (Daniel the prophet) ziggurat and tomb in Susa  188 10.2 Mirror work inside the Tomb of Daniel Naby  188 10.3 Windows and filtered light in the Ettefagh Synagogue  190 10.4 Carrying the Torah from the heikhal (ark) to the bimah (pulpit) in the Abrishami Synagogue  191 10.5 Jewish-themed carpet covering the bimah (pulpit) in the Abrishami Synagogue  192 10.6 Jewish-themed carpets in the Abrishami Synagogue  192 10.7 Mikvah (ritual bath) in the Abrishami Synagogue  193 10.8 Sabbath service in the Hakim Synagogue  195 10.9 Chairs and lights surrounding the bimah (pulpit) in the Ettefagh Synagogue  197 10.10 Ceremonial Hall in the Ettefagh School, now converted into an examination room  198 10.11 Ettefagh students at a Bat-Mitzvah ceremony  198 10.12 Tile mosaic in the Yusef Abad Synagogue  200 10.13 Hebrew inscription in the Yusef Abad Synagogue  201 11.1 Christ among the Doctors, panel from a Spanish altarpiece, early fifteenth century 207 11.2 Plan of Fortress of Babylon in the twelfth century, Fustat  208 11.3 Decorated boards from the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Fustat, eleventh–thirteenth centuries210 11.4 Torah Ark panel from the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Fustat, eleventh century 211 11.5 Interior of the Santa María Blanca Synagogue, Toledo, thirteenth century 212 11.6 Interior of the Isaac Mehab Synagogue, Cordoba, 1314–15  213 11.7 Interior of El Tránsito Synagogue, Toledo, 1357  215 11.8 Synagogue in Lorca, first half of the fifteenth century  216 11.9 Rug from a Spanish synagogue, fourteenth century  217 11.10 Synagogue scene, Sarajevo Haggadah, 1320–60  218 11.11 Synagogue scene from the Barcelona Haggadah, ca. 1370  219

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11.12 Synagogue scene, Sister of the Golden Haggadah, ca. 1320–60  11.13 The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, San Salvador Ejea de los Caballeros 11.14 Rug Torah curtain, Bursa or Istanbul, early seventeenth century  11.15 Detail of corame (embossed and painted leather) lining of the Torah Ark, Bevis Marks Synagogue, London, ­seventeenth century 12.1 Entrance to the Ghriba Synagogue complex 12.2 Map showing the location of the Ghriba Synagogue on Djerba  12.3 Aerial view of the synagogue complex  12.4 Urban setting of the Ghriba Synagogue, panoramic view  12.5 Security checkpoint at the entrance to the Ghriba Synagogue  12.6 Plan of the Ghriba Synagogue based on Pinkerfeld’s plan, 1957  12.7 Separation wall between the main prayer room and the ark  12.8 The bimah (pulpit) in the Ghriba Synagogue  12.9 Bimah lantern in the Ghriba Synagogue  12.10 Seating arrangement in the Ghriba Synagogue  12.11 The heikhal (ark) of the Ghriba Synagogue  12.12 Cabinets and silver plates in the heikhal (ark)  12.13 The recess in which the heikhal (ark) is set in the Ghriba Synagogue  12.14 Interior view of the Ghriba Synagogue  12.15 Windows and shutters in the Ghriba Synagogue 12.16 Landscaping and air conditioning unit in the Ghriba Synagogue  13.1 Exterior of the Paradesi Synagogue clock tower, Kochi–Mattancherry, Kerala  13.2 Exterior of the Kadavumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Mattancherry, Kerala  13.3 Interior of the Kadavumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala  13.4 Interior of the Tekkumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala  13.5 Exterior of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala  13.6 Exterior of the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala  13.7 Exterior of the Mala Synagogue, Kerala  13.8  Tevah (bimah) and heikhal (ark) of the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala  13.9 Exterior of the Tekkumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala  13.10 Gatehouse (during restoration) of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala  13.11 Interior of the Paradesi Synagogue, Kochi–Mattancherry, Kerala  13.12 Ceiling and gallery level of the second tevah (bimah) at the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala  13.13 Interior of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala  13.14 Gallery level tevah (bimah) in the Mala Synagogue, Kerala  14.1 Forces impacting synagogue design in Israel: a conceptual framework  14.2 View of the city of Eilat  14.3 The Synagogue’s urban setting in Eilat 14.4 Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue: exterior view  14.5 The architect Eyal Logasi in front of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue  14.6 Traditional lamps imported from Morocco; and close-up of a traditional lamp imported from Morocco  14.7 The Synagogue’s courtyard  14.8 One side of the Synagogue’s courtyard covered with palm leaves  14.9 Plan of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue  14.10 Drawings of the Synagogue’s north and south elevations  14.11 The Synagogue’s blue domes  14.12 The ablutions area on either side of the vestibule to the courtyard  14.13 Architect Eyal Logasi’s sketches; and entrance to the Synagogue’s sanctuary 14.14 The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue: interior view  14.15 The ladies’ gallery, Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue  14.16 View from the bimah (pulpit) looking toward the ark  14.17 One of the stained-glass windows depicting the twelve tribes of Israel 

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Tables 8.1 Information chart of Ashkenazi Synagogues in Galata, Istanbul  12.1 Analysis of the compatibility of El-Ghriba Synagogue with the summers in Djerba  12.2 Analysis of the compatibility of El-Ghriba Synagogue with the winters in Djerba 

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Introduction

Introduction Mohammad Gharipour

The main purpose of this book is to contribute an in-depth study of a rich architectural heritage that has been widely neglected in contemporary research. This volume explores the design and development of synagogues in the Islamic world by documenting and examining case studies in predominantly Muslim societies—from the emergence of Islam in the seventh century to the present day, from Spain to the Indian subcontinent. By studying spaces created by and for Jews in an area under the political or religious control of Muslims, contributors to this volume clarify how the architecture of synagogues responded to contextual issues and traditions, or how a new context influenced a historically established design. It illustrates the fate of pre-existing synagogues preserved after the arrival of Islam, as well as transitions of styles, concepts, and elements. In revealing how synagogues reflect the culture of the Jewish minority on a macro and micro scale, from city to the rural interior, the chapters in this book clarify the architectural value of the synagogue, how and on which terms the synagogue is viewed, the architectural qualities of synagogues, and the patterns of development of synagogues in urban contexts, in connection to Muslim neighborhoods and urban monuments. The lack of analysis of non-Muslim religious architecture in the Islamic world, especially Jewish architecture, make this work timely. Compiled by scholars and practitioners from various ­disciplines—including art history, architecture, conservation, archeology, sociology, and history— the chapters are the results of thorough examinations of archival and historical accounts or formal and spatial analysis of synagogues in their urban contexts. The authors deploy theoretical, historical, sociological, and comparative approaches to address the visual and material culture of synagogues throughout the Muslim world. While case studies cover regions as diverse as Central Asia, the Middle East, North Africa, the Indian subcontinent, and Spain, there are several other regions that deserve future research, including, but not limited to, Syria, Sub-Sahara Africa, Ethiopia, Uzbekistan, and Yemen. Inherent difficulties in the study of synagogues made this project somewhat complicated and  ­ challenging. Understanding these complexities will help set expectations for this volume and  assist future research in this field. I will attempt to address these issues in the next few paragraphs. First, it should be noted that, due to the current political climate in the Middle East and North Africa—indeed, throughout much of the Islamic world—synagogues are not conventional subjects for architectural historical research. Numerous barriers make it almost impossible to access and investigate synagogues in the Islamic world. Most synagogues in Islamic cities are hidden or have been turned into other building uses, making them less physically and visually accessible to researchers who seek to uncover their secrets. Some have simply been locked away to outsiders or been converted into multi-purpose facilities in which people reside and pray. In these cases, the owners are less likely to admit researchers. Another historiographical concern is that the field of Islamic architecture has traditionally failed to sufficiently embrace non-Muslim buildings. Churches, temples, and synagogues have typically been marginalized and these structures may have been seen or treated as alien sites by the Islamic world. This exclusion may also relate to the modesty or simplicity of these buildings in terms of construction and ornamentation. Obviously, this rule does not apply to non-Muslim religious buildings constructed during more tolerant eras, which were often boldly designed or explicitly displayed in cities ruled exclusively and inhabited largely by Muslims. In this sense, this book is a continuation of previous diverse efforts to extend the field of Islamic architecture by highlighting

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the ­contributions of the Jewish community to the enrichment of architecture and design in creating a unique architectural heritage. The studies carried out for this book are based on original fieldwork or archival research. The fieldwork has been dependent, however, upon the accessibility of sites and cooperation of the local community, and the availability or willingness of populations to address questions. Most of these fieldwork projects are still ongoing and may result in revised issues and findings in the near future. Thus, some of these studies should be treated as investigative exposés that are posing new questions rather than providing concrete responses to historical questions. Unlike typical research topics in the field of Islamic architecture, the lack of scholarly publications concerning synagogues highlights the significance and urgency of the fieldwork. Note that in the absence of archival material, the analysis of synagogues in their various contexts relies heavily on the examination of forms and spaces of existing structures, remnants of destroyed synagogues, and interviews with members of local communities. Another issue that has complicated research in this field is the mass emigration of Jews from Muslim lands in the twentieth century to Israel and elsewhere, that has resulted in the abandonment, and consequently, the gradual destruction of many Jewish neighborhoods and synagogues. This single issue, perhaps more than any other, has made it almost impossible to study abandoned synagogues, since obtaining information about the history of these structures and the use of these spaces for rituals is no longer feasible. An analysis of buildings without understanding their social, communal, and religious uses and ritual functions is complicated, if not impossible. In most cases, researchers have very limited access to the generation of Jews who frequented these synagogues. Compounding the complexity of such research is that communities in the Diaspora are not always available or even interested in sharing information about their cultural and architectural experience, as in their minds this is a confidential and private matter. The rapidly declining population of Jews in the Islamic world and their feelings of vulnerability have caused interviews and fieldwork to no longer be productive tools for research. The dearth of local and governmental efforts and the absence of budgets and priorities have also led to the destruction of many synagogues in cities and urban neighborhoods that were once populated by Jews. The lack of local restoration and preservation initiatives has been a major threat to the survival and even the study of this rich architectural heritage. In many parts of the Islamic world, such as Yemen, where the Jewish minority lived for centuries, hardly any traces of synagogues have survived. Moreover, the majority of synagogues in former Jewish settlements, such as Egypt, Iraq, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan, have been destroyed. In addition to these issues, researchers working on synagogues normally do not have access to the typical archival information that is widely available for most other topics. Individuals and organizations are to be commended for collating the scattered resources of Jewish oral history. An example of this is the Diarna Project, an initiative that has significantly contributed to the study of the Sephardi Jewish heritage in various parts of the world. Several other issues make archival research complicated. The Jewish minority in many countries has not felt safe in maintaining a well-documented record of its members, history, and cultural activities. This absence is largely due to the fact that any effort to highlight Jewish religious and cultural heritage might have been viewed by the authorities as a promotional activity, resulting in more sanctions and restrictions against community members. Being accused of proselytizing was problematic for a community that historically found its liberty and independence through integration into the larger society and urban economy. The history of synagogues in the Islamic world is complex, varied, and nuanced—no single theme or approach connects the experiences of Jews in Muslim societies across the geographical and chronological span of their shared histories. Any work on synagogues should consider the internal conflicts and rivalries within the Jewish community, as in most other societies. One should note that the Jewish community in each city is not a homogenous group, there is much diversity among Jews and in Judaism. Another methodological barrier to the study of synagogues and the Jewish population in the Islamic world lies in the ideological approaches taken by researchers and historians some of whom had their own prejudices. Unfortunately, this field has been highly politicized. While in some scholarly works the Islamic world is depicted as a safe haven for Jews, others have taken the opposite view while exaggerating the oppression of non-Muslims in the Middle East of the past. This contradiction shows how any scholarly work should be mindful of the ideological underpinnings of research conducted in this field. This publication, as a collaborative effort, has attempted to remain objective in this regard. The authors and the editor have considered the cultural diversity of Jewish communities, as well as their nuanced social experience in the history of predominantly Muslim

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regions. This approach simply reflects the historical diversity and complexity of Jewish life in the Islamic world at various times. History shows that Jews were among the founders of some of the major civilizations of the Middle East. They made a vast contribution to the advancement of science, culture, and medicine, and thus do not deserve to be assigned a minor role in the economic, cultural, and political history of this part of the world. Jews constituted an integral part of society in many eras yet at times they were also constrained, oppressed, enslaved, and even massacred. It has always been a question of when, where, and how, so any sweeping generalizations about Jews and their artistic and architectural heritage would be misleading. We hope that this book will make a contribution by providing detailed descriptions of Jewish architecture in the Islamic world. Structure and Contents This volume considers architecture in its broadest sense, namely the process and product of planning, design, construction, and development of any built environments or physical structures. This concept of architecture includes not only buildings but also elements within the wider environment and the physical context from macro scale to micro scale. The editor has deliberately sought to demonstrate temporal and geographic diversity in drawing into focus areas of difference and similarity among synagogues. Further, in order to make the book more easily accessible to a non-specialist audience, the editor has dispensed with the use of diacritics in transliteration, except in the case of Turkish. This book reflects the current state of global architectural-historical research into synagogues in the Islamic world. Rather than an attempt on the part of the editor to produce an exhaustive, encyclopedic analysis of the topic, it aims to offer original information on various contextual and design aspects of synagogues in the Middle East and beyond. The chapters describe approaches to the design, development, and preservation of synagogues that are complex, varied, and nuanced. Given that they offer a mere sample of synagogue architecture in the Islamic world, much more research remains to be conducted. The book is divided into three sections, each highlighting various, but sometimes overlapping, aspects of synagogues. The first section focuses on the connections between the city and the synagogue and how the latter evolved as part of the urban fabric. The second section explores the cultural and social context behind the creation and development of synagogues as cultural institutions and community centers. The third part of this volume includes studies on the design and ornamentation of synagogues, their relevance to local and regional elements and styles, and the migration of ideas and concepts across the Islamic world. In the first chapter, Sara Ethel Wolper examines a set of problems surrounding the study of synagogues and Jewish holy sites in Iraq. The once-prominent Jewish communities of Iraq have disappeared, but medieval travelers describe large numbers of synagogues and the ancient tombs of Jewish prophets. What kept these sites alive was that prophets such as Nahum, Jonah, and Ezekiel, were also of great significance to Muslims and Christians, who sometimes also worshipped at the sites and continued to maintain them after Jewish communities had been expelled or forced to flee. Wolper explores historical accounts to see how the synagogues of the medieval era and at the beginnings of modern Iraq were constructed to serve the region’s Jewish communities by providing spaces for Jewish worship and practice within Muslim-controlled cities. Discussing synagogues in another marginal context, Ulrike-Christiane Lintz analyzes the architecture of the synagogues of Herat, Afghanistan. Although their present status testifies to years of neglect or outright deliberate destruction, Lintz attempts to clarify physical and symbolic links between these synagogues and the main urban centers containing a whole inventory of Herat’s rich heritage. Studying these connections confirms the multifaceted classifications of synagogues and the degree of cultural transition within the city of Herat. These cases, from Iraq and Afghanistan, show how timely it is to study Jewish sites that have suffered from the emigration of Jews, especially in the last three decades. In another essay on the connections between urban and synagogue design, Michelle Craig studies synagogues of the mellah, the Jewish quarter of Fez, Morocco, during the late nineteenth century. Exploring the diversity of the Jewish communities in Fez and its impact on the construction of new synagogues, Craig explains how the aggregation of wealth on a given street was symbolized by the presence of multiple synagogues. A study of the spatial relationships between synagogues and their interiors illustrates the economic stratification in the quarter and the sustained link between place of origin and identity in the Fez mellah, as expressed in synagogue construction, revealing

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the diversity of religious practices uniting and distinguishing the community in Morocco’s oldest Jewish quarter. Ann Shafer’s chapter takes a different approach to the study of the urban aspects of synagogues. Focusing on Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, a neo-Pharaonic structure in downtown Cairo erected in 1903 at the height of the city’s Jewish prosperity, she explores the façade of this synagogue to reveal the complex visual symbolism that traverses rich layers of Egyptian Jewish tradition and identity, from Moses to modern cosmopolitanism. Explaining this symbolism, Shafer illustrates how the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue transcends its local environment and attracts global memories and projections and how this structure’s spatial and decorative features resonate with memory and emotion. The next four chapters in the second section investigate the cultural context behind the creation and development of synagogues, something that was often the result of the complex relationship between Muslims and Jews and their architectural traditions. Daniel Muñoz Garrido’s chapter focuses on the use of Islamic art in the architecture of two fourteenth-century Castilian synagogues, the synagogue of Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogue in Toledo. Although by that time the kingdom of Castile was under Christian rule, the architecture and decoration of these buildings drew their inspiration from the Islamic style prevalent in nearby Granada. While the interiors of both buildings display complex symbolism, their façades reflect different understandings of urban space and the roles they played in the city. Garrido analyzes the architecture, decoration, and epigraphy of these synagogues to show how they reflected the culture of the Jewish minority in this milieu, while at the same time establishing an ongoing dialogue with Andalusian culture by imbuing Islamic art with meanings rooted in Jewish traditions and beliefs. In another study of Andalusian influence, Meltem Ozkan studies the design of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue in Istanbul. Built in ca. 1900, the synagogue is reminiscent of the Islamic Iberian-Andalusian culture in the Ottoman Empire, though ironically it was constructed for Ashkenazi rather than Sephardi Jews. Ozkan examines sources of Andalusian forms in the Ottoman Empire in order to demonstrate why Ashkenazi Jews favored Andalusian-based orientalism for the architecture of this synagogue. In the next chapter, Mitchell Serels studies the architecture of the Nahon and Bendrihem synagogues in the Moroccan city of Tangier. In examining these two synagogues, Serels explains how the international stature of this city influenced the resettled Jewish community in the late eighteenth century. Serels explores the impact of westernization and modernization of the Jewish community on the architectural design of synagogues, as well as their distribution throughout the city of Tangier. Arlene Dallalfar’s chapter adopts a sociological approach to illustrate the integration of Jews into Persian culture and reflects on the cultural use of space within the synagogues of Tehran. She explores the social, demographic, and cultural factors that have affected the experiences of Jewish Iranians as an ethno-religious minority. Providing an ethnographic context on how personal and structural resources shape and mediate the responses and experiences of Jewish Iranians, Dallalfar emphasizes the vital role of ethnicity, religion, and class in social practices among upper- and middle-class Judeo-Persians living in Tehran, and the influences of these cultural nuances on the architecture of the city’s three synagogues. The next four chapters focus on the design of synagogues on a micro scale from architecture to ornamentation and interior design. Jews who lived among Muslims may have significantly facilitated the development of a common vocabulary for sacred architecture. Discussing these crosscultural exchanges, Vivian Mann explains the impact on synagogue decoration by Sephardic Jews living together with Muslims along the Mediterranean coast. The most widespread Maghrebi (North African) synagogue decoration material was stucco, a marker of a sacred space found in Muslim and Christian buildings. The ceremonial art used in synagogues, however, belonged to a Sephardic culture that was transferred to North Africa, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire. Mann explains that although aspects of religious culture are acknowledged to link the descendants of Sephardic Jews to their medieval homeland, it is rarely recognized that forms of synagogue art continued to use Iberian typology. The chapter by Nesrine Mansour and Anat Geva explores the effects of social, cultural, and environmental factors on the architectural form of the Ghriba synagogue built on the island of Djerba, Tunisia. By investigating the factors that imbue this special synagogue with importance in Tunisian culture and the way in which it became one of the country’s historical landmarks (along with Roman and Arab remains), the authors illustrate how the architecture of this synagogue embodied the co-existence of the island’s Jews and Muslims, symbolizing a model of their time, space, and community. In other countries such as India, Muslims and Jews both lived as minorities, without ­necessarily

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affecting each other’s architectural traditions in any significant way. In the next chapter, Jay Waronker explains the esthetics of synagogues in Kerala, built by the oldest Jewish population in India, to explain the similarity of design and construction practices in synagogues and local mosques. The extant synagogues of Kerala are outstanding for their considerable age, coupled with their distinct architectural aspects. Waronker’s chapter discusses the architectural roots, precedents, liturgical influences, tectonics, materiality, and climatic considerations of synagogues in Kerala. Design concepts and elements not only traveled across Islamic regions, but were also incorporated as the basis for new synagogue design in the modern state of Israel. Anat Geva demonstrates how the design of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue in Eilat, constructed for Moroccan immigrants, emulates that of the traditional synagogues of North Africa, especially those of Morocco. Geva explains the similarities between this synagogue and Moroccan synagogues in three aspects: the morphology of the building (the synagogue’s plan and dome); the exterior and interior decor, containing Islamic motifs from the Mahgreb, and the building’s environmental attempt at providing relief from the desert heat of southern Israel. This case exemplifies the way in which the contemporary sacred architecture of immigrants maintains its roots as an expression of continuity, heritage, and shared spiritual experience. The book concludes with Susan Miller’s epilogue, which explains various aspects of the restoration of synagogues in the Islamic world. Acknowledgments This work builds upon my ongoing research into the synagogues of Isfahan and the edited volume that I published on non-Muslim sacred sites in the Islamic world, entitled Sacred Precincts: The  Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities Across the Islamic World (Brill, 2014). The solicitation for contributions to this volume was broadly defined to include thematic, geographical, and chronological variety in order to maximize impact. The scholarship devoted to synagogues of the Islamic world is fairly sparse, however, and unfortunately, it has resulted in the absence of several potential areas of study from this volume. My special thanks go to the authors who diligently revised their drafts in a short span of time. Their articles are the result of hard work and persistent archival and field work—activities that were challenging for reasons outlined in this book’s introduction. I appreciate Reuven Firestone and Susan Miller for generously accepting my invitation to write the prologue and epilogue for this volume. I sincerely acknowledge the help of several friends and colleagues whose advice helped me put this volume together, namely, Jeremy Kargon, Samuel Gruber, Carol Krinsky, and Jason GrubermanPfeffer. I am thankful to all who kindly helped me define the framework for this volume, especially Nancy Um, who has been an amazing source of inspiration and support in my academic career. I must also thank James-Henry Holland for his continuous help and anonymous reviewers for sharing their detailed feedback, Eve Kahn for her enormous support and energy that helped me move forward through tough times, and Laurie Good for copy-editing several chapters of this volume. I should also mention Nicola Ramsey, Ellie Bush, and Eddie Clark for all their dedication and hard work in their efforts to achieve publication of this great volume. I am simply delighted to have had the opportunity once again to work with such a professional publishing team. The publication of this volume was only possible through funding from the Cahnman Foundation. I sincerely express my gratitude to Ira H. Jolles of the Cahnman Foundation and the Foundation’s generous support. This book is the embodiment of my passion for, and commitment to, diversity and cultural symbiosis. It is dedicated to the Jewish people for their resilience and their enormous contributions to the history and culture of the Islamic world.

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Architecture of Synagogues in the Islamic World

Chapter One

Architecture of Synagogues in the Islamic World: History and the Dilemma of Identity* Mohammad Gharipour

When he was forced out of Mecca in 622 ce, the Prophet Muhammad settled in Medina, an oasis with a large Jewish population. There, he initially attempted to establish perfect equality between his companions and the community that received them: “To the Jews their religion, and to the Muslims theirs.”1 The Qur’anic revelation was rejected by the Jews, however, who soon became openly hostile, compelling Muhammad to expel them. The Prophet’s subsequent encounters with the “People of the Book” (ahl al-kitab), referring principally to Jews and Christians, were as a warrior. Before launching an attack, he would offer them three choices—conversion, payment of a tribute, or to fight by the sword. If they resisted converting or purchasing an accord, a treaty was instituted, either instead of or following a battle, which established the conditions of surrender for the Jews—the only non-Muslims who were allowed to retain their religion at that time. The terms of all of these treaties tended to be similar in that they imposed certain obligations on the dhimmi, the people “protected” by Islam.2 According to Montgomery Watt, a scholar of Islamic history, the various Jewish tribes had previously dominated the political, economic, and intellectual life of Medina.3 After his ascension to power in 622 ce, Prophet Muhammad issued the “Constitution of Medina”, that addressed the issue of communal relations by forming a tribal confederacy.4 It is important to note that these relationships were established between Muslims and the individual Jewish tribes living in Medina, although the terms for each tribal accord were essentially the same for all.5 That is why, when conflicts arose between the Muslims and a single Jewish tribe (such as the Banu Nadir), no collective punishment was imposed on the Jews as a whole.6 Upon his return to Mecca in 629 ce, one of Muhammad’s first acts was to rid the Ka’aba of the pagan idols that had been worshipped over the centuries. During his lifetime, Muhammad sought to coexist with members of the other Abrahamic faiths (Jews and Christians), while remaining staunchly and violently opposed to the practices of the polytheists of Mecca.7 In both instances, Muhammad established formal principles and practices that served as models for his successors.8 This result was the establishment of Muslim political power that moved the subject population into Dar al-Islam, regardless of whether or not the conquered peoples converted to Islam. Since Islam shared a narrative tradition with those of the Jews and Christians, many did indeed convert.9 Various doctrines formed the basis for regulating Jewish social, cultural, and religious practices under Muslim political rule. These were the Qur’an, the Sunnah, and the Pact of ʿUmar, a collection of prescriptions and proscriptions intended to control the behavior of non-Muslims who lived under Muslim rule.10 The Qur’an refers to freedom of religion as one of the fundamental principles of Islam. According to the Qur’an, “No one should be forced” to accept a new religion.11 Another Qur’anic scripture, Sura IX, 29, exhorts Muslims to “Fight against those to whom the Scriptures were given . . . and follow not the true faith, until they pay tribute (jizya) out of hand, and are humbled.”12 Those to whom the scriptures were given included followers of the other monotheistic religions—those “People of the Book” practicing Judaism and Christianity. The typical procedure associated with these Suras was that once non-Muslims ceased to resist Muslim political control and accept Islamic government, they were required to pay tribute through taxes, in return for permanent protection.13

* Some parts of this introduction can be found in my earlier publication, “Non-Muslim Sacred Sites in the Muslim World,” Sacred Precincts, Leiden: Brill, 2014: pp. xi–xv. I thank my friend, Stephen Caffey, for his help in the early stages of this research.

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Specifically, Jewish subjects of a Muslim state had the right to live in peace in an Islamic society in exchange for paying a poll tax (jizya) and a land tax (kharaj) to the state. Jizya was a fixed tribute, in cash or in kind, proportional to the production or income of the community as a tribe, a family, or an individual.14 While some Muslim clerics viewed jizya as a humiliation for non-Muslims or, more benignly, as a gesture of mercy or protection given to them by Muslims, others considered it purely as punishment for retaining their own monotheistic belief system. In all cases, the economic motive behind this imposition is undeniable.15 Interestingly, however, in some cases the conversion of large numbers of non-Muslim populations actually reduced the revenues of the Islamic state by eliminating an important revenue stream. In fact, sources indicate that the taxation system of early Islam was not necessarily an innovation of Muslims; it appears that ʿUmar perpetuated the same tax system that had been in place at the time of the conquest of that territory. The land tax or kharaj was an adapted version of the tax system used in Sassanid Persia. In Syria, ʿUmar followed the Byzantine system of collecting two taxes based on land holdings and population counts.16 One of the earliest examples of peace treaties that incorporated the principle of the jizya or poll tax was agreed upon between the Prophet and the Jews of Medina. This charter was basically a tripartite formula for the Muslims and Jews of Medina to live peacefully under the political supremacy of the Prophet Muhammad. According to this charter, Jews were declared to be integral members of the ummah (the community as a whole); as such, they were guaranteed complete protection with a political and social status no less viable than that which was ordained for the Muslims—but only if they adhered to the terms of the charter.17 This agreement and other similar treaties served as the basis for a later document, entitled the Pact of ʿUmar, which would take several forms and result in a variety of degrees of enforcement relevant to the conduct of non-Muslims under Muslim rule. The pact, “supposedly a writ of protection (aman) from the time of Caliph ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab (r. 634–44)” and redacted during the reign of ʿUmar ibn ʿAbd alʿAziz (717–20), derived from a number of different sources, “most notably, the agreement of Sophronios, Patriarch of Jerusalem,” concluded in 639 ce.18 The Pact of ʿUmar stipulates: [In] exchange for the guarantee of life, property, and religious freedom, dhimmis accept a host of restrictions that reflect their subject status. Among these are the following: they may never strike a Muslim; they may not bear arms, ride horses, or use normal riding saddles on their mounts; they may not sell alcoholic beverages to Muslims; they may not proselytize, hold public religious processions, build new houses of worship, or repair old ones; and they may not teach the Qur’an (for polemical purposes), prevent kinsmen from embracing Islam, dress like Arabs, cut their hair like Arabs, or adopt Arab honorific names (kunyas).19 Jizya or kharaj is seen in contemporary literature as discrimination against Jews (and non-­ Muslims in general), who had to pay higher taxes and, occasionally, higher duties. It should be noted, however, that the Muslim peasantry were similarly compelled to pay Islamic taxes such as zakat, and thus were probably burdened with a heavier load than Jews and Christians.20 Paying the special tax such as jizya came with some privileges, including freedom of worship and permission for the repair of existing synagogues and, in some cases, construction of new ones. In addition to having to pay extra taxes, some Muslim governments required Christians and Jews to wear different dress so that they could be distinguished from Muslims. In many regions during times of tolerance, however, Jews were fully or partially integrated into the economy and commerce of the society as members of certain guilds or markets, thereby providing a means of self-support. Due to their small numbers, Jews lived as a minority in most parts of the Islamic world, which negatively impacted their role in the local political power structures. Typically, Jews avoided alliances with governments due to their difficulty in establishing ties with hostile parallel groups, as well as to prevent jeopardizing their future should there be a regime change that might have disastrous consequences for the Jewish community. A vertical relationship with government was preferential to the Jews as they possessed skills that were useful to any regime. The guarantee of life, property ownership, and religious freedom was, of course, contingent upon regular payment of the jizya. As a financial burden, the jizya negatively impacted the relationship between Muslims and Jews and caused some local conflict and resistance.21 This situation became more tenuous for Jews in the eighth century ce when the Umayyad caliphate became more entrenched. For instance, the Umayyad Caliph ʿUmar ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAziz had a reputation for humiliating non-Muslims and damaging or even destroying their holy places. In his letter to one of his administrators, he wrote:

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“All crosses raised publicly and openly must be broken and destroyed. Jews and Christians must not ride on horse saddles . . . Put a ban on those Christians who are under your administration, to wear gowns, silken and Yemeni embroidered garments.”22 Jews as dhimmis did enjoy certain rights, however, such as having their own communal courts of law and legal systems based on their religious and communal regulations. History shows, however, that they often referred to the shariʿa or civil courts in instances in which their own courts were unable to solve problems or when the issue involved legal matters that were outside the jurisdiction of the community. Najwa Al-Qattan, who has studied hundreds of legal documents from shari’a courts between 1775 and 1860, demonstrates that members of the Jewish community of Damascus made frequent appearances at shariʿa courts as litigants, witnesses, agents, guardians, sellers, buyers, and neighbors. In addition to cases in which their appearance was compulsory, Jews appeared at court voluntarily for the purpose of commercial transactions or for recording their property inventories.23 In many cases, Ottoman Jews flouted the dictates of their religion and the orders of their religious leaders by litigating personal matters in the Muslim courts.24 Numerous documents indicate that members of the Jewish community appeared in shariʿa courts to argue for the validity of family inheritance arrangements as a way of preventing future disputes over property.25 In the last fifteen centuries, the Jewish people have been a minority though an influential, long-standing community within the vast expanse of the Islamic world, from Morocco to Indonesia. The history of the Jews as a religious minority in the Islamic world is not a consistent narrative; the high level of variance in terms of religious freedom and repression, tolerance or persecution, depended largely on the prevailing views of Islamic leaders and the existing cultural context. In short, their status as a minority reflected the diversity of interpretations of Islamic mandates in different settings, under differing conditions, and at different points in their history. According to Bernard Lewis, two specific conditions imposed stricter demands on Jews as dhimmis in the Islamic world. These were when Muslim rulers insisted on restoring a “more authentic” form of Islam and when a messianic and millenarian regime was in place.26 In some instances, Jews as dhimmis were permitted to pursue their own religious beliefs and rituals without having to convert to Islam—and for the most part, Jews learned how to survive and contribute to society as a whole while maintaining their core traditions. Although Islamic state policies were ubiquitous, Jews formed their own self-governing communities and developed a unique lifestyle, while integrating into the general society through education, wealth, and influential official positions. Support and protection were also enhanced through interfamily and intercommunity marriages. The pressures exerted upon Jews were not always external, of course, since their minority status usually imposed certain behaviors caused by their sense of insecurity and social restrictions. Islam, Jews, and Synagogues The study of domestic and sacred architecture in the Islamic world has been overshadowed by an emphasis on an Orientalist vision. Such an approach assumes that Islam had a definitive role in shaping all aspects of urban life; in reality, however, the historical situation of Jews and their domestic and sacred architecture was more dependent on political exigencies than on religious directives. The development, construction, and maintenance of synagogues and residential quarters were, to a significant degree, dependent on the direction in which the prevailing political winds of the times were blowing. The influence of even-handed governors, compassionate judges, or greedy administrators who would find a way to bypass official prohibitions on receiving monetary compensation significantly impacted the architectural legacy of Jewish populations in the Islamic world. While there are many historical documents that refer to the extensive destruction of Jewish sacred structures, instances of Muslim rulers issuing edicts and drawing up covenants regarding the construction and restoration of synagogues can also be authenticated. Even within a single regime, the interpretation of Islamic law was applied on a case-by-case basis, which resulted in varying conditions for the Jews.27 As Islam took hold and new generations of non-Muslims were born into societies under Muslim rule, relationships changed, as evident in the designed and built environment. Throughout the Islamic world, Jews held important governmental and administrative positions and played a crucial role in urban affairs. Although Muslims and Jews often remained in separate neighborhoods within Muslim-controlled urban centers, evidence suggests increasing interactions in the bazaars (marketplaces), administrative areas, public spaces, hammams (public baths),28 and in yeshivas.29 Despite

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being considered second-class citizens during most historical eras, Jews were often granted the right to build and own synagogues in which they were allowed to worship freely, since Islam officially acknowledged the truth of all earlier messages and even emphasized that places of worship should be protected against attack. According to the only verse in the Qur’an that mentions synagogues, no stipulation exists to suggest the destruction of non-Muslim sacred structures, including synagogues: “Those who have been driven from their homelands against all right for no other reason than their saying, ‘Our Sustainer is God!’ For, if God had not enabled people to defend themselves against one another, [all] monasteries and churches and synagogues and mosques—in [all of] which God’s name is abundantly extolled—would surely have been destroyed [ere now]. And God will most certainly succor him who succors His cause: for, verily, God is most powerful, almighty.”30 According to the Pact of ʿUmar, Jews were not permitted to build any new synagogues or to repair those that had fallen into ruin.31 They did have the right, however, to maintain the existing structures. Synagogues had to be protected and nothing could be removed from them or from their property. Their maintenance was facilitated by donations from the local community.32 An early manual of Islamic law regarding the waqf includes a statement of full recognition of donations made for Jerusalem: “If a Christian makes his land or his house waqf and prescribes that their revenue be spent for repairs in Jerusalem or to buy oil for its lamps or any (other) of its needs it is permitted . . . also, Jews have in this respect the same rights as the Christians.”33 These regulations were particularly significant in many cities where Jews had invested their wealth in synagogues, as any decision handed down by Muslims regarding these religious structures could affect the economic conditions of the minority Jewish community. Harsher actions, such as the destruction or confiscation of synagogues, occurred in border areas such as Jerusalem in order to increase the pressure on Jews.34 These callous attitudes gradually evolved as Muslim society stabilized in newly invaded territories. Fortunately, despite restrictions placed on the building and repair of churches and synagogues within urban environments, the enforcement of these ordinances was sporadic at best. Moreover, if a synagogue violated the covenant, “the payment of a bribe or fine sufficed to avoid demolition or confiscation of the offending building.”35 The extent to which action was taken against non-Muslims also depended upon the circumstances under which Islam entered the existing urban fabric. During the first decades of the spread of Islam, most Muslims separated themselves from non-Muslims by either constructing garrison towns or taking over existing neighborhoods and converting them to meet the needs of the Muslim community. Jews, like other non-Muslims, also preferred to live among people with whom they shared a faith, and thus tended to congregate in segregated towns or neighborhoods.36 Once Islam became a political force, nonMuslim sites and structures, including synagogues, were either shared, repurposed, permanently abandoned, demolished, harvested for Muslim structures, in-filled, or built over. Depending upon the historical context and geographic location, synagogues may or may not have been treated differently from other types of buildings; similarly, new Jewish edifices, whether sacred or not, were at risk since certain local Muslim populations felt threatened by the expansion of non-Muslim neighborhoods or by their increasing urban visibility.37 Another irritating factor for Islamic governments was that many religious buildings belonging to minority faiths had expanded beyond their role as places of worship. Their potential involvement in social and political affairs was seen as a threat by governments who tried to control these institutions or restrict them to religious matters. Fanatical Muslim governors and clerics often saw synagogues—by their mere presence in cities—as promoters of a competing religion and status quo. While the Qur’an and sunnah (narratives of the life of the Prophet) reinterpreted certain principles, the fate of synagogues in Islamic lands was ultimately determined by laws, regulations, or legal proclamations (fatwas). Based on the contents of surviving documents, it can be argued that by giving such legal terms as ‘non-prohibition’ of the destruction and repair of synagogues a negative connotation, Islamic tradition grants Muslim jurists the right to make decisions based on individual circumstances. There have been several studies of the impact of fatwas on the fate of synagogues. Religious studies scholar Seth Ward’s doctoral dissertation, Construction and Repair of Churches and Synagogues in Islamic Law, offers a descriptive narrative of the monographs by the

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f­ ourteenth-century jurist, al-Subki, who wrote in reaction to decisions by other contemporary jurists regarding the appropriateness of constructing or repairing synagogues.38 Jewish studies historian Richard Gottheil highlights another historic document in his exploration of the process of repairing two synagogues in Cairo that were partially destroyed in a fire. First, a detailed survey was provided by the Jewish community and submitted to the chief judge (qadi), Sheikh Taki al-Din, who subsequently reviewed their request to confirm that it was “in harmony with the dictates of the holy law according to his excellent school [of law].”39 During his review of the survey and two visits to the synagogues, the qadi was assisted by colleagues, including some local architects. After a thorough investigation and consultation with God, the qadi, who was apparently an expert in this area of law,40 agreed to permit the synagogues to be repaired and restored to their original condition.41 This document emphasizes that the restorations and replacements had to be undertaken lawfully and that nothing whatsoever could be added during the reconstruction process. Moreover, the repairs were to be made only in Jewish neighborhoods.42 In another study, renowned Africanist John O. Hunwick analyzed a fatwa issued by the fifteenthcentury jurist, al-Tanasi, regarding the destruction of a Jewish synagogue in the city now known as Tlemcen, Algeria, in order to explore how this legal verdict influenced Jewish–Muslim relations there. Illustrating the complexity of the fatwa process, Hunwick explains how sensitive this issue was and how a fatwa concerning a specific case could contradict the Pact of ʿUmar through its contextual complications.43 Such legal statements usually depended on the dominant school of jurisprudence to which they belonged, such as Maliki and Shafiʿi. For instance, in response to one question, Malik answered that “[Dhimmis do have not any right to set up places of worship] unless they have something which was granted to them.”44 This specific quote was, in fact, widely used to ban the construction of new synagogues in North Africa in the Middle Ages. The Shi’ite edicts regarding the construction and repair of synagogues seem to accord with certain Sunni legal documents. The eleventh century Shi’ite scholar Shaykh Tusi distinguished between places that belonged to Muslims or were conquered by them, and places that had been acquired through peace treaties. In the first case, Jews were not allowed to erect or repair any synagogues, while in the case of a peace treaty, they could repair any existing structures. In the latter case, however, Jews as minorities still had to follow the stipulations of the regime including the prohibition on building higher than Muslim structures.45 Interestingly, contemporary edicts of the kind uphold this historical lineage. For instance, in 1962, the moderate Iranian thinker and clergyman Mohammad Taleqani stated that protected people, including Jews, are forbidden to construct buildings higher than those of Muslims.46 Similarly, Sayyid Abul A’la Mawdudi, a renowned modern Indian-Pakistani Sunni jurist, writes: “They [Jews and Christians] should be forced to pay jizya in order to put an end to their independence and supremacy so that they should not remain rulers and sovereigns in the land.”47 These examples indicate that Muslim “religious” attitudes regarding non-Muslims and their sacred spaces have not changed significantly since early Islamic times. Synagogues in Muslim Societies The extensive history of relations between Muslims and Jews is a history of physical, metaphorical, and ideological proximities and distances. Due to Islam’s geographical and historical contexts, these proximities and distances emerged perhaps most strikingly at the intersections of, and in the interstices between, the leveling influences of Arab nomadism and the strata of sedentary monumentalism of societies that have encountered, and in some cases, converted to Islam.48 Cultural diffusion and collisions in predominantly Muslim societies resulted in complex conceptual exchanges between Muslims and Jews. The construction work initiated by various members of Jewish communities often reflect these tenuous relationships with Muslims and the local government, as well as the competitive tensions and reconciliations within and between member groups. The relationship between a synagogue and its specific location tends to follow localized interactions between Muslims and Jews, while at the same time calling attention to historical misconceptions about interreligious intolerance. The synagogues that remained or emerged after the advent of Islam and their relationship with the urban fabric reveal shifting notions of the sacred over time and the internal complexities of the Islamic world, and illustrate an articulation of cultural identity. During times of heightened tensions, synagogues became less visible in terms of height, location, and even exterior ornamentation. While most synagogues adopted the local style of architecture and utilized local materials, their reliance on local labor and material resources had much to do with the

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constraints of financing and the wealth of potential benefactors. Importantly, their built form also served to some degree to protect those who might be accused of establishing relations with outside forces. Most Jewish quarters were established and grew as integral parts of the cities of the Middle East and North Africa.49 Despite some earlier Oriental writings emphasizing the segregation of Jews, recent research and fieldwork illustrates that, in most areas, Jews were historically involved in the cultural, social and, at times, the political affairs of the Islamic world. Their integration into the dominant society suggests a different framework for analyzing synagogues—one that acknowledges the high degree of Jewish involvement in commerce, craftsmanship, and even politics. In the study of minorities, Jews have often been seen as an homogeneous community within a larger society; ethnographic studies of Jewish communities within Islamic regions, however (as reinforced in chapters of this volume), reflect internal divisions within these communities that resulted in irregular, heterogeneous, and complex relations with Muslims. Historically, synagogues were considered as sacred sites, complexes, and spaces in which members of the Jewish community could manifest their devotion by performing the various recitations and rituals, and engaging in processions that distinguished Jews as adherents to a particular set of beliefs.50 Standing at the core of Jewish communities, synagogues served as cultural and social centers for both secular and religious functions. Urban life played a significant role in the way in which synagogues were constructed, developed, or remodeled. In many cases, the formation or even the destruction of synagogues reflected partnerships and rivalries within the Jewish community itself. The construction of synagogues often revealed complex dynamics within the Jewish community and its relations with Muslims. In addition to these internal anxieties and tensions, being a minority typically imposed certain norms caused by a sense of insecurity, uncertainty, and even selfcensorship. These dynamics are well examined in The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City, in which Susan Miller and Mauro Bertagnin explain how personal identity, both spatially and socially, was tied to minority space, which served as the epicenter of the individual’s selfhood, as well as the point of reference through which the self was identified by others.51 Nevertheless, the modernization of cities in the twentieth century encouraged wealthy Jews to move away from historical minority quarters, which often signified lower social status, and into upper-class neighborhoods, a phenomenon that resulted in the construction of new synagogues in other parts of the city. The Design of Synagogues The word kanisa (or kenis), the Arabic equivalent for synagogue, is based on the Hebrew word beitha-knesset (house of the assembly) or beit-tefilah (house of prayer). A synagogue is not necessarily required for worship, since there can be communal worship wherever ten Jews assemble. Therefore, a synagogue is not necessarily a “house of worship” or even of sacrifice; nor is it a temple or a place in which holy relics are venerated. The theological underpinnings and social circumstances behind the concept of the synagogue are different. For many Jews, the architecture of a synagogue has no real sacred content; instead, sanctity from the Jewish perspective is vested in the texts that are contained within special pieces of furniture, or is rooted in the assembly of people who gather there.52 The paradigm for worship changed drastically at a specific historical time after the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple (586 ce) and the consequent abandonment of animal sacrifices.53 Although customary Jewish law codices, such as the Shulchan Aruch (Shulkhan Arukh) (1563 ce), include some specific design requirements for places of worship, other religious writings do not.54 Such ambiguity allowed for creativity, flexibility, and freedom in the design of houses of worship and synagogues. Historic sources indicate that synagogues were routinely and extensively used for a variety of communal, non-religious and social purposes, so it is not surprising that a number of Jewish communities referred to their synagogues as the “houses of the people.”55 Due to their frequent destruction or collapse from neglect, most surviving synagogues in the Islamic world are less than two hundred years old. These structures—which are acknowledged for their complex histories, dynamic interactions within an urban context, and architectural qualities that go beyond intricate ornamentation and monumental scale or visual grandeur—were developed and constructed under the influence of local trends or stylistic movements, and according to the visual culture of each particular Jewish community. The buildings were generally made of local materials and were often concealed behind high walls, as most houses were in the Islamic world. The development of synagogues in cities in the Middle East and North Africa pertains to

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­ ultifaceted classifications of synagogues as holy places, cultural centers, or even residences, and to m the complexities of the Jewish population as an integral but sometimes non-homogenous community. Whether constructed in a predominantly Muslim society or preserved in its original form from pre-Islamic periods, each synagogue embodies the application of architecture to the articulation of cultural identities. Even synagogues that are modest in scale and ornamentation represent crucial heritage sites in that they reflect the significant contributions of Jews to the architecture and town-planning of the Islamic world. The architectural style and ornamentation of synagogues are highly reflective of the existing social fabric of the times—such as the level of collaboration and conflict between Jews and Muslims, and the level of freedom and integration of the Jewish community in society. The visual and physical relationships between synagogues and their location also point to the relative level of integration or isolation of Jews within society. Furthermore, the study of synagogue rituals and the Jewish neighborhood illustrates how spaces function in relation to each other and how the synagogue is symbolically and functionally connected to each Jewish quarter. Synagogues were often seen as symbolic and cultural extensions of other Jewish sites, including shrines, bathhouses, cemeteries, and even residences. The structural form of synagogues evolved on use of the space for rituals, festivals, and other sociocultural events. In this sense, a synagogue is a setting for a social culture and not just a one-day religious ritual. Moreover, the history of synagogues in different countries demonstrates the active role they played in fundraising activities to support disadvantaged community members, public ceremonies, such as weddings, engagements, and funerals, and to celebrate national holidays.56 Jewish community members also used their synagogue to make major or minor community decisions. The exterior of a synagogue generally reflected the relative degree of liberty of Jews in Muslim society. The synagogue building might be relatively nondescript in instances where local Jews wished to remain as unobtrusive as possible, ranging to more conspicuous edifices in places were Jews were more full integrated into Muslim society. In contrast, the interior design was less impacted by external circumstances and was usually a complex overlay of local and regional elements, forms, decoration, and religious symbols. For example, while the nineteenth-century synagogues of Isfahan had to remain invisible, the Tofre Begadim Synagogue (1893 ce), built by the Ashkenazi community in Istanbul, was glorified in its urban context via the creation of a splendid façade. The height of the façade, the level of ornamentation, and the use of Jewish icons usually reflected the relative freedom of the Jewish community within the Islamic world. In some cities, such as Toledo and Jerusalem, basilicas were used as the main form for synagogue design, but the plan of synagogues in many other contexts was more site-specific.57 In other words, synagogues did not differ much from other buildings in their surrounding urban environment, especially at times of political oppression and religious fanaticism. Social and urban constraints required Jews to be flexible in the design and development of synagogues. Most synagogues changed over time based on the needs of congregants. Due to restrictions on new constructions (and local pressures), coupled with a growing preference for private congregations in many cities, such as Shiraz, private houses were converted into synagogues in the late twentieth century. These hybrid structures mainly served the residents of the neighborhood (many of whom were related to each other), rather than the whole Jewish population of the city. This trend continued in various countries in which modest synagogues served local communities, while the more monumental synagogues (designed at times of social tolerance) served as urban centers for the larger Jewish population. Despite sharing certain spaces, architectural elements, and iconography, synagogues in certain countries did not have much in common in terms of architectural style, as they tended to be strongly influenced by the predominant styles of the surrounding area. Despite their differences, such synagogues possessed certain symbolic, formal, spatial, and decorative characteristics and features in common. They all served as community centers for their respective congregations and were oriented toward the Torah shrine that was placed on the wall facing the direction of Jerusalem. They also featured Jewish symbols.58 The main components of a synagogue include the façade, entrances, courtyard, basins/fountains, the mikva (ritual bath), and a prayer-hall consisting of a bimah (raised platform), tevah (pulpit), heikhal (ark), separate seating for men and women, and decorative elements such as the sevenbranched menorah, Torah scroll cases, metal finials, and Sabbath and Hanukkah lamps. Regardless of their location, most synagogues include some of these elements, if not all. A dominant feature in the synagogues of the Middle East, North Africa, and central Asia, which

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had a major impact on the design of the site plan, was the courtyard.59 The open-roofed synagogues, dating as far back as the Mishnaic (10–220 ce) and Talmudic (70 bce–500 ce) periods, were widely used for social, educational, and cultural gatherings (institutional and liturgical), which were not commonly found in the West.60 In some synagogues in Syria, the courtyard was used for prayers during summer, while the hall was used for prayers in wintertime. The concept of winter and summer areas in these regional synagogues indicates the important role that the local climate played in architectural design and utilization. The mobility of Jews resulted in the exchange of architectural concepts across regions. The synagogues of Sephardi communities in India were under the influence of merchants from Italy and The Netherlands who arrived in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.61 Similarly, the Sephardi synagogues of Turkey were constructed according to Andalusian influences. In addition to ideas, architectural elements also traveled across regions. For instance, one of these elements was the four-column tevah, which was widely used in synagogues in several countries including Portugal, Spain, Bulgaria, Turkey, and Syria. The four-column tevah became an integral part of interior design, and reflected international movements. The frequent use of such features also indicates the international network of Jews, especially in the early modern period.62 The construction of synagogues in border areas in which Muslims and Christians often clashed reflected the diffusion of ideas and styles. In the thirteenth century, Fredrick II expelled the Muslims who left their mosques vacant. Jews who settled in Sicily petitioned Fredrick II for permission to build synagogues. That request was denied—but he did let them repurpose the abandoned mosques for their own religious and secular traditions. Such recorded historical accounts explain the similarities found between mosques and synagogues in Sicily and Palermo.63 Architects also played a significant role in spreading ideas and styles across regions. In some cases, the design of synagogues even followed the patterns of Islamic religious architecture. For instance, in 1856 the architect of Sultan Abdulmecid I, Assad Effendi, designed a synagogue in Palestine in the exact style of an Ottoman mosque that he later built on the Bosphorus. Another synagogue designed by a German architect in Jerusalem around the same time was in accordance with European principles.64 The dynamics of synagogue construction changed after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and the formation of the nation states in the Middle East and North Africa, as secular governments became more inclined to protect the rights of religious minorities. The synagogues created in the twentieth century were mostly located in newer areas of cities, outside the historically established Jewish neighborhoods. Historiographical Considerations in the Study of Synagogues The study of synagogues throughout the Islamic world has revealed relationships between the architectural forms associated with Islamic cultures and Jewish interpretations of architectural tradition. Most scholars who have examined Jewish communities in Islamic lands have taken approaches that are historical, sociological, or anthropological.65 These initial investigations have led historians to draw valuable conclusions regarding expressions of faith and power in the architectural environment. Historians have devoted less attention, however, to analyzing the formal and theoretical qualities of Jewish holy sites, including cemeteries, shrines, and synagogues in Islamic societies. Those few who have attempted to overcome the practical challenges of research have, for the most part, undertaken a case-study approach clarified by spatial and temporal parameters, but seldom connected to broader historical and cultural trends.66 Several issues have made it difficult for historians, theologians, and anthropologists to determine to what extent the facts of sacred architecture reveal the fluidity and dynamism within and between Muslim and Jewish spiritual practices. These facts include the latitude and longitude of the Jewish sites, the dimensions and materials used in these structures and spaces, and relationships between synagogues within the Jewish quarter, and the linkages between synagogues and other urban monuments in predominantly Muslim societies. Sadly, the radicalization of Islam in the twenty-first century has led to rising anti-Islamic sentiment in the face of a global military and political conflict rooted in religious identity and characterized as jihad. The widespread generalizations expressed as a result of the destructive activities of fundamentalist groups such as the Taliban and ISIS, coupled with the profoundly flawed assumption that Islam is fundamentally opposed to other faiths and their physical manifestations, have hindered the study of non-Muslim sacred sites such as synagogues.67 An additional factor that distorts a true historical picture of the fate of pre-Islamic and Jewish

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traditions in predominantly Muslim societies is the ideological approach taken by historians who have politicized research in this field.68 Another issue to be highlighted here is the influence of the UNESCO World Heritage Center in the protection and preservation of Jewish sacred sites and monuments, which tends to favor more monumental structures. Furthermore, the emphasis of recent research is often focused on medieval synagogues. This trend has overshadowed a revolutionary reassessment of the notion of the Jewish sacred space in colonial, pre-modern, and modern cities in the Middle East and North Africa. In particular, European colonialism entirely changed the dynamics of construction as it increased the power wielded by nonMuslims and gave them more freedom to express themselves. The impact of European imperialism, the rise of the nation-state, two world wars, the Holocaust, radical shifts in global geopolitics, the foundation of the State of Israel, and the influence of the media have, to varying degrees, catalyzed the complexity and diversity of the relationships between Muslims and Jews over the course of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first century.69 Secular governments in the Middle East in the twentieth century generally showed greater interest in protecting their Jewish populations—in large part due to the fact that their treatment of minorities was often considered as the basic criteria for the West’s assessment of their human rights record. While this trend did not necessarily result in the construction of new synagogues in most of these countries, it improved conditions for their Jewish populations. The only universally shared aspect of Muslim–Jewish relationships is their complexity and diversity. The rising influence of religion in global politics can only further complicate and diversify those relationships. While the globalization of the world in the last three decades has given more voice to minorities across the Middle East and North Africa, the mass immigration of Jews to the West and Israel has resulted in the abandonment and destruction of many Jewish quarters and their synagogues. At the same time, the recognition by heritage organizations of synagogues as national or international heritage sites has transformed some of these sacred buildings into museums of Jewish culture and tourist attractions. The history of synagogues and its palimpsests call attention to both periods of toleration and acts of discrimination, while simultaneously providing evidence of religious, cultural, and social syncretism. Exemplars appear in numbers and variations that defy quantification: there are as many dialogues and trajectories of conflict, resolution, and coexistence as there are monuments. In a global environment of increasing volatility and diminishing predictability, each loss of a synagogue, regardless of the reason, permanently alters and thus distorts the psycho-geographical fabric of the context in which these structures developed over centuries. As stressed herein, the history of Jewish sacred sites in the Islamic world is by no means homogeneous. It has been contingent on patterns of urban design, the power of the clergy, and attitudes toward Jews and their level of involvement in the economic and political affairs of the larger Islamic society. Whatever textual narratives emerge as the future of relations between Muslims and Jews unfolds, Jewish domestic and sacred spaces will continue to provide a central body of knowledge that will confirm or dispute claims rooted in doctrine, faith, and community. The present volume seeks to complement and expand existing research through its contributors’ investigations of Jewish holy sites. A single volume cannot possibly address the extent of diversity and vitality of Jewish communities, but it is the hope of the editor that its contents will provoke questions, stimulate discussion, and inspire further research into Jewish sacred architecture, and reinforce the urgent need for reform in the treatment of these historic sites throughout the Islamic world. Notes 1. For the entire text of the Constitution of Madina, reportedly dictated by Muhammad, refer to W. Montgomery Watt, Islamic Political Thought: The Basic Concepts (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1980), 130–134. 2. Youssef Courbage and Philippe Fargues, Christians and Jews under Islam, trans. Judy Mabro (London: I. B. Tauris, 1998), 2. 3. W. Montgomery Watt, Muhammad in Medina (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 192. 4. Majid Khadduri, War and Peace in the Law of Islam (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1981), 209. 5. Alfred Guillaume, Islam (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), 41. 6. Montgomery Watt, Muhammad in Medina (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 210. 7. On the names and origins of the pagan idols of the Meccan polytheists, see Hisham ibn al-KalbÈ, Kitåb-ulasnåm [Book of Idols], trans. Nabih Amin Faris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1952).

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8. Courbage and Fargues, Christians and Jews under Islam. 9. According to Courbage and Fargues, ibid., 6: “At the time of the Muslim revelation . . . the Arab East probably contained some 15 million Christians and less than 200,000 Jews.” 10. The Pact of ʿUmar was a retrospective compilation of earlier treaties of capitulation, intended to protect Muslims from the practices of the dhimmis rather than to discriminate against those who resisted converting to Islam. 11. Qur’an 2:256. 12. Qur’an 9:29. 13. Norman A. Stillman, “Dhimma,” in Josef W. Meri, ed., Medieval Islamic Civilization: An Encyclopedia, 2 vols., ed. Josef W. Meri (New York: Routledge, 2006), 1: 205. See also Robert Hoyland, ed., Muslims and Others in Early Islamic Society (London: Routledge, 2004). 14. Ziauddin Ahmed, “The Concept of Jizya in Early Islam,” Islamic Studies 14, no. 4 (Winter, 1975), 301. According to Norman Stillman, “As Islamic Law, institutions, and administrative practice evolved, the rules of dhimma became more highly defined and rarified. The tribute paid by the conquered peoples varied greatly from one province to another, depending on the terms of surrender made with the Arab commanders. Eventually, Islamic law required all adult dhimmi males to pay a graduated poll tax (jizya) of five dinars for the wealthy, three for the middle class, and one for the working poor (although not for the totally indigent), as well as a land tax (kharaj) for those who owned real estate.” See Stillman, “Dhimma,” 206. 15. Ahmed, “The Concept of Jizya in Early Islam,” 293. 16. Ibid., 302–303. 17. Ibid., 295. 18. According to Norman Stillman, “The text of the document was probably redacted during the caliphate of ‘Umar ibn ‘Abd al-Aziz (717–20), when there was a hardening of attitudes toward dhimmis in Islamic public policy.” See Stillman, op. cit., 205. Other possible sources from which the Pact of ʿUmar derives include the earlier (633 ce) Treaty of Capitulation of Jerusalem, which included this text: “In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate! This is the safeguard granted to the inhabitants of Alia [Jerusalem] by the servant of God, ʿUmar, commander of the faithful. They are given protection of their persons, their churches, their crosses—whether these are in good state or not—and their cult in general. No constraint will be exercised against them in the matter of religion and no harm will be done to any of them. The inhabitants of Alia will have to pay the jizya in the same way as the inhabitants of other towns. It rests with them to expel the Byzantines and robbers from their city. Those among the latter who wish to remain will be permitted on condition that they pay the same jizya as the inhabitants of Alia.” Treaty of Capitulation of Jerusalem recorded by Tabari, Tarikh al-rusulwa’l-muluk (923), quoted in Antoine Fattal, Le statut legal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam (Beirut: Imprimerie catholique, 1958). See also Jacob Neuser and Bruce Chilton, Religious Tolerance in World Religions (West Conshohocken, PA: Templeton Foundation Press, 2008), 272, 43. 19. Stillman, “Dhimma,” 205. 20. Daniel J. Schroeter, review of The Jews of Islam by Bernard Lewis, International Journal of Middle East Studies 21 (1989): 601–605. 21. In one instance, the Banu Taghlib, an influential, mostly Christian Arab tribe, refused to pay the jizya to the Muslim caliph ʿUmar since they saw it as unreasonable and humiliating. Instead, they agreed to pay sadaqa (alms) at double rate. When ʿUmar refused to accept this proposal, many members of this tribe crossed over to the Romans and joined the enemy. This move made ʿUmar withdraw his order and agree to their proposal (Ibn al-Hummam, Sharh Fath al-Qadir, Cairo, Matba’ah Mustafa Muhammad, IV, 328; Amwal, 541–543; Abu Yusuf, Kharaj, pp. 120–121. (Quoted from Ahmed, “The Concept of Jizya in Early Islam,” 299)). 22. Ahmed, “The Concept of Jizya in Early Islam,” 299. 23. Najwa Al-Qattan, “Dhimmis in the Muslim Court: Legal Autonomy and Religious Discrimination,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 31, no. 3 (August, 1999): 429. 24. Ibid., 431. 25. Ibid., 435. A more general survey concerning the legal rights of religious minorities in Muslim lands can be found in Anver M. Emon, “Religious Minorities and Islamic Law: Accommodation and the Limits of Tolerance,” in Islamic Law and International Human Rights Law, ed. Anver M. Emon, Mark Ellis, and Benjamin Glahn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Other studies on regulations governing places of worship include Fattal, Le statut legal des non-musulmans en pays d’Islam; and Richard J. H. Gottheil, “Dhimmis and Muslims in Egypt,” in Studies in Memory of W. R. Harper III, vol. 2 (Chicago, 1908), 353–414. See also Seth Ward, “A Fragment from an Unknown Work by Al-Tabari on the Tradition ‘Expel the Jews and Christians from the Arabian Peninsula (And the Lands of Islam),’” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 53, no. 3 (1990): 407–420. This source focuses on the interpretation of the passage by al-Tabari that survived in al-Subki’s treatise on the segregation or exile of non-Muslims from Muslim quarters and lands. The article sheds light on the themes of place, land, ownership, the interpretation of the Muslim city, and the extent to which non-Muslim residences were excluded from the Arabian Peninsula. See also Jamsheed Choksy, Conflict and Cooperation: Zoroastrian Subalterns and Muslim Elites in Medieval Iranian Society (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007). 26. Bernard Lewis, The Jews of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), 16. As Norman

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27.

8. 2 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

7. 4 48.

Stillman notes, “. . . the basic notion of the dhimma as a binding compact of protection for the ahl al-kitab was never rescinded, except under heterodox regimes such as that of the Almohads during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.” Stillman, “Dhimma,” 207. For example, while Jews were suppressed and were not given the right to construct synagogues in the Golden Age of the Safavid Empire in the early sixteenth century, Christian Armenians experienced enormous social, religious, and economic freedom. In South Asia, the Sultans and the Mughals purportedly destroyed a number of Hindu and Jain temples (often to harvest materials for the construction of mosques), but also allowed the restoration and construction of new synagogues. The Mughal emperors, Akbar and Jahangir, serve as the best exemplars of inter-religious tolerance. Akbar consolidated his empire by marrying a Hindu princess and welcomed Jews to his court. These instances imply that the situation in the Islamic world was defined by the variety, complexity, and subtlety of relations between the Islamic rulers and their Jewish subjects. At times, Jewish bathhouses were separate from Muslim bathhouses. Stillman, “Interfaith Relations,” 393–394. Qur’an 22:40. It is important to note that in contemporary studies, the Pact of ʿUmar has been used as evidence for Muslim toleration of non-Muslims as well as evidence of the oppression of non-Muslims by Muslims. Moshe Gil, “DhimmÈ Donations and Foundations for Jerusalem (638–1099),” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 27, no. 2 (1984): 156. Ibid., 157. Ibid., 160. Stillman, “Dhimma,” 205. “Although there were no enforced ghettos during the first five centuries of Islamic history, dhimmis generally (I: 394) preferred to live together in particular neighborhoods. Some cities in Iraq, Syria, and Spain had Christian and Jewish quarters. In Baghdad, some of these quarters had actually been pre-existing Christian and Jewish villages that were incorporated into the newly founded Abbasid capital. However, the documents of the Cairo Genizah indicate that in Fustat in Egypt, and in Qayrawan in Ifriqiyya, both of which were founded as amsar [ruling Arab Muslim garrison towns], there were no Jewish quarters as such, only neighborhoods containing a highly concentration of Jews, but with Muslim and Christian residents as well. Dhimmis clustered in neighborhoods not only for convenient access to their communal institutions but also for practical security reasons. Because of the stipulations of the Pact of ʿUmar, it was advisable not to have a church or synagogue near a large concentration of Muslims. It was also preferable to have an access route to the Christian or Jewish cemetery that did not pass through a predominantly Muslim neighborhood. Dhimmi funeral processions were the object of occasional harassment—sometimes minor, sometimes serious—from medieval to modern times.” Stillman, “Interfaith Relations,” 2:394. For instance, it is known that Jews in the Yemen were not allowed to construct houses higher (and consequently, more visible) than those of the Muslims. See Bat-Zion Eraqi Klorman, “Muslim Society as an Alternative: Jews Converting to Islam,” Jewish Social Studies, n.s., 14 no. 1 (Fall, 2007): 92. See Seth Ward, “Construction and Repair of Churches and Synagogues in Islamic Law” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1984). Richard Gottheil, “A Document of the Fifteenth Century Concerning Two Synagogues of the Jews in Old Cairo,” Jewish Quarterly Review, n.s., 18, no. 2 (October, 1927): 149. Ibid. Ibid., 150. Ibid., 151. John O. Hunwick, “The Rights of Dhimmis to Maintain a Place of Worship: A Fifteenth-Century Fatwa from Tlemcen,” al-Qantara 12, no. 1 (1991): 133–156. Ibid., 147. Other Muslim legal sources from a Shi’ite perspective on religious minorities include Saeid Edalatnejad’s doctoral diss., “Shiite Tradition, Rationalism and Modernity: The Codification of the Rights of Religious Minorities in Iranian Law (1906–2004)” (Free University of Berlin, 2009). See also Arthur Stanley Tritton, The Caliphs and Their Non-Muslim Subjects: A Critical Study of the Covenant of ‘Umar (London: Frank Cass, 1930), in which variety of legal opinions are discussed in Chapter 3, “Churches and Monasteries.” Richard Gottheil’s translation of a late thirteenth-century Arabic text by the Egyptian jurist Ghazi ibn al-Wasiti, “An Answer to the Dhimmis,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 41 (1921): 383–457, gives a description of rules imposed on the Copts and Jews in Syrian and Egyptian lands. See also Richard J. Gottheil, “An Eleventh-Century Document Concerning a Cairo Synagogue,” Jewish Quarterly Review 19, no. 3 (April, 1907): 467–539. Accusing Iranian Jews of being supporters of Zionism, he questions the legitimacy of the Pahlavid regime of Iran because of its ties to Jews. He claims that religious minorities lose their status as “protected people” and become people of war” when they rebel against the restrictions placed on them. (Uriah Furman, “Minorities in Contemporary Islamist Discourse,” Middle Eastern Studies 36, no. 4 (October, 2000): 12.) S. Abul A’la Muwdudi, The Meaning of the Qur’an, vol. 2 (1993), 183. See Courbage and Fargues, Christians and Jews under Islam, 31. The tension between the nomad and the sedentary state reaches maximum intensity when a nomadic Islamic society becomes a settled Islamic state.

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49. This is in contrast to the Jewish settlements in some parts of Europe, which were developed as ghettos, isolated from the rest of the city, or as shtetls, small towns with large Jewish populations of the kind that existed in central and eastern Europe. 50. This definition of sacred architecture serves as the basis for this study. “Predominantly Muslim” refers to any society that is either politically ruled by Muslims and/or has a majority Muslim in population. “NonMuslim” refers to any members of that society who have not converted to Islam—or in one instance, to a group that some Muslims exclude from their numbers based on sectarian or other differences. 51. Susan Gilson Miller and Mauro Bertagnin explain that this identity was “flexibly adjusted as one moved outward from the quarter, from a situation in which minority status was self-evident, to one in which it was declared through various strategies of self-representation” in their introduction to The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University School of Design, 2010), 14. 52. Lee Levine believes that the view of synagogues as sacred places in some Jewish societies was the result of competition with certain churches that claimed to be replicas of, or substitutes for, the Jerusalem Temple and thereby the legitimate heirs of Temple practice. In this sense, the association of the synagogue with the Temple in Jerusalem, and its sanctity may have been a driving force in the Byzantine era under the influence of Christian polemics and practice. See Lee Levine, “In Search of the Synagogue,” Part III, Reform Judaism Online (Summer, 2008). 53. The Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans in 70 ce. 54. The Shulkhan Arukh (lit. “Set Table”) is the most authoritative Jewish legal codex. It was written by Joseph Karo in 1563 and published in Venice two years later. Together with its commentaries, it is the most widely accepted compilation of Jewish law ever written (Shlomo Ganzfried, The Kleinman Edition Kitzur Shulkhan Arukh–Code of Jewish Law (Brooklyn: Mesorah Publications Ltd., 2011)). 55. Lee Levine, “In Search of the Synagogue: The Temple Destroyed; The Synagogue Takes a Turn [70 ce–4th century],” Part II, Reform Judaism Online (Winter, 2007). 56. These national holidays included Nowruz, which was celebrated by Jews in Iran and Central Asia. 57. The synagogue now known as Santa María La Blanca was a five-aisled synagogue (1180), unique in terms of style, was constructed under the Christian Kingdom of Castile by Muslim architects for Jewish use. This building represented the cooperation that existed among the three cultures that populated the Iberian Peninsula during the Middle Ages. 58. Lee Levine, a contemporary historian of synagogues, writes: “[Ancient] synagogues differed in their size and shape as well as in their location within a city. Some were centrally situated, others peripherally. Some had an atrium; others did not. In some communities, the sanctuary was part of a larger complex that might have included a kitchen, a triclinium (dining hall), or a meeting/study hall. Some buildings had dining halls, which may signify the importance of communal meals; this is also indicated at Dura Europos by the discovery of parchment fragments containing what appears to be a form of birkat ha-mazon (grace after meals). Some synagogues housed a library . . . Some synagogues were very conservative in their interpretation of the biblical Second Commandment and chose to decorate their buildings without figural representation; others were more liberal in this regard.” Lee Levine, “In Search of the Synagogue,” Part IV, Reform Judaism Online (Winter, 2008). 59. European synagogues had courtyards that were used for certain rituals, although they were not as large as those in warmer countries. 60. David Cassuto and Mohammad Gharipour, “Synagogues in the Islamic World,” in Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic World, ed. Norman A. Stillman, Phillip I. Ackerman-Lieberman, Yaron Ayalon, Avigdor Levy, and Vera B. Moreen (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 4:424. 61. Ibid., 427. 62. Both Sergey Kravstov and Samuel Gruber have studied the use of the four-column Tevah (pulpit) in Sephardi synagogues from lands under Ottoman rule in the centuries following the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492, in the Balkans and Turkey, as well as in Syria and parts of North Africa. 63. Cassuto and Gharipour, “Synagogues in the Islamic World,” 427. 64. Ibid., 429. 65. See, for example, Anh Nga Longva and Anne Sofie Roald, eds., Religious Minorities in the Middle East: Domination, Self-Empowerment, Accommodation (Leiden: Brill, 2012); Milka Levy-Rubin, Non-Muslims in the Early Islamic Empire: From Surrender to Coexistence (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Kasja Ahlstrand and Göran Gunner, Non-Muslims in Muslim Majority Societies: With a Focus on the Middle East and Pakistan (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2009); Sidney Harrison Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008); Aptin Khanbaghi, The Fire, the Star, and the Cross: Minority Religions in Medieval and Early Modern Iran (London: I. B. Tauris, 2006); Jean-Jacques Waardenburg, Muslims and Others: Relations in Context (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003); Oded Peri, Christianity under Islam in Jerusalem: The Question of the Holy Sites in Early Ottoman Times (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Robert Hoyland, ed., Muslims and Others in Early Islamic Society (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2004); A. Christian van Gorder, Christianity in Persia and the Status of Non-Muslims in Iran (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2010); Pramono U. Tanthowi, Muslims and Tolerance: Non-Muslim Minorities under Shariah in Indonesia (Chang Mai: Silkworm Books for the Asian Muslim Action Network, 2008); Salih ibn Husayn ‘Ayid, The Rights of Non-Muslims in the Islamic World (Riyadh: Dar Eshbelia, 2002); Allama Yusuf Alqarzavi

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and Abumasood Azhar Nadvi, Islam: Muslims and Non-Muslims (Delhi: Adam Publishers, 2000); and Sheikh Mohammad Iqbal, Islamic Toleration and Justice: Non-Muslims under Muslim Rule (Delhi: Adam Publishers, 2007). 66. These studies include the work of Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petruccioli, and Mauro Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City: The Jewish Quarter of Fez (1438–1912),” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 60, no. 3 (September, 2001): 310–327. It describes the real and imagined porous boundaries that existed between the minority space (the Jewish quarter) in Fez and the rest of the Muslim city. The architectural typologies of synagogues, residential quarters, and cemeteries reflect the close interaction between Jewish and Muslim inhabitants. The architectural survey of synagogues in Morocco is the subject of Joel Zack’s book The Synagogues of Morocco, 2nd ed., photographs by Isaiah Wyner (New York: Jewish Heritage Council, World Monuments Fund, 1995), which includes maps, plans, and photographs of certain little-known examples of Jewish sacred architecture. 67. Global media portrayal of isolated and extreme incidents such as the Taliban’s destruction of the colossal Buddhas at Bamiyan in March 2001 and the destruction by ISIS (Daesh) of non-Muslim holy sites reveals a tendency to view Islam as violently iconoclastic. Such views have provoked responses from Muslim and non-Muslim religious leaders, politicians, journalists, writers, and scholars. As the destruction of mosques and shrines by Islamist groups in Timbuktu in 2012 and Syria in 2014 attests, some radicalized groups within Islam do not restrict such destructive acts to the sacred monuments of other faiths. 68. As Ari Ariel mentions, the study of Middle Eastern Jewry is plagued by two oversimplifications: Zionist authors who have presented some recent studies concerning Jews in the Islamic world and have attempted to study the Jews as an isolated group within the Islamic world. They highlight intolerance against Jews in Arab countries in order to justify emigration to Israel and the creation of the State of Israel. Arab nationalists, however, often describe the Jewish experience as one of a harmonious, multi-dimensional coexistence. Ariel reminds us of the importance of studying Jews as an integral part of the social and political milieu (Ari Ariel, review of Jews and Muslims in Lower Yemen by Isaac Hollander, Arab Studies Journal 13/14, no. 2/1 (Fall, 2005 / Spring, 2006): 174–177). His view is similar to that of Bernard Lewis, who tries to distance himself from both “the “apologists” and “the polemicists” in the area of Jewish–Muslim relations, by emphasizing that neither stereotype of a “golden age of tolerance” and “fanatical oppression” is absolutely true (Daniel J. Schroeter, review of The Jews of Islam by Bernard Lewis, International Journal of Middle East Studies 21 (1989): 601–605). 69. The end of the Ottoman Empire, European mandates in the Middle East, the Partition of India, the installation and subsequent overthrow of European- and American-backed rulers in such nations as Iran, wars between and within Middle Eastern nation-states, the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the rise of Islamist groups such as the Taliban, ISIS (Daesh), digital and social media exposure of non-Muslim practices toward suspected Muslim terrorists, and the 2011–12 Arab Spring have also been catalysts for change in the cultural landscapes of predominantly Muslim societies.

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Historic Relations Between Muslims and Jews

Chapter Two

Prologue—Historic Relations between Muslims and Jews* Reuven Firestone

Jews were established throughout what would become the Muslim Middle East and North Africa for centuries before the coming of Islam. In addition to the ancient homeland of the Land of Israel, Jews had also become scattered into other areas. The Assyrian Empire dispersed many Jews to various locations within its realm as early as 733 bce,1 and after the destruction of the First Temple in 586 bce,2 a large community was driven into exile to the city of Babylon on the Euphrates River in what is today Iraq. The Bible mentions Jews in Nineveh, Babylon, Susa, Hamath, Cuthah, Gozan, Erech, Nimrud (Calah), Sardis (Sefarad), and Egypt among other locations that would eventually fall within the empires of Islam. Epigraphic and literary evidence also supports the existence of a well-established Jewish community in Arabia. Evidence of Jewish communities in both northern and southern Arabia derives from Greek, Roman, and early Christian chroniclers writing from the first through the sixth centuries, and from Hebrew and Arabic inscriptions from roughly the same period.3 A Jewish kingdom was even established in Himyar in southern Arabia in the fifth and sixth centuries, which controlled a number of other regions as well. There is clear evidence of a Jewish presence in the northern areas that straddled Jewish settlement in Palestine and Mesopotamia on the one hand, and the Hijaz, the location of Mecca and Medina, on the other. Jewish inscriptions in Hebrew and/or Aramaic script but in either the Aramaic or Arabic language have been found in Mada’in Salih, Tayma’, al-Ula, Umm Judhayidh (near Tabuk), and a few other locations in WådÈ al-Qurå and elsewhere. Jews (as well as Christians) brought their cultural, literary, and religious traditions with them wherever they settled, freely sharing their traditions and practices with local communities. Biblical and rabbinic traditions thus became part of the cultural landscape of pre-Islamic Arabia and became nativized as they mixed with local cultural expressions.4 The Jews of Arabia were traders, craftsmen, farmers, and Bedouin herders, and they practiced some kind(s) of “rabbinic” Judaism. The Qur’an (Q.3:79; 5:44, 63) appears to refer to Jews as “rabbanites” or the followers of rabbis (rabbaniyun) and “companions” (ahbar), the latter term probably reflecting a Talmudic expression used to identify a learned Jew.5 Arabian Jews were probably an ethnic mixture between immigrants from Palestine and converts from local tribes and communities. They spoke Arabic, and some, at least, also spoke a language referred to in Muslim sources as al-yahudiyya, perhaps a Jewish dialect of Syriac–Aramaic and Arabic, but they also knew some Hebrew. They lived in houses in towns and cities and in tents in the desert, and they also inhabited castles, built as protection for extended clans in some places such as Medina. Evidence from inscriptions, the Qur’an, and historical references, such as the pact known as the Medina Agreement (sahifat al-madina or mithaq al-madina) found in early Muslim historical writings suggest that the Jews were a significant, well-established, and accepted component of the Arabian population. They lived not only in discrete Jewish tribal communities but also as family units attached to ­non-Jewish tribes and were related by both blood and marriage to non-Jewish individuals and groups.6 Jews lived from north to south in the Arabian peninsula, though there seems to have been no Jewish community living in Mecca, the trading and cultic center of the Quraysh tribe into which Muhammad was born. Presumably, Mecca’s status as religious shrine and center for regional

* This chapter is a condensed and revised version of the author’s “Muslim–Jewish Relations,” in The Oxford Research Encyclopaedia of Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015).

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Arabian polytheism was a deterrent to permanent Jewish settlement, though Jews regularly visited the city for trade and commerce. The Earliest Period of Muslim–Jewish Interaction The emergence of Islam in the seventh century occurred in a complex religious and political environment. Jews, Christians, and perhaps indigenous expressions of monotheism had already existed in Arabia for centuries. The qur’anic rhetorical refrain of “remember” that initiates many references to stories and ideas—also found also in biblical literature—suggests that its audience was already familiar in general with many of the moral–ethical, social and religious teachings found within it.7 As is well-known, Muhammad’s prophetic utterances eventually put him in mortal danger from his own community. He found refuge in the oasis of Yathrib/Medina, a city containing a large Jewish community who, as scriptural monotheists, he seems to have expected would recognize his prophetic status. Unlike most Arabs in the region who represented a polytheist religious culture, Jews were familiar with prophets and divine revelation and had their own scripture. It was logical to assume that they would recognize his prophethood as well, perhaps because of the hints that there were some Jews in the peninsula who were expecting a charismatic religious figure.8 When Muhammad came to Medina, he met with the Jewish inhabitants in what is referred to in the Arabic sources as bayt al-midrås, an Arabic rendering of the Hebrew words for “house of study” (beyt midrash), a term also used to refer to a synagogue.9 Most Medinan Jews and the Arabian Jewish communities as a whole did not recognize Muhammad as a prophet, though a few notable exceptions are mentioned in the Muslim sources.10 Nevertheless, Muhammad’s most threatening opponents were not Jews but rather the pagan Arab individuals and communities that had most to lose from his success. His entry into Medina was made possible by an invitation, extended to him as a respected arbitrator appointed to resolve a dangerous and bloody dispute between the major non-Jewish clans to which Jewish clans were allied. In the early period of Muhammad’s tenure in Medina, the Jewish groups were completely integrated into the larger community he established, with equal rights and responsibilities. As he gained strength against his opponents and many Arab individuals and groups joined him, however, the major Jewish groups resisted and eventually opposed him vigorously. According to Muslim sources, the Jews of Medina violated the protection offered them in the Medina Agreement by insulting and eventually threatening the life of the Prophet. Muhammad ultimately outwitted them, dividing them and eventually disarming them, exiling some and killing others to neutralize the hostile Jewish community of Medina and become the absolute leader of the city and its environs. Modern Western observers tend to view Muhammad’s behavior as being inherently anti-Jewish or anti-Semitic, while Muslims tend to see the Jewish rejection of him and the revelation he brought as inexcusable behavior intent on subverting God’s true word. The most probable reality was neither. Both the established Jewish community and the new community of Muslim believers were responding to one another according to a central assumption of monotheism that inevitably results in conflict between variant expressions. That central assumption is that the One Great God both establishes and demands allegiance to a single truth that cancels out the truth-claims of all other religions, including variant expressions of monotheism.11 The Jews were loyal to the truth as they had learned it through the revelation of the Torah, while Muhammad and his followers were loyal to the truth as they had received it through the revelation of the Qur’an. Neither party could countenance the claim of the other, but considered them false or distorted and as perverting God’s true word.12 The Jews of Medina had no choice but to oppose Muhammad as a false prophet who, from their perspective, was distorting the truth of God’s revelation that had already been fully disclosed and codified in the Torah. But from the perspective of Muhammad and his followers, the Medinan Jews were unequivocally opposing God by resisting and delegitimizing the divine disclosure and the authentic redemptive message that it brought. Parallel conflict scenarios are easily found in the emergence of Christianity and its revelation in relation to Judaism, the emergence of Islam and its revelation in relation to Christianity, and the emergence of post-qur’anic religion and its revelation such as Baha’ism in relation to Islam. The aggrieved parties observe the conflict from radically different perspectives and each constructs a narrative to explain the conflict that favors its own particular point of view. Despite the conflict and the violence that it spawned, Medinan Jews and early Muslims, like their descendants, shared many of the most fundamental notions of religion in prophecy, revelation,

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ethics, law, ritual and ritual purity, and theology. They disagreed over the details, and even more so via the inevitable competition as to which community best represented the divine will. That issue, also in relation to a third community of Christians that claimed its own exclusive representation of the will of God, would henceforth define interreligious relations more than any other criterion. The Qur’an itself, however, while claiming authenticity as God’s word, places its revelation in the context of previous revelations known in seventh-century Arabia through Jewish and Christian scriptures (including 6:154–157; 7:157; 10:37; 35:31). It does not invalidate prior scripture, but rather criticizes the accuracy of unnamed Jewish and Christian opponents who claim to cite the divine word in a manner that would counter or contradict the Qur’an. The conflict between competing claims based on the authority of divergent scriptures lies at the base of most conflicts between monotheist communities living in the Muslim world. The conquests that established a great and powerful Muslim empire began shortly after the death of the Prophet. These conquests are sometimes referred to as Muslim, sometimes as Arab. Historians of the period note that the boundary between Muslim and other monotheists was not clear during the early years of Islam. The Qur’an had not yet been committed to a written form nor had the traditions attributed to Prophet Muhammad been collected. No theology had been systematized, nor had a legal system been established. Contemporary Christian witnesses identify adherents to various forms of Christianity among the warriors,13 and while no witness specifically identifies Jews among their number, it is likely that some Jews also engaged in the campaign. Within a relatively short period of time, however, a hierarchy was established by the conquerors to differentiate between three categories: Muslim believers, non-Muslim monotheists, and polytheists. The hierarchy is enshrined in the ninth chapter of the Qur’an in which early verses establish that polytheists are to be fought to the death or until they accept Islam. Non-Muslim monotheists, identified in the Qur’an as “People of the Book” (sometimes referred to in scholarly literature as “Scriptuaries”) however, are granted the freedom to continue to subscribe to their religion as long as they pay tribute and assume a deferential position vis-à-vis the Muslim community. The policy regarding Scriptuaries is codified in Q.9:29: “Fight those who do not believe in God nor in the Last Day, who do not forbid what God and His messenger have forbidden nor follow the religion of truth among those who have been given Scripture—until they pay the jizya (understood as tribute) ‘an yadin (literally, “by [their] hand), wahum såghirËn (literally, “being small or lowly”).”14 It is not clear exactly what the last three parts of this verse, transliterated from the original Arabic, were intended to mean, and traditional Muslim scholars of the Qur’an have differed significantly in their interpretations of it. The verse has nevertheless served as a key authority for official policy established in Islamic legal literature toward non-Muslim monotheists who accept the unity of God but do not accept the prophethood of Muhammad or the minutiae of Islamic practice and theology. They are to be accepted in Muslim society as citizens with legal protection and legal rights, though at a lower level than Muslims. In fact, the Qur’an expresses a sense of responsibility to protect synagogues and churches as well as mosques (Q.22: 39–40). The Scriptuaries, for their part, must pay a special tax and accept subservient social and political status imposed through a list of sumptuary laws, rules designed to restrict outward displays of wealth and status, and intended to enforce social hierarchy based on a document known as the Pact of ʿUmar. Christians, as well as Jews, were subject to these rules, so it is clear that they contained no particularly anti-Jewish or anti-Semitic intent. They developed as a means to privilege Muslims in a world in which governments always privileged ruling elites and the communities with which they identified. The term used to define the status of tolerated religions was dhimma, which meant protection. The people belonging to tolerated religions were called ahl al-dhimma—“protected people,” or in shortened form, dhimmis. Dhimmis were required to pay an annual tax and to abide by the sumptuary laws. Their “protection” meant that they were legal citizens of the state and protected by the same basic laws as those that protected Muslim citizens, though at a subordinate level. For example, they could bring grievances to a Muslim court of law, but their testimony was not as powerful as that of Muslims so they were required to bring twice the number of witnesses to court. They could pray undisturbed in their houses of worship, but unlike Muslims they were forbidden to make public displays of religion. Dhimmis were forbidden to build new houses of worship or repair those already established, except with permission of the ruler. It is clear, however, that Jews continued to build synagogues and repair those that needed it. Their synagogues were nevertheless required to be unobtrusive and were often not easily identifiable as a Jewish place of worship, a feature of synagogue construction that can still be seen in parts of the Muslim world today.15 Synagogues in the Muslim world resembled Christian churches in a number of ways that reflected the similar dhimmi status

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of Jews and Christians. They tended to be inconspicuous, and the internal structures exhibited a number of similarities that reflect a certain level of Muslim influence. The Cairo Genizah shows how the discreet construction and surrounding cluster of houses rendered them less liable to become an easy target during times of tension.16 Jewish officials lived within the synagogue compound as did Coptic monks in church compounds, for instance. Synagogues also served as a meeting-place for the community, as the location for the rabbinical court when it was convened, a place for adults as well as schoolchildren to learn, and even a hospice for needy travelers. Synagogues in Cairo also contained wells containing water for washing, though there is no evidence that the usual ritual bath (mikva) even existed in Cairo prior to the arrival of Maimonides in the late twelfth century.17 The status of Jews in general within the Muslim world, though certainly not equal to that of Muslims and therefore unacceptable by today’s democratic standards, was nevertheless a significant improvement over their position in the Christian world in which the “Jewry laws” identified Jews as an aberrant community and in many parts of which, the Jews eventually lost their protected status altogether. By the High Middle Ages, Jews were able to survive in Christendom only through the largesse of certain members of the Christian nobility who personally protected them but only for as long as these patrons wished, a far more unstable and dangerous situation than they generally experienced under the Muslims.18 During the early period of Muslim rule, most Jews lived in the Land of Israel–Palestine, Babylonia– Mesopotamia and Egypt, though small communities were scattered from Morocco to Khurasan (an ill-defined area, roughly covering today’s northeastern Iran, western Afghanistan, and southern Turkmenistan). We know much less about social relations between Muslims and Jews during the early Islamic centuries than in later periods. It was a time in which Muslims were busy forming their most basic institutions of scripture (through the establishment of an official canonized text), tradition (through the collection and organization of the prophetic sunnah or teachings and practices of Muhammad), and law (through the formation of fiqh, or Islamic jurisprudence, and the major schools of Islamic law). The Jews who lived in the early Muslim world were also busy consolidating Rabbinic Judaism with its core texts of the Talmud and the legal literature that was just beginning to emerge from it. While Jews and Muslims were interfacing at all levels, we have little concrete information about their interactions. Certainly, given the Jewish historical penchant for recording disasters that affected them, if relations had been very bad we would know about it, so it must be presumed that Jews and Muslims lived together reasonably well under the conditions established in the Muslim world during the early period. The “Golden Age” of Muslim–Jewish Relations Relations between Muslims and Jews begin to be better known starting in the ninth century ce. This was the beginning of a period that in places such as Baghdad, Fostat/Cairo, and much of Spain, is sometimes referred to as “the Golden Age” of Muslim–Jewish or Muslim–Jewish–Christian symbiosis. “Golden” must be considered a relative term, however, since violence and the threat of violence was a central aspect of communal relationships between hierarchies everywhere in the medieval world. Jews as subordinates in the Muslim world clearly suffered social discrimination and occasional violence, there was even the occasional massacre. Mark Cohen has established quite clearly, however, that while a utopian “golden age” was a myth, the situation for Jews in much of the medieval Muslim world was significantly better than in most of the medieval Christian world and was one of the most favorable situations for pre-modern Jewry.19 Freedom of movement, afforded by political unity within the caliphate, allowed Jews and others opportunities for business and for cultural and religious diffusion and consolidation; the relative unity of the empire enabled Jewish practice and beliefs to become fairly standardized.20 When Baghdad was founded as the Abbasid capital, the two rabbinic academies established previously under the Sasanian Persians in nearby Sura and Pumbedita moved into the city to take advantage of proximity to the hub of the world’s largest empire. The Jewish community of Baghdad thus became the de facto capital of world Jewry. For centuries, the Sura and Pumbedita Talmudic academies were the ultimate authorities in Jewish law and tradition. They attracted the best Jewish minds to Baghdad. Jews and their rabbis, even in the far-flung communities of North Africa and Spain, some three thousand miles distant, sent inquiries over issues of law and practice to Baghdad, and along with their inquiries, remittances that supported the Talmudic academies. The academies competed for these inquiries and their accompanying donations, which stimulated excellence in learning. A great genre of Jewish law

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known as teshuvot, meaning “responses” and referred to in English as responsa literature, developed at this time, and thousands of letters, legal responsa, and even parts of the Talmud, survive from the period. A similar development occurred simultaneously in Islam, as the issuance of a legal opinion known as a fatwå developed under Abbasid rule. Like the teshuvah, the fatwå is a legal judgment or interpretation given by a qualified scholar learned in legal traditions. It is an individual endeavor, as opposed to the church councils that were occasionally convened by the Catholic Church. Among both Muslims and Jews, the authority of the issuer of the teshuvah or fatwå derived simply from his reputation as a scholar, and his opinion had no official authority that could be enforced by a government institution. In the Jewish context, this situation persisted because lack of Jewish political power meant that there was little possibility of enforcement, but with the establishment of powerful and influential power structures in the Muslim world the office of muftÈ (interpreter of Islamic law) became considerably politicized as governments wished to enforce their power through respected religious authorities. Another parallel development between Muslims and Jews in the Middle Ages can be found in attempts to systematize law in the formulation of legal compendia, one of the most famous of which in the Jewish world was Moses Maimonides’ (d. 1204) Mishneh Torah. Concern with law in Judaism is a function of concern for understanding God’s will, and the most reliable and accessible source for God’s will is the record of divine communication in the scripture. While Jews had engaged in the field of scriptural hermeneutics for centuries prior to the emergence of Islam, it was under Islam and the influence of its culture and civilization that scriptural hermeneutics among Rabbinic Jews became systematic (Hellenistic Jews in late antiquity had other systematic hermeneutics, but that community disappeared centuries before the coming of Islam). The Jews of Islam were profoundly and enduringly influenced by the development among their Muslim compatriots of “the sciences of the Qur’ån” (‘ulËm al-qur’ån). These include lexicography and etymology, the study of Arabic grammar (word morphology, syntax, etc.), rhetoric of the Qur’an and ancient Arabic literature, Arabic dialectology, and use of words in various contexts in oral as well as in written literature, and more. Jewish scholars living in the same centers of learning in which the Islamic sciences thrived knew of their Muslim colleagues’ work and applied it to the Jewish context because of the parallel interest in understanding God’s revealed word—though in a different scripture and in a different language. This resulted in the development of similar “sciences” in the study of the Hebrew Bible, including grammar and lexicography. Jewish religious thinkers considered Hebrew to be a pure language, one that was superior to Arabic, just as Muslim religious thinkers considered Arabic to be superior to Hebrew. The similarities between these two cognate languages enabled Jews to apply Arabisms and Arabic linguistic advances to their study of Hebrew. Jewish thinkers were also influenced by other popular sciences in the Muslim world, such as philosophy, astronomy, optics, and medicine. In fact, although Jews were exposed to systematic thinking in philosophy and theology under the Hellenistic influence of the conquest of the Levant, it was rejected by Rabbinic Jews and became of interest only after it had been effectively endorsed by Muslims who engaged with it. Developments in all of these fields in the Muslim world were paralleled among Jews in the same environments. In the religious sciences, these were fully contextualized in Jewish religious settings, but in neutral areas of science and some areas of philosophy, Muslims and Jews worked in the same general arenas. Virtually all Jewish essays in the sciences were written in Arabic, which attests to the high level of comfort and knowledge Jews experienced in Muslim culture and society. One of the reasons for the high level of Jewish intellectual and artistic production during this period was the structure of patronage that Jews borrowed from the larger culture. Wealthy and powerful Muslims attained status and prestige from the intellectuals and literati with whom they could surround themselves and whom they supported. The most successful talent could move up the hierarchical ladder, with the pinnacle being a position in the court of the caliph. In the Jewish world, likewise, wealthy merchants patronized the arts and sciences through Jewish talent, which encouraged the production of science, literature, and especially poetry and the linguistic arts.21 Cairo was a particularly interesting center for Muslim–Jewish engagement during these centuries. With the exception of Moses Maimonides, who was educated not in Cairo but in Cordoba, Cairene Jews did not produce ground-breaking or influential works. They constituted a successful bourgeois community, however, that maintained close communication and trading relations with distant lands from Spain to India. An enormous amount of information about this community exists, thanks to the massive cache of documents dating from the ninth to the nineteenth century

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that were found in a geniza, a storeroom of a Cairo synagogue in which old and worn-out Jewish writings were preserved.22 The documents in the Cairo Genizah include public and private records, personal letters, and a wealth of information not only about Cairo but about many other lands, and they also contain much information about Muslims and the relationship between the two communities. This includes details of business partnerships between Jews and Muslims such as silversmiths and glass-blowers, who shared their workshops with each taking off on his own weekly day of rest, the Muslims on Friday and Jews on Saturday. We even know from these sources of loans advanced by Muslims to Jewish craftsmen and vice versa.23 This does not suggest that Jews and Muslims were necessarily close friends, though such relationships must certainly have occurred. Social life in the medieval world was organized by class status, determined by family and wealth, and by ethnicity and religion. Jews could never escape from their lowly dhimmi status, and various Muslim preachers, politicians, and religious reformers would readily note publicly if the sumptuary laws represented by the Pact of ʿUmar were being contravened by dhimmi communities or individuals. The Genizah sources document cases of persecution against Jews, thus proving the complexity of relationships and relations between Muslims and Jews in the world of Islam. Jews were easily identifiable through their dress and their strict observance of the Sabbath and the Jewish dietary laws. They occasionally suffered from violence, particularly in periods of economic and political stress. Under the Fatimid caliph Al-Håkim (d. 1021), for example, Jews were forced to wear black belts and a bell around their necks while in the public baths to distinguish them from Muslims, but the caliph was much harsher on Christians, many of whom were removed from office or forcibly converted to Islam and many of whose churches were destroyed or converted into mosques. Sharing minority status with Christians mitigated the difficulties faced by Jews, a situation that differed significantly from the Jewish minority experience under Christian rule. Moses Maimonides’ (d. 1204) philosophical perspective is often compared to the Aristotelianism of his contemporary, Muhammad Ibn Rushd (known as Averroes, d.1198) who, like Maimonides, was born in Cordoba but was exiled when an extremist Muslim regime overthrew the previous moderate Muslim rulers. Maimonides became the head (ra’Ès al-yahËd) of the substantial Jewish community of Cairo and produced many writings in Arabic as well as Hebrew, many of which were influenced in structure and content by intellectual and cultural developments in the Muslim world. His son, Abraham Maimuni (d. 1237), became his successor as head of the Jews and received the title of nagÈd (governor) in the following generation, when Sufism was becoming widespread throughout the Muslim world. Abraham’s writings reveal a great deal of Sufi influence, though this did not detract from his strict rationalism and devotion to Jewish law and practice.24 He nevertheless deeply admired the Sufis and wrote his major work in a style that was highly influenced by contemporary Sufi intellectual and spiritual practice, “calling them the real lineal descendants of the prophets, and regretting that the Jews do not imitate their example.”25 The “Decline” The Muslim world began to fragment politically by the tenth century, a period sometimes claimed to be the beginning of the “Muslim Decline.” While the caliphate weakened in terms of unified control, however, the Muslim world continued to grow scientifically, culturally, and geographically for centuries as new territories came under Muslim rule in Anatolia, south and southeast Asia, and elsewhere. The so-called decline is perceived as occurring in part because of the strengthening of western European cultures and the impact this strengthening had on commerce and other fields in the Mediterranean region. Nevertheless, the rise of Europe with the concomitant relative decline of the adjacent Muslim world, negatively impacted the position of the latter’s Jewish and Christian minorities, causing tensions and friction between the majority Muslim population and religious and other minorities. Under the stresses caused by weakening economic and political institutions, society became increasingly stratified, religious orthodoxy with a rigid attitude toward religious minorities became increasingly dominant, and social, political, and religious friction emerged between various factions and communities. As a rule, when the economic and political situation in the Muslim world was stable, so was the position of its Jews. Relations between Jews and Muslims improved through business and commerce, which had a concomitant positive impact on social relations. During periods of destabilization, however, relations between Muslims and Jews tended to deteriorate, though always with exceptions. Generally speaking, the greater the tension and disparity between Western Europe and

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is Muslim neighbors, the greater the tension between the Muslim majority and its religious minorities in those regions that were under Muslim control. Western Europe would eventually extend its influence far beyond its borders through its colonies, which reached a European peak and associated Muslim nadir in the nineteenth century. At this time, virtually the whole Muslim world fell under the control of a Western European colonial power. The Modern Period and the Colonial Powers As just noted, the weakening of the Muslim world occurred simultaneously with the growth and increased power in the western Christian world. While the Ottoman Empire weakened, the western powers increasingly asserted themselves in the internal economic and political, and subsequently the social and legal spheres within the Empire. There had been commercial links between the Ottoman lands and European trading companies for centuries through the intermediary of the Jewish and Christian dhimmis who were familiar with Turkish, Arabic and European languages and cultural and mercantile mores. In North Africa, where Jews represented the only non-Muslim minority, Jews were especially prominent in this role. As the European powers in the nineteenth century asserted their influence through consular agents, Christian dhimmis sought European protection and influence to improve their own status. Because people tend naturally to relate better or more personally with people of similar background, Europeans tended to privilege the Christians with whom they interacted. It became commonplace for dhimmi Christian merchants traveling to British India or French North Africa or even Europe itself to return as naturalized foreign subjects. This new status as French, British, Dutch, or Italian citizens then released them from minority status in their native land. This elicited a negative response among Muslims, who resented both the outside interference and the reversal of the traditional hierarchy. Western influence on the traditional dhimmi status of Christians also impacted Jews, since Islam does not distinguish between the religious identities of its dhimmi citizens. Moreover, some British colonials were motivated by a kind of romantic philo-semitism toward native Jews that motivated them to work toward improving their status in areas under their influence. European pressures eventually resulted in the promulgation of an 1839 decree by the Ottoman Sultan Abdulmecid I that echoed many of the libertarian ideals articulated in the French Declaration of the Rights of Man. It included the granting of “. . . complete security to the inhabitants of the Empire with regard to their lives, their honor, and their fortunes even as it is required by the sacred text of our law.”26 Because of the problem of political devolution within the Empire, the decree was essentially ignored in many quarters, especially in outlying areas. This, along with other pressures and interests, prompted the same sultan to issue a new decree in 1856 that, among other reforms (tanzimat), created a system whereby each religious community became an autonomous body that could regulate its own affairs and be represented to the state through official deputies. These reforms created what is known as the millet system, which resulted eventually in the official abolition of the jizya with its humiliation of the monotheistic religious minorities. Under pressure from the European consuls in adjacent North African lands free from direct Ottoman control, places such as Tunisia and Egypt likewise liberalized the status of their nonMuslim subjects. The changes were not uniform, and some countries, such as Morocco, did not liberalize until much later or not until they became colonies of European powers. Nevertheless, the trend greatly improved the legal standing overall of Jews as well as Christians. Jews and Christians took advantage of the opportunity by increasing their role as intermediaries between European and local businesses, markets, and political bodies. Not only international merchants but entire communities learned European languages and culture, thanks in part to European efforts to establish Christian schools. Some European Jewish organizations then established Jewish schools in Muslim countries, the most important example being the French Alliance Israélite Universelle.27 Jews and Christians increasingly took on the trappings of westernization and, thanks to the fact that many had obtained foreign passports, performed a critical intermediary role. These changes improved the social–economic and political situation of Jews in these areas, but it caused tension and bitterness among traditional Muslim circles who resented the new equal or even superior status of their Jewish neighbors, especially since the abolition of the jizya and dhimmi status was considered by many to contradict the precept thought to be articulated in the Qur’an that religious minorities enjoy protection only as long as they agree to an inferior social status. Particularly in areas lacking a strong central government, Jews became vulnerable to pillage and violence by marauding tribesmen or extortion by local officials. Vulnerability to these scourges applied to the

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whole population in areas of weak or bad government, but more so to non-Muslims because of their traditional, vulnerable dhimmi status. The situation was similar in Iraq, where Jews (and Christians) found themselves in a far less secure situation. Here also, government was weak and often corrupt. Even the large and wealthy Jewish community of Baghdad was subject to official oppression and occasional violent riots. Accusations of blasphemy, conversion, and subsequent apostasy from Islam (both liable to the death penalty) became common, especially when there was a falling out between a Muslim and a Jew or when a Jew tried to collect a bad debt from a Muslim.28 In Syria, the situation was better initially, but a watershed moment occurred with the so-called “Damascus Affair” of 1840 in which local Christians, supported by the French consul, accused the Jews of having murdered a Capuchin friar and his servant in order to use their blood for Passover rituals. This resulted in the killing of innocent Jews in rioting and under interrogation, and it introduced the slander of the medieval European Christian blood libel into the Muslim world. The blood libel has since become firmly embedded in the popular culture and imagination of much of the Muslim world to this day.29 Ironically, while the introduction of Western liberal ideas and expectations through political and economic pressure in the Muslim world relieved the legal inferiority of non-Muslims and even allowed significant numbers to take on Western national identities, the disruption to their traditional status also removed the protection that accompanied it. The confusing imposition of Western values and political and legal systems upon the traditional religious and cultural structure and expectations already in place destabilized the Middle Eastern region in a variety of ways. Several negatively affected the welfare and daily lives of native Jews and Christians. On the one hand, some prospered greatly, both economically and socially. On the other hand, they were all exposed to the reactive excesses of native jealousy and religious dogmatism. The situation resulted both in new opportunities and new dangers, especially under colonial rule and in its wake. By the end of World War I, virtually the whole Muslim world had come under the rule of European powers, either directly or through one or other form of protectorate status. Despite the imposed legal changes, the colonial system did not release Jews from their inferior social standing. In addition to traditional Muslim antipathy, European, Christian-based anti-Semitism remained part of the standard worldview among many who ran the colonial administrations. Nevertheless, the changes released Jews from the legal inferiority imposed on them by traditional Islamic law. Jews and Muslims, of course, viewed this development from quite different perspectives. Jews who were able to obtain a western education and acquire the colonial language could make use of them to improve the situation of themselves and their families. Most Muslims, however, had a very different reaction. By accepting and embracing the changes brought about by the colonial experience, native Jews and Christians identified themselves with the foreign rulers and their exploitation and disregard for traditional Islamic (and also traditional cultural) sensibilities. This would result in disaster for the native Jewish population of predominantly Muslim lands after these countries gained their independence from colonization. The Rise of National Movements The deterioration of relations between Jews and Muslims was exacerbated by the rise of modern nationalism. This was due in part to the rise of Jewish nationalism in the form of Zionism, which defined Jewish identity not in religious terms but in national terms that hearkened back to Jewish roots in the ancient Land of Israel. It was also the result of nativist sympathies among Arabs, both Muslim and Christian, in much of the Middle East and North Africa. It was natural for modern Arab nationalists to identify Jews as a foreign nation despite the fact that Jews had lived in their countries for many centuries—as long as, or in some cases even longer, than many of the native Muslims—because of the Jewish association with colonial powers and the Zionist rhetoric of Jewish “otherness.” As a result, the overwhelming bulk of Jewry that had been firmly established for millennia in the Muslim world fled under duress with the realization of national independence. Many suffered from violent attacks and state nationalization of Jewish property; many fled with nothing more than what they could stuff into a suitcase. Some sought refuge in the European states in which they had previously been naturalized. Others fled to wherever they could find refuge. Much of this mass exodus/ expulsion occurred at about the same time that the State of Israel was in formation, so many—and especially those with no alternative—ended up in the new Jewish state. Some Muslim and Western

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accounts have emerged that attribute the mass exodus of the Jewish populations of the Middle East and North Africa exclusively to Zionism, but the situation is far more complex. Zionism certainly was one factor, but so were the destabilization brought about by colonialism, religious prejudice, government corruption, and other causes. The conflict over control of the land that Jews and their supporters call Israel, and that Palestinians and their supporters call Palestine, is at its core a conflict of nationalisms, national identities, and national rights. More precisely, it is a product of nineteenth-century ideologies of secular nationalism and secular national identity. Nonetheless, among both Jewish Israelis and Muslim Palestinians, definitional identities have proven to be elastic, and the boundaries between nation, tribe, and religion remain ambiguous. This is not surprising, given the complexity of identity in general, and it cannot be denied that the multitude of factors that make up Israeli and Palestinian identity (or Jewish and Arab identity) include a religious element. Zionists have emphasized religious aspects of Jewish identity to appeal to a larger, non-Zionist religious community for support, and in the process have gradually identified the conflict in religious as well as national terms.30 Palestinians, in turn, have increasingly emphasized the Islamic connections to Jerusalem and Palestine in order to appeal to a larger religious community for support. As a result, the conflict has come to be identified in increasingly religious terms, and this has negatively impacted Muslim– Jewish relations globally. Despite the problems brought about by the decline of Muslim economic and political might, the rise of the European powers and their colonial domination, the emergence of nationalist movements and the particular problems resulting from the Israel–Palestine conflict, individual Jews and Muslims have always managed to maintain deep friendships. These friendships have not been limited to the elites who shared “enlightened” views that transcended stereotypes and religious hierarchies. In fact, many traditional, religious Muslims and Jews maintained friendships in Muslim lands despite the massive disruptions to their traditional worlds. We read about them in the stories and novels authored by members of both communities. Those friendships have been powerful and enduring, but they could not withstand the forces that brought an end to the once-vibrant Jewish life that existed throughout the Muslim world. Notes 1. 2 Kings 15:29; 1 Chronicles 5:26. 2. 2 Kings 24:12–16. 3. G. W. Bowersock, The Throne of Adulis: Red Sea Wars on the Eve of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Gordon Newby, A History of the Jews of Arabia (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 2009); Robert Hoyland, Arabia and the Arabs: From the Bronze Age to the Coming of Islam (London: Routledge, 2001); idem, “The Jews of the Hijaz in the Qur’ån and in their inscriptions,” in New Perspectives on the Qur’ån: The Qur’ån in Its Historical Context 2, ed. Gabriel Said Reynolds, 91–216 (London: Routledge, 2011) 4. Reuven Firestone, Journeys in Holy Lands: The Evolution of the Abraham–Ishmael Legends in Islamic Exegesis (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990). 5. Mishnah, Avot 1:6, 4:14; Eruvin 2:6; Yebamot 16:7. 6. Michael Lecker, Muslims, Jews, and Pagans: Studies on Early Islamic Medina (Leiden: Brill, 1995). 7. Q.19:16, 41, 51, 54, 56; 38:17, 41, 45, 48, etc.; John Penrice, A Dictionary and Glossary of the Koran (New Delhi: Low Price Publications, 2002), 4; http://corpus.quran.com/qurandictionary.jsp?q=%3Ci* (accessed August 21, 2015). 8. Alfred Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad, a Translation of Ibn Ishaq’s Sirat Rasul Allah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 94; S. Moinul Haq, Ibn Sa’d’s Kitab al-Tabaqat al-Kabir (New Delhi: Kitab Bhavan, n.d.), vol. 1, p. 183; W. Montgomery Watt and M. V. McDonald, The History of Al-ÊabarÈ, vol. 6, Muhammad at Mecca (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 64. 9. Ibn Hishåm, Al-SÈra al-Nabawiyya (Beirut: Dår al-Thiqåfa al-’Arabiyya, n.d.), 1: 552, 558, 564ff. 10. Guillaume, The Life of Muhammad, 240–241. 11. Jan Assmann, The Price of Monotheism (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2010); Martin Jaffee, “One God, One Revelation, One People: On the Symbolic Structure of Elective Monotheism,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 69, no. 4 (2001): 753–775; Reuven Firestone, “A Problem with Monotheism: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in Dialogue and Dissent,” in Heirs of Abraham: The Future of Muslim, Jewish, and Christian Relations, ed. Bradford Hinze (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2005), 20–54. 12. See, for example, Deuteronomy 18:15–22 and Qur’an 7:157, and Q.2:75, 79; 4:46; 5:13, etc. 13. Fred Donner, “From Believers to Muslims: Confessional Self-Identity in the Early Islamic Community,” Al-Abhath 50–51 (2002–3): 44–45. 14. The term can also mean “humiliated.” On the status of Jews in early Islam, see Mark R. Cohen, “Islamic Policy toward Jews from the Prophet Muhammad to the Pact of ‘Umar,” in A History of Jewish–Muslim

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Relations: From the Origins to the Present Day, ed. Abdelwahab Meddeb and Benjamin Stora (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013), 60. 15. Norman Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1979), 25–26, 157– 158; S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, vol. 2, The Community (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971), 143–144; David Cassuto and Mohammed Gharipour, “Synagogues in the Islamic World,” in Encyclopedia of Jews in the Islamic World, ed. Norman A. Stillman et al. (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 4:423–432; Leah Bornstein-Makovetsky, “Patterns of Jewish Settlement in the Ottoman Empire,” in ibid., 3:607. 16. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, 149–155. 17. Bathing in regular bathhouses was considered an acceptable means of purification for ritual impurity purposes prior to Maimonides’ arrival, though Maimonides strongly objected (ibid., 154–155). 18. For an excellent comparative study of the status of Jews between the medieval Christian and Muslim worlds, see Mark R. Cohen, Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 19. Ibid. 20. Marina Rustow, “Jews and Muslims in the Eastern Islamic World,” in Meddeb and Stora, A History of Jewish–Muslim Relations, 75–98. 21. Mark R. Cohen and Sasson Somekh, “Interreligious Majålis in Early Fatimid Egypt,” in The Majlis: Interreligious Encounters in Medieval Islam, ed. Havah Lazarus-Yafeh et al., 128–136 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1999). 22. Adina Hoffman and Peter Cole, Sacred Trash: The Lost and Found World of the Cairo Geniza (New York: Knopf, 2011). 23. S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: An Abridgment in One Volume, ed. Jacob Lassner (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 225–226. 24. Samuel Rosenblatt, The High Ways to Perfection of Abraham Maimonides, 40–53 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1966). 25. Ibid., 50. 26. Norman Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1979), 96. 27. Aron Rodrique, French Jews, Turkish Jews: The Alliance Israélite Universelle in Turkey, 1860–1914 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990). 28. Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands, 103. 29. Jonathan Frankel, The Damascus Affair: “Ritual Murder,” Politics, and the Jews in 1840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 30. Reuven Firestone, Holy War in Judaism: The Fall and Rise of a Controversial Idea (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).

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PART I SYNAGOGUE AND THE URBAN CONTEXT

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Chapter Four

Reflection of Sacred Realities in Urban Contexts: The Synagogues of Herat Ulrike-Christiane Lintz

A long history of co-mingling of the world’s major religions, which has defied territorial or ethnic boundaries, is a history of physical, metaphorical, and ideological proximities and distances. Similarly, the architectural design and creation of sacred buildings and spaces—as well as their relationship with the local urban fabric—is intertwined with the existing regional sociopolitical and religious contexts. In particular, the interaction of the traditional religious structures and identities of Muslims and non-Muslims with the wider political, social, cultural, technological, and economic processes have transformed communities of believers into “communities of opinion.”1 As such, during times of conflict and fanaticism, the religious buildings of non-Muslims (namely, synagogues, and churches) have become less conspicuous in terms of height, location, and even ornamentation. Whether constructed by non-Muslims in a predominantly Muslim society, or preserved in their original functional design before the advent of Islam, such historical sites, structures, and spaces bear testimony to some of the most potent applications of architecture in the articulation of cultural identity.2 This analysis explores the four synagogues of Herat, that represent a powerful testimony to the Jewish presence and history in western Afghanistan. These structures speak to the complex spectrum of transnational and international religious activities between Islam and other religious traditions as an integral and even constitutive part of the history of the local civil society.3 A variety of dynamic forces such as urban development and the influence of new religions shaped the history and character of Herat city after the enormous demographic impact of the Mongol invasion of Central Asia (1219–24 ce), which culminated in the conquest of the Khwarazmian Empire by Genghis Khan. The strength of subsequent metropolitan development in the region is best testified by the remains of numerous large cities, such as Herat. Central Asian cities were highly cosmopolitan, their citizens following many different religions, such as Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Manichaeism, and Zoroastrianism. In the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century, Herat (Fig. 4.1) was home to one of the largest, most diverse Jewish communities in modern Afghanistan.4 As in many areas of the world, Herat’s Jews were deeply involved in all levels of trade (internal, inter-community, and international). Their influence reached its peak after World War I when the Jews of Afghanistan became a significant religious and economic force in central Asia. Herat’s four synagogues represent a microcosm of the present state of the city’s historic and vernacular architecture, making both its Muslim and non-Muslim architectural heritage worthy of investigation.5 Contemporary studies that typically rely on methods and theoretical approaches focusing on sociopolitical and religious contexts are often criticized for being partisan—usually to romanticize the situation of non-Muslims and stigmatize Muslims for their intolerant behavior toward Jews and Christians. This bias also extends to some degree to analyses of their religious buildings.6 The goal of this study, however, is to use different theoretical approaches and methods to divide the four synagogues in question into three areas: (a) history, (b) architecture and design, and (c) physical and symbolic links to Herat’s three main centers, the Commercial Center (Chahar Suq, the “four bazaars”), the Royal Center with the Ikhtiyar al-Din Fortress and Citadel (Qal’a), and the Religious Center focusing on the Masjid-i Jami (Friday Mosque). This chapter aims to address how Herat’s urban architecture represents sacred realities and how spatial patterns of development relating to the four synagogues exist in urban contexts, connecting with Herat’s other religious monuments. In light of the complexity of this challenge, this chapter delves deeper into the sacred buildings and spaces by exploring how the four synagogues reflect complex layers of local, regional, and Jewish cultures.

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Figure 4.1  Herat, Afghanistan 2005. Elevated view from the northwest overlooking the Religious Center with the Masjid-i Jami (Friday Mosque) with the multiple domes and wind-catchers of the bazaar in the middle ground (photo by Cameron Rashti, courtesy of Aga Khan Trust for Culture)

The Cultural History of Jews in Afghanistan The Jews of Herat are culturally connected to the Jews of Iran. Many were immigrants from Mashhad, generally considered to be the holiest city in Persia.7 Mashhad’s Jewish community was founded during the reign of the Persian ruler Nadir Shah (r. 1736–47),8 who was known for his tolerance toward Jews. The increasing presence of hundreds of Jewish families helped strengthen existing Jewish institutions and contributed to the flowering of Jewish life in Afghanistan.9 In fact, in 1741 he allowed Jewish immigrants (approximately forty families) to settle in Mashhad where they coexisted peacefully with Muslims for decades. Over time, however, they began to suffer at the hands of zealous Shi’ites who initially attacked them by making false accusations.10 On March 26, 1839, a hostile Shi’ite mob, consisting of both city residents and Muslim pilgrims, launched an attack on the Jewish Quarter (known as the idgah or “place of celebrations”), which came to be known in Persian as Allahdad (lit. “God’s Justice).11 Nearly 2,400 Mashhad Jews who did not flee were compelled to convert to Islam. Thus, the Allahdad against the Jewish community put an end to the official and recognized existence of Mashhad’s Jewish community and drove them into a dual religious life as forced converts (anusim).12 Even though they outwardly embraced Islam, the majority of the converted Jews or jadid-e Islam (“new to Islam”) secretly continued to practice Judaism for well over a century as “crypto-Jews” in secret underground synagogues. Those who refused to lead a double life fled to Herat, where they intermingled with the large Jewish community there. Later, during the early decades of the twentieth century, Mashhad’s forced converts publicly returned to Judaism.13 Further waves of hostility toward Jewish communities followed during and after the final takeover in October 1856 of Afghanistan’s provincial capital, Herat, by the troops of the Qajar Prince, Sultan Murad Mirza. The Jews living in the city of Herat—the majority of whom were Mashhadis who settled in Herat following the pogrom of March 1839—were threatened, beaten, robbed of their possessions, and finally expelled from Herat and sent to a camp near Mashhad, in modern-day Iran. The Persian authorities officially justified the ill treatment and expulsion of the Jews on the grounds

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that the Jews living in Herat had migrated from Mashhad in 1839 without any government permission. The resulting deportations began on the nineteenth day of Shevat 5617 in the Hebrew calendar (February 13, 1857) and lasted about thirty days. Many of the deportees, who numbered 3,000 through 5,000, perished due to hunger, sickness, violence, and the extreme cold. Upon their arrival in Mashhad, the Herat Jews were interned in a dilapidated fortress named Baba Quadrat, which was located on the city’s eastern outskirts, where they were subjected to extreme physical and economic hardship. After nearly two years of detention, Nasir al-Din Shah (r. 1848–96) permitted the Jews— both immigrants and deportees from Afghanistan and Iran who decades earlier had been forced to resettle in Herat and Mashhad—to return to Herat. Unable to regain territory lost to Russia in the early nineteenth century, however, Nasir al-Din sought compensation by seizing Herat in 1856.14 During the conflict, more than 300 Jewish detainees died from starvation, inadequate clothing, and poor housing and sanitary conditions. Some of the exiles remained in Mashhad, but the majority returned to Afghanistan.15 This immane (inhumanely cruel) period ended in August, 1858 thanks to British pressure placed on the Persian government. The Jews reached Herat on the thirteenth day of Shevat 5619 (January 18, 1859) and began to re-occupy their former homes.16 In 1856, the Austrian physician, ethnographer, and scholar, Jakob Eduard Polak (1818–89), described how the Jews were crammed together in a quarter of the city known as mahalla-e Yahud (“the Jewish Quarter”), enduring extremely harsh living conditions. By way of comparison, Polak noted that the position of the Jews of Afghanistan and Turkistan at the time was significantly better than for those living in Iran.17 In fact, the Jews were often the only people capable of establishing communications and trade relations between the various tribes and clans that were constantly at war with each other. Historical sources also attest to the fact that of these Jewish immigrants and deportees from Herat and Mashhad, many coexisted with the Muslim inhabitants, even serving as physicians to both Muslims and Jews (Fig. 4.2). One of the court doctors—in fact, the personal physician of Nasir al-Din Shah’s mother—was a Jew named Hakim (i.e., physician) Yehezqel, known also as Hakim Haqnazar (d. 1873). It is worth mentioning that he and his brothers were the only Jews who were permitted to own a stable and ride horses in Tehran (ca. 1870). Moreover, his coveted position and resulting wealth, which was exceptional in the Jewish community, allowed him to construct a synagogue and a clinic in the Tehran’s Jewish Quarter.18 Referring to the Islamic law of nations (siyar) and rules designed to govern all relations between Muslims and dhimmis (non-Muslim citizens of an Islamic state) dhimmis were forbidden to imitate Figure 4.2  The Jew named Hakim (i.e., physician) Nehoray Nur-Mahmud (seated center with book) at home with members of his family, his patients, students, and servants (photo by Antoin Sevruguin, Tehran, ca. 1880)

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Muslims in their dress, their way of riding horses, and their appearance. Nor were dhimmis allowed to build new synagogues or churches in a Muslim city; instead, they were only permitted to repair those already in existence.19 This persecution persisted as late as the second half of the nineteenth century, impacting on Jewish communities physically and economically. The Afghan ruler, Emir Dost Mohammad Khan (r. 1826–63; 1842–63), who created a united Afghan kingdom in 1834 and occupied Herat at that time, sanctioned the looting of Jewish communities during the last year of his reign in 1863. Throughout the nineteenth century, the Jews of Afghanistan continued to suffer great losses in terms of lives and property. It was not until the beginning of the twentieth century that the general environment for Jews began to improve in terms of their physical and economic quality of life. The Jewish communities of Afghanistan were concentrated mainly in Herat with smaller communities in Balkh and Kabul and they remained largely unchanged from the late nineteenth into the early twentieth century. After World War I, Afghanistan’s Jews were involved at all levels of national and international trade via India or Mashhad with cities such as London, Leipzig, and New York. In fact, the 1930s can be viewed as a turning point in the history of Herat’s Jewish community in terms of the strengthening of its relationships with Eretz Yisrael (the “Land of Israel”) and Europe. The Afghan Jews also enjoyed a brief period of prosperity and security under the reign of Mohammad Nadir Shah, who was King of Afghanistan from October 1929 until his assassination in November 1933. During his reign of four short years, he accorded the Jews equal rights as citizens, forged commercial links with them, and abolished most of King Amanullah Khan’s (r. 1919–29) anti-Jewish decrees. Subsequent Afghani rulers, however, did not view the Jews’ key position in international trade with the same tolerance. After Mohammed Nadir Shah’s assassination in 1933, a Mohmand Pashtun known as Mohammad Gul Khan, who served as a sort of envoy representing Afghan Turkestan (the northern provinces), required Balkh Province to be cleansed of its Jews and non-Pashtun ­inhabitants—taking his inspiration from what was taking place in pre-World War II Europe for Jews and other non-Aryans. Thus, after 1933, the Jews were banished from most Afghan cities and were only permitted to live in Herat, Balkh, and Kabul.20 Mastering Sacred Spaces: The Afghan Fortified Town The architecture of most sacred buildings and spaces follows a hybrid style that combines both local and universal elements. Hence, a thorough examination of Herat’s historic Muslim and non-Muslim monuments and complex sites—on both a macro and micro scale—challenges some common understandings of architectural styles in Islamic architecture. At the same time, such an analysis could lead to the adoption of new tools and methods of analysis.21 In considering this possibility, the first section of this chapter addresses the propaedeutic question: How does Herat’s urban architecture represent sacred realities? Herat, which is located in western Afghanistan and contains the most complete medieval vestiges surviving in the region, grew from a small fort founded in the 6th century bce into a lively and dynamic city. The advent of Islam provided a new impetus for growth and importance in the walled city of Herat, which subsequently left an indelible mark on its physical form and structure. After its destruction at the hands of the Mongols, the city’s fortunes started to revive under the Kart dynasty (1245–1389 ce). As one of the most ancient cosmopolitan cities of central Asia—and an important stop along the Silk Road—it soon became the heart of the Timurid Empire (1405–1506 ce).22 The Old City of Herat (or Harat), also referred to as the shar-i kuhna (“old town”), resembles a typical extended Afghan fortified town (qal’a).23 Old Herat is defined by its unique culture and typical architecture reflecting a long tradition of building fortress houses or villages known as gala (Fig. 4.3).24 The geographical layout of the city (Fig. 4.4) has been documented and discussed in detail by the Afghan architect Abdul W. Najimi, in part based on historical geographical illustrations by a Russian envoy to Herat and the map developed much later by Major General Oskar von Niedermayer (1885–1948).25 The Old City forms a square with four main roads leading along the cardinal points dividing it into four identical quadrants. As such, Herat features a perfectly organized system based on orthogonal symmetry.26 The old walled city (ca. 200 hectares)27 and the surviving fabric of the residential and commercial quarters focused around three main points, the Commercial Center, known as Chahar Suq at the center of Herat; the Royal Center comprising the Fortress and Citadel; and the Religious Center containing the Masjid-i Jami (Friday Mosque). Herat’s geometrical urban organization, which will be analyzed through its Timurid architecture, probably originated in the eleventh century and is based on forms from the Ghaznavid dynasty (977– 1186 ce).28 Specifically, it reflects a clearly structured urban geometry leading to the c­ ommercial,

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Figure 4.3  The Qandahar Gate in Herat, Afghanistan (photo by Maynard Owen Williams, National Geographic, 1933)

Figure 4.4  Map of Herat featuring (1) The Royal Center with the Ikhtiyar al-Din Fortress and Citadel (Qal’aye), (2) The Religious Center with the Masjid-i Jami (Friday Mosque), (3) The Commercial Center with the Chahar Suq (market) (4) The Jewish Quarter with the four synagogues, and (5) the Jewish cemetery near (6) The Shrine of Abdullah al-Walid (© Ulrike-Christiane Lintz)

royal, and religious centers. Herat’s design features axes and directions that, when possible, face Mecca, uniformly linking the physical to the sacred. The city’s town plan is based on the four-iwan building concept with one main hall (iwan) facing Mecca, Islam’s holiest city, flanked by three subordinate halls.29 This architectural concept is based on the urban traditions of Herat’s Old City, and shares similarities with the design of a typical Arab town (medina).30 Herat’s architecture is strongly linked to Islamic traditions and beliefs among local Muslim populations, reinforcing the ties between all Muslims. In particular, Herat’s town plan epitomizes Islam’s central values of privacy, close and active family relations, religious education, and the dominant

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role of men in relation to women. Although some parts of the Old City reflect its pre-Islamic history, the layout is an eloquent reminder of its pre-industrial heritage, based on its close ties between Islamic cultural religious, administrative, and political authorities.31 The geographically determined qibla orientation of the mosque influenced the alignment of Herat’s buildings in general.32 The four-iwan building tradition, which was the ubiquitous plan of Timurid architecture and remained virtually unchanged since the second century ce, needs to be reconsidered in light of the concept of the “hierophanic palimpsest.” The basic concept of hierophany comprises four elements, combined with a central element. This concept is found in all major mythologies and religions across the world, and links its major features to the four cardinal points of the Cosmic Cross and its Cosmic Center: the axis mundi.33 A widespread network of mosques, shrines, and baths shaped the religious sphere of the city of Herat. The architect and planner Rafi Samizay performed a survey of Herat in 1977, listing the Friday Mosque, an Eidgah (a ceremonial square and associated mosque), eighty-two local mosques, three madrasas (religious schools), thirty-nine shrines, three synagogues, other religious edifices in three outlying suburbs such as the Timurid musalla (literally “place for prayer”),34 as well as numerous other individual mosques that were constructed in close proximity to each other throughout the city.35 The Qur’an (2:144) requires prayer to be directed toward the Ka’aba in Mecca as the sacred direction of Islam. This physical pointer to the presence of God represented the focal point of the new world religion. The ultimate axis mundi in Islamic cultural tradition is, of course, the Ka’aba, four corners being precisely aligned along the cardinal compass points. Their intersection represents the center of the physical Islamic world: the Divine Axis.36 Thus, a characteristic criterion for architectural orientation is that the building’s axes should face the direction of Mecca, which in Herat is about 27.46° to the south from true west (distance: 2620 km).37 At the local level, the Masjid-e Jami (Friday Mosque) is a large, lofty, arched structure in the northeastern quarter of the city, that serves as the city’s main religious and social center.38 The remarkable cohesion of the Muslim city is a product of its long tradition, easily available building materials, climatic influences, social ethos, and the impact of Islam’s universalist profile.39 One- and two-story Persian-style mud-brick houses were built in the traditional Herati architectural

Figure 4.5  Radiating axes of a typical qala (fort) construction layout, illustrated with the spatial orientation of the “hierophany of the four” and the Axis Mundi in a four–iwan plan (© Ulrike-Christiane Lintz, 2015)

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style reflecting the availability of building materials—principally, sun-dried mud bricks or kiln-fired bricks, both of which are at risk from deterioration due to the extreme heat and dust storms. The courtyard plan remains the predominant form of the region’s vernacular architecture, facilitating the essential social and religious ceremonies that occur throughout the year. According to the principle of “diurnal rotation,” daily and seasonal social cycles and climatic factors influenced communal activities that naturally gravitated toward courtyard areas. During the hot summer months, the eastern section of the open space served as the starting point for the cyclical “migration” of the inhabitants in a clockwise direction (East – South – West – North), as dictated by available shade. While many activities are brought indoors during winter, any tasks or events that can be performed outdoors still tend to follow a similar clockwise rotation—though the direction may be altered to take advantage of the warmth of the daytime sun. It is this form of gradual circular migration that is key to the layout of domestic courtyards in Afghanistan. On a larger scale, however, diurnal rotation is also evident in the layout of a typical neighborhood mosque, which also explores the cosmological significance of such Afghan building traditions, as evident in monumental structures such as the Masjid-i Jami (Friday Mosque).40 The Attarbashi House (Fig. 4.6) is an important example of a large family home in the Bar Durrani Quarter of Herat’s Old City. Built in the Qajar style (1850–90) by a wealthy provisions merchant, it follows the traditional “climate-control” layout of Herat. As an example, a room that opens to the south may have its window axes on 300 SE in order to draw in more sunshine during the cold winter months, but less during the hot summers when living spaces are cooled by means of a wind-catcher system at roof level that directs breezes to the interior rooms via vertical ducts.41 Interlocking arches support domes above the various chambers (typically, the basic structural unit is a domed cube three meters (nearly ten feet) long on each side), which when sequenced around courtyards produce the typical “bubbled” rooftops characteristic of towns and cities such as Herat. As will be discussed further, it is important to note that the Attarbashi House shares similarities with Herat’s four synagogues, as evidenced in its double-height central domed reception room, wooden screens in the local style, geometrically patterned brickwork, the plot of land on which it stands, and courtyard elevation—all of which are characteristic of Herati style (Fig. 4.7).42 Figure 4.6 Attarbashi house (style: Qajar; built 1850–90): the south wing during restoration work in 2007 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

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Figure 4.7  Section of the Attarbashi house (2010) (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

The Jewish Quarter Like many Jewish communities in Muslim countries, the Jews of Herat—the largest and most influential Jewish community in Afghanistan during the nineteenth century—inhabited their own separate streets and districts in the southwestern Momandha and northwestern Bar Durrani districts of Herat’s Old City. The Jewish quarter was sometimes referred to as mahallay-e Yahud, a common expression denoting the reduced social status of a religious minority—namely a ghetto.43 Residents of a mahallay-e Yahud typically lived on the city’s outskirts in extremely harsh conditions. The Jewish quarter of nineteenth-century Tehran, for example, was known as Sar-e cal (“on the top of the pit”), due to the garbage pit located in its midst (Fig. 4.8).44 The residents of the mahalla-e Yahud in Herat were subjected to a variety of social and economic limitations, such as clothing restrictions, a ban on the mingling of Jews with Christians and Muslims, and the imposition of special taxes. As a result, the Jewish Quarter of Herat—like other Jewish areas in Afghanistan and Iran—tended to be

Figure 4.8  Tehran’s Jewish quarter known as Sar-e cal (meaning “on top of the pit”, due to the garbage pit located in its midst) (photo by Antoin Sevruguin, Tehran, ca. 1880–1900)

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Figure 4.9  Map of the Jewish Quarter’s center showing the four synagogues (A, B, C, D) the Jewish mikva (bathhouse) (E) and the stores formerly owned by Jews (F), located in the northwestern and southwestern areas of the Old City of Herat (© Ulrike-Christiane Lintz)

a self-sufficient environment with its own administrative requirements, sacred traditions, and social customs. Despite the imposed segregation, most Jewish immigrants and deportees from Herat and Mashhad continued, at least for some time, to operate within a transnational trade and communications framework.45 Indeed, the Jewish community of Herat coexisted amicably with the majority of the Muslim population, perhaps because of their mutual economic and intercultural interests. Nonetheless, as evidenced in Herat, the presence of Jews in the Muslim world attests to the everpresent tensions surrounding segregation, integration, intercultural relations, unobtrusiveness, and modernization that have characterized Jewish existence in the Diaspora.46 The Jewish Quarter of Herat was located within the walled section of the Old City and extended through the smaller streets on both sides of the main thoroughfare of the Bazaar-e Iraq, which leads directly to the Chahar Suq (Fig. 4.9).47 The economic heart of Herat’s Jewish Quarter was located on the main thoroughfare through the Bazaar-e Iraq among the coppersmiths, ironsmiths, grocers, and hardware stores. It was near the western Iraq Gate, not far from the bazaars at the end of the northwestern thoroughfares that served the caravans traveling between the western provinces of Afghanistan and Iraq.48 Jewish communities were regulated by daily prayers and the unique customs connected with the life cycle (circumcision ceremonies, bar mitzvahs, and weddings) and the major festivals (the Sabbath, the Day of Atonement, Tabernacles (Simhat Torah) and Hanukkah).49 The ritual bath mikva 50 served as a focus for community life, as exemplified by a Jewish bathhouse built of mud bricks, known as the Hammam-e Yahudiha (or the Haji Muhammad Akbar Bath), which was located close to the four synagogues.51 As evidence of its subsequent adaption and cultural transition, this particular bath complex later served the Muslim males of the Momandha Quarter.52 The Jewish Quarter, with its four synagogues, facilitated the creation of an essential psychological space—a way of signaling the Jewish minority’s shared culture and religion, the unity of the community, and its spiritual place within the Muslim World. By tying all of these architectural spaces together, a unique, cohesive, consecrated “synagogue space” emerged. Herat’s Jewish minority was able to coexist with the non-Jewish population and the Muslim majority within a largely Muslim world under circumstances that, on the one hand, distanced and separated them from other minorities, and on the other hand facilitated their economic and cultural symbiosis. The Jewish community’s daily living conditions were linked to their knowledge and experience, their rich traditions, ancient customs and practices—all of which reflected their cultural identity as well as the “formation and retention of communal identity and memory practices.”53 In terms of the residences in Herat’s Jewish Quarter, it can be difficult to distinguish the religion or race of a building’s inhabitants through its construction, as these were similar in construction throughout the region, largely due to the environmental conditions. Other requirements in local construction included the family’s protection and privacy were a major factor in the siting of the entrance. Irregular, covered, and winding streets and alleyways were designed to ensure security

Key: (A) The Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (now the Hazrat Belal Mosque), restored by AKTC; (B) The Mullah Samuel or Shamawel Synagogue (now the Hariva School) restored by AKTC; (C) The Mullah Garji or Mullah Ashur Synagogue (now in ruins); (D) The Mullah Yoav Synagogue (also known as Kanisa Yoha or Ya Aw Synagogue) restored by AKTC; (E) The Jewish bathhouse (Hammam-e Yahudiha, also known as Haji Muhammad Akbar Bath); (F) Stores once owned by Jews

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Figure 4.10  Access upgrading in the Old City of Herat, 2008 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

against aggression, as well as protect against the often harsh environmental conditions. The entrance to a building complex seldom opened directly into the courtyard that served as the private center for a family’s outdoor activities. A study of the settlement patterns indicates the presence of clustered housing within a residential quarter.54 With respect to ownership, the legal boundaries of a plot were defined by the walls, often shared with the next-door neighbors (Fig. 4.10). From a social standpoint, although this complex architectural concept reflected the demands of the wider Islamic culture, it also served the needs of the Jewish community based on close ties between religious, administrative, economic, and political structures. Consecrated Spaces: Herat’s Synagogues The city of Herat once contained four synagogues, located in the Old City’s northwestern and southwestern areas close to Darb-i-Iraq Street, one of the main thoroughfares directly leading to the Chahar Suq, physically and symbolically linking the synagogues to the Masjid-i Jami and the Eidghah, both mosques being located in the northeastern Qutbe Chaq Quarter. At the time of their closure in the 1950s following the mass emigration of Herat’s Jewish community to Israel, three of the synagogues bore the name of the rabbis who presided over them at that time. These were the Mullah Garji, or Mullah Ashur Synagogue (Fig. 4.9: C); the Mullah Samuel, or Shamawel Synagogue (Fig. 4.9: B); and the Mullah Yoav, or Mullah Ya Aw Synagogue (alternative name: Kanisa Yoha; Fig. 4.9: D). All three were located in the southwestern residential area of the Old City, known as the Momandha Quarter, a name that may be derived from that of the Pashtun tribe of Momand. The Momandha Quarter contains twenty-three mosques, four shrines, twenty-two caravanserais, several covered bazaars, six typical houses, two cisterns, three bathhouses, and the three synagogues.55 The fourth synagogue, known as the Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (Fig. 4.9: A) in the local Judeo-Persian language, was named for the wealthy family who owned it.56 The building is located in the Bar Durrani Quarter, the northwestern district of the Old City. As documented above, this quarter is characterized above all by the settlement of wealthier families—including the homes of influential political officials—and is dominated by the Royal Center with the Ikhtiyar al-Din Fortress and Citadel. This quarter, which retains portions of the old city wall in its northwestern and southeastern corners, contains twenty-six mosques, thirteen shrines, twenty caravanserais, three houses, four cisterns, five bathhouses, and one synagogue. The main streets of the two districts, designed for wheeled traffic and caravans, lead to the town’s commercial and social center, the Chahar Suq, which physically and symbolically linked the Masjid-i Jami to the Eidghah. The highways are straighter and wider than the residential streets,

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which tend to be narrow, winding and, in places, partially covered by the second story of buildings jutting out over the street. In short, these highways were designed also to serve the needs of many pedestrians.57 All four synagogues shared a physical and symbolic similarity with the Old City’s Chahar Suq, in that they were surrounded by bazaars and markets; more importantly, they seemed to follow a specific principle. The four building complexes located within the confines of the Jewish Quarter were intentionally designed to be inconspicuous and mimic their surroundings, —although their constituent buildings varied in size, structure, shape, and style of decoration.58 In this context, it should be remembered that local Islamic law not only prohibited the erection of new synagogues without explicit permission, but also restricted the renovation and repair of existing ones. Thus, the location, size, the materials from which sacred Jewish buildings in Herat could be built (and even their maintenance) were all highly regulated. Such restrictions were based on historical legal decrees belonging to the special branch of the sacred law—the Islamic Law of Nations— intended to regulate relations between Muslims and non-Muslims throughout the territories in which Islam was dominant. In response to these decrees, the Jews built four small synagogues in the Jewish Quarter instead of erecting one large central place of worship. Note that there were encircled by at least six mosques.59 As architectural historian Mohammad Gharipour noted in the context of Isfahan, the synagogues “were supposed to blend with the city, and did so effectively” and “the fact that in local dialect Jews referred to synagogues as ‘masjid’ (mosques) reflects just that kind of syncretism.”60 Clearly, Herat’s four major synagogues were well integrated into Herat’s urban fabric, having the same external appearance as other buildings in the neighborhood. The dispersion and positioning of the synagogues in the western quarters of the Old City of Herat follows an organic and asymmetric pattern. There does not appear to be any symmetrical placement of the four houses of worship on first view—with the exception of the nearly equal distance between the three synagogues located in the southwestern area of the Momandha Quarter. The hybrid architectural composition of the four Herat synagogues, characterized by variations in Jewish tradition, provides exceptional archaeological evidence not only of their intrinsic ties to Judaism but also their place in the Afghan landscape. The once outstanding the Mullah Garji Synagogue, also known as the Mullah Ashur Synagogue, was named for Mullah Mattityah Garji, the presiding rabbi of the Jewish community of Herat. The building now lies in ruins, totally collapsed, due to disuse and neglect since the late 1970s when Herat’s remaining Jews departed (Fig. 4.11). Indeed, many other sacred buildings with beautiful interiors no longer exist due to a lack of maintenance. Fortunately, the Mullah Samuel or Shamawel Synagogue (ca. 1845–50), located directly opposite the market, was restored in 2009 during the Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme (AKHCP), supported by the Aga Khan Trust for Culture.61 Following the principles of utilitarian “architectural repurposing” after its restoration in 2009, the building complex is used to house the Hariva School, a maktab (primary school)62 for Muslim boys (Figs. 4.12 and 4.13).63 The Gol or Gulaki Synagogue was constructed in the late nineteenth century (specific dates unknown) as the private property of the wealthy upper-class Gol family. As such, the Gol Synagogue reflects the family’s exceptional status, patronage, and power. Restored in 2009 by the AKHCP, it has been converted into the Hazrat Belal Mosque (Fig. 4.14), although it was probably used as a mosque as soon as the Jewish community left Herat in the late 1970s. The synagogue’s exceptional location in the Bar Durrani Quarter near the Royal Center with the Ikhtiyar al-Din Fortress and Citadel—coupled with its architecture and interior design—attest to different channels of communication and reciprocal influences between Herat’s Jewish community (especially its wealthier scions) and the Muslim majority. The Mullah Yoav Synagogue, built from 1788 through1808, was also abandoned in the late 1970s (Fig. 4.15), but was already in disrepair by the time fighting broke out in the western quarter of the Old City after the 1978 uprising.64 The restored Mullah Yoav Synagogue is now used as an educational center for children from the surrounding neighborhood, reflecting both the building’s adaptive use and the change the Jewish Quarter has undergone since its abandonment in the late 1970s. While the dates when the four synagogues were constructed are known for certain (between the late eighteenth and early twentieth century), there is no documentation to show whether they were entirely new buildings for their time or were built over the ruins of older structures. Certainly, the Mullah Samuel Synagogue shows evidence of an earlier existence. If indeed these synagogues rose from pre-existing foundations, it is difficult to determine the form of the original building and the nature of the intermediate stages of construction. Herat’s restored Mullah Yoav Synagogue, for example, uses a floor plan shared by all four synagogues’ architecture (Fig. 4.16). The restored synagogue complex follows a pattern reproduced in all the surviving synagogue structures in Herat. Following Islamic

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Figure 4.11 The Mullah Garji, or Mullah Ashur Synagogue, in 1973 (now mostly in ruins); interior view showing the richly painted west wall with the aron ha-qodesh (ark) against the western wall (courtesy of Werner Herberg, 1973)

Figure 4.12 The Hariva School, formerly the Mullah Samuel or Mullah Shamawel Synagogue. Entrance and courtyard after restoration in 2009 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

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Figure 4.13  Interior view of the Hariva School after restoration by the Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme in 2009 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

Figure 4.14  The Gol Synagogue or Gulaki Synagogue converted into the Hazrat Belal Mosque with the mihrab (prayer niche) as the most sacred part of the qibla (direction facing Mecca), 2015 (photos by Sarajudin Saraj, courtesy of www.museo-on. com)

traditions and similar to Herat’s domestic architecture (for example, the Attarbashi House), the four synagogues are inward-looking, built around an interior courtyard with all of the windows opening onto the courtyard and blank walls facing the street. As seen in the case of the restored Gol Synagogue (now the Hazrat Belal Mosque), a low passageway leads from a narrow residential street to a plain unadorned wooden door in a blank exterior wall into the courtyard. Such intentional design features made these synagogues indistinguishable from the neighboring houses in the area. At first glance, the four synagogues resembled other buildings in the Old City. The thick external walls of the four synagogues were constructed of sun-dried mud bricks or kiln-fired bricks. The kilnbaked bricks enhanced its structural stability and helped the building resist deterioration from the prevailing harsh weather conditions. Following local Herati traditions, stone was used very little as a basic building material. Similarly, the internal walls of the synagogues were built of pale-colored mud bricks, plastered with kah-gil (clay mixed with straw), as can be seen in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue (Fig. 4.17). The synagogues had baked brick foundations that insulated them against the

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Figure 4.15  Courtyard after conservation of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

extremes of heat and cold in the Afghan climate. Importantly, in keeping with the aim of remaining unobtrusive, the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, the Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (now the Hazrat Belal Mosque), and the Mullah Samuel Synagogue (now the Hariva School) had deliberately plain façades that were whitewashed and gave few hints of the buildings’ purpose.65 The roof construction—­ typically achieved without the use of any scaffolding—was usually a dome or vault, corresponding to designs used in northern and western Afghanistan.66 Following the traditional Afghan vaults, using sloping arches known as squinches,67 the domed roofs of all four synagogues were supported by loadbearing walls and columns.68 The structural elements and courtyard of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue maintain the same distinctive form of residential architecture with a large courtyard. The synagogue’s east facade is partially open, decorated with wooden screens in the local style including sections of geometric-patterned brickwork. This section of the synagogue’s main elevation consists of an arched panel within which lie three doors at a lower level, as well as a central screened window above, flanked by columns and a smaller window on each side. The Mullah Samuel Synagogue’s east elevation, which also faces a large courtyard, used both classical and vernacular elements. Significantly, the four synagogues are oriented towards the west, the direction of Jerusalem, mirroring the spatial orientation of a mosque toward Mecca.69 Also resembling the nearby mosques, each of the two-storied synagogues featured a main prayer-hall located in the center. The buildings included interior side-aisles and a higher and slightly wider central aisle that ended in a domed bay in front of the holy sanctuary, wherein stood a raised platform (known as the bimah, almemar, or tevah) and the ark containing the scrolls of the law (Torah) and known as the aron or aron ha-kodesh. The Mullah Samuel Synagogue incorporated nine brick-domed bays that formed the main prayer space. The door built in the exterior wall of the side building leads into the synagogue’s main hall, and through an internal stairway to the ladies’ gallery on the second floor, which was separated from the main prayer hall through the use of a mehitsa (separation screen) built with small decorative openings. Each synagogue could accommodate up to four hundred community members in the main hall and the ladies’ gallery.

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Figure 4.16  Floor plan and section of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue with the mikva (ritual bath) in the center beneath the synagogue’s courtyard (© Ulrike-Christiane Lintz, plan after AKTC)

The Holy Sanctuary The synagogues’ internal structure and layout were governed by the relationship between their two main parts: the aron or aron ha-kodesh (the “Holy Ark”; see II Chron. 35:3)70—a cabinet in which the Torah scrolls are stored—and the elevated platform referred to as the bimah (“raised platform”) on which stands the lectern table on which the Torah scrolls are placed when they are being read. Alternative names are almemar (from the Arabic al-minbar, “platform”) or, among certain Sephardi Jewish communities, tevah (“box” or “ark”).

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Figure 4.17  The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: roof repairs during the Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme in 2007 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

In the Afghan community, the raised, carpeted bimah stood in the center of the large domed central prayer hall of each synagogue (Figs. 4.18 and 4.19). The Holy Ark was located on the western wall facing Jerusalem, with the lectern table adjacent to it. A traditional approach for emphasizing the importance of the Torah, one that is still used in certain Sephardi traditions, is to place the elevated platform in the very center of the synagogue facing the Torah ark.71 Two types of raised platform (ca. 50 to 100 cm high) were used in Herat. They could be reached by two to four steps and were sited below the main prayer hall’s dome, thus stressing its importance. The Mullah Samuel Synagogue’s raised platform, located in the center of the main prayer-hall, was surrounded by four supporting piers. This synagogue featured a low open platform (Fig. 4.13); in contrast, the Mullah Garji Synagogue incorporated a higher platform, surrounded by a railing with openings on both sides to the right and left (Fig. 4.11). In each of the four synagogues, the lectern was placed on the carpeted platform with a rectangular horizontal surface for the cases in which the Torah scrolls are stored in the Sephardi tradition.72 The aron ha-kodesh, the cabinet recessed in a niche in the synagogue in which the Torah scrolls were stored, was the second focal point for the four synagogues (Fig. 4.20). According to Jewish tradition in all Sephardic and other Oriental Jewish communities, the aron ha-kodesh was incorporated as an integral part of a synagogue’s architectural structure, in emulation of the “Holy of Holies” of the Temple in Jerusalem. The Torah ark would be arched at the top (similar to the niches typical of Muslim houses) and could be closed with a curtain (parokhet) or two fitted wooden doors (or both). When built as a separate room, the Torah ark was either square or octagonal, the latter being the case in the Mullah Garji Synagogue, which also featured a pair of pillars flanking the Torah ark with further niches beyond. In the case of the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, the ark was elevated and was accessed by steps. One further element common to all four synagogues was the use of wall niches divided horizontally by shelving, a construction shared by Muslim and non-Muslim alike and influenced by local customs. Following the Afghan city’s Muslim traditional and social norms (while also relying on

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Figure 4.18  The Mullah Yoav Synagogue in 2007: interior of main hall after conservation showing restored frescoes (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

Figure 4.19  The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: interior of the richly painted main prayer hall with the heikhal (the “Holy Ark”) on the western wall and the pulpit (tevah, almemar or bimah) below the dome, 2007 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

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the use of local materials), the shelves and niches were used for storage—in the case of the four synagogues, for phylacteries, lamps, menorah stands,73 prayer shawls, other ceremonial objects, and books. All these items were associated with the traditional life cycle of a synagogue and intrinsically tied to the rituals of Judaism.74 The four synagogues also featured a small separate room called the beit midrash or study hall used Torah study as well as a place in which to build a sukkah,75 for celebrating the fall festival of Tabernacles (Sukkoth). Two symmetrically arranged arcades, typical of Islamic architecture, are located on the north and south sides of the courtyard. An important feature of each synagogue was a brick-domed underground chamber, centrally located under each building’s courtyard. This round chamber housed the octagonal pool (mikva) that was used for ritual purification.76 This chamber can still be visited in the restored Gol Synagogue.77 Decorative Elements in the Synagogues While the exteriors of synagogues were nondescript, their interiors were markedly different, having stuccoed walls, painted plaster, and vernacular Persian ornamental work. The synagogues’ more vibrant interiors, however, were based on a unique concept and design language intrinsically tied to Judaism.78 The walls were always decorated with moldings and paintings in decorative patterns.79 Following the Old City’s architectural traditions, the internal walls of synagogues were covered with ornamental stucco, shelves and niches, representing a distinctive design featuring harmonious decorative raised patterns. Similar to the central rooms of houses built in Herat’s Old City (such as the Attarbashi House), which were always vaulted with a dome-shaped ceiling (the basic dome used in traditional Herati architecture), the interiors of the central domes of the four synagogues were covered with decorative patterns in a unique variety of rich patterns radiating from the main center downward, to match the decoration of the walls. In keeping with local artistic tradition, the main prayer hall was covered with painted stucco decoration consisting entirely of dense floral patterns with a strong Persian influence. In both the Mullah Garji and Mullah Yoav Synagogues, the outer wall of the alcove housing the Torah ark was richly decorated by floral-patterned wall paintings. The carved openings and doors, typically constructed of solid cedar wood, were painted with traditional Persian floral and geometric patterns. Another distinctive feature of these four buildings was the use of a geometric design layer applied to the boards using strips of wood. These finely carved geometric panels, that can be seen in Timurid artisan decoration, are applied between strips of wood.80 Typically, the interiors displayed flowering “trees of life” and motifs composed of vivid colors and balanced patterns of intricate craftsmanship attesting to external cultural influences.81 The floral forms, often complemented by colorful, repetitive patterns of curved paisley shapes called boteh (or buta, meaning “flower”) reinforce the influence of Persian local traditions.82 Both motifs were prominent on either side of the aron ha-kodesh on the western wall of the Herati synagogues. In terms of detail, the painted stucco decoration was covered with multiple floral patterns on a sky-blue background.83 The overall design, using the intense blue pigment that is often seen in the paintings of Central Asia, is set on the white ground. It illustrates the traditional Persian love of ornamentation, carefully balancing larger and smaller images with tiny floral elements surrounding them. The overall design also features patterns seen in the Safavid fabrics, employing medallions of various sizes in the form of a toranj (citrus fruit) or in the shape of a shamseh (sun-disk). This design also incorporates traditional motifs by including a small number of medallions into a framework of richly detailed, large palmettoes and plant arabesques. The color scheme, which uses a palette of turquoise, gold, sky blue, and white, is redolent of Chinese influence. Many of these motifs have featured prominently in Persian art since early times. The Mullah Garji Synagogue, sadly, now lies in ruins, but when intact, the building’s architecture and interior design featured elaborately painted stucco decorations using hybrid (local and universal) motifs. Similarly, the arches of the Mullah Samuel Synagogue, which once supported the dome, were adorned with a highly decorative pattern featuring sumptuous detail and rich texture of the sun-disk motif in a variety of vivid colors framing bands and cornices. A bell-bottomed shamseh or star blazed above the bimah from the main prayer hall’s central dome. In contrast, the restored Gol Synagogue (now the Hazrat Belal Mosque), still retains decorative elements that reflect the Gol family’s exceptional status, patronage, and power—but in its new life meets Islamic cultural requirements with the mihrab niche as the most sacred part of the qibla and innermost sanctum of the mosque (Fig. 4.14).

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Figure 4.20  The Mullah Yoav Synagogue: interior view looking towards the heikhal (ark), 2009 (courtesy of Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme)

Conclusion Herat—like other Islamic cities such as Aleppo, Cairo, Fez, Isfahan, Jeddah, and Sana’a—is the embodiment of a living city with traditional Islamic influences. Its architectural design was, for the most part, predetermined by Herat’s geometric urban concept and system, which was designed to meet the Islamic requirement to face toward Mecca (qibla). The city’s historic and vernacular architecture, and its exceptional surviving architectural heritage of both Muslim and non-Muslim origins, illustrate the complex processes of a global cultural transition. Targeting the “internationalist dimensions” of two world religions (Islam and Judaism) by using reverse theoretical approaches and methods, this investigation of Herat’s four synagogues in an urban context illustrates the complex processes and design elements through which like-minded believers could be identified through their shared beliefs (“communities of opinion”).84 It also reveals the role of religion as the driving force reflecting the unity and diversity of the Muslim and Jewish identities and the practices of the Jewish Diaspora living in the Muslim world.85 Documentary evidence analyzed for this chapter has enabled a partial reconstruction of the original architectural structure of Herat’s four synagogues. Their design and construction followed styles that combined both local and universal elements—while also deeply influenced by variations in Jewish tradition. The history of these four remarkable buildings—beginning with their construction from the late eighteenth to the early twentieth centuries—to the time when they closed in the 1950s, Herat being abandoned completely by Jews in 1978, and then bombed by the Soviets in the 1980s—is one of transition, cultural adaption, and reciprocal influences between Herat’s Jewish minority and the majority Muslim population. This reciprocity is demonstrated in the intricacies of Herat’s Jewish life on the macro and micro scale—from Herat City to the detailed interiors of the four synagogues. In examining sacred realities in an urban context, religious cultural exchanges, and the transnational historical experience of different faith communities in an increasingly globalized and politicized world, the present study suggests that we need to rethink our current understanding

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of the concepts of “religion,” “religious identity,” and “freedom of religion” in the modern world. Indeed, it is hoped that this chapter will contribute to a critical understanding of both ancient and contemporary globalized religious dynamics. It suggests the need to critically reflect on intercultural influences (political, social, religious) in light of religious multiculturalism and the transnational historical experience of different faith communities. Finally, this research may also spark an interest in determining how intercultural and international negotiations on (religious) self-definition can both reduce conflicts and facilitate the peaceful coexistence of different religious communities. This area of inquiry is becoming visibly important, based on the growing and increasingly unscrupulous influence of religious splinter groups that attempt to promote their own political interests while disregarding the long-held traditional beliefs that have hitherto bound together and governed communities of faith. Notes 1. Abigail Green and Vincent Viaene, “Introduction: Rethinking Religion and Globalization,” in Religious Internationals in the Modern World: Globalization and Faith Communities since 1750, ed. Abigail Green and Vincent Viaene. (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 1–19. 2. Mohammad Gharipour and Stephen Caffey, “Christians and Jews in the Muslim World: The Dilemma of Religious Space,” in Proceedings of the Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand: OPEN 30, ed. Alexandra Brown and Andrew Leach, vol. 1 (Gold Coast, Queensland: SAHANZ, 2013), 315. 3. Green and Viaene, “Introduction.” 4. Irena Vladimirsky, “Jews of Afghanistan,” Beit Hatefutsot: The Museum of the Jewish People, http://www. bh.org.il/jews-afghanistan/ (accessed September 15, 2015). 5. Bashir A. Kazimee, Heritage and Sustainability in the Islamic Built Environment (Southampton: WIT Press, 2012), 83–91. 6. Gharipour and Caffey, “Christians and Jews in the Muslim World,” 315–326. 7. Shaul Shaked, “New Data on the Jews of Afghanistan in the Middle Ages,” Pe’amim: Studies in Oriental Jewry 79 (1999): 5–14 (in Hebrew); David Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century: Aspects of History, Community, and Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 8. “Nadir Shah,” Encyclopaedia Britannica. Nadir Shah (1688–1747) was an Iranian ruler, and conqueror who created an Iranian empire that stretched from the Indus River to the Caucasus Mountains, http://www. britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/401451/Nadir-Shah (accessed August 29, 2015). 9. Zohar Hanegbi and Bracha Yaniv, Afghanistan: The Synagogue and the Jewish Home (Jerusalem: Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1991), 13–17. 10. Hilda Nissimi, “‘Us’ and ‘Them’: The Formation of the Crypto-Jewish Community of Mashhad, Iran,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 3 (September, 2005): 321–360; Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century, 32n13, 24–35. 11. David B. Green, “Persian Jews Given Choice: Convert or Die,” This Day in Jewish History, Haaretz (March 19, 2013), http://www.haaretz.com/news/features/this-day-in-jewish-history/this-day-in-jewish-historypersian-jews-given-choice-convert-or-die.premium-1.510355. 12. Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century, 24–35, 28n4; Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan,  14. 13. Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century; Walter Fischel, “Secret Jews of Persia,” Commentary 7 (January 1949–June 1949): 28–33. 14. See “Naser al-Din Shah,” in Encyclopaedia Britannica. 15. Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century, 31–32n12, 32n13, 33, 247n9. 16. Ibid., 32n13. 17. See “Persien,” Allgemeine Zeitung des Judenthums: Ein unpartheiisches Organ für alles jüdische Interesse in Betreff von Politik, Religion, Literatur, Geschichte, Sprachkunde und Belletristik 35 (August 25, 1856): 477–479. 18. Yeroushalmi, The Jews of Iran in the Nineteenth Century, 28–35, 247n9. 19. Majid Khadduri, The Islamic Law of Nations: Shaybani’s Siyar (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996), 1–9, 22–57, 277–278. 20. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 15–16; Terry Glavin, Come from the Shadows: The Long and Lonely Struggle for Peace in Afghanistan (Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre, 2011), 44–45. 21. Gharipour and Caffey, “Christians and Jews in the Muslim World,” 326. 22. Samizay, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” 86–99; See also David C. Thomas, “The Ebb and Flow of an Empire: The Ghurid Polity of Central Afghanistan in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries” (Ph.D. diss., La Trobe University, 2011). 23. Warwick Ball, The Monuments of Afghanistan: History, Archaeology and Architecture (London: I. B. Tauris, 2008). 24. Anette Gangler, Heinz Gaube, and Attilio Petruccioli, Bukhara: The Eastern Dome of Islam; Urban Space, Architecture, and Population (Stuttgart: Axel Menges, 2004), 35–37. 25. Abdul Wasay Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City; A Study in Urban Conservation (London: Curzon Press,

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1988), 36–37 and Figs. 3.2, 3.3; Oskar von Niedermayer, Afghanistan (Leipzig: Verlag Karl W. Hiersemann, 1924), Plan 3. 26. Elena Georgieva Paskaleva, “The Architecture of the Four-Iwan Building Tradition as a Representation of Paradise and Dynastic Power Aspirations” (Ph.D. diss., Leiden University, 2010), 133; see also Rafi Samizay, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” Environmental Design: Journal of the Islamic Environmental Design Research Centre 1–2 (1987): 86–93. 27. Four walls of about half of a farsakh (three miles) each, forming a rough square; Maria Szuppe, “Herat,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, 211–217, http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/herat-iv; Samizay, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” 88. 28. Paskaleva, “The Architecture of the Four-Iwan Building Tradition,” 133. 29. Vincent J. Cornell, Voices of Islam, vol. 4, Voices of Art, Beauty, and Science (Westport, CT: Praeger, 2007), 94–95; Cenk Yoldas, A Prototypical (School) Design Strategy for Soil–Cement Construction in Afghanistan (Manhattan, KS: Kansas State University Press, 2004). 30. Samizay, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” 88; Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 94–95. 31. Rafi Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat: A Study Towards Conservation (Kabul: Research Section of International Project for Herat Monuments, Ministry of Information and Culture, Democratic Republic of Afghanistan, 1981), 114–116; Amira K. Bennison, “Muslim Internationalism between Empire and NationState,” in Green and Viaene, Religious Internationals in the Modern World, 163–185. 32. In Herat ca. 27.46° W, south-facing; Jonathan M. Bloom and Sheila S. Blair, “Housing,” The Grove Encyclopedia of Islamic Art and Architecture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 33. Elena Georgieva Paskaleva, “Hierophanic Influences on Timurid Architecture along the Silk Road,” in Archi-Cultural Translations through the Silk Road, Second International Conference, Mukogawa Women’s University, Nishinomiya, Japan, July 14–16, Proceedings, 36–41 and Fig. 1, 36–38 and Figs. 2–5; Samer Akkach, Cosmology and Architecture in Premodern Islam: An Architectural Reading of Mystical Ideas (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2005), 156. 34. Musalla is a large open-air gathering place for Muslim worship, especially for the two major annual festivals. 35. Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat, 114–115; idem, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” 90. 36. David A. King, Astronomy in the Service of Islam (Farnham: Ashgate, 1993); idem, World-Maps for Finding the Direction and Distance to Mecca: Innovation and Tradition in Islamic Science (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 47, 126–127. 37. See “Qiblah Direction,” eQibla (version 1.0), http://eqibla.com/; Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 43. 38. Charles Edward Yate, Northern Afghanistan (London: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2003), 19. 39. Bloom and Blair, “Housing”; Yoldas, A Prototypical (School) Design Strategy; Bennison, “Muslim Internationalism between Empire and Nation-State,” 163. 40. Bashir A. Kazimee and James McQuillan, “Living Traditions of the Afghan Courtyard and Aiwan,” Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review 13, no. 2 (Spring, 2002): 23–34. 41. Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 42–43, 64–65. 42. “Attarbashi House: Herat, Afghanistan,” Archnet, http://archnet.org/authorities/428/sites/6844 (accessed October 5, 2016). 43. Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petruccioli, and Mauro Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City: The Jewish Quarter of Fez (1438–1912),” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 60, no. 3 (September, 2001): 310–327. 44. Daniel Tsadik, “Judeo-Persian Communities of Iran: V. Quajar Period (1876–1925),” in Encyclopaedia Iranica (2012): http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/judeo-persian-communities-v-qajar-period#; idem, Between Foreigners and Shi’is: Nineteenth-Century Iran and its Jewish Minority, 36, 81 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2007), 121. 45. Abigail Green, “Old Networks, New Connections: The Emergence of the Jewish International,” In Green and Viaene, Religious Internationals in the Modern World, 113. 46. Jack, Joseph, and Morton Mandel Wing for Jewish Art & Life: Costume and Jewelry: A Matter of Identity, The Israel Museum: Permanent Exhibitions. 47. In contrast, the Jews of Balkh lived along one street, and their quarter was “closed in by a gate, locked every evening caused by security reasons and shut up on a Sabbath-day”; Joseph Wolff, Researches and Missionary Labours Among the Jews, Mohammedans and Other Sects, During His Travels Between the Year 1831 and 1834 (London: James Nisbet & Co., 1837), 209. 48. Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 45, Fig. 3, 13. 49. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 28–39. 50. The mikva (plural: mikva’ot): a bath used for the purpose of ritual immersion and ablution in Judaism to achieve ritual purity. 51. Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat, 210. 52. Samizay, “Herat: Pearl of Khurasan,” 92. 53. Hilda Nissimi, The Crypto-Jewish Mashhadis: The Shaping of Religious and Communal Identity in their Journey from Iran to New York (Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 2007). 54. Bloom and Blair, “Housing”; Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 41–53. 55. Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat, 174. 56. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 18.

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57. Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat, 115, 212. 58. Reeva S. Simon, Michael Menachem Laskier, and Sara Reguer, The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 217. 59. See Samizay, Islamic Architecture in Herat, 176 (Plan), 214 (Plan). 60. Mohammad Gharipour, “The Question of Identity: The Architecture of Synagogues in Isfahan, Iran,” Architecture, Culture, and Spirituality Symposium, 6 (2014): 3–4 61. “Hariva School: Herat, Afghanistan,” Archnet, http://archnet.org/sites/14829 (accessed October 5, 2016). 62. See “maktab,” in Encyclopaedia Britannica (2014). 63. “Hariva School: Herat, Afghanistan.” 64. See “Afghanistan: Kabul and Herat Area Development Projects,” Aga Khan Trust for Culture Historic Cities Programme, http://www.akdn.org/hcp/afghanistan.asp. 65. Hans E. Wulff, The Traditional Crafts of Persia: Their Development, Technology, and Influence on Eastern and Western Civilizations (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1967), 108–125. 66. Najimi, Herat: The Islamic City, 44. 67. Silvia Harmsen, “Algorithmic Computer Reconstructions of Stalactite Vaults—Muqarnas—in Islamic Architecture” (Ph.D. diss., Ruprecht-Karls-Universität, 2006), iii. 68. Wulff, The Traditional Crafts of Persia, 105, Fig. 155; Yoldas, A Prototypical (School) Design Strategy, 25. 69. According to the Gemara in Berakhot (30b), the origin of praying towards Israel, Jerusalem, and the Temple Mount; see “Praying Towards Jerusalem,” based on a shiur (teaching) by Rav Yaakov Medan, translated and adapted by Rav Eliezer Kwass,” in The Israel Koschitzky Virtual Beit Midrash (1997–2014), http://www. vbm-torah.org/archive/chag70/yer70-rym.htm. 70. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 20. According to Jewish tradition, this place parallels the “Holy of Holies of the Temple,” and thus the name heikhal (sanctuary)—in Sephardi and Ashkenazi traditions—recalls this connection. 71. “The Bimah,” Jewish Virtual Library, http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org (accessed October 5, 2016). 72. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 19–20. 73. The menorah is described in the Bible as a seven-branched ancient Hebrew lamp. 74. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 19, 28–35 and Figs. 2, 3, 5, 9, and 12. 75. A temporary, unroofed hut constructed for use during the week-long Jewish festival of Tabernacles (Sukkot). 76. Paskaleva, “The Architecture of the Four-Iwan Building Tradition,” 74. It can be also regarded as a microcosmic version of the primordial sea, from which life originated. 77. “Hazrat Bilal Mosque Restoration: Herat, Afghanistan,” Archnet, http://archnet.org/sites/14824. 78. Gharipour, “The Question of Identity,” 1. 79. Wulff, The Traditional Crafts of Persia, 108–125. 80. Hanegbi and Yaniv, Afghanistan, 19–21; Naser Mansori, “What I Talk About When I Talk about Tradition,” in Ferozkoh: Tradition and Continuity in Afghan Art, ed. Leselee Katrina Michelsen and Marc Pelletrea (Doha/Qatar: Museum of Islamic Art, 2013), 161–163. 81. See Tania Beg, “History of the Arts and Crafts of Kashmir” (Ph.D. diss., University of Karachi, 2001), 83–84. 82. Ibid., 85–96, 119–122, 150–165. 83. Galina Lasikova, “The Safavids: An Introduction,” in Michelsen and Pelletreau, Ferozkoh: Tradition and Continuity in Afghan Art, 129–160. 84. Green and Viaene, Religious Internationals in the Modern World. 85. Green, “Old Networks, New Connections: The Emergence of the Jewish International,” in Green and Viaene, Religious Internationals in the Modern World, 54–81.

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Chapter Five

Synagogues of the Fez Mellah: Constructing Sacred Spaces in Nineteenth-century Morocco Michelle Huntingford Craig

A magnificent carved wooden heikhal, the ark in which the Torah scrolls are kept, is a distinguishing feature on the eastern wall of a synagogue in the mellah, or walled Jewish quarter of Fez, Morocco (Fig. 5.1). While this intricate architectural feature probably dates to the nineteenth century and was restored in the 1870s and 1990s, it is contained within a thirteenth-century city wall made of rammed earth and constructed under the Marinid dynasty (1269–1465). Framed by ornamentation crafted by Muslim artisans, the ark evokes architectural collaboration between Jewish and Muslim artists, builders, and patrons in Fez, and the styles particularly associated with that city. Just as Fez was, and is, the spiritual center for Moroccan Muslims, it was also an important center for Moroccan Jews. Although Fez is most famous for its enormous Qarawiyyin Mosque, this essay considers the lesser-known religious structures in Fez and examines the construction of sacred space in the mellah in the nineteenth century.1 What were the principal ways in which Jews in Fez experienced their neighborhood in relation to their religious identity and how did they make sites sacred within the confines of a restricted space? How did centuries of development affect synagogues in the nineteenth century that preceded the radical social and political changes of the twentieth century, including the subordination of local power to a French protectorate (1912–56), Moroccan independence as a constitutional monarchy (1956–present), and the emigration of the vast majority of the country’s Jewish population in the mid-twentieth century?2 The mellah endured severe pressures due to its limited size, restrictions placed on its residents, and environmental and economic difficulties, but the varied responses to these challenges reveal the resilience and creativity of the Jews of Fez. The nineteenth-century mellah was the result of centuries of urban growth and societal formation as well as elements foreshadowing the political and social changes to come.3 The location of places of prayer throughout the quarter, synagogue size, level of interior decoration, and the spatial relationships between synagogues reveal the diversity of religious practices and identities uniting and distinguishing the community in Morocco’s oldest Jewish quarter. An analysis of the variety of religious spaces illustrates the dynamism of this period in the overall history of the mellah. Attention devoted to Fez’s more recent urban and architectural practices also helps to illuminate an era in Moroccan history that has often been overlooked. Scholarship and preservation efforts overwhelmingly privilege the city’s medieval apex, ignoring the diverse innovations and developments produced when Fez was not the center and focus of an empire or of certain types of religious expression.4 Two of the largest synagogues, Synagogue Al Fassiniye and the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, reflect the large population and the long history of the quarter; they also connect nineteenth-century developments to today’s urban practices, including the historic preservation in what is now a UNESCO World Heritage Cultural Site. Only four synagogues in the mellah have been marked for restoration since the UNESCO designation in 1981, including the two mentioned.5 Nineteenth-century migrations and developments are etched into two of the smaller neighborhood synagogues—the Debada Synagogue and the synagogue in the Dar El-Ma—neither of which was marked for preservation. They represent other types of synagogue founded in the nineteenth century and underscore the complexity of life in the mellah during that time. Western travel writers have overwhelmingly focused on the squalor and “backwardness” of the Jewish quarter.6 The synagogues, however, shielded by protective walls and tucked into larger architectural complexes, exemplify the architectural finesse for which the larger city is known. Rituals dependent upon communal cooperation in connected sites of religious importance even as newly constructed synagogues suggest

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Figure 5.1  One side of the heikhal (ark), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

isolationist trends among specific subpopulations. Examination of these four synagogues articulates the legacy of waves of migration to the quarter, as well as evolving cultural and religious imperatives of mellah residents during a time of intense political and environmental pressures. Foundations and Orientation To understand the importance of nineteenth-century synagogue development in the mellah, it is necessary to recognize the quarter’s history as an integral, yet exceptional, part of the larger city. By the mid-fifteenth century, the city of Fez had a tripartite morphology, each part being capable of functioning as an autonomous region. These included the original quarter, the medina of Fez al-Bali, the royal city of Fez al-Jadid (Fez Jedid), and the Jewish city (mellah).7 The mellah of Fez, founded ca. 1438, was Morocco’s first segregated quarter based on religious affiliation. The dates of the quarter’s establishment, however, are contested. Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petruccioli, and Mauro Bertagnin have attempted to clarify any confusion,8 but for the present purposes, it is sufficient to note that Jews moved from their enclave near the center of Fez al-Bali to a quarter adjacent to the royal quarter of Fez al-Jadid, so as to make a geographical distinction between political and religious power. The Jewish population settled on this marshy ground known as the mellah, or “salty place” in Arabic, from as early as the late thirteenth century. The community was of significant proportions during the first half of the fifteenth century, or at least by 1438, when according to the sources, Marinid Sultan Abu Muhammad Abd al-Haqq (r. 1420–65) expelled all the Jews from Fez al-Bali.9 The mellah was located on five hectares (12 acres) of high ground to the south of the administrative quarter of Fez al-Jadid, bounded by the royal palace to the north and northwest, and overlooking a valley of the Zitoun River to the south (Fig. 5.2). The location of the mellah exemplified the power dynamics of the royal city. Geographical segregation separated groups that were integral to the capital city, such as the Muslim scholars of Fez al-Bali, political leaders in Fez al-Jadid (the new city) who were often at odds with the religious elite, and Jewish artisans and merchants in the mellah.10 Each of the three districts of Fez expressed the institutional identity of the Marinid dynasty via the legacy of the rulers’ building programs.11 Their settlement in a specific location physically positioned Jews as an emblem of the sultan’s rule and benevolence. The Jewish quarter served as a buffer

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Burj (Gate)

Derb al-Fuqi

Derb al-Suq

Place du Commerce Cemetery

Synagogues

1 Synagogue Bar Yochai 2 Gate 3 First School of the Alliance Israélite 4 Ecole of R. (Rabbi) Setoun 5 Mikve 6 Oven 7 Synagogue of R. Yehuda ben Aar 8 Synagogue of R. Haim Cohen 9 Saba de Qaws 10 Synagogue Obayd

11 Synagogue Dbaba 12 Oven 13 Cemetery Gate 14 Synagogue R. Raphael Abensur 15 Synagogue Danan 16 Abbatoir 17 Synagogue of Haham Abensur 18 Synagogue of Saba 19 Derb al-Wasaa 20 Derb al-Nawawil

21 Synagogue Manzano 22 Synagogue lbn Aar 23 Derb al-Fassiyin 24 Synagogue al-Fassiyin 25 Hamman 26 Oven 27 Synagogue of Aharon Cohen 28 Synagogue of Saadia Danan 29 Synagogue of Hachuel 30 Synagogue of R. El Baz

for the administration’s adversaries, including those in Fez al-Bali. The community was at once porous and open to the metropolis but also separate and isolated from it. In founding the mellah as a Jewish quarter, the Marinids demonstrated governmental protection of the religious minority considered ahl al-dhimma (people of protection). Jews already paid the poll tax imposed on religious minorities (jizya) and were subject to other restrictions, eventually acquiescing to the directive to reside in a discrete walled quarter of specified size.12 Recurrent persecution disrupted life in the mellah between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, but Jews rebounded from the assaults and surrounding political turmoil. For the next three and a half centuries, the mellah sheltered the city’s Jews through dynastic changes—from the Wattasids (1472–1554) to the Sa’adids (1554–1639), and subsequently the Alawites (1659–present). The built environment of the mellah sheltered a diverse population of Jews who participated in various religious practices and maintained social ties with Jewish communities worldwide. The  toshavim (native Moroccan Jews) contributed to the urban development of Fez that began shortly after the founding of the city in 808 ce. The toshavim were joined by a second community of Jews from Spain, the megorashim (the expelled ones). A first wave of Sephardi immigrants came following the anti-Jewish violence of 1391 and subsequent migrations continued until the expulsion of Jews from the Kingdom of Spain in 1492. Migrants from towns and cities throughout Morocco flocked to the mellah; some came for intellectual pursuits in the quarter’s religious institutions, others for the commercial or employment opportunities it offered. As the population grew from the fifteenth through the beginning of the twentieth century, Jews had to make their walled space work for the growing community. They were also prohibited from

Figure 5.2  Map of the Fez mellah (adapted from Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petrucciolo, and Mauro Bertagnin. “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City: The Jewish Quarter of Fez (1438–1912).” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 60, no. 3 (2001): 311)

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expressing their religious identity within the urban landscape. One of the restrictions on the Jews of Fez as ahl al-dhimma required their places of worship to be unnoticeable from the street; consequently, the mellah did not possess the monumental architecture seen in other parts of Fez. With the exception of the watchtower (burj) marking the entrance to the mellah from the neighboring Muslim quarter of Fez al-Jadid, the mellah lacked monuments. Minarets, domes, pyramids, and green-tiled roofs of mosques, as well as madrasat (Qur’anic schools), and zawiyat (Sufi sanctuaries) dotted the skyline of Fez, proclaiming the dominant Muslim religion, but no visible markers distinguished Jewish architecture in the city. Nevertheless, the proliferation of synagogues throughout the district and their generally high degree of interior decoration and artistry suggests that the mellah was charged with sacred potency. Jews embedded cultural and religious traditions discreetly in the built environment. The toshavim and the megorashim organized and worshiped at separate synagogues and initially maintained their own cemeteries, religious, and cultural traditions.13 It was not until the eighteenth century that the two groups merged to form a more religiously unified core of the Jewish community.14 The liturgy of the megorashim became predominant, while the JudeoArabic language of the toshavim remained the primary spoken dialect.15 The merger of religious and social customs continued throughout the nineteenth century with only one synagogue, the Fassiyine, continuing to adhere to toshavim rites into the twentieth century.16 The Mellah in the Nineteenth Century The nineteenth century began with an extraordinary period of reconstruction in the Fez mellah as well as the creation of mellahs in cities and towns throughout Morocco. The Alawite sultan, Moulay al-Yazid (r. 1790–2), ordered the ejection of the Jewish population from their homes. Jews took refuge outside the city walls, the whole community moving to the Qasba al-Shrarda on the northern side of Fez al-Jadid. The sultan’s reign of terror grossly violated laws protecting Jewish subjects.17 Muslims invaded Jewish houses, seized all the locks, and took control of every building during the twenty-two month expulsion. Only after Moulay al-Yazid’s death, did Moulay Slimane (r. 1792–1822) allow Jews to return to the mellah to rebuild their community. The quarter’s reconstruction in the nineteenth century adopted strategies learned after centuries of negotiating urban space within the larger Muslim city. The mellah’s reestablishment was an expression of a profound attachment to place. Jews became synonymous with the quarter in which they lived.18 Their return reaffirmed the position of the Alawite sultan as the protector of his minority subjects. Moulay Slimane sought to reverse his predecessor’s abuse of Moroccan Jews, and at the same time he also attempted to mitigate foreign influence on his country. Many of the Jewish quarters founded throughout Morocco in the nineteenth century were also known as mellahs. Moulay Slimane ordered their construction in Rabat, Sale, and Tetouan from 1805 through 1810.19 These urban quarters were established in anticipation of increased European involvement and influence in the majority Muslim country and were an expression of the administration’s anxiety in this respect.20 Jewish communities were founded in these other cities, and while construction also occurred in Fez in the early nineteenth-century, the residents of the Fez mellah had to contend with previous centuries of development as well as symbiotic and competitive interaction with the rest of the city. The reshaping of the Fez mellah, however, demonstrated the continuance of longstanding traditions as well as changes specific to the period at a time when European penetration continued to increase and French occupation eventually threatened. Although the 25 hectares (about 62 acres) of Fez al-Jadid and the 248 hectares (612 acres) that constituted Fez al-Bali dwarfed the mellah’s five hectares (12 acres), the quarter exhibited traits seen in the larger urban environment, as well as in other Moroccan cities, Jewish societies outside Morocco, and international trading communities. The Jewish quarter contained all the institutions necessary for urban life in nineteenth-century Morocco and functioned as an autonomous region within the larger metropolitan area, making it a medina-in-miniature. Walls encircled and defined the entire quarter which consisted of the basic residential unit, the dar (dwelling, house), constructed on a derb (alley or narrow street), part of a neighborhood serviced by a public water fountain, communal oven, public baths, commercial spaces, and religious institutions. The urban structure supported a highdensity population with its readily defensible habitat composed of mixed-use blocks partitioned by a few thoroughfares and many passageways. Commerce was conducted in multiple locations but especially along the market street. This main trading street, Derb al-Suq, oriented northeast to southwest, bisected the quarter and terminated near the old Jewish cemetery. Secondary streets branched off from the main street.

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The mellah supported artisans, who formed the majority of the population whose small industries paralleled those in the medina and, in some cases, held citywide monopolies. The many services provided in the quarter and the local municipal organization are an indication of the large degree of autonomy enjoyed by its population. This self-sufficiency would be crucial in times of unrest when the gates of the mellah were closed and the quarter became a separate city. The Jews of Fez formed governing bodies to take care of their internal affairs. The nagid (head of the community), scholars of the ma’amad (community council), yeshiva (school of higher religious learning) administrators, and dayyanim (rabbinical judges) comprised the political organization within the quarter. The nagid, a position chosen from among the local leaders, represented the community to Muslim authorities.21 The community and its leaders maintained schools, provided assistance to indigents and scholars, organized protection and sanitation initiatives, and fixed weights and measures to ensure commercial integrity. This does not mean that there were no significant internal conflicts; the precarious status of the Jews caused anxiety, compounded by the internal hierarchy within the Jewish community. As in Fez al-Bali and Fez al-Jadid, twisting lanes became increasingly dark and narrow as population density increased and buildings grew in height and encroached on public space. Moroccan writer and critic Abdelkebir Khatibi recalled that the labyrinthine environment of Fez was, “. . . a cultural way of treating space, of learning, . . . a psychology and strategy of walking, of meeting, of avoiding, of fighting, of fleeing.”22 Muslim and Jewish residents of Fez shared this urban mentality. The majority of mellah buildings were plain, both inside and out. Exterior walls were traditionally solid barriers with few openings, similar to those elsewhere in Fez. Buildings were built of durable materials: fired clay bricks, wood, stone, and rich lime mortar. They were decorated in stucco, ceramic tile, and/or plaster if the owners could afford the expense. Like the rest of the city, the Mediterranean courtyard house was one of the fundamental building schemes of the urban landscape. Muslim master-builders supervised Jewish masons and carpenters while Muslim craftsmen produced the more intricate architectural elements. These artisans used the same materials and similar decoration motifs; the standard for luxury was similar across the city. The expanding population within a walled space of limited size required buildings to be built taller and narrower in the mellah. Some buildings did not have courtyards; these included synagogues, ritual and communal baths, shops, workshops, guest-houses, and communal ovens.23 The residential model of the courtyard house supported both outward and vertical expansion until consecutive additions and/or subdivisions changed the layout. Thus, buildings in the Jewish quarter did not conform to a specific model, but followed a number of conventions. The house took on additional functions as a place of prayer, education, and labor, as needed. For example, meetings of the community council were held in the courtyard of the nagid’s home. This points to the centrality of residences within the mellah, which became denser than Muslim neighborhoods, with space increasingly cramped by the end of the nineteenth century, the process of subdivision having been taken to extremes.24 Families were forced to live not in an entire house or even part of a house, but in a single room. The 1879 Judeo-Arabic chronicle of Fez, Yahas Fas, written by Rabbi Abner Hassarfaty, lists more than six households per two hundred and thirty-five hatzerim (courtyards), transforming single residences into apartment buildings averaging an occupation density of more than thirty-seven people per building.25 Jews adopted the dominant architectural forms and styles of ornamentation, yet their segregation helped to reinforce their otherness, with additional external differences particularly inscribing the space as Jewish. Mezuzot (protective amulets) placed in niches on the right-hand side of the doorframe leading to the street, marked a residence as belonging to a Jewish family, as it does wherever Jews live. Paint was a clear point of distinction between Jews and Muslims in nineteenth-century Fez. Jewish housepainters gave their coreligionists’ door and window frames saturated color in pink, blue, yellow, or red paint.26 The vibrant hues of buildings in the Jewish quarter set them apart from subtler, more uniform earth tones in the Muslim quarters. As in the urban fabric of Fez’s Muslim quarters, places of prayer permeated the mellah, and residents prayed in small neighborhood synagogues (sla). Some synagogues occupied entire buildings embedded in compact groups of houses, while others operated in rooms within the private homes of prominent families. The Yahas Fas chronicle recorded fourteen synagogues operating in 1879.27 Names reflected the building owners, origins of the congregants, place names, or more typically, the name of the officiating rabbi. Changes in the owners as well as the line of rabbis officiating at a given house of assembly caused the synagogue’s name to change over time.28 In contrast to the highly visible industry and trade in the mellah’s commercial space, religious space was less visible to non-residents, though it functioned as a prominent node for residents. Public prayers, communal

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confessions and fasting, and the announcement or notification of official decrees occurred at these sites of religious and communal authority.29 These sacred spaces honored a diverse Jewish heritage, while increased insecurity prompted communal public prayers to occur with greater frequency during the century.30 Synagogues and the Community Synagogues proliferated in the mellah, many in the northern section, near the commercial street. The buildings mostly date to the early nineteenth century, established or reconstructed after the 1790–2 exile, although foundations and locations may have dated to earlier periods.31 The synagogues of Fez were generally smaller than those in coastal cities, even though the city’s Jewish population was one of Morocco’s largest. The smaller size reflects the quarter’s history; the more recently constructed mellahs in coastal cities meant they did not have to contend with the spatial pressures found in Fez.32 The general layout of Fez synagogues conformed to the usual pattern, the two main features being the heikhal (holy ark) and the tevah (platform or lectern from which the Torah scrolls are read). Women occasionally attended services and sat at the back of the prayer-hall; some synagogues also contained a separate room for women. What the Fez houses of prayer lacked in size, they made up for in the wealth of their ornamentation. Several were elaborately decorated with zellij (mosaic tile) and ornamental stucco produced by Muslim artisans. Synagogues displayed a wide variety of forms and decorative schemes, resonating with both individual and communal directives. By the nineteenth century, Synagogue Al Fassiyine and the Ibn Danan Synagogue were the two most important houses of prayer. Their large size, spatial organization, and notable features allowed to them to support the communal needs of the mellah, although neither was community-owned. Founded in the seventeenth century and rebuilt after 1792, Synagogue Al Fassiyine is one of the oldest known synagogues in the mellah.33 Located on the Derb Al Fassiyine in the northeastern part of the quarter and close to the burj (watchtower), the Synagogue Al Fassiyine was built in what would have been the first part of the mellah to be settled by Jews.34 Its name and location show that it is the synagogue of the Fassi, the residents of Fez. It is also one of the largest of the synagogues size 7.3 by 11.5 meters (24 by 38 feet) so that it could contain a large congregation during the major festivals or in times of need. The subdivision of buildings in the nineteenth century in the mellah made exceptional what had been typical in previous centuries, given that the measurements of a desirable room 2.4 to 7 meters (8 to 23 feet) yielded a fairly regular total width of a house in Fez (between 11 and 12 meters (36 and 39 feet)).35 A plain façade and unremarkable double doors belie the amount of space and ornamentation in the interior (Fig. 5.3). A high ceiling of exposed wooden beams covers three naves that are divided by two rows of four ogival arches supported by three octagonal piers in each row. The heikhal was originally positioned along one of the long walls, its base ornamented with zellij. The tevah was located in the middle of the hall opposite the heikhal.36 The prayer-hall has plastered walls featuring a simple band of painted ornamental stucco with alternating octagonal and eight-pointed star panels framed by pointed arches and a border of plant motifs (Fig. 5.4).37 A horseshoe arch framed by carved stucco marks a niche in one of the walls near the entrance to the synagogue. Joel Zack compares it to a mosque’s mihrab, and the feature exemplifies collaboration between Jews and Muslims.38 Until the twentieth century, Muslim master builders oversaw construction of both Muslim and Jewish buildings, and while Jews were employed as carpenters and construction workers, the tilemakers were Muslim. Unlike mosques in neighboring Muslim quarters that might have courtyards to help filter light into the prayer space, the nineteenth-century Synagogue Al Fassiyine had none. Small clerestory windows at irregular intervals provided natural light, supplemented by two octagonal skylights, the larger one in the main prayer-hall and the other in a mezzanine gallery. The windows’ presence indicates that the synagogue was taller than the surrounding buildings. Two screened galleries extend over a small room at one end of the hall and the niche at the other. Women attended services in the mezzanine gallery (‘azara) ornamented with white, green, gold, and black tiles, and they used a separate entrance to ascend to this space. The women’s gallery is divided into two. One section features the octagonal skylight and metal grille, separated from the rest of the synagogue by a wrought iron screen (Fig. 5.5). The second section rises two steps higher than the first and its two windows open onto the synagogue below. The women’s gallery demonstrates that women attended synagogue prayers and is noteworthy for the amount of its lighting and decoration, as female spaces were not typically as well endowed. Clerestory windows and the skylight let

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Figure 5.3  View of the aisles and contemporary tevah (pulpit), Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

Figure 5.4  Stucco wall decoration, Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

in outside light, the skylight echoing the larger one in the main prayer space directly in front of it. The open space below and the maximized space on the second floor allowed a large congregation to attend. The size, decoration, and features of the Synagogue Al Fassiyine signify the intellectual and religious importance of the community that used it. The site was particularly representative of the toshavim and the traditions of Fez and functioned as the heart of Fez Jewish identity.

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Figure 5.5  Ladies’ gallery, Synagogue Al Fassiyine in the Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

Another large prayer space, the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, has been at its current location since the seventeenth century. The synagogue was within the patrimony of the Danan family since 1812 and was named for Rabbi Shlomo Ibn (or Aben) Danan (1847–1928), who presided over the synagogue in the early twentieth century. The Danans exemplified the tradition of rabbinic family dynasties, as over fifty rabbis are known and the dynasty can be traced to fifteenth-century Granada.39 Their synagogue recalls Fez’s reputation as a religious center known for its scholarship and authoritative rabbinical decrees. One of the few synagogues built from the start as a place of prayer, the Ibn Danan Synagogue stands at the end of Derb El Ferran Tehti (street of the oven below) and against the mellah’s eastern wall, where space had been set aside for public amenities such as a synagogue and the communal oven for which the street was named.40 The main space of the Ibn Danan Synagogue consists of a rectangular room constructed from solid brick and lime mortar divided by three piers into four naves (Fig. 5.6). The brick piers begin as octagons and transition into cubes at the top; brackets extend from the piers to the wooden ceiling with its rafters and laths supported by solid cedar beams and corbels. Clerestory windows allow some natural light to penetrate the building; qandilin (memorial oil lamps) also illuminated the hall, which, unlike the Synagogue Al Fassiyine, has no skylights. The Ibn Danan Synagogue features flooring of green and white herringbone tiles; its impressive features include the tevah, heikhal, and mikva (ritual bath). The heikhal occupies the two central bays within the eastern earthen wall, and the recessed tevah area occupies the two central bays on the opposite wall. Pairs of doors flanked by a single door to each side compose the two sections of the heikhal, an architectural element embedded within the earthen wall planned by the Marinid dynasty to form the boundary of the quarter (Fig. 5.1). Ornamental stucco above the tiled wainscoting also decorates the heikhal wall. More mosaic tiles in geometric patterns adorn the staircase and platform in front of the ark. A second-floor gallery over the fourth nave was for women attending the services (Fig. 5.7). Like that of Synagogue Al Fassiyine, the women’s gallery in the Ibn Danan Synagogue contains windows that contribute to the illumination of the prayer space, but the gallery is not elaborately decorated with ornamental tile or wrought ironwork as is the women’s gallery in the Synagogue Al Fassiyine. The tevah area is the most striking feature of the Ibn Danan Synagogue. Accessed by three steps, the tevah stands over a cellar and provides an elegant pulpit opening toward the first row of seats. This expanded and raised area was reserved for the officiants and learned members of the

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Figure 5.6  Interior view of tevah (pulpit) (left) and ladies’ gallery (upper center), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

Figure 5.7  Interior view showing the tevah (pulpit) (left) and heikhal (ark) (right), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

c­ ongregation and included bookshelves placed on either end (Fig. 5.8).41 A wooden screen separates this area from the rest of the synagogue, and a wooden platform with a wrought iron canopy is cantilevered out on brackets from the screen to form the pulpit. While other synagogues, including Al Fassiyine, had a mobile tevah or one placed in the center of the prayer space, the juxtaposition of

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Figure 5.8  Close-up of the tevah (pulpit) showing its wrought iron canopy, Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

the Ibn Danan’s tevah and the alcove reserved for leaders of the congregation emphasizes the educational priorities of this community. Its siting over a cellar is also evidence of the expansion of this important synagogue over time (Fig. 5.9). The unusual entrance, with two vestibules, points to such incremental architectural changes. The first vestibule connects to adjacent second-floor residences, the second to the prayer-hall and the cellar underneath the tevah.42 The ground plan and decoration evoke the architectural traditions of Fez and the work of Muslim master-builders and a variety of craftsmen. The presence of a mikva, or ritual bath, in the Ibn Danan Synagogue is of particular significance (Fig. 5.10). Some ritual ablutions in the Ibn Danan mikva were required due to religious rituals but were also convenient as the water supply was irregular throughout the quarter. Some residences contained fountains, but running water was largely limited to occupants wealthy enough to pay for maintaining the water pipes and drainage. Most baths were privately owned and located near or in wealthy homes.43 The mikva bath in the Ibn Danan, located in a subterranean space separated from the cellar beneath the tevah, originally opened to the outside, possibly to a courtyard, a vacant lot, or cul-de-sac, but this entryway became blocked when structures were built against the existing wall. A staircase under a trap door cut into the interior of the prayer-hall became the only entrance to the mikva.44 The staircase provided a creative solution to the accessibility problem and implies the sustained use and importance of the ritual bath. The Ibn Danan Synagogue, with its exceptional layout is one of the oldest synagogues still operating in Morocco, and a monument to the Jewish presence in Fez. It is proof of the history of the continuation of the of toshavim community long after the megorashim became the majority in Fez. A synagogue had originally been built on the site by the toshavim notable Mimon Boussidan, originally from the area of Zawiyat Aït Ishaq in what is now Khenifra Province; it was also known as the Synagogue of the Toshavim. It was destroyed by Sa’adi Sultan Muhammad al-Sheikh al-Seghir (r. 1636–55), who ransacked and demolished a number of synagogues, including this one, in 1646, but it had been rebuilt by 1701.45 The Danan family fled to Spain in the fifteenth century to escape persecution, only to return to Morocco in 1492, making the family and the eponymous synagogue a lasting bridge between the two communities.46 Most of the synagogues of Fez were privately owned, but even the community-owned places of worship were treated like private property; they had commercial value and could be bought or sold,

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 Ves

Neighbouring building

e bul

Cellar

Corridor

W.C

Nave 4

Tevah

Nave 3

Nave 2

Nave 1

VE

MIK

Hechal

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Figure 5.9  Floor plan and elevation from eastern pisé wall to the tevah (pulpit) over the cellar showing the incremental growth of the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue (adapted from Mohammed Ameziane Hassani’s Fondation du patrimoine culturel judéo-marocain. The Danan synagogue of Fez. Casablanca: Fondation [sic] for Judeo-Moroccan Cultural Heritage, 2007,7,9) Figure 5.10  Close-up of the mikva (ritual bath), Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue, Fez mellah (courtesy of Vanessa Bonnin, 2014)

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subdivided, or sold through individual shares (half, third, quarter, etc.). 47 The community itself owned portions of the Ibn Danan and Al Fassiyine synagogues but shared its ownership with number of individual patrons. By the beginning of the twentieth century, only one of the nineteen operating houses of prayer was owned by the community. The largely private ownership of the Ibn Danan and Al Fassiyine synagogues exemplifies their ability to represent the mellah’s residents writ large. Their complex ownership, size, decoration, and use in communal rituals express their positions as institutions greater than those of a neighborhood synagogue. Concealed Heritage: Synagogues in Domestic Settings What of the synagogues not slated for restoration? Due to their location attached to or within houses and repurposed as residences, these newer houses of prayer conceal the histories of migration, internal divisions, and economic stratification behind dilapidated exteriors. But even locked within domestic spaces, these synagogues reveal nineteenth-century changes. New houses of prayer potentially decreased attendance and revenue for community-owned synagogues, and community leaders discouraged congregants from leaving existing synagogues.48 Judicial opposition to private synagogues had been due not only to the threat of lost income but also to a physical one, namely, that the creation of new synagogues might potentially incite anti-Jewish sentiments in the Muslim majority population of Fez, since technically Jews as dhimmi were prevented from opening new houses of worship.49 The increasing Jewish population of Fez nevertheless necessitated the e­ stablishment of more synagogues, and community leaders raised fewer objections in the nineteenth century. Two private synagogues demonstrate the types of institutions permitted. At the end of Derb al-Feran Tehti, immediately to the right of the Ibn Danan Synagogue stands the Debada Synagogue (Fig. 5.11). Like Synagogue Al Fassiyine and the Ibn Danan Synagogue, it has a plain façade and entrance. The prayer-hall is reached from a staircase immediately behind the entrance door. The synagogue dates to around 1840 and consists of an elaborately decorated irregularly shaped room, 6 by 9 meters (20 by 30 feet), with two naves marked by piers (Fig. 5.12). The heikhal faces the entrance from the opposite wall, and the tevah stands in the center of the room with seating around the periphery, facing the pulpit. Unlike the Al Fassiyine and Ibn Danan synagogues, no separate area was provided for women. The abundance of decoration makes the Debada Synagogue remarkable. The rectangular windows are surmounted by a row of arched windows to highlight the upper heikhal wall. As in the synagogues already considered, the piers transition from octagonal to cubed. The floor is tiled, while two series of arched stucco motifs ornament the walls beneath a plain wooden ceiling with exposed beams. This house of prayer was not intended to serve the general population of the mellah, but the importance attached by Jews to place of origin is etched into the Debada Synagogue. Just as the name of Synagogue Al Fassiyine indicated it to be the synagogue for toshavim, the original Jews of Fez, the name of the Debada synagogue shows that its Jewish members or their ancestors came from the town of Debdou, a village northeast of Fez.50 A synagogue especially for former residents of Debdou meant that enough members of the community migrated to Fez to be able to hold a minyan (quorum of ten men) and conduct a service, reflecting the rise in migration to Fez. The fact that the Debada Synagogue stood right next to the Ibn Danan Synagogue implies divisions within mellah society; migrants were treated with suspicion and may have been encouraged to keep to themselves by founding their own synagogues.51 It was not enough, however, simply to have the required number of residents to open a new synagogue. Historically, the leading rabbis resisted the establishment of private synagogues. For example, they prevented Rabbi Abitbul from the nearby town of Sefrou from establishing a synagogue in Fez in the early nineteenth century. Yet the migrants from Debdou were allowed to establish this house of worship a few decades later, possibly around the time the Sefroui rabbi was finally permitted to open his own synagogue.52 Debdou was known for its wealthy megorashim families, many of them merchants, who had fled the Inquisition in Castile centuries earlier.53 By the early nineteenth century, Fez was one of the few cities in which the Jewish community did not have a merchant majority. Due to sporadic persecution over the centuries, several prominent Jewish merchant families had converted to Islam. With growing European interest in Morocco, merchants stood to gain by working as liaisons for foreign entrepreneurs and governments, leading some 60 families from Debdou to relocate to Fez. Synagogues associated with other Moroccan cities and towns indicate the importance of place of origin in defining identity and particularly in maintaining distinct identities long after arrival in Fez. The synagogue’s appearance does not reflect the decoration used in Debdou.54 Rather, the ornamentation indicates the wealth of congregants able to

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Figure 5.11  Entrance to the Debada Synagogue (after Isaiah Wyner, 1989, 1994, courtesy of the American Sephardi Federation and World Monuments Fund)

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Figure 5.12  Interior of the Debada Synagogue (after Isaiah Wyner, 1989, 1994, courtesy of the American Sephardi Federation and World Monuments Fund)

commission local craftsmen to produce the most fashionable work. The interior decoration of the Debada synagogue shows the superior resources of its congregation. When visiting Deb al-Fuqi, a subtle shift is noticeable in the appearance of the mellah. This street was the main thoroughfare, running beside the palace wall. Strategically located next to the Sultan’s palace and the protection he offered, Deb al-Fuqi also benefited from the cleanest and freshest air in the quarter. The Fez mellah became unique amongst Moroccan Jewish neighborhoods for its aggregation of wealth along a single street. This collection of riches was followed by an improvement in public services, including places of prayer such as the synagogue in Dar al-Mae, located at 220 Derb al-Fuqi.55 Housed on the fourth floor of an elaborate residential building, the 4.8 m by 6.7 m (16 by 22 feet) space dates to the early nineteenth century.56 Accessing the richly decorated synagogue involves entering the large private home, ascending two flights of stairs, crossing an internal courtyard and taking one more flight of stairs to the fourth flour. Two rooms connected by a broad arch, a women’s room to the rear of the prayer space, and a small room containing the ark at the opposite end, comprise this intimate house of prayer (Fig. 5.13). Women who resided in the house had direct access to this space, as did their extended families. A six-foot-high zellij, an ornamental stucco frieze of blind arches, and an intricate carved and painted wood ceiling characterize each of the two main rooms and create an environment of polychrome splendor. A star and crescent in the stuccowork reminds viewers of the religious identity of the skilled Muslim craftsman who decorated the space. The opulence of the interior demonstrates how the wealthy Jews of Fez exercised patronage and power through their ownership of private synagogues.57 Such synagogues were monuments to the family’s prestige, expressive of the intimate relationship between religious endowment and property ownership.58 Private patrons had the wealth to maintain beautiful prayer-halls within their homes. The combination of domestic and religious spaces also emphasized the insularity of the mellah.59 The majority of mellah houses were modest, built of white plaster walls and compacted earth floors. Wooden ceilings were supported by exposed beams at regular intervals. Sparse but clean interiors were the aim of many mellah residents simply seeking to distinguish their domestic space from the cacophony and garbage that characterized the public way. The residential spaces of these two synagogues illustrate the alternatives, reminding viewers that mellah architecture was not homogeneous and revealing both the ingenuity of working within a limited space and the economic and social diversity of the minority population.

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Hechal

Tevah

Up Women

Up

FES: BET HA-KNESSET DAR EL MAE Scale: 1/8” = 1’-0”

Figure 5.13  Plan (after Joel Zack) and interior (after Isaiah Wyner) of the synagogue in Dar al-Ma from The Synagogues of Morocco: An Architectural and Preservation Survey. New York: The Jewish Heritage Council, 1989 (courtesy of the American Sephardi Federation and World Monuments Fund)

Performance of Sacred Space The arrangement of services in the quarter shows the impact of nineteenth-century developments on the Jews of Fez, showing how some traditional structures were able to thrive under pressure while others yielded to new forms. Residents, some who had been employed by the sultan’s administration, also found positions with foreign states and companies. An elite class arose, associated with international trade and diplomacy.60 Increased population density, stemming from internal migration prompted either by necessity or economic opportunity, reflected the increasingly untenable environment across the region due to the slow decline of the Moroccan empire under the Alawite dynasty. Economic changes resulting from European trade initiatives, exacerbated by environmental disasters, hastened the deterioration of the political state.61 Increasing European and American activities led to foreign engagement of Moroccans, including Jews, in enterprise, which in turn led to to increased wealth for a small percentage of the inhabitants of Fez. The realities of nineteenth-century life were harsh for most inhabitants of the mellah. Residents coped with increasingly unstable conditions during the decades leading to colonization, and political weakness was exacerbated by environmental disasters and epidemics. Nineteenth-century episodes of disease, famine, and occasional violence devastated the quarter and also motivated Jews to move from even more distressed rural areas to the city in search of a better life. The population of the quarter flucuated between six and fifteen thousand during the second half of the nineteenth century

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with Jews comprising roughly one-tenth of the overall population of the city.62 Epidemics wrought havoc on a population experiencing new and destabilizing pressures and infant mortality spiked every summer. Cholera epidemics raged through the city in 1834, 1855, and 1878; a fever epidemic in 1856–7 killed three thousand.63 The Great Famine of 1878–84 further devastated the population. Migrants replenished the community after each misfortune, and the resulting overcrowding led to unhygienic conditions. In response to such calamities, the rabbinical court could order a public fast and demonstration by the entire Jewish community. After morning prayers, the population proceeded to the cemetery for prayers at the graves of saints (tsaddiqim), including the monument to Rabbi Judah Ben-Attar (1655–1733).64 The congregation then visited the burj and delivered penitential prayers at the graves of martyrs killed in the riots of 1465.65 The watchtower was a constant reminder of the potential for violence among the Muslim population. Relics of the martyrs imbued the burj with baraka (charisma of divine origin) that had protective significance and the potential to strengthen prayers delivered at the site.66 Following another set of prayers at a nearby burial ground, the community concluded its ritual at Synagogue Al Fassiyine before the afternoon service was held there.67 This ceremony demonstrates how the streets and spaces of the mellah became charged with religious significance. The population converged on the cemetery after morning prayers at neighborhood synagogues, and individual identity became subsumed by a communal identity to pray collectively for favorable outcomes. The crowd walked in procession the entire length of the quarter, from the cemetery to the burj, and then backtracked to reach Synagogue Al Fassiyine. The route of the procession expresses how each physical end of the mellah—the burj and the cemetery outside the southern end of the quarter—functioned as sacred poles resonating with holy energy, symbolically protecting the Jewish community of Fez and followers of the Jewish saints. Synagogue Restoration and Jewish Heritage Tourism The nineteenth-century Al Fassiyine and Ibn Danan synagogues were two of the most important synagogues and public rituals involved both of them. The processions continue, now mostly enacted by tourists. Today few Jews live in Fez. Muslims inhabit the quarter as a dependent part of Fez al-Jadid, and yet the mellah is still strongly imbued with its Jewish roots.68 Following the designation of Fez as a UNESCO World Heritage Cultural Site, these two major synagogues have been restored, the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue in 1999 and Synagogue Al Fassiyine in 2013. Yet, the designation of Fez as a UNESCO World Heritage Cultural Site in 1981 initially attracted little attention for the mellah.69 Still, only since the World Heritage designation have a few preservation efforts been directed at the quarter’s historic synagogues. The well-maintained cemetery, which dates to the late nineteenth century, the restored Ibn Danan Synagogue and Synagogue Al Fassiyine are destinations for heritage tourism. The World Monuments Fund supported a tour of Moroccan Jewish Sites in 1994. Preservation of Morocco’s synagogues, including those in Fez, became easier in the 1990s when there was talk of implementing a Jewish Heritage Route.70 Projects were bolstered by the foundation of Jewish museums in Casablanca and Fez, both of which affirmed an interest in recognizing and restoring monuments of Jewish heritage and revising the area’s received history, in which Jewish history receives considerably less recognition than Islamic history. The restoration of the Ibn Danan Synagogue on Derb al-Feran Tehti situates it as the principal example of Jewish space in Fez. While the nineteenth-century renovation occurred due to its sustained use and importance, the potency of this synagogue was yet again recognized, being the first synagogue to be restored in the 1990s.71 The Jewish Community of Fez had undertaken small emergency repairs and the building itself had been declared a National Monument in 1989. It has been likened to the Qarawiyyine Mosque and Tomb of Moulay Idriss, the city’s holiest Muslim sites, and was placed on the World Monuments Watch List of 100 Most Endangered Sites in 1996. The Ibn Danan was well suited to embody Jewish heritage in the 1990s as its size, lengthy history, inclusion of the Marinid wall, and location made it exemplary. The synagogue overlooks the current Jewish cemetery, which was established in the late nineteenth century when it relocated from the southwest to the southeast of the mellah, adjacent to its eastern wall, on orders from Sultan Hassan I (r. 1873–94). Although it results from a coincidence, the proximity of the synagogue, the Marinidplanned wall, and the cemetery visually and physically reinforces the connection to the area’s religious past. Jewish heritage preservation efforts in the mellah recently increased, when the restored Synagogue

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Al Fassiyine was opened to the public in 2013. It was still in use by the toshavim community until 1970,72 when it was repurposed as a carpet factory and boxing ring. Funds for the restoration came from the Jewish Association of Fez and the governments of Morocco and Germany. Islamist Prime Minister Abdelilah Benkirane inaugurated the reopening, repeating the wish of Morocco’s King Muhammad VI that all of the country’s synagogues be refurbished and serve as centers for cultural dialogue.73 At the inauguration, Judeo-Moroccan Patrimony Foundation’s President Serge Berdugo claimed, “Slat-al-Fassiyine teaches us a beautiful lesson. It represented the past, bound to disappear. Its restoration process anticipated the future, and that future is now. Moroccan Judaism’s time has come. It’s a motherly community, aware of its history and full of projects for the times to come. This community is part of the Moroccan reality. It can fully enjoy its civic rights, religious freedom, and full conscience of its responsibilities.”74 Visiting the synagogue requires navigation through some of the densest parts of the former Jewish quarter, the oldest being laid out as it was in the fifteenth century. The restoration of Synagogue Al Fassiyine offers hope for greater tourist traffic. Conclusion Nineteenth-century changes in Fez are recorded in the mellah’s architecture and spatial construction among the results of centuries of urban development. Reconstructed in the early nineteenth century, the mellah in many ways reinforced the larger Alawite imperial identity of Fez. Its residents created a highly autonomous district that mirrored the commercial organization of Muslim areas while distinguishing its difference through residential, religious, and work spaces that carved out specific Jewish characteristics within the larger Muslim-majority city. The mellah’s transformation in the late nineteenth century, including its relocated cemetery, the increased number of private synagogues, and growing number of foreign-owned establishments, reflected new pressures in the larger social and political environments. The location and use of synagogues in the quarter elucidates the impact of nineteenth-century developments on the Jews of Fez. Communal prayers were conducted at Synagogue Al Fassiyine and other key sites, rituals that demonstrate the merging of indigenous Moroccans and Jews expelled from the Iberian Peninsula into a single Jewish community. Two of the largest synagogues, designed and constructed as houses of prayer—the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue and Synagogue Al Fassiyine—evoke the centuries of community building and cohabitation as well as distinctions within the transcultural community and are recognized in the recent restoration of these two institutions. The Synagogue Al Fassiyine, the synagogue in Dar El-Ma, and the Ibn Danan Synagogue all provided spaces for women worshipers. The Ibn Danan synagogue also demonstrates collaboration between indigenous Moroccans and those expelled from the Iberian Peninsula. The various sites used as synagogues also demonstrate the restrictions placed on the Jewish minority as well as the economic stratification of the quarter, and they point to the sustained link between place of origin, construction, and religious practice. Architectural developments also testify to the specific conditions endured during the nineteenth century. A type of spatial hierarchy that distinguished between social classes is evident in the grouping together of the quarter’s richer inhabitants; this trend escapes notice in the current restoration initiatives.75 The aggregation of wealth on the Derb al-Fuqi can be seen in the many synagogues on this street, including the one in Dar El-Ma. Its ornate decoration reflects the wealth of the prominent family supporting the prayer space. Rural to urban migration resulted in subdivision, increasing the quarter’s density, but new residents were not easily incorporated into the existing community, regardless of income. The Debada Synagogue shows how the newcomers negotiated their new environment. It demonstrates how certain places of prayer served discrete groups of residents but used assimilative architectural details to express their high economic status. Analysis of the mellah’s religious spaces provides greater insight into a community that has almost disappeared from the cityscape and acknowledges the diversity of the Jewish community of the Fez mellah. The quarter’s isolation facilitated intracommunal cohesion through rituals celebrating Jewish holy days and other religious rituals, and imbued residents with a sense of collective purpose during times of crisis. Through describing the nineteenth-century urban environment, a complex history is revealed, one that can be read as a high point, the culmination of urbanism before colonial intervention and incomplete modernization. What becomes apparent is not Morocco’s supposed isolation, but rather its long-standing engagement, whether desired or otherwise, with a wider Mediterranean world.

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Notes 1. Anthropologist Shlomo Deshen describes the 1880s as the end of the traditional period of Jewish life in Fez. He cites 1894 as the last date on which Moroccan rulers effectively resisted the encroachment of European powers. Shlomo Deshen, The Mellah Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 7–8. Historian Susan Gilson Miller regards the nineteenth century as the heyday of mellah society. Susan Gilson Miller, “The Mellah of Fez: Reflections on the Spatial Turn in Moroccan Jewish History,” in Jewish Topographies: Visions of Space, Traditions of Place, ed. Julia Brauch, Anna Lipphardt, and Alexandra Nocke (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008), 106. 2. During the Protectorate, Jews left the mellah for the new French city, the ville nouvelle, in the 1920s and 30s when they could afford to move. Many left the city entirely in search of better economic prospects in the burgeoning economic capital of Casablanca and the new political capital, Rabat. Emigration of Jews from Morocco rose precipitously after the Arab-Israeli Six-Day War in 1967, which exacerbated Jewish– Muslim tension in Morocco. 3. The theories of space developed by the philosopher and urban critic Henri Lefebvre inform my approach. For Lefebvre, space is both a social production and a medium through which social life is produced and reproduced. See Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991). 4. The age of the Marinids is generally regarded as the Golden Age of the imperial capital. See Jane S. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez: 1450–1700 (Leiden: Brill, 1980), Simon O’Meara, Space and Muslim Urban Life: At the Limits of the Labyrinth of Fez (London: Routledge Taylor & Francis Group, 2007), Roger Le Tourneau, Fès avant le protectorat: Étude économique et social d’une ville de l’occident musulman (Casablanca: Société Marocaine de Libraire et d’Edition, 1949), among others. 5. The Slat Rabbi Mimun Mansano and the twentieth-century Em Habanim were the others. The Em Habanim is currently accessed from the cemetery and serves as a Jewish museum. 6. See Eugène Aubin, Morocco of To-Day (London: J. M. Dent & Co., 1906); Stephen Bonsal, Jr, Morocco as it is. With an Account of Sir Charles Euan Smith’s Recent Mission to Fez (New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1893); Lawrence Harris, With Mulai Hafid at Fez: Behind the Scenes in Morocco (Boston: Richard G. Badger The Gorham Press, 1910); Elias Burton Holmes, Burton Holmes Travelogues with Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. Complete in Ten Volumes, vol. 1 (New York: McClure, 1908); Pierre Loti, Au Maroc (Paris: Calmann Lévy, 1890). 7. While Fez al-Bali was founded in 808 ce under the Idrisid dynasty (789–921 ce), the Marinid dynasty founded the royal quarter of Fez al-Jadid or New Fez in 1276 ce. A fourth city, the ville nouvelle, would be built by the French beginning in the 1910s. The colonial and modern ville nouvelle is located at a distance from Fez al-Jadid and the mellah. 8. Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petruccioli, and Mauro Bertagnin, “The Mâllah, The Third City of Fez,” in The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City, ed. Susan Gilson Miller and Mauro Bertagnin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Graduate School of Design, 2010), 84. 9. Emily Gottreich, “Rethinking the ‘Islamic City’ from the Perspective of Jewish Space,” Jewish Social Studies 11, no. 1 (2004): 120. 10. Fez was both a religious and an intellectual center for both Jews and Muslims. Religious jurists exerted power over the surrounding region and were in contact with leaders throughout the Islamic World and the Jewish Diaspora. 11. In addition to founding the Fez al-Jadid and the mellah, Marinid sultans founded seven Qu’ranic schools and a number of mosques in Fez al-Bali. These buildings exhibited new architectural styles, decorative programs, and construction techniques. Thus, since the fifteenth century, the spatial organization of Fez emphasized political, religious, and social hierarchies and reinforced inequalities between segments of the city’s population. See O’Meara, Space and Muslim Urban Life, 7. 12. The Jews of Fez were not allowed to ride horses, wear shoes in front of mosques, or even enter certain areas of the city designated as sacred to Muslims. 13. Deshen, The Mellah Society, 95, 96, 97.This proliferation of synagogues in the nineteenth century echoes that of the sixteenth century. Jane Gerber notes that the number of places of prayer increased significantly following the arrival of the megorashim at the end of the fifteenth century. In 1497 there were four synagogues in the quarter and by 1545 five synagogues served the megorashim in addition to the four of the toshavim. The creation of these new religious institutions reflected pronounced community divisions based on place of origin. Within the divided community, however, the Synagogue of the Toshavim, Synagogue of the Megorashim, and Great Synagogue were structures in which the entire population could meet on occasions of public importance. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 35. 14. Susan Gilson Miller, Attilio Petrucciolo, and Mauro Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City: The Jewish Quarter of Fez (1438–1912),” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 60, no. 3 (2001): 313. 15. Rites offered in megorashim synagogues included three daily services: shaharit in the morning, minhah in the afternoon, and arbit or ma’ariv when night fell. Megorashim also used rabbinic law to establish internal community organization via Castilian regulations governing marriage, divorce, and inheritance. These laws were initially drafted in Spanish, but later amendments were written in Judeo-Arabic, Tamazigh (Berber), or Hebrew. Paloma Díaz-Mas, Sephardim: The Jews from Spain, trans. George K. Zucker (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 3, 52–53.

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16. Aubin, Morocco of To-Day, 299. 17. Excused from specifically Muslim duties, Jews were technically equal under the laws of property, contract, and obligation. 18. Miller, “The Mellah of Fez,” 103. 19. Robert Assaraf, Eléments de l’histoire des juifs de Fès de 808 à nos jours (Rabat, Morocco: Editions & Impression Bouregreg, 2009), 136. 20. For more on Jewish use of protected status, see Daniel J. Schroeter, “From Dhimmis to Colonized Subjects,” in Studies in Contemporary Jewry XIX: Jews and the State Dangerous Alliances and the Perils of Privilege, ed. Ezra Mendelsohn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 110–111; and Edmond Burke, Prelude to Protectorate Morocco: Precolonial Protest and Resistance, 1860–1912 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976). 21. The presence of several nagidim made the political structure of Jewish communities in Morocco distinct from the centralized singular nagid of Tunis or Egypt. The ma’amad was not fixed in size and could range from two to fourteen members. Such variation underscores population fluctuation due to religious persecution, mass conversions, migrations, and periodic epidemics that devastated the quarter. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 86. 22. Abdelkebir Khatibi, “A Colonial Labyrinth,” trans. Catherine Dana, Yale French Studies, no. 83 (1993): 7–8. 23. O’Meara, Space and Muslim Urban Life, 15. It is possible that synagogues may once have had a courtyard, but the other structures typically did not have a courtyard, regardless of where they were located in the city. 24. During the nineteenth century an estimate for the population of Fez would be 100,000, with 20,000 in Fez al-Jadid. Simon O’Meara suggests an overall density of 400 inhabitants per hectare (about 2.5 acres). O’Meara, Space and Muslim Urban Life, 11. While initially both Fez al-Bali and Fez al-Jadid contained open spaces, the mellah had considerably less that any other district. With a population ranging from 6,000 to 15,000, the density of the mellah would be closer to 1,200 to 3,000 per hectare (about 2.5 acres). 25. Y. D. Semach, “Une chronique juive de Fès: le ‘Yahas Fès’ de Ribbi Abner Hassarfaty,” Hespéris 19 (1934): 87. 26. Miller, Petrucciolo, and Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City,” 299. 27. Each Moroccan Jewish community generally contained several synagogues of different sizes. The fourteen synagogues cited by Yahas Fas include: Slat al-Fassiyine (Bet Akénneset chel Atochavim), Slat al-Souk (or of Rabbi Matatia Serrero); Slat Rebbi Jacob Abensur; Slat Rebbi Mimun (Mansano); Slat al-Debada; Slat ‘Obed; Slat Rebbi Yaacob ha Kohen; Slat Hakham, the name of Rabbi Eliahou Hassarfaty; Slat Rebbi ‘Abbou; Slat al-Saba; Slat Rebbi Immanuel; Slat Rebbi Eliahou Hassarfati (the name of the officiant) or Aharon Monsonego; Slat Rebbi Yehuda Ben ‘Attar; Slat al-Fajr (Synagogue of the Dawn), also called Slat Rebbi Yehuda Serero del Fzer. The last was the owned by the community. The precise locations of many of these synagogues have been lost. See Semach, “Yahas Fès,” 88. 28. Simon Levy, “Fès et ses synagogues,” in Juifs de Fès, ed. Joseph Cohen (Québec: Editions Elysée, 2004), 75. 29. Takkanot (communal ordinances), Hashamot (communal agreements), bans, and excommunications were publicly announced at one of the main synagogues. The Muslims of Fez also had a practice of communal prayer and fasting at specific sites called musalla. Jewish scholarly lectures (drashot) given by sages occurred in places of prayer, but synagogues were not the most important places for learning the Torah, this took place mainly in the home or in a private space rented by a teacher. Deshen, The Mellah Society, 86. The Yahas Fes mentions five permanent yeshivot in the nineteenth century. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 79. Study groups, known as hevrat hesgeir (association of the enclosed or the sedentary) also operated in the home. By the mid-nineteenth century, wealthy residents had founded libraries and invited scholars to use them. Deshen, The Mellah Society, 89. 30. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 51. 31. Miller and Bertagnin, “The Mâllah,” 96. 32. Ariella Amar has outlined regional variations, northern, central and southern, but it is difficult to find synagogues representative of a particular area’s tradition. The simplicity of southern synagogues, including those in Marrakech, contrasts with the lavish decorations of the northern synagogues in Tangier. Those in Fez are a mixture in appearance between the northern and southern styles. Ariella Amar, “Moroccan Synagogues—A Survey,” ARIEL—The Israel Review of Arts and Letters 106 (1998), http://mfa.gov.il/MFA/ MFA-Archive/1999/Pages/Moroccan%20Synagogues-%20A%20Survey.aspx (accessed January 4, 2015). 33. Levy, “Fès et ses synagogues,” 73. 34. Miller, Petruccioli, and Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City,” 321. 35. Miller and Bertagnin, Architecture and Memory, 90. 36. Joel Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco: An Architectural and Preservation Survey, 2nd ed., photographs by Isaiah Wyner (New York: Jewish Heritage Council, World Monuments Fund, 1995), 39. 37. Convention mandated that the surrounding structure had to be at a greater distance than normally allowed to increase the available light for a house of prayer. Saul I. Aranov, A Descriptive Catalogue of the Benison Collection of Sephardic Manuscripts and Texts (Edmonton: University of Alberta Press, 1971), 54. 38. Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco, 39. 39. Simon Levy, “The Danan Synagogue Has Been Saved,” in The Danan Synagogue of Fez (Casablanca: Foundation for Judeo-Moroccan Cultural Heritage, 2007), 5. 40. For more on the Danan family, see Ralph Toledano and Roland Beaufre, Voyageurs dans le Maroc Juif

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(Paris: Somogy Editions d’Art, 2004), 86, Deshen, The Mellah Society, 72, and Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 43–44, 56. 41. Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco, 29. 42. Simon Levy, “The Building and Its History: An Architectural Study,” in The Danan Synagogue of Fez (Casablanca: Foundation for Judeo-Moroccan Cultural Heritage, 2007), 8–9. Cellars are a feature of houses throughout the mellah. Residents knew they were vulnerable to theft and occasional looting and wanted to protect their property and maximize privacy. 43. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 126. 44. That the synagogue may have had a courtyard would have made it comparable to the mosques elsewhere in Fez. 45. Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 58. 46. This is a difference from toshavim-megorashim relations in other Maghrebi communities (Tlemcen, Taza, Chaouya, and others) where indigenous Jews did not have favorable relationships with other groups. The Danans were members not only of the religious elite but also of the intellectual and financial elite, ­qualities that would potentially have eased their interactions with diverse groups in the Fez mellah. Ibid., 43–45, 179. 47. A 1750 ruling by the grand rabbis prohibited the formation of private synagogues, but population growth caused crowding in existing houses of prayer and led to greater tolerance for private ownership. In part, such a regulation was necessary because private synagogues did not have to earmark a proportion of their income to support a scholar, thereby becoming a financial threat to the tradition of earmarking community-owned synagogue income for sages. Power lay with the hereditary manager, not the congregation. Private ownership of the synagogues of Fez makes tracing their histories difficult; they often disintegrated through family inheritance, in a tangle of individual shares. See Deshen, The Mellah Society, 53, 72, 121–122; Gerber, Jewish Society in Fez, 53. 48. As an example, a sage opened a synagogue in Tetuan to serve refugees from Fez exclusively, local residents not being accepted as congregants. Deshen, The Mellah Society, 93. 49. Ibid., 92. 50. See Nahum Slouschz, Travels in North Africa (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1927), 398, 403– 405; Eliyahu Rafael Marsiano and Albert Bensoussan, Une nouvelle Séville en Afrique du Nord: Histoire et genealogie des Juifs de Debdou (Maroc) (Montreal: Editions Elysée, 2000). 51. Xenophobia was not specific to Fez. A letter in Judeo-Arabic (n.d.) by Elijah ben Reuben Elmalieh to rabbis Jonathan Serero and Abraham Rahima Ibn Danan advises that scholars should not be sent to Debdou because the community was inhospitable and a scholar from Fez had been treated with animosity. Aranov, Sephardic Manuscripts and Texts, 108. Moreover, Muslim refugees and migrants had long established their own religious institutions in Fez. The two great Friday mosques of Fez were founded by refugee communities: Al-Qarawiyyin by refugees from Kairouan who arrived between 804–805 and Al-Andalus by refugees from Andalusia who came between 817–818. O’Meara, Space and Muslim Urban Life, 11. 52. Deshen, The Mellah Society, 95, 96, 97. 53. One hundred and fifty Castilian families settled in Debdou, and continued to celebrate their heritage long after their arrival. They are also noted for bringing kabbalists and Kabbalistic texts with them to Morocco. Such traditions thrived not only in Fez, Debdou, and other urban areas but also in the South, including the Draa and Sous valleys, where they were absorbed and modified by the existing communities. See Daniel J. Schroeter, “The Shifting Boundaries of Moroccan Jewish Identity” Jewish Social Studies 15, no. 1 (2008): 153. 54. Eliyahu Rafael Marsiano and Albert Bensoussan, Une nouvelle Séville en Afrique du Nord: Histoire et généalogie des juifs de Debdou (Maroc) (Côte-St-Luc, Quebec: Elysée, 2000), 14, 22, 23. 55. According to Miller, Petrucciolo, and Bertagnin, the Manzano Synagogue, the Gozlan Synagogue, the Ibn Attar Synagogue, and the Synagogue of Haham Abensur were all located on this street. Miller, Petruccioli, and Bertagnin, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City,” 311. 56. Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco, 37. 57. Susan Gilson Miller, “Apportioning Sacred Space in a Moroccan City: The Case of Tangier, 1860–1912,” City and Society 13, no. 1 (2001): 69. 58. Miller, “Apportioning Sacred Space,” 71. 59. This trend was also compounded by the creation of private baths. Commercial activities necessitated leaving sheltered domestic space as did major life events (weddings and deaths), communal prayers, other religious rituals, and festivals. 60. European companies granted Moroccan entrepreneurs protégé status, which extended protection and made them exempt from paying taxes to the Moroccan government. 61. Those in dire need sought assistance from organizations in Europe, including the Paris-based Alliance Israélite Universelle-AIU, an organization active in Fez by 1881. The AIU had a significant impact on the Jewish space in Fez. The Alliance opened a school for boys in the Fez mellah in 1883 and one for girls in 1899. The secular education provided by the foreign organization strove to modernize and de-orientalize Moroccan Jews. Its educational opportunities contrasted with the new forms of study in the Derb al-Fuqi as well as the traditional yeshivot. Beyond its scholastic operations, the organization was involved in other community issues such as improved hygiene initiatives. See Alliance Israélite Universelle Archives, Fonds de Moscou, Moscow, 13.02. “Nouayil” folder. Burke described the AIU as helping to facilitate an “intellectual renaissance” in the late nineteenth century. Burke, Prelude to Protectorate Morocco, 36.

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62. Deshen cites Michael M. Laskier, The Alliance Israélite Universelle and the Jewish Communities of Morocco 1862–1962 (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1983), and Le Tourneau, Fes avant le protectorat for population numbers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. See also Deshen, The Mellah Society, 31, and Miller, “The Mellah of Fez,” 106. 63. George Vajda, Un recueil de textes historiques judéo-marocains (Paris: Larose, 1951), 100–101. 64. One of Moroccan Judaism’s most distinguishing practices is the veneration of saints (tsaddiqim). Socially important women and men could become saints. Some saints were significant to local populations, while others were recognized throughout the country by both Jews and Muslims. See Issachar Ben-Ami, Saint Veneration among the Jews in Morocco (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1998); Louis Brunot and Elie Malka, Textes Judéo-Arabe de Fès: Textes, Transcription, Traduction Annotée (Rabat: Typo-Litho Ecole du Livre,1939); Oren Kosansky, “All Dear unto God: Saints, Pilgrimage, and Textual Practice in Jewish Morocco” (Ph.D. diss., University of Michigan, 2003). 65. The Sa’adids built a number of burj (watchtowers) in the ramparts of Fez including some near the mellah. The burj of Sidi Bou Nafa was located just to the southeast of the mellah. It housed relics associated with a religious figure, Sidi Bou Nafa, and functioned as a shrine to the marabout (Muslim holy man). 66. Relics of a Jewish saint were similarly interred at the entrance gate to Marrakech’s mellah. The saint’s baraka emanated from the fortified entryway. Emily Gottreich, The Mellah of Marrakesh: Jewish and Muslim Space in Morocco’s Red City (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007), 35. 67. The location of this cemetery is unknown beyond its proximity to the burj. See Aranov, Sephardic Manuscripts and Texts, 142. 68. At the time of the author’s research in 2008–10, it was said that approximately sixty Jews remained in all of Fez. 69. An official 1980 report of Fez stated Fez al-Jadid was a secondary center for the medina; some of its importance still rests in its geographical position between the modern ville nouvelle and the medina of Fez al-Bali. Maroc, “Schéma directeur d’urbanisme de la ville de Fès: dossier technique” (Paris: Royaume du Maroc), 11.   Only four out of 110 houses studied by the commission were located in the mellah. It is worth noting that the house in which Charles de Foucauld stayed is on the list. This house has a plaque outside it mentioning his visit but failing to acknowledge the family that hosted him. The monument to the French explorer, at expense of the Bensimons, illuminates one of the problems with attributing value and import to spaces created and maintained by mellah residents. The house reflects the wealth of those who inhabited it, and Foucauld benefited from their hospitality and generosity.   One significant exception in historic preservation has been public baths and communal ovens, two traditional institutions that are still functioning. There are some efforts to revitalize certain properties in the area. A local preservation organization (ADER-Fès) has implemented a study and restoration plan for the city’s public baths, and two of these hammams are in Hay al-Mariniyine, the current official name of the mellah. The two, however, are structures located in the Nawawil and Sidi Bou Nafa neighborhoods, which have been built up since the nineteenth century. Conservation of these two bathhouses points to a rectification of the colonial model of promoting newer models of traditional institutions. At the same time, restoration of the public baths actually benefits the local population in a way that might foster a new sense of neighborliness. See Kamal Raftani and Hassan Radoine, “The Architecture of the Hammams of Fez, Morocco,” Archnet 2, no. 3 (November, 2008): 56–68. 70. Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco, preface by Samuel Gruber, 1995. 71. The Jewish Community of Fez, the Council of Moroccan Jewish Communities, the Jewish Museum of Casablanca, the American Joint Distribution Committee, the American Express Company and the World Monuments Fund all supported the synagogue’s preservation. “AmEx Awards $30,000 For Fez Synagogue Restoration,” Jewish Heritage Report 1, no. 2 (Summer, 1997), http://www.isjm.org/jhr/no2/fez.htm (accessed January 4, 2015). 72. Levy, “Fez and Synagogues,” 73. 73. King Mohammed VI said that Jewish places of worship throughout Morocco should be restored in 2011 when a new  constitution was adapted during the Arab Spring, http://www.mapnews.ma/en/dis c​ o ​ urs - m ​ e​ ssages - sm - le - roi / hm - king - sends - message - participants - inauguration - ceremony - renovated - synag (accessed February 26, 2013). 74. Hassan Alaoui, “In Push For Tolerance, Morocco Inaugurates Restored Synagogue,” http://www. ­worldcrunch . com / culture - society / in - push - for - tolerance - morocco - inaugurates - restored - synagogue / morocco-jew-synagogue-inauguration-jewish/c3s10946/#.VZLmxqZI4vB (accessed February 18, 2013). 75. An analogous trend occurred elsewhere in Fez, although in Fez al-Bali, social segregation resulted in a new type of domestic architecture.

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Chapter Six

Emotional Architecture: Cairo’s Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue and Symbolism’s Timeless Reach Ann Shafer

As a result of profound circumstances, the Sha’ar Hashamayim (meaning “Gate of Heaven,” referred to hereunder as SHS) Synagogue in Cairo could be described as “emotional architecture” (Fig. 6.1). By definition, sacred architecture is always emotionally compelling, but what makes synagogues especially moving is their precarious position in society. As one colleague has observed, Jews are emotional about their synagogues for two basic reasons: because of the central role they play in their lives and identity, and because of their historic associations with catastrophic loss. Egyptologist Jan Assmann talks about how, as benchmarks of our own cultural memory, both the Exodus from Egypt and the Holocaust are painful memories that have now found, fortunately, some measure of cultural–ritual voice.1 In contrast, the lesser-known story of the “second exodus” of the Jews from modern Egypt is still unfinished, making it difficult to address and understand. A burgeoning Jewish community of Cairo one hundred years ago now numbers less than twenty. What was once the monumental urban edifice of that community is now a ghost building, officially open as a functioning synagogue, but in reality, active only as a shadow of its original self. Its congregations of worshipers are long gone, and its later generations now live far away, their memories faded. Today, services and events in the building are infrequent and increasingly exceptional, having to rely on foreign attendance and desperately needed media attention. In a further twist, although the synagogue is officially a tourist attraction, the few Egyptians who might wish to visit the barricaded site are prohibited from doing so, and foreigners may be heavily restricted and even harassed. Synagogue histories usually document buildings whose original lives are over.2 In Cairo, for example, the world-renowned Ben Ezra Synagogue is now a tourist destination devoid of a congregation, and other examples in the old Jewish Quarter (harat al-yahud) are being preserved in order to turn them into museums.3 By contrast, what makes the SHS so compelling is its current status—ostensibly active, but actually in limbo—reflecting a deep cultural ambivalence about Jews in Egypt that shows little sign of resolution in the coming years.4 In its persistence, the synagogue engages the scholarly heroic side. No comprehensive study of the building has ever been written, even though several scholars have made valiant attempts to document portions of the structure’s distinguished history and contents.5 The present study owes a heavy debt to the research of Rivka Ulmer, Hana Taragan, and Sergey Kravtsov, and will add some further description and clarification of the structure’s context and form. Conceptually, however, this study aims to reflect on the phenomenon of architectural longevity—an antidote, perhaps, to the well-worn typological classification scheme of style. Indeed, buildings that have endured patiently through the generations certainly carry aspirations, ideals, and useful points of departure for future thought and action. After all, as Henri Lefebvre reminds us, even abandoned architecture is still socially constructive.6 How, then, do we engage with these dinosaurs, still functioning as originally intended yet on the brink of obsolescence? Using the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue as a case study for an explanation, this investigation rediscovers the power of the façade—for carrying symbolism and mediating difference. Indeed, in this example and others like it, the circumstances leave most visitors no choice but to come to terms with the façade, since it is the only part of the building they will ever see. This synagogue façade appears both to reflect and to be responsible for the structure’s own ambiguous status in Egyptian society: its monumental surface is oddly shaped and heavily ornamented with obscure yet tantalizing imagery, and therefore, belongs to an “other” reality—a condition not unlike that of much early modern synagogue architecture in Europe and elsewhere.7 Yet here, there is more than just Jewish difference, rather, there is an articulateness and integrity in the façade’s symbolism and message.

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Figure 6.1  The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Sergey R. Kravtsov, 2008)

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Much more than frivolous decoration, the iconography directly addresses the issue of material and spiritual obsolescence, and foretells the nature of the institution’s own demise. More will be said about the specific example of the SHS, but extrapolating broadly, this essay posits a heretofore undetected role of surface symbolism in architecture, namely, the storage and revelation of traces of the times—not only the users’ aspirations, but also their unconscious intuitions about societal makeup and change. Using a largely descriptive and symbological approach, this study examines the synagogue’s graphic façade iconography and in the process, reveals a unique architectural thread that remains potent today with its inherent tensions in time and place. The Synagogue as a Witness to Cairo’s Changing Urban Landscape Today, the SHS is known among most Egyptians generically, as “the Jewish synagogue” (al-maʿabad al-yahudi) or “the ʿAdly Street synagogue” (al-maʿabad fi sharia ‘adli), in reference to its location at 17 ʿAdly Street (formerly Maghrabi Street) in downtown Cairo. Like most of the arteries in this overcrowded city center, ʿAdly Street is a typically bustling trading thoroughfare. The synagogue is situated in the midst of an eclectic mix of architecture that has evolved since the district’s inception nearly two centuries ago. As one of the few untouched remnants on this street of Cairo’s somewhat ambiguously defined “Belle époque” architecture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, though, the synagogue stands in stark contrast to its mostly transformed surroundings (Fig. 6.2).8 Its unaltered appearance is startling. Its direct neighbors are a high-rise apartment building to the west, and a repurposed hotel (now a clothing store) to the east. Facing the synagogue along the opposite side of ʿAdly Street are tourist hotels and a range of other businesses. Behind the synagogue lies another major artery, 26th of July Street, containing other well-known establishments. The building’s façade stands flush with the sidewalk, but because of the urban change through the twentieth century, the synagogue’s sightlines have changed. Originally visible from a distance, it now appears within a narrow window of view. Figure 6.2  ʿAdly Street, downtown Cairo, showing the synagogue in the center (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

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Early renderings and photographs of Maghrabi Street depict a tree-lined boulevard with integrated architectural forms and styles.9 In fact, when the building opened in 1905, this Cairo neighborhood was a fashionable destination, containing some of the most prominent buildings of the time. The “Ismailiya” district, as it was called, belonged to the khedivial period (1805–1914) when the Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty sought independence from Ottoman rule and effected dramatic reforms, mostly with the assistance of European powers. Under the initial leadership of Khedive Ismail (r. 1863–79), foreign and, eventually, British colonial (1882–1952) involvement in politics and the economy coincided with vast urban structural and esthetic reconfiguration. Funded by a booming cotton industry and the Khedive’s own attraction to the changing landscapes of European cities, his plan to create a “Paris by the Nile” with broad boulevards and picturesque views was modeled on Haussmann’s own for Paris.10 In his rush to celebrate the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, Ismail and French-educated Minister of Public Works, ʿAli Mubarak, imported French designers to reconfigure the urban plan, setting a regeneration process in motion. At this time, newly reclaimed land between medieval Cairo and the Nile was set aside and named in Ismaʿ il’s honor. The Ismailiya district lay near the new administrative center in ʿAbdin and the commercial center in Abbasiya Land in the district was offered for free or at low cost to anyone who would build a villa there costing at least 2,000 Egyptian pounds. The area gradually become urbanized. During the economic growth under British rule in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the villas and gardens were replaced by commercial and residential buildings, including department stores and the famed grand nineteenth century hotels in Opera Square, such as Shepheard’s and the Grand Continental.11 The biggest building boom, however, occurred during the decade of the synagogue’s construction, when cotton prices doubled and European investment was at its height.12 Built during this period of economic growth in Cairo history, the SHS represented a distinct moment in Cairo Jewish history when the community emerged economically and socially from the old Jewish neighborhood, the harat al-yahud.13 Sizable Jewish communities had lived in Egypt since antiquity. They generally enjoyed the protected economic status of non-Muslims (dhimmi), but with restrictions on social activity and the construction of synagogues. Under the Fatimids in the eleventh century, however, they were given their own quarter (harat al-yahud) in the walled palace city of al-Qahira, inhabited for centuries by a sizable, mostly poor, Oriental–Sephardi Jewish community. Harat Jews integrated with the outside world economically, but were sequestered socially and religiously. The neighborhood was by all accounts a densely packed, slum-like maze of dirty, narrow streets. In 1836, it contained eight synagogues.14 Although Jews still had low social status under Ottoman rule (1517–1914), oppression eased and growing numbers enjoyed freedoms and increasing stability. 15 In the eighteenth century, Jews became prominent in finance because of their involvement with foreign commercial activity, and under Muhammad ʿAli (r. 1805–48), they enjoyed a relatively free and prosperous position, especially as the economy began to flourish in the 1820s. The Jewish Community of Cairo was established in 1840. Under the Khedive Ismail’s modernization scheme, starting in the 1860s, the country welcomed an influx of foreigners, including European and Turkish Jews. At this time, the community saw a growing gap between many in the harat who still remained unemployed and poor, and the wealthy and influential Sephardi Jewish families who experienced a new social and spatial mobility. Furthermore, during the British occupation, Egyptian Jewry was radically transformed, as the newfound prosperity attracted scores of European immigrants and led to a liberal and cosmopolitan European culture.16 This new trend encouraged upper and the emerging middle-class Jewish families to settle in the downtown districts and new suburbs of a modernized Cairo. In general, Jews in Egypt enjoyed a relatively good life compared to that of their coreligionists in other parts of the Muslim world. They regularly held high positions in government and big business—a dynamic that continued until the foundation of the modern State of Israel, the ensuing wars, and the eventual exodus in the mid-twentieth century.17 It is within this context of economic and social tolerance and mobility that numerous synagogues were built in the new neighborhoods, a total of twenty-nine synagogues being in use by 1940.18 Among them, the SHS—then called the “Temple Ismailiya”— remained the synagogue attended by the social and economic elite, the ancient and original Sephardi families of Cairo.19 The SHS was located just blocks from the famous Ismail-built Place de l’Opera and Ezbekiya Gardens (Fig. 6.3). Next door to the east was the Hôtel d’Angleterre, a modest but elegant hotel built in the previous decade, and to the west was the elite Turf Club, later relocated and eventually burned to the ground during the anti-British riots of 1952. The synagogue was built on a plot taken from the gardens of the townhouse of Vita Mosseri, a member of the Sephardi elite and fundraiser and contractor for the

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Figure 6.3  Cairo’s Ismailiya District, 1907, with synagogue site marked (Murray’s Handbook for Egypt & The Sudan, 1907 Plan of Cairo, p. 89)

synagogue itself.20 Thus, surrounded by the villas and businesses of Cairo’s leading merchants and bankers, the SHS functioned both as a neighborhood synagogue and as a symbol of the new Jewish presence on the Cairo urban scene. This synagogue—”the prettiest of them all”—was evidence that Jews had made a place for themselves in society, and also that Egyptian society had attained an unprecedented degree of cosmopolitan integration.21 The decision to hire architects from within the Jewish community’s own ranks spoke to the confidence of the community and situated the edifice squarely within the political, economic, and cultural concerns of the congregation. The building was designed in 1899 by Maurice Youssef Cattaui (1874–?), the Paris-educated scion of the prominent Cairo dynasty of Cattaui, and Eduard Matasek (1867–1912), a non-Jewish Viennese architectural assistant who arrived in Cairo in 1892 to help the resident Max Herz, an Austro-Hungarian architect and conservationist, in designing “Cairo Street” for the Chicago World Exhibition.22 Matasek found life in Cairo agreeable and in 1898 became the business partner of Cattaui, whose family was, at the time, a strong supporter of Austro-Hungarian charitable and economic interests. The architectural firm of M. Cattaui and E. Matasek was

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Figure 6.4  The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, outline superimposed on 1930 cadastral map of Ismailiya District, Cairo (courtesy of CULTNAT)

r­ elatively prolific, mostly designing private villas and JCC-sponsored institutions. The opening of the SHS was the start of the peak years of their association that lasted until Matasek’s unexpected death, and, accordingly, reflected the latest in European design and the growing success of the Jewish community.23 The building has remained in the possession of the JCC since its inception and has changed little. Names on plaques and benches reveal who contributed to the synagogue’s construction and maintenance over its lifespan, including renovations in 1922, 1940, and in the early 1980s, when a major centennial restoration was funded by the World Sephardi Association.24 More recently, the Egyptian Ministry of Antiquities reiterated the importance of this structure to Cairo’s urban history, and organized the repainting of the façade and other maintenance and minor restoration work.25 Today, although the surrounding buildings dominate because of their greater height, the synagogue still stands intact, comprising a two-story main prayer-hall, and a rear courtyard and annex, accessed by an alley (Fig. 6.4). Symbolism in Practice: The Synagogue Interior Although the exterior is the focus of this inquiry, many elements of the synagogue’s façade— indeed, its overall structure—are derived from the interior, a fact that may be overlooked by the casual observer. The SHS interior is typical, in many ways, of synagogue architecture during this time of Jewish emancipation in Europe, being spacious, open, and lofty.26 The synagogue is roughly square in plan, consisting of a basement and two upper stories (Fig. 6.5).27 The main prayer-hall is elevated above the street and is open plan, with a central dome supported on four large piers with sweeping pendentives. The focus of the space, the ark (heikhal), is located on a dais at the center of the eastern wall in a rectangular apse; on either side of it are closed stairwells. On the remaining three sides a mezzanine ladies’ gallery is supported by a colonnade of large, white Italian marble columns with double-scroll volute capitals. These six columns, together with the pendentive piers, separate an inner, imposing space under the dome, from three more intimate wings under the mezzanine. The mezzanine-level ladies’gallery itself has a virtually unobstructed view into the main

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Figure 6.5  The Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, ground floor plan (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

prayer-hall below, and toward the sweeping pendentives and dome above. The four corners of the building comprise distinct, closed spaces. The entrance to the building is on the west side, opposite the heikhal wall, either on the southwest corner on Adly Street, or, as is customary for events held in the synagogue, through the rear courtyard entrance on the opposite, northwest corner. Upon entering, visitors pass quickly through a small vestibule into the main prayer-hall. Inside, there is a perimeter path under the mezzanine balconies allowing access to the entire hall. Women ascend to the mezzanine on the eastern side of the building through the two corner stairwells entered from either the street or courtyard sides. There are windows at the basement, ground, and mezzanine levels, as well as at the base of the dome, with a plethora of electric lights providing the main ­illumination. When the building is in use, the overall experience is one of intimate grandeur (Fig. 6.6). Because of the open-plan layout, the ritual stations are clearly visible and the experience is one of fluid movement. Inside the main prayer-hall, the bimah (raised platform) is accessed by three marble steps, fronted on the right and left by waist-high marble balustrades, each consisting of three piers supporting a decorative iron grille and a handrail.28 The piers have unusual ionic capitals with upright scrolls and stylized side fluting with a flat disk boss.29 Each panel of the grille is adorned by two stylized floral bouquets resembling seven-branched menorah candelabra, and the handrail is carved with a shallow, dentil molding. The ark itself is elevated, attached to the eastern wall and fronted by a four-pier balustrade similar in spirit to the one leading to the bimah, but with slight shifts in scale and other details. The ark platform is accessed laterally on both sides by two staircases of six marble steps each. The staircase balustrades are solid and curved in profile, with fluted

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handrails, sculpted palmettes and, facing the congregation in relief, single encircled stars of David. In front of the ark platform there is a low double-volute pedestal for the menorah. The ark itself is a plastered masonry structure with a marble base, painted a solid green with gold decorative details and other relief forms that are repeated throughout the synagogue (Fig. 6.7). The doorway is recessed and contains an elaborate, molded plaster entablature, with a frieze of encircled stars of David framed by egg-and-dart and dentil moldings. Behind the embroidered velvet curtain (parokhet), the two leaves of the wooden door are carved with single stylized date-palms and other decorative details, including jambs with single festooned columns. Framing the doorway on the faces of the masonry structure itself, painted banners of detailed, densely packed motifs include the Tablets of the Law, palm trees, and sunburst stars of David. Attached to the crest of the ark are painted plaster Tablets of the Law on which are inscribed in Hebrew the opening lines of each of the Ten Commandments. The tablets are framed by an unusual motif, which recurs on the building’s exterior and that will be discussed further below, consisting of symmetrical, curvilinear, arm-like elements that sweep down and embrace single disks (Fig. 6.8).30 Garlands link this central configuration to the corners of the ark, which are sculpted with another recurring motif, projecting, ram’s horn-like extensions with single molded relief pomegranates, referred to hereunder as “hooded” due to the inverted U-shaped element that frames them. Also at the crest, traditional metal lamps hang from a projecting ironwork grille, decorated with three more Tablet motifs crowned with

Figure 6.6  Interior and heikhal (ark) wall in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Sergey R. Kravtsov, 2008)

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Figure 6.7  Ark of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Sergey R. Kravtsov, 2008)

olive branches. Inside the ark, the Torah scrolls themselves are housed in cases adorned with velvet and silver.31 Opposite the ark and across the main hall to the west is a freestanding marble platform, upon which stands the tevah (pulpit), the raised desk upon which the Torah scroll is placed for reading (Fig. 6.9). The platform is separated from the western wall in the area under the dome and is anchored at the rear by two arcade columns. The platform is square in plan, accessed on the eastern side by two staircases of six marble steps each, to the right and left of the reader’s desk itself. Each staircase is edged with a solid, curved balustrade reminiscent of those in front of the ark. The entire platform is surrounded by a marble balustrade identical to that on the heikhal with ionic piers, iron grillwork, and handrails with dentil molding. The rear face of the balustrade is of solid marble, as is the front panel, which supports a thick marble slab surmounted by a brass grille that is illuminated, for the benefit of the cantor. Although separated from the heikhal across the wide expanse under the dome, the tevah platform is nevertheless unified with it in style and material, as is the large, inviting Star of David chandelier that hangs between them.32 On either side of the axis between the reader’s desk and ark, seating for the congregation comprises rows of dark wooden benches facing the center of the room. On the south and north sides,

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Figure 6.8  Ark crest in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

Figure 6.9  Ark platform, the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

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Figure 6.10  Ladies’ gallery in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Hana Taragan)

three-seater benches are arranged in four rows seven deep—the first four benches under the dome and the remaining three behind the arcade under the balcony. In addition, there are single rows three benches deep, each flanking the tevah platform. On the ladies’ gallery level, the theater-style seating is three rows deep and faces the center of the room through a balustrade of light and airy grilles (Fig. 6.10). Seating on both the main and mezzanine levels is reached by means of a walkway around the perimeter of the space. The sight lines and spatial relationships between the heikhal, tevah platform, and congregation seating are open and fluid, and subtle contrasts between the lofty center and the intimate perimeter offer a choice of distinct, yet unified spatial experiences. An important part of the perception of the space derives from the consistent and unified nature of the composition, which includes a range of subtly integrated elements, from the articulation of the wall surfaces and architectural elements, to the ritual stations just mentioned, to fixtures and other details. Although the heikhal wall is naturally somewhat anomalous, here it provides an important framework for the eye to comprehend the architectural language of the synagogue space in its entirety (Fig. 6.11). The decorative elements of the wall unfold in three zones, divided at the mezzanine and pendentive levels. Here, one sees painted surfaces in subtly contrasting shades of blue, green, and beige, with the darker combinations in the lower area and lighter ones above. Anchoring the base of the wall is the bright, white marble classical vocabulary of the ark dais. In contrast, behind this to the right and left of the ark, the seats of honor for dignitaries are backed by a dark wooden paneling similar in tone to the prayer-hall benches. Directly above them, a painted frieze runs in segments here and around the entire hall, and forms an important thread unifying the space. It is in gold color on a blue wall, repeating Tablets of the Law crowned by a Star of David alternating with abstract date-palms of the same height—all against a carved masonry ground.33 The alternation of the fanning date fronds and stars with Tablets creates an animated rhythm of solids and voids that is further enlivened by details such as large hanging clusters of ripe dates on the trees and ribbons that undulate in a graceful, symmetrical S-curve rhythm. Although these motifs are rendered at such a scale that on the heikhal wall they are almost imperceptible, the frieze contributes to the overall density of golden patterning, especially in the lower area. Further gilded patterning appears above this frieze in the form of large, dark blue horizontal rectangular panels—one each on either side of the ark and on the two side-walls of the heikhal apse—framed by a repeating gilded border of encir-

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Figure 6.11  Heikhal (ark) wall in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

cled stars of David. Directly above those panels runs yet another painted frieze of alternating stars of David and abstract plant forms. Framed by cornice moldings above and below, this frieze forms a distinct transition to the upper zone of the wall and continues, in the same role laterally, onto the mezzanine beams around the room (Fig. 6.12). It forms a key visual element unifying the entire space—a phenomenon that is heightened during services, when electric light fixtures attached to the wall fill the space with soft illumination. While the lower area of the heikhal wall seems weighted to the earth, the upper area draws the eye slowly upward. Defining features are the windows, a lighter color palette, and a simpler

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Figure 6.12  Frieze around the mezzanine of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Rivka Kern-Ulmer)

compositional scheme. Below a tripartite grouping of nine windows, an olive green wall is divided vertically into three sections by means of contrasting beige pilaster strips traced on the wall and accented with gilded disks. Originally two molded plaster date-palms framed the ark.34 Echoing the mezzanine marble arcade, these vertical motifs also continue into the ladies’ gallery around the  hall. Framing each grouping of windows are gilded relief details including fluted piers and a large garland below. Above the windows a single strip of dark dentil molding announces a shift to the upper zone that is painted in a lighter beige. Here, the eye simultaneously catches thin, eggand-dart moldings that articulate the sweeping lines of the pendentives. The dome itself is also adorned with dentil molding at its base, and contains eight arched windows divided into panes. It is painted light blue, but was originally filled with various designs with a star of David in the center (Fig. 6.13).35 The heikhal wall thus presents the unifying compositional framework for the entire sanctuary: a distinct horizontal, created by the mezzanine-level frieze, and a vertical rhythm created by the arcade. Further elaboration on these themes appear around the room’s perimeter, as well, below and above the mezzanine balconies (Fig. 6.14). In the wings beneath the balconies, the frieze expands to fill the cornices that encircle and define each space. Here, each wing is illuminated by three pairs of stained-glass windows that pick up the encircled star of David motif, and between them, the identical painted banners of the ark (Fig. 6.15). Below, at eye level, the gilded frieze of date palms and stars that runs around the entire perimeter is now more clearly visible (Fig. 6.16). Further unifying the space, the dome’s original star of David ornamentation, also echoed in the ark banners, appears in large, sunburst motifs on the ceilings.36 The ladies’ gallery duplicates the heikhal scheme in wall and window treatments. For those the main hall this composition may be difficult to see, but a clear rhythm is created by a series of accents stacked on the marble arcade: disk-adorned metopes, thick balustrade pedestals, and tall, tree-shaped wrought-iron lamps.37 On a different note, in a slight compositional shift under the dome, the prayer-hall’s four large piers complement the heikhal iconography, but are heavily ornamented and low-contrast in palette, and thus become secondary to the visual dynamics of the room. A tall, dark blue column with a gilded acanthus capital stands at the corner of each pier. At ground level, each pier surface is ornamented to match the facing decoration, consisting of either a volute capital in relief, or a painted ark

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Figure 6.13  Dome showing original painted ornamentation in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of P. Dittrich, 1905)

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Figure 6.14  Mezzanine of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

Figure 6.15 Stained-glass windows in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

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Figure 6.16  Gilded frieze in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Kay Chernush, 1987)

banner. In addition, at the base of each pier there are large marble tablets inscribed with names of the patrons of the building. The tops of the piers are heavily laden with elaborate gilded relief ornament that echoes the ark itself, having ionic piers from its balustrade and festooned and inscribed Tablets from its crest. Although unified compositionally, the scheme of decoration is rendered in a stylistic mix that defies definition but that is typical of the voracious eclecticism in Cairo architecture during the khedivial and colonial periods, and more generally, of the profound changes in synagogue design during Jewish emancipation.38 From the point of view of contemporary aesthetics, however, the perceived stylistic confusion has caused the interior’s importance in the overall design scheme to be overlooked.39 The weighty classical mode predominates, as revealed in the scroll capitals and pier fluting, and in the monumental symmetry of the heikhal wall. A number of the architectural details and much of the applied ornament, however—such as the mezzanine balustrades, the painted friezes, and most of the pendant lights—emulate the sinuous plant forms of the French Art Nouveau movement—itself an assimilationist style that connoted progress and modernity. As a distinctive European fashion at the time of the synagogue’s construction, it surely resonated with the largely francophile and prosperous congregation.40 In addition to Art Nouveau, related international influences can be seen to be at work, such as the almost Glasgow School-style grille on the ark and tevah balustrades and the Gothic-revival-style stained glass. As a sign of the times, such eclecticism reflected the Egyptian–Jewish preoccupation with modernizing, as well as the newfound Jewish freedom of cultural expression.41 Moreover, inherent in these artistic movements were turn-of-thecentury cultural and conceptual debates and tensions that rendered their use by a Jewish nouveau elite in the land of their oppressed ancestors a naturally appropriate medium for fluid meditation on tradition and change. In the mix, style-neutral Jewish symbols—such as the star of David and the Tablets of the Law—easily find abundant expression in the various mediums of metalwork, frescoes, stucco, and marble. In order to facilitate a meaningful communal and ritual practice, the synagogue’s interior ornamentation affirms the significance of traditional Jewish iconography and its associated concepts within a modern, cosmopolitan architectural vocabulary. The complete symbolic import of the interior scheme is only fully revealed, however, through its dialogic relationship with the building’s façade.

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Symbolism with a Message: The Synagogue as Jerusalem Temple Although the building’s exterior is equally eclectic in style, its particular origins and associations result in a more lucid and purposeful overall scheme. Today, the functional entrance for synagogue events is located through a rear courtyard reached through an alleyway (sikkat al-maghrabi) on the eastern side of the building (Fig. 6.17). Entrance to the courtyard is through a wrought-iron gate that, like elements in the interior, is distinctly French Art Nouveau in style, with sinuous plant tendrils crowned by a star of David. Inside to the left, the visitor is confronted with the rear façade of the synagogue, and directly ahead, a shuttered, one-story, elevated annex, at ninety degrees to the main building to which it is connected by means of a small recessed vestibule. On the north side of the courtyard is another, wide staircase, next to which, in the northeast corner of the courtyard, is yet another small, relatively unadorned building. Historically well used—as a celebration hall, an “overflow” sanctuary during the High Holidays, and today as a library—the annex exterior is ornamented in a way similar to and unified with the façade of the synagogue itself.42 The rear façade of the synagogue is identical to the street façade in both ornamental content and composition, and the slightly rearranged east and west façades also form a pair. These painted masonry exteriors comprise tableaux that are, much like the interior, captivating in their unique and unabashed display, and are thus indicative of the freedom of Egyptian Jews to express the markers of their heritage and pride. Flush with the sidewalk, the street facade is articulated horizontally into three zones corresponding to the ground, mezzanine, and upper pendentive levels of the interior (Fig.  6.18). Perhaps more immediately eye-catching, however, are the corner treatments, which anchor the building as simulated towers, sporting entrance kiosks at their base, and at their crest, four-corner turret-like extensions above the roofline. Between them, the central portion of the façade is recessed. The overall façade is weighted at the lower level by a play of contrasting solids and voids created through a tripartite fenestration and at the corners, the deep shadows of the projecting

Figure 6.17  Rear courtyard and annex (left) of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

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Figure 6.18 Façade overlooking the street of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

kiosk porticos. The circulation itself is underplayed, as two small staircases behind solid balustrades ascend laterally from the center toward the porticos at either end. Linking the staircases and further dissipating the visual focus here are two small Ancient Egyptian-style obelisks and an Art Nouveaustyle iron gate, similar to the one at the rear. The façade is animated, mainly through the heavy use of bas-relief symbols and other motifs, many of which are adapted from the interior. For example, at ground level, the double-scroll arcade in the main prayer-hall finds a counterpart here in engaged columns framing the windows and kiosks, and the brass grille shielding the reader’s desk is repeated here in larger scale over the windows. The garlands from the mezzanine level fenestration are abstracted and transposed here as well, now with a prominent disk, a familiar motif from the interior that is repeated on the exterior often and with a more clearly unifying purpose—for example, in a distinct rhythm across the ­transitional friezes between each level. Between the ground and mezzanine levels, the use of applied imagery is especially weighty (Fig. 6.19). Here, above each volute capital occurs a striated horizontal panel with a superimposed disk, alternating in a frieze with the distinctive Tablets motif from the ark crest. On the entrance kiosks of the towers this alternation continues, but with variation, as the Tablets are replaced by stars of David. The heaviness of this frieze provides a solid foundation for a simpler and lighter composition above, on the mezzanine level. As in the interior, here the rhythms of the ground floor level are continued, displaying the most distinctive feature of the synagogue façade, a series of four large, intricately carved date palms, rooted firmly in the ground and proudly displaying a fan of fronds and ripe date clusters. Distinct as they are against the otherwise blank wall, they become important points of visual contact and empathy for the visitor, a theme that will be revisited in greater detail below. They are surmounted by the triads that of small windows previously noted on the interior, that here are shown to repeat in the corner towers. Column capitals between the windows serve to emphasize their presence as does a distinctive dentil-and-disk molding below. The windows are crowned with a simple horizontal frieze accented with four, disk-ornamented rectangular panels,

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Figure 6.19 Façade ornamentation, the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of M. Scharabi, 1989)

which are ­variations on, and are directly above, those at the mezzanine level. On the towers, the frieze mutates into a semi-circular arch. Below the tower windows, yet somewhat hidden from street view, are double-panel glass doors leading onto small terraces on the kiosks. In contrast to the lower levels, the top level of the façade is so distinctive and obscure in its references that it simultaneously attracts and confounds the viewer’s gaze. Between the two towers, an otherwise blank wall is divided in half horizontally by dentil molding along a raised surface culminating in a simple cavetto cornice with a large step-crenellated parapet. In the middle of the roof-line, about half the total length of the blank wall, there is a raised section, capped by another distinctive parapet with disks and edging. This section corresponds in its siting to the raised profile of the dome behind. At this upper level, the edges of the building are given their full definition as separate, four-cornered towers with battlements. Each tower has four massive pier-like elements that frame the edges and project upward beyond the roofline. At their crest, these piers curve upward to form pointed, ram’s horn-shaped merlons, each of which is e topped with a single, large hooded pomegranate in high-relief—a configuration identical to that on the ark crest inside the building. Between the corner piers there are recessed, crenellated walls, each with raised dentil molding and a frieze of abstract circular-floral elements below. The distinctive façade tableau is clearly intentional in its forms and connotations—a fact that is emphasized by the fact that it is replicated on the rear courtyard façade, and in slightly altered form, on the two sides. Carol Krinsky, Samir Rafaat, and Hana Taragan have viewed the SHS façade as pseudo-Egyptian, or “Pharaonic” in style and motivated by the congregation’s desire to reconcile the Jewish people’s tenuous role in ancient and modern Egyptian history.43 The historical references are more complex, however, and embody an agenda particular to a time very different from our own. Although a few Egyptianizing elements do occur here—such as the simulated obelisks at the entrance and possibly the kiosks and their detailing, such as a frieze of sinuous uraeus-like motifs—the building does not belong to the distinctive “Egyptian Revival” style that briefly appeared in synagogue architecture in early nineteenth-century Europe.44 That style, linked specifically to defining Jewish identity during the period of Jewish emancipation, had already faded in popularity by the date of

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the synagogue’s construction. Moreover, local Egyptian taste since the mid-twentieth century had vigorously pursued all things European and “modern”—a dynamic that accounts for some of the French Art Nouveau details that made their way from the interior outside.45 Instead, the formal and iconographical elements appear to have been mediated not by established styles per se but, as Sergey Kravtsov has shown, by a wave of Egypto-Biblical symbolic revivalism, influenced by new archaeological discoveries in the Holy Land and popularized in the 1889 publication of Georges Perrot’s and Charles Chipiez’ reconstruction of Ezekiel’s apocalyptic vision of the Temple.46 Interest in the Temple’s appearance had been long-standing, of course, but in the context of a shifting role for synagogues during Jewish emancipation, Perrot’s and Chipiez’ design—marshaling biblical references for the plan and recently discovered ancient Phoenician, Egyptian, and Near Eastern motifs for the elevations—expressed a new and confident European vision of a lost ancestral past and apocalyptic homecoming.47 Their work occurred at the culmination of a growing archaeological approach that excited the Jewish imagination and sought new reconstructions of the Temple when the ability to express origins and identity was at its peak. As a result, between 1894 and 1931 there appeared synagogues that engaged current archaeological discoveries and, as Sergey Kravtsov has shown, even imitated the work of Perrot and Chipiez directly, such as the renovation of the Fish Market Synagogue in Lviv, Ukraine (1890); the New Orthodox Synagogue in Košice, Slovakia (1927), and especially, the Synagogue in Hradec Králové, Czech Republic (1904–5).48 The SHS and the Moshe Dar’i Synagogue, also in Cairo (designed in the early 1900s, built 1926–31) seem to be the last and most faithful iterations of this “Temple style,” perhaps because of their geographical and cultural proximity to the city of Jerusalem itself. That the SHS facade was intended to evoke the appearance of the Jerusalem Temple is clear from a plaque in the courtyard dedicated to the founder, Vita Mosseri, which uses language from I Kings describing the construction of Solomon’s Temple.49 In using this new vision of the Temple as its inspiration, it seems the SHS congregation was searching not for a reconciliation with their place in Egyptian history, or even with their evolving status in contemporary society, but for a potent point of reference for their aspirations and prayers.50 As Kravtsov has noted, the faithfulness to Chipiez’ model may be striking evidence of its perceived authentic and even “scientific” quality. Most influential in the SHS design was not Chipiez’ reconstruction of the Temple itself, however, but its highly articulated gateways to the sacred forecourt (Fig. 6.20). In this scenario, Chipiez envisions a low portico surrounding the court, punctuated by tall tower gateways, which he refers to as “pylons.”51 Each pylon consists of two framing elements, or pilasters, with a low, recessed, crenellated wall in between. The wall is fenestrated at two levels, and is framed above and below with friezes of abstract circular floral designs. The pilasters, on the other hand, contain battlements on top and bold motifs in relief on the front façade: above, are single, hooded pomegranates, and at the ground level, there are single, colossal datepalms. The material, proportions, and iconographical motifs of the Chipiez’ pylon gateway all find some measure of representation in the SHS design. The pylon form itself is directly paralleled in the synagogue’s façade composition, which translates Chipiez’ two pilasters into two corner towers with similar horn-shaped merlons. In addition, the tower friezes with their circular-floral motifs are taken directly from Chipiez’ reconstruction of another part of the Temple, the famed bronze columns of Jachin and Boaz, and indicating the architect’s awareness and calculated application of his vision.52 Part of Chipiez’ pylon is what he calls the “sunken face,” reconfigured on the synagogue as the wall containing friezes and crenellations. From the lower levels of Chipiez’ reconstruction, a similar set of three windows occurs on the middle level of the synagogue, and the deep void of the entrance passage is echoed in the shadowed openings of the synagogue’s kiosks. The lower, portico arcade, consisting of double-scroll piers with disk-adorned metopes, also finds expression in the synagogue’s ground-level arcade, both inside and outside the building. In addition, the portico cornice parallels the synagogue dentil frieze, and the low, disk-and-edging adorned parapet is an attenuated version of what became the raised section of the Cairo recessed wall. The most literal borrowings of all, however, are the pomegranate and date-palm motifs. Transposed to the tower merlons at the very top of the synagogue façade, the large hooded pomegranates, although difficult to discern from the street, add visual weight to an already striking roofline. Most prominent in the synagogue scheme, however, are the four, evenly spaced date-palms that are nearly identical in form to the individual trees in Chipiez’ model and that create a rhythm across the façade. In both schemes, the palm branches are spread in a fan-like display, from which hang twin clusters of dates. Each tree—stylized in overall form, yet realistic in detail—grows from a hillock, tall and almost independently, it seems, from the rest of the façade. Although easily identified as trees, in the Cairo

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Figure 6.20 Reconstruction of the “Court of Israel” in the Temple of Jerusalem (courtesy of Charles Chipiez, History of Art, pl. IV)

composition they acquire a more charged status, as they are elevated, multiplied, and regularly spaced to form a decorative tableau. Occupying this ambiguous space between realistic representation and pattern, then, the tree motif—above all others on the synagogue—attracts the viewer’s attention and lodges itself in the imagination. This deliberate and arresting transposition of the tree demands further investigation, and returns us to the interior and a unified vision of the whole. The Mediation of Time: The Symbolism of the Date-palm The prominent trees certainly must have carried rich associations in the everyday lives of those who built and used the building, but their symbolic meaning is not documented or remembered.53 When investigating the meaning, it must first be understood how the date-palm motif on the façade also reverberates throughout the synagogue interior in various scales and media, constituting an element essential to the building’s identity and effect. As revealed above, the Synagogue façade engages in a kind of architectural transparency, of which the shell registers the interior contents, suspended before one’s eyes. Through this lens, the date-palms on the façade appear to correspond in type and placement to the tree-shaped lamps in the ladies’ gallery inside—ephemeral ironwork structures that, on the stone exterior, achieve a newfound permanence and clarity. Polyvalent in their associations, the same trees also resonate with other features of the interior. For example, their alternation on the mezzanine frieze with Tablets of the Covenant motifs now appears to refer to the interior gilded frieze that with a similar patterned alternation envelops the main prayer hall and congregation. Originally too, the trees found their parallel in trees painted on the interior of the dome, and in two molded plaster trees on the heikhal wall.54 Today they are most clearly replicated in two shining, golden date-palm-shaped lamps on the ark dais that illuminate the space and elegantly invite the congregation’s gaze (Fig. 6.21). Finally, in one of the most important ritual moments, when the ark curtain is pushed back, date-palms can be seen on the wooden ark doors, and silver appliqué trees adorn the Torah cases inside. Thus, the date-palm motif not only permeates the building experience, but also structures it, and thus achieves an iconic and even monumental status.

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Figure 6.21  Ark with treeshaped lamp in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Summer School Downtown Cairo 2013/ baladilab)

On a daily basis, though, even more richly associative for the congregation must have been the date-palms on the monumental doors at the synagogue entrances (Fig. 6.22). Hidden from passersby in the shadows of each kiosk, two large, finely carved wooden trees greet visitors and lead them inside. Rendered on a human scale with elegantly attenuated trunks in rich detail, they stand against a backdrop of stained glass, above the visitor, but occupying the same space. Encountering

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them inside the shelter of the kiosk, one lingers before entering. The trees’ sculptural, tactile form— including the way they have accumulated Cairo’s dust—lends them a living quality and invites an empathic connection. An emotional connection to the tree must also explain the motif’s widespread use throughout the city in the early decades after the SHS’s construction. Indeed, it appeared so often in local ­synagogues that its consistently rendered form has been referred to as a locus–specific “symbol of Cairo Jewry.”55 The Maimonides Synagogue in the harat, for example, which was renovated at around the same time sports carved palm-tree motifs on some of its remaining doors, as does the Rabbi Haim Capusi Synagogue, where the leaves of the Torah ark itself also reveal fine examples.56 Further contemporaneous structures or renovations include the Neve Shalom Synagogue in the downtown Daher district, in which the ark reveals at its crest two freestanding wooden date-palms flanking the Torah crown. In the Nissim Ashkenazi Synagogue, also in Daher, large date-palms flank the ark and the glass panes of the cupola, and a similar configuration, with additional trees on the ark doors, appears in the nearby Pahad Yitzhak Synagogue.57 More date palm details occur throughout the Etz Hayim Synagogue (Temple Hanan), the Moshe Dar’i Synagogue, and the Meir ‘Einayim Synagogue in Maadi.58 In these examples—and probably others, now lost—the tree rendered in the same stylized form was probably appropriated from the SHS to connote a profound, unifying concept central to all Cairo synagogue experiences. Although the question of the tree’s exact meaning is still unanswered, the congregation’s date-palm associations were ancient and unconscious, deriving from a complete and meaningful image of the Jerusalem Temple in its symbolic form. Trees have always been universal symbols of sustenance and shelter, vigor, majesty, and immortality. The date-palm, though, is central to the economy and culture of the Middle East, and is symbolic within the Jewish tradition of beauty and grace, and of Israel’s agricultural fertility.59 In ancient times, palm designs were used on Jewish ossuaries and coins and in synagogue ritual and decoration.60 For our interpretation of the SHS symbolism, however, the most pertinent allusion would always have been its widely known role in the decoration of both the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem and the Third Temple of Ezekiel’s vision. Although Chipiez did not render palm trees as a repeating motif, biblical accounts describe the tree as alternating with two-headed cherubim on the walls and doors of both the courtyard gates and the sanctuaries of the Temple.61 With this in mind, the significance of the synagogue’s repeating trees is seen with fresh eyes, as well as the unique, repeating Tablets of the Covenant motifs on the SHS’s façade. Are these sweeping arm-like elements the cherubim with their spreading wings?62 If so, one sees a striking boldness in the architects’ faithfulness to the biblical accounts and initiative to carry the idea through. Furthermore, the Jerusalem sanctuary motif brings order to the synagogue interior, in which the multiplicity of trees in different mediums becomes more notable than before, and the space starts to feel like the Temple itself. The ark, in particular, becomes both more approachable now in its familiarity, and more monumental, with its crest Tablets cradled in the cherubs’ wings. Having located the tree’s significance in Temple tradition, an understanding is still required of  this  motif’s precise meaning. For most observers, the meaning of the Cairo tree will seem obvious, as a universal symbol of the cosmic Tree of Life (etz hayyim), symbolizing the Torah and immortality.63 Certainty is a hallmark of archetypal symbolism. On an emotional level viewers are  immediately certain of its meaning, but when it comes to finding confirmation for one’s interpretations there is much greater doubt and even a reluctance to pursue the matter. Like all good symbolic imagery, the date-palm image resonates in its dual realities. It feels personal yet collective, familiar yet distant, translucent in meaning yet opaque. Certainly the image had the same effect on Chipiez, who awarded the tree a special place in his reconstruction. As an historian, Chipiez envisioned the Temple design as native Phoenician architecture, assimilating extensive cultural interactions with other groups in the Mediterranean, including the dominant Egyptian and Assyrian civilizations. The goal here is not to criticize that interpretation, but to analyze it for further clues about the symbol’s currency.64 His sources help us position the inquiry in Near Eastern culture. His double-scroll arcaded piers, for example, were inspired by Cypriot examples, and renderings of Phoenician-style ivories on Assyrian reliefs.65 As Chipiez himself noted, the portico’s step-crenelated parapet was a common motif in Assyrian brick architecture, and was borrowed directly from it. As for the overall pylon form itself, it is clearly Egyptianizing, and the unique, rams’ horn-shaped merlons find parallels in Ezekiel’s description of the Temple altar and in excavated examples.66 As for the most prominent symbolic motifs in Chipiez’ reconstruction, the pomegranate is a

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Figure 6.22  Entrance to the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Photo by Zev Radovan, 1983, courtesy of the Center for Jewish Art, Hebrew University of Jerusalem)

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symbol of fertility found throughout the ancient Near East, but its specific, U-shaped, hooded rendering is unique and mysterious.67 The date-palm motif, however, has a meaningful genealogy of which not even Chipiez may have been fully cognizant. That the motif’s users may or may not understand it completely or consciously is a key feature of the motif’s potency, and indeed, of our thesis here. As mentioned above, to include the date-palm motif would have been expected of Chipiez, certainly, since the biblical accounts of the Temple make specific reference to it.68 When Chipiez gave form to the tree, though, he chose not a realistic rendering, but a particularly abstract one, taken from ancient Assyrian sources (ninth to the seventh centuries bce) mainly due to the archaeological discoveries of his time.69 Published in the decades preceding the Perrot and Chipiez reconstruction, monumental temples and palaces from the ancient cities of Khorsabad, Nimrud, and Nineveh in Iraq were revealing a surprising number of date-palm representations in various forms.70 While at this date archaeologists were uncertain of the tree’s actual symbolic significance in Assyria, for the Jews of Cairo, the Assyrian tree seamlessly coincided with their vision of the Jerusalem Temple. Descended from a much older, southern Mesopotamian tree image that the patriarchs had brought with them to Canaan, the Assyrian date-palm had, it seems, lodged itself in the Jewish psyche. 71 How the meaning of the tree had evolved prior to the twentieth century is an important clue to its perceived significance for the congregation in Cairo. The answer can be deduced less from images— although those survive from selected periods—and more, rather, from the abundant literary sources that reveal its associations with righteousness and the Messianic hope for a return to the early bliss of paradise. 72 The Hellenistic–Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria, for example, expounded on the tree as a symbol of virtue and victorious strength. In the Midrash, the tree—as a biblical metaphor for the righteous man in Psalms 92:13—is explained in vivid form. Like the Tree, the righteous man has neither crookedness nor excrescences, casts long shadows, and possesses a heart directed upward. The tree of paradise is made of precious materials and is planted above the source of living waters, and from it, the souls of the righteous ascend and descend. It is a Tree of Light, encompassing all living things, giving everlasting life to all creatures and enduring to all eternity. In the Zohar, the mystical text regularly studied by Sephardi Jews, the tree is a central motif and is fabulous in detail and size. There too, several passages expound on the symbolism of the tree as a metaphor for the righteous, unifying the male and female forces, and flourishing fully. What all of these sources make clear is that the Tree of Life was the ultimate symbol of vitality and longevity, familiar to all, but only fully knowable to the select, virtuous few. In choosing the abstract Assyrian tree above others, then, Chipiez—and the synagogue’s ­founders—were selecting a highly resonant symbol, one that would move its audiences even in periods when its specific meanings had been forgotten. As Jan Assmann reminds us, social memory is a subtle, yet willful dynamic that makes its way into the interstices of communication and the outer world of symbols.73 Thus, whether the Cairo congregation at large was explicitly aware of the palm tree’s ancient genealogy and connotations is uncertain, but that was not essential for the tree’s import to be kept alive. Nevertheless, symbology in general was experiencing a resurgence in scholarly and artistic circles at the turn of the century, as was specific interest in the Tree of Life as a universal symbol revived. In the early decades of the twentieth century, for example, several lengthy scholarly works addressed the Tree in its universal manifestations. 74 Paramount among its associations at that time was righteousness. Certainly the founders of the synagogue, at least, understood the symbolic import of the Tree and cultivated it as an element in the synagogue’s design. Evidence is found, for example, in the abovementioned courtyard inscription dedicated to the founder of the synagogue, Vita Mosseri, which explicitly alludes to the Hebrew Bible and synagogue liturgy to characterize him as a righteous man.75 Moreover, the synagogue’s name itself, Sha’ar Hashamayim (“Gate of Heaven”)—also referenced in the same inscription—is taken from Psalms 118:19–20, which conjures a clear image of the righteous man’s positive end: “Open to me the gates of righteousness that I may enter through them and give thanks to the Lord. This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through it.” In summary, in a prescient gesture, the synagogue founders seem to have embraced the analogy between the tree (the righteous man) and architecture (the synagogue) and their joint aspirations about perpetuity in the face of inevitable material decay and death. Indeed, after the early decades of the twentieth century, the tree’s significance once again disappeared from knowledge and became obscure, and so it remains.76 All that is left of that golden era, in Cairo, in a structure that expresses its founders’ remarkable aspiration, is the phenomenology of a small, physical point of contact with the building itself, when the visitor reaches to the tarnished palm-tree door fittings, and pushes the

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Figure 6.23  Door handles in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (courtesy of Kay Chernush, 1987)

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door open (Fig. 6.23). The Tree’s grand idea is scaled down to a detail in the human experience—a simple brass mechanism, a movement of the hand itself—and in so doing, still offers brief access to  sacred inspiration and resolution.77 A moment of this kind invites us to ponder the remarkable  role  of architecture in capturing and enabling that tension, between absolute relevance and obscurity. Conclusion This study has described an institution—the monumental urban edifice of the Cairo Jewish Community in the twentieth century—and its significance within the evolving status of Jews in Egypt. Today, the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue is rarely used and the community is in limbo. As an antidote to complete obscurity, here the interior and exterior iconographical symbolism is shown to contain powerful wisdom for Egyptian society, present and future. The synagogue is valuable as an untouched specimen of a dynamic period of economic development and urban reconfiguration. Moreover, built in what, at the time, was a new and fashionable downtown district, the synagogue also represents a major turning-point in the history of the Cairo Jewish community, when many moved from the cramped quarters of the traditional Jewish harat into a prosperous, upwardly mobile social class. Much more than a simple historic artifact, however, the building also contains didactic wisdom. Building on an interior stylistic and symbolic program that is consistent and meaningful, the overarching concept of the synagogue becomes fully apparent only when the interior and exterior are considered together. The synagogue’s lucid and purposeful design directly refers to the Jerusalem Temple, especially as conceived in archaeological and popular literature. The overall symbolic program privileges one motif in particular: the date-palm. Despite its ubiquitousness in Cairo and its clear parallels in biblical texts, however, the exact significance of the tree is lost to contemporary audiences. With its origins in ancient Mesopotamian and Assyrian cultures and its evolution in medieval literary sources, the cosmic tree, as well as the synagogue’s message points to righteousness as the key to the present life and immortality. Although the wisdom of the synagogue’s symbolism is no longer recognizable to most, the façade nevertheless continues to call out to present generations as a potent reminder. Ultimately, the paradox in the tree’s physical prominence, yet present conceptual obscurity, invites contemplation on the ineffable art of sacred architecture to move and inspire. Acknowledgments This chapter would not have been possible without the help of numerous individuals. I am indebted to Sam Albert, Shulamith Berger, Celia Bergoffen, Betsy Bolman, Kay Chernush, Jaroslaw Dobrowolski, Andrew Humphreys, Michael Jones, Carol Krinsky, Vladimir Levin, Jean-Marc Oppenheim, Istvan Ormos, Deborah Starr, Mercedes Volait, and Rochelle Weinstein for helpful tips, conversations, and permissions. A very special thanks go to Vittoria Capresi, Sergey Kravtsov, Hanna Taragan, and Rivka Ulmer for their previous work, their interest and insights, and their generosity. Finally, my treasured colleague Mamdouh Sakr deserves the date-palm key of honor, for his tireless efforts and idealism. Notes 1. Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006), 178–180. 2. For example, Carol Herselle Krinsky, “Changing Uses for Pre-Modern Synagogues in Europe: An Overview” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the College Art Association, New York, 2015). 3. Phyllis Lambert, ed., Fortifications and the Synagogue: The Fortress of Babylon and the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Cairo (Montreal: Canadian Centre for Architecture, 1994); Peter Sheehan, Babylon of Egypt: The Archaeology of Old Cairo and the Origins of the City (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2010); Ann Shafer, “Sacred Geometries: The Dynamics of ‘Islamic’ Ornament in Jewish and Coptic Old Cairo,” in Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities across the Islamic World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Leiden: Brill, 2014); Agnieszka Dobrowolska and Jaroslaw Dobrowolska, The Synagogue of Haim Capusi: Harat Al Yahud Cairo (Cairo: The American Research Center in Cairo, 1995) and The Synagogue of Maimonides, Harat al Yahud, Cairo (Cairo: The American Research Center in Egypt, 1996).

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4. Some resistance to this dynamic can be seen in the recent film The Jews of Egypt, directed by Amir Ramsis (Cairo, 2012). For a revisionist perspective of Jewish presence in Morocco, see Aomar Boum, Memories of Absence: How Muslims Remember Jews in Morocco (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013). 5. Kay Chernush, “The Synagogue on Adly Pasha Street: A Photo Report from Cairo,” National Jewish Monthly 92, no. 8 (April, 1978): 6–9; Manfred Lehmann, “Synagogues du Caire,” in Juifs d’Egypte: Images et textes, ed. G. Cabasso et al. (Paris: Editions du Scribe, 1984), 115–137; Rina Talgam and Braha Yaniv, “Survey of Jewish Visual Art in Egypt,” Bulletin of the Israeli Academic Center in Cairo, no. 4 (Summer, 1984); Roger S. Kohn, An Inventory to the Jamie Lehmann Memorial Collection: Records of the Jewish Community of Cairo (1886–1961) (New York: Yeshiva University Archives, 1988); Yoram Meital, “Jewish Life and Sites in Cairo,” Bulletin of the Israeli Academic Center in Cairo, no. 20 (April, 1997): 12–15; Mohamed Scharabi, Kairo: Stadt und Architektur im Zeitalter des europäischen Kolonialismus (Tübingen: Verlag Ernst Wasmuth, 1989); Rivka Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue (Keniset Ismailiyah) in Cairo, Egypt,” in Maven in Blue Jeans: A Festschrift in Honor of Zev Garber, ed. Steven Leonard Jacobs (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2009), 431–440; Hana Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven’ (Sha’ar Hashamayim) Synagogue in Cairo (1898–1905): On the Contextualization of Jewish Communal Architecture,” Journal of Jewish Identities 2, no. 1 (2009): 31–53; Sergey R. Kravtsov, “Reconstruction of the Temple by Charles Chipiez and Its Applications in Architecture,” Ars Judaica 4 (2008): 25–42. 6. Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson Smith (Cambridge: Blackwell, 1991). 7. Rachel Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1964); Carol Herselle Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe: Architecture, History, Meaning, rev. ed. (New York: Architectural History Foundation; Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1996); Dominique Jarrassé, Synagogues: Architecture and Jewish Identity (Paris: Vilo International, 2001); Olga Bush, “The Architecture of Jewish Identity: The Neo-Islamic Central Synagogue of New York,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 63, no. 2 (2004): 180–201. 8. On the Egyptian government’s ambivalence in defining cultural heritage and its long-term effects, see Mercedes Volait, “The Reclaiming of ‘Belle Epoque’ Architecture in Egypt (1989–2010): On the Power of Rhetorics in Heritage-Making,” ABE Journal 3 (2013), https://abe.revues.org/371 (accessed October 5, 2016). 9. For one such photograph, see the first image in Samir Raafat, “Gates of Heaven,” http://www.egy.com/ landmarks/99-09-02.php (accessed October 5, 2016). 10. Cynthia Myntti provides historical background and photos that capture some of the opulence of those years in Paris along the Nile: Architecture in Cairo from the Belle Époque (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1999); Khalid Fahmy gives an alternative view, and criticizes the essentialist aesthetic interpretation of Cairo’s urban development, in “Modernizing Cairo: A Revisionist Narrative,” in Making Cairo Medieval, ed. Nezar Al Sayyad, Irene A. Bierman, and Nasser Rabbat (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2005), 173–199; see Mercedes Volait, “The Reclaiming,” for more on the politics of renewed interest in this period of Egypt’s architectural heritage; for a very different view of contemporary downtown Cairo, see the work of the “Baladilab” in Vittoria Capresi and Barbara Pampe, eds., Downtown Cairo: Architecture and Stories (Berlin: Jovis, 2015). 11. Andrew Humphreys, Grand Hotels of Egypt: In the Golden Age of Travel (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2011). 12. Roger Owen, “The Cairo Building Industry and the Building Boom of 1897 to 1907,” in Colloque international sur l’histoire du Caire, 27 mars–5 avril 1969, 337–350 (Cairo: Ministry of Culture of the Arab Republic of Egypt, General Egyptian Book Organization, 1972), especially 337–338. 13. For an introduction to the Jews of modern Egypt, see J. M. Landau, Jews in Nineteenth-Century Egypt (New York: New York University Press, 1969); Shimon Shamir, The Jews of Egypt: A Mediterranean Society in Modern Times (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1987); Gudrun Krämer, The Jews in Modern Egypt, 1914–1952 (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1989); Jean-Marc Ran Oppenheim, “Egypt and the Sudan,” in The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times, ed. Reeva Spector Simon et al. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 409–430. 14. Dobrowolska and Dobrowolska, The Synagogue of Haim Capusi, 8. 15. Michael Winter, “Egyptian Jewry during the Ottoman Period as a Background to Modern Times,” in Shamir, The Jews of Egypt, 9–14. 16. For more on the nuanced relationships between cosmopolitanism and colonialism in Egyptian literary culture, see Deborah A. Starr, Remembering Cosmopolitan Egypt: Literature, Culture, and Empire (London: Routledge, 2009). 17. On the golden years of Egyptian Jewry and its culture, see Victor D. Sanua, “A Jewish Childhood in Cairo,” in Fields of Offerings: Studies in Honor of Raphael Patai (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1983), 283–295; idem, “Growing Up as a Jew in Cairo,” Image Magazine (April, 1997): 20, 22, 26; Levana Zamir, The Golden Era of “The Jews of Egypt” and the Mediterranean Option for a United Middle East (Haifa: University of Haifa, 2008). On the mid-century “exodus,” see Victor D. Sanua, “Emigration of Sephardic Jews from Egypt after the Arab-Israeli Wars,” in Proceedings of the Eleventh World Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem, 1994), 215–222; Robert L. Tignor, “Egyptian Jewry, Communal Tension, and Zionism,” in Egypt and Palestine: A Millennium of Association (868–1948), ed. Amnon Cohen and Gabriel Baer (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984), 332–347; Joel Beinin, The Dispersion of Egyptian Jewry: Culture,

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Politics, and the Formation of a Modern Diaspora (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); and Zamir, The Golden Era. 18. Maurice Fargeon, Les Juifs en Egypte: Depuis les origines jusqu’à ce jour (Cairo: Paul Barbey, 1938), 198–201. 19. After the synagogue’s construction it was informally known as “Le Temple Ismailiya,” referring to its location in this district. It was not until much later in the 1960s, it seems, that the formal appellation “Sha’ar Hashamayim” actually took hold as originally intended (Bassatine News, issue no. 12; online). 20. Mosseri’s townhouse, located at Mohammed Farid and 26th of July (formerly Fouad) streets, eventually became the first Museum of Modern Art; Samir Raafat, “Gates of Heaven,” in Cairo, the Glory Years: Who Built What, When, Why and for Whom . . . (Alexandria: Harpocrates Publishing, 2003), 45–48. 21. Jack Mosseri, “The Synagogues of Egypt: Past and Present,” Jewish Review 5 (1913/14): 43. 22. On Matasek himself, see Rudolf Agstner, “Dream and Reality: Austrian Architects in Egypt 1869–1914,” in Le Caire–Alexandrie: Architectures européennes, 1850–1950, ed. Mercedes Volait (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, 2001), 141–157; on Max Herz, see Istvan Ormos, “Max Herz (1856–1919): His Life and Activities in Egypt,” in Volait, Le Caire-Alexandrie, 161–177; on the Chicago Fair, see Zeynep Çelik, Displaying the Orient: Architecture of Islam at Nineteenth-Century World’s Fairs (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992). 23. Agstner, “Dream and Reality,” 147–148. 24. This renovation was directed by the Sudanese–Egyptian businessman Nessim Gaon, after a fire; Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 34, from Samir Raafat, “Gates of Heaven.” 25. As noted by Zahi Hawass, “The Restoration of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue” (online), the accomplished tasks included the removal of groundwater in the basement and the restoration of the reader’s platform. 26. Comparative examples include the Great Synagogue of Florence, Italy (1848), and the synagogue in Essen, Germany (1914). 27. The goal of the present study is to document the synagogue’s current appearance. When available, information has been noted on the changes to which the synagogue was subjected over time. 28. An early photograph by P. Dittrich in 1905 documents a slightly different, original dais and balustrade arrangement, including a staircase in front of the ark; see Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 41, Fig. 10. The exact date of changes leading to the present configuration is unknown, but photographs indicate 1948 as a terminus ante quem. 29. Ibid. Taragan believes these and the many other bas-relief disks here may trace their origins to sun-disks in Pharaonic art, a theory that finds some credence in the disk-and-uraeus motif repeated as a border at the synagogue’s entrances. 30. Taragan, ibid., 37, makes a convincing formal argument for including this motif among those that are possibly Egyptianizing, but further comparative material is necessary. Instead, as argued below, the motif might be read vis-à-vis Ezekiel’s description of the Jerusalem Temple, as an abstract cherub. 31. Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue,” 437, provides a brief description of the scrolls. 32. Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 40, notes that the chandelier was obtained from France. 33. See below, Fig. 16. 34. See the photograph of the mezzanine wing looking toward the heikhal in Manfred Lehmann, “Synagogues,” 126 center. 35. Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 39. 36. Ibid., Fig. 8; and Lehmann, “Synagogues,” 126. 37. As mentioned below, the heikhal wall was originally covered with molded tree ornamentation (now lost) on the mezzanine level. That imagery would have been consistent in content and placement with the lamps in the women’s gallery, thus extending the visual rhythm around the entire perimeter of the hall. 38. Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe; Jarrassé, Synagogues; Volait, “The Reclaiming.” 39. For example, Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” and Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue,” note the complexity of the mixture of stylistic influences on the interior. 40. Paul Greenhalgh, ed., Art Nouveau: 1890–1914 (London: V&A Publications, 2000), 429 notes, however, that by the end of the first decade the style had fallen completely out of favor in Europe. 41. Saskia Coenen Snyder, Building a Public Judaism: Synagogues and Jewish Identity in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), 11. 42. The annex appears to have been built in the mid-1930s, as suggested in Fargeon, Les Juifs, 199; and, in Kohn, An Inventory, 23 (in the proceedings of meetings of the Council of the Jewish Community of Cairo, 1929) the need for the synagogue expansion is shown to have been discussed; Jean-Marc Oppenheim (interview April 9, 2015; Fordham University, Lincoln Center campus, NY) attests to its use as an overflow sanctuary as late as the 1950s. 43. Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe, 77; Raafat, “Gates of Heaven”; Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 41–47. 44. For more on the Egyptian Revival style, see Richard G. Carrott, The Egyptian Revival: Its Sources, Monuments, and Meaning 1808–1858 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978); Jarrassé, Synagogues; Diana Muir Applebaum, “Jewish Identity and Egyptian Revival Architecture,” Journal of Jewish Identities 5, no. 2 (2012): 1–25. 45. This would also explain what Aly Gabr calls the synagogue’s “European massing, rhythms, and organization,” in “Neo Pharaonic Architecture in Cairo: A Western Legacy,” Medina Magazine (January, 1998): 45;

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Khalid Fahmy, “Modernizing Cairo,” 178, confirms that when the first Ismailiya plots were sold, it was stipulated that all new villas be European in style. 46. Sergey R. Kravtsov, “Reconstruction”; Georges Perrot’s and Charles Chipiez’ reconstruction first appeared in Histoire de l’art dans l’antiquité: Égypte, Assyrie, Phénicie, Judée, Asie Mineure, Perse, Grèce, Étrurie, Rome, vol. 4 (Paris: Librairie Hachette, 1887), and then again in a folio-sized volume devoted entirely to this theme, Le Temple de Jérusalem et la maison du Bois–Liban, restitués d’après Ézéchiel et le livre des Rois (Paris: Librairie Hachette, 1889). The Chipiez reconstruction was also pictured in The Jewish Encyclopedia (New York: Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1909–1912), 90–93. 47. For more on the changing role of synagogues in Jewish life and imagination, see Snyder, Building a Public Judaism, 4–6. The primary biblical sources for the Temple reconstruction are Ezekiel 40–42; 1 Kings 6–7; 2 Chronicles 3–4. 48. For a photograph of the synagogue at Hradec Králové, see Kravtsov, “Reconstruction,” 34, and Jarrassé, Synagogues, 211. In addition, another group of synagogues displayed more generalized influences from archaeological discoveries of the time: Port Elizabeth (South Africa), Stockholm (Sweden 1861), Rome (Italy 1904), Riga (Latvia 1905), Boston (USA 1906), Chelsea, MA (USA 1909), Frankfurt (Germany 1910), Nagykörös (Hungary 1914), Leeds (England 1928). As for which of the two architects designed the SHS façade, the responsibility is probably that of Matasek, who had had considerable prior experience in designing façades; see Agstner, “Dream and Reality,” 146. 49. Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue,” 434. 50. In 1938, Maurice Fargeon, in Les Juifs, 199, refers to the synagogue’s allusions to the Temple in Jerusalem, apparently a widely accepted fact as late as the 1940s and possibly beyond; see Isaac Landman, ed., Universal Jewish Encyclopedia, vol. 12 (New York: Universal Jewish Encyclopedia, 1941), 628. 51. Georges Perrot and Charles Chipiez, History of Art in Sardinia, Judaea, Syria, and Asia Minor, trans. I. Gonino, 2 vols. (London: Chapman and Hall Ltd., 1890), 1:230–231. 52. Ibid., pls. VI, VII. 53. None of the available archival material or popular accounts mentions the tree. Neither Taragan nor Kravtsov offers an interpretation of the date palm’s symbolic meaning, either. 54. Today both sets of tree ornaments are gone. They can be seen in the 1905 photograph of the dome by P. Dittrich, published in Lehmann, “Synagogues,” 126, and Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 38 Fig. 7; and in the photograph of the mezzanine wing looking toward the heikhal in Lehmann, 126 middle. 55. Meital, “Jewish Life,” 15; Taragan, “The ‘Gate of Heaven,’” 35. 56. Dobrowolska and Dobrowolska, The Synagogue of Haim Capusi, 26; The Synagogue of Maimonides, 19. 57. For a photograph of the Pahad Itzhak ark, see Zamir, The Golden Era, 76–77. 58. See Lehmann, “Synagogues,” 128 for the sukkah in the Temple Hanan courtyard, and 129 bottom; for the main prayer hall of Meir ‘Einayim see Zamir, The Golden Era, 76–77. 59. Deuteronomy 8:8; Ellen Frankel and Betsy Platkin Teutsch, The Encyclopedia of Jewish Symbols (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1992), 181ff., 125ff. 60. Erwin R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 7 (New York: Bollingen Foundation and Pantheon Books, 1958), lists early synagogues with this motif, as well as multiple examples of ossuaries and coins. He also notes that the tree branches are still used today during the festival of Sukkot. 61. The Jewish Encyclopedia (New York: Funk and Wagnalls Company, 1909–1912), 9:505–506; 12:98–101; there are descriptions in 1 Kings 6, 8; 2 Chronicles 3, 4; Ezekiel 40–41. 62. 1 Kings 23–28. 63. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 87–134; for a more recent, popular account of the Tree, see Roger Cook, Tree of Life: Image for the Cosmos (London: Thames and Hudson, 1988). 64. Perrot and Chipiez, History of Art, 1:229. 65. Chipiez in History of Art, 1:232 discusses his re-interpretation of Cypriot capitals and Phoenician pilasters. As discussed below, archaeological publications of recently discovered Assyrian palace reliefs certainly supplied Chipiez with examples in ivory furniture, as for example, Paul Émile Botta and Eugène Flandin, Monument de Ninive, 5 vols. (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1849–50), pl. 22. 66. Ezekiel 43:15; I thank Celia Bergoffen (personal correspondence) for her suggestion that Chipiez’ pylon recalls the migdal tower-temples mentioned in the Bible. 67. Charles Chipiez himself does not comment on the motif’s meaning. Celia Bergoffen suggests (personal communication) that the motif may have been derived from representations of Hathor’s locks on Levantine scarabs. 68. See note 60. 69. In contrast, note the trees rendered in a naturalistic style on the dome and other surfaces of the Rome Synagogue; Jarrassé, Synagogues, 175. 70. Some of the closest Assyrian parallels to the synagogue trees are hypothetical reconstructions of ­colossal  trees at the entrance to the Khorsabad palace, “Door Z,” rendered in Victor Place and Felix Thomas, Ninive et l’Assyrie (Paris: Imprimerie impériale, 1867–70), pls. 23–24; Chipiez re-interpreted this façade in Histoire, Fig. 197. Chipiez also notes, in Histoire 1:204, his reliance on abstract representations of trees on Assyrian cylinder seals, as drawn by Austen H. Layard, Nineveh and Its Remains (London: John Murray, 1849); The Monuments of Nineveh: From Drawings Made on the Spot, 2 vols. (London: John Murray, 1849).

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71. For a clear account of the Jewish Tree’s genealogy, see Zofia Ameisenowa and W. F. Mainland, “The Tree of Life in Jewish Iconography,” Journal of the Warburg Institute 2, no. 4 (April, 1939): 326–345. No consensus has been reached by Assyriologists on the Mesopotamian–Assyrian Tree’s specific meaning, but cosmic associations are likely. In an interesting study of the more abstract, nonspecific species of the Assyrian tree (not discussed here), Simo Parpola traces the medieval Jewish sources backward to discern its meaning and implied genealogical relationship, in “The Assyrian Tree of Life: Tracing the Origins of Jewish Monotheism and Greek Philosophy,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 52, no. 3 (1993): 161–208. 72. For references, see Ameisenowa and Mainland, “The Tree of Life,” passim; Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue,” 433–434. 73. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 178. 74. Ameisenowa and Mainland, “The Tree of Life,” 326. 75. Kern-Ulmer, “The Sha’ar Ha-Shamayim Synagogue,” 434. 76. Originally the goal of the present study was to search globally for contemporary uses of the Tree in synagogue architecture and to understand its connotations in those contexts. In a surprising turn of events, however, none of my interviewees—from scholars to former SHS attendees—felt qualified to address the Tree’s meaning.

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PART II SYNAGOGUE AND THE CULTURAL CONTEXT

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ISLAMIC ART AMONGST JEWS OF CHRISTIAN IBERIA

Chapter Seven

The Prevalence of Islamic Art amongst Jews of Christian Iberia: Two Fourteenth-century Castilian Synagogues in Andalusian Attire Daniel Muñoz-Garrido After Jewish communities had endured the hostile Visigothic laws restricting their religious, social, and economic life, the advent of Islam to the Iberian Peninsula in the first quarter of the eighth century represented a radical change for the Jews and their social status and juridical situation. Jews, in addition to other monotheistic religious minorities adhering to the sacred scriptures, were considered by the Muslims to be “People of the Book.” As such, they were under a special status—that of dhimma. Although this did not fully integrate them into the economic and social life of Islamic society, it still entitled them to certain protections and freedoms. The new framework granted by the Islamic legal system to Jews (and Christians) provided an opportunity for Jews to expand their social and cultural outreach and become a more visible presence in eighth-century Spain. Historical sources are largely silent concerning many aspects of the lives of the Jews of Al-Andalus (the Iberian territory under Islamic control). Nevertheless, indirect references offer evidence that the Jewish communities were reasonably well integrated into Islamic society. That environment— although not indicative of a fully peaceful coexistence—resulted in a great flowering of Jewish culture. Indeed, the Jews of Al-Andalus are known to have contributed to the intellectual life and knowledge in the fields of poetry, politics, medicine, astronomy, science, religion, and law. This “Golden Age” ended in 1086 with the arrival of the Almoravids, a Berber dynasty from North Africa, who persecuted both Christians and Jews. As a result, the Jews were forced to flee Al-Andalus, making for the northern Christian kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula. Later, when the Almohads, who professed a more radical vision of Islam, took control of the territory, in 1147, the Jewish communities of Al-Andalus largely disappeared. Yet the Jewish culture of Al-Andalus did not die when the Jews regrouped in Christian territories; instead, the Jewish intellectual elite worked to reestablish their old Andalusian culture on safer soil.1 Although none of the synagogues established during this period of Jewish life in Al-Andalus have survived, several impressive medieval synagogues from the Christian kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula are still standing. These remaining synagogues were converted or expanded over time to adapt them to new roles as churches, homes or, more recently, museums and historical monuments. Notably, in the case of the remarkable Cordoba Synagogue and El Tránsito Synagogue, the fact that both structures were turned into Christian churches with few modifications saved them from abandonment and destruction. Indeed, these fourteenth-century synagogues remain to this day as the best-preserved examples of Jewish architecture in Spain. The socio-political history of these two Castilian landmarks will be examined in detail here, with a particular focus on their decorative motifs and the meaning behind them. The Synagogue of Cordoba, which was built in 1315, predates the El Tránsito Synagogue (ca. 1361) by slightly less than 50 years. Since both houses of worship were private initiatives, they are closely tied to their patrons, respectively Isaac Moheb, a native of Cordoba, and Samuel ha-Levi Abulafia of Toledo. In the fourteenth century, the religious architecture of the minorities in the Christian kingdom of Castile was subject to significant restrictions, which dictated their design and external characteristics. It is my contention that the external appearance of both buildings is intimately associated with the social status of their founders, as well with to the social and political context of their foundation, rather than to any prevailing urban planning directives of the day. An investigation of the complex world of medieval patronage will contribute to our understanding of the factors that create a relationship between these two synagogues and their environs that makes them intriguing and unique.

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Ornamentation played an enormously important function in medieval Iberia—so much so that in most cases a building was easily defined by its architectural structure and accompanying ornamentation. In the case of the Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogues, their decorative motifs consist for the most part of stuccowork containing geometric, architectural, and vegetal motifs, highlighted by inscription reproducing biblical verses. The decoration of these two synagogues shows a strong connection with the Islamic art and architecture of Al-Andalus—and in particular with the ornamentation of the Alhambra and the Nasrid Palaces of Granada. Recent scholarship concerning Islamic art has begun to view its decorative motifs and epigraphy as an indivisible whole in which the inscriptions need to be understood as more than mere words. Several buildings have been analyzed from this premise, namely, that their ornamentation fulfills a purpose beyond eye-pleasing decoration. The most important of these edifices include the Dome of the Rock,2 the Cordoba Mosque (especially the doors),3 and the Alhambra in Granada. Applying this comprehensive analysis to the ornamentation of Castilian synagogues reveals the meaning behind their epigraphic decoration and helps to explain how texts were specifically chosen for the sites they occupy. This article examines the ornamentation of the two synagogues in question, using analytical methods used to study a number of the Alhambra’s rooms, such as the Comares Throne Room,4 the Court of the Lions,5 and the Lindaraja Mirador.6 The influence of the Nasrid and Andalusian styles is palpable in the interiors of both synagogues. The plasterwork contains a visual language taken from Islamic culture that is more than a repetition of earlier models. In much the same way that Hebrew biblical manuscripts produced in the Iberian Christian kingdoms after the conquest adopted new trends from the cultural context of their time and place, as analyzed by Katrin Kogman-Appel,7 the visual language of synagogues followed this same trend, and evolved a dialogue with contemporary Islamic art. The Jews were very familiar with the Islamic art of Al-Andalus—not only because it was the fashion in Castile at the time, but also because Al-Andalus and its memory constituted an important episode in the history of Iberian Jews. The Christian kingdoms, and especially Castile, received many Jewish immigrants from Al-Andalus after the arrival of the Almohads in the mid-twelfth century. Why did the Jews of Castile remain attached to this artistic tradition two centuries later? While synagogue ornamentation in both Cordoba and Toledo incorporates elements from Christian Gothic culture, the persistence of Andalusian culture is striking. A comparison with Jewish communities to the north and east is illustrative. For example, the synagogues in both Worms (Germany) and Vittorio Veneto (Italy) are to a significantly greater degree a reflection respectively of the Gothic and Italian baroque buildings built by their host societies. What is unusual is that the Jews, a religious minority, did not adopt the artistic style of the Christian host society in Iberia. In general, Arab culture remained an essential element of Iberian Jewish culture even within the Latin and Romance environments of Christian Spain.8 This essay also analyses the symbology of power and mimesis in the urban context, studies the decoration of both synagogues following the methodology used in the Alhambra, and discusses the prevalence of Islamic cultural elements amongst the Jews of Castile. Synagogue Architecture, between the Symbology of Power and the Required Mimesis in an Urban Context The synagogues of Cordoba and of Samuel ha-Levi Abulafia—currently known as the El Tránsito Synagogue—are based on identical architectural layouts, although their overall dimensions are different. The great prayer room in El Tránsito is 23 meters long by 9.50 meters wide and 17 meters high (76 ft long, 31 ft wide and 56 ft high); in comparison, the prayer room in the Cordoba Synagogue is significantly smaller at 6.95 meters wide by 6.37 long and 6.16 high (23 ft wide by 21 ft long and 20 ft high). The resulting size of the two buildings determined how each fitted into the surrounding urban setting at a time when the Catholic Church had instituted prohibitions and conditions for nonChristian religious buildings. The preeminence of the region’s dominant religion hampered the construction of monumental synagogues, as well as any ostentatious exterior decoration. The main goal of these regulations was to prevent the synagogues from rivaling the city’s Catholic churches in height and beauty, while simultaneously camouflaging the religious architecture of the Jews as a way of minimizing their presence in the city. These types of restrictions were not always uniformly enforced during the Middle Ages, however, there being some notable exceptions. Consider, for instance, the monumentality of the Toledo synagogues, Santa María la Blanca and El Tránsito.9 The Synagogue of Cordoba, located in the modern-day Calle Judíos (Street of the Jews), reflects the modest external architecture of the surrounding buildings, making it almost unnoticeable in

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that city (Fig. 7.1). The façade that faces the street is a simple wall with a doorway accessing a small patio that separates the building from the street (Fig. 7.2). The austere appearance of the exterior, however, is likely to leave the visitor unprepared for the richness of the interior. Clearly, Cordoba’s founder, Isaac Moheb, spared no expense. Indeed, the difference between the exteriors of the Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogues may be linked to differences between their founders. Virtually nothing is known of Isaac Moheb beyond what is written on the synagogue’s foundation stone to the left of the heikhal (holy ark): “Isaac Moheb, son of Lord Efraim.” He surely was a wealthy man, although he most likely did not play any significant religious or political role since names on the foundation stones of buildings financed by important figures of that nature were usually preceded by the title “Rav” or “Nasi” (prince). The El Tránsito Synagogue in Toledo (Fig. 7.3) was founded by Samuel ha-Levi, treasurer to Pedro I of Castile. Ha-Levi was a noted courtier who reached great prominence in the service of the king. His importance is well-established in that he was able to build a synagogue of this size thanks to a special permit from the king—quite possibly in recognition of his services to the crown. Samuel ha-Levi is referred to by the title “Nasi” on the synagogue’s foundation stone, which was typically reserved for notable Jews who represented their coreligionists before the king. Because of its considerable dimensions, the synagogue dwarfs the buildings around it; it is even visible in the city skyline when viewed from the opposite shore of the Tagus River (Fig. 7.4). Thus, unlike its predecessor to the southwest, El Tránsito does not mimic the surrounding buildings in size. Even the doorway was conceived to complement the building’s monumental façade. Despite the fact that the synagogue’s original façade has not survived (Fig. 7.4), it is possible to imagine what it looked like in the fourteenth century. The most important documentation in this respect is a

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Figure 7.2  View of the Calle Judíos showing entrance to the synagogue on the right (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

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Figure 7.4  View of the exterior of the El Tránsito Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

Figure 7.5  Drawing of the El Tránsito Synagogue by Palomares, 1752 (courtesy of the Biblioteca Nacional de España)

drawing by Palomares made in 1752,10 by which time the synagogue had already been converted into a church. The drawing is reproduced in De Toletano Hebraeorum Templo by Francisco Pérez Bayer (Fig. 7.5).11 It illustrates a façade divided into two levels. In the lower part, the main door lintel is a wooden beam (that has been lost) carved with an inscription from Psalms 118:20: “This [is the] gate of the Lord, through which the righteous shall enter.” The bottom of the upper part of the façade

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has a frieze containing four coats of arms with a castle inside of them. Above this frieze is a sebka (patterned grille) containing other heraldic symbols with a window space in the middle. The façade of the Synagogue of El Tránsito is similar in design and ornamentation to the façades of some contemporary palaces, stately homes, and convents built by Castilian noble families in the fourteenth century. These parallels show that the monumental façade model used in the synagogue was taken from local palace architecture. Two notable examples are the façade of the Silva house (Fig. 7.6), belonging to one of the most distinguished lineages of the Toledo nobility during the Late Middle Ages, and the palace of Pedro I in Tordesillas, which his daughter, Princess Beatriz, converted into a convent of the Order of St. Clare in 1363 in fulfillment of her father’s will. Both Mudéjarstyle façades are divided into two levels, with windows and a sebka panel in the upper part. Since the monumental doors of these buildings were finished with a large eave, which can be seen on the façade of the Silva house, the synagogue door very likely also featured a large gable—later destroyed when the balcony and small bell tower seen in Palomares’ 1752 drawing were installed. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Castilian nobility underwent significant changes that transformed it into an oligarchy that has been termed the “new nobility.” The noble lineages of this time projected their power in cities and towns belonging to the crown—often through a set of known symbols that was used to cement the influence of particular lineages. Many other elements comprised the symbolic apparatus used by the Castilian nobility to assert their importance, including close ties to the king, a variety of properties within the city, the stately home as the emblem of lineage, charitable donations and the establishment of foundations, and funereal pomp and the memorials to the dead.12 It is important to realize that during this period noble status was reserved exclusively for Christians, thereby restricting the upward social movement of members of the Hispano-Jewish population. The legal constraints on Jews ascending to the nobility, however, were not sufficient to exclude them completely. While they could not be nobles by law, they could be nobles through action, appearance, and to some degree, influence. Many members of Jewish communities, regardless of their social status, copied the symbols of the nobility and even began lineages. Samuel ha-Levi’s decision to found El Tránsito Synagogue takes on new meaning when interpreted in this context, in which donations and foundations were intended to serve as symbols of nobility, power, and prestige. Samuel ha-Levi’s use of coats of arms—an element taken from Christian Gothic culture—on the front of the synagogue is particularly significant. The sebka that decorated the upper part of the monumental door featured heraldic emblems ranging from the combined coat of arms of Castile and Leon (representing the Crown of Castile and, therefore, close ties to King Pedro I) to more subtle symbols of influence. The status of servis regis that applied to the Jewish communities during this period indicated a very close relationship between the monarch and the Jews. Thus, it is possible that the existence of the royal coat of arms on the synagogue façade was intended to illustrate the position that Samuel ha-Levi held at court, especially since a close relationship with the monarch formed part of the symbolic apparatus of nobility. The inscription on the synagogue’s foundation stone mentions this close relationship between Samuel ha-Levi and the king: He found grace and favor in the eyes of the great eagle, great of wings, man of war and man of battle/his terror fell upon the people, his name is great among the nations, the great king, our lord and master, KING PEDRO.13 Finding grace in the eyes of the “great eagle” Pedro I strongly indicates that Samuel ha-Levi wielded power and held an important post in the ranks of the aristocracy. He publicly demonstrated this symbology of power on the façade and founding stone of his synagogue in order to be recognized and praised on the social and political scene of fourteenth-century Castile. The heraldic symbols that decorated the synagogue door included Samuel ha-Levi’s personal coat of arms. As the drawing by Palomares shows, there was a frieze above the lintel, decorated with four coats of arms holding a castle with three towers, two of which were crowned with a fleur-delys (Fig. 7.7). This coat of arms also appears in the synagogue’s interior. Despite being Jewish and unable legally to join the nobility, Samuel ha-Levi did not hesitate to use this symbol as a subtle demonstration that he was a man of influence, and at least on a figurative par with the established Castile nobility. While the El Tránsito Synagogue is a unique case in which architecture is used as a symbol of power by an important person—both for the Jewish community and the Christian elite of Toledo— the religious architecture of the Cordoba Synagogue, founded by the largely unknown Isaac Moheb,

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Figure 7.6 Monumental entrance to the Silva House, Toledo (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

is more modest. Its simple façade, dictated by its status as a place of worship for a religious minority, also helps to downplay its presence within the city of Cordoba by mimicking its environment. The Cordoba Synagogue epitomizes a type of architecture that must have been extremely common among Castilian Jews. Architecture represents a long-exploited symbol of power, prestige, and influence throughout the

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Figure 7.7  Detail of ornamentation showing the coat of arms of Samuel ha-Levi (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

world. Whether intended to establish social, religious, economic, or political power, the erection of a building is a tangible symbol of preeminence. Those in authority (or those who would like to be) seek to justify themselves to the community through architectural projects that incorporate ideological messages based on a glorious past, whether real or invented.14 An Analysis of the Ornament of Synagogues from the Perspective of Nasrid Art Profuse epigraphy is one of the distinguishing features of these two synagogues. Many researchers have analyzed the ornamental epigraphy in Muslim buildings in attempting to explain how it has been used to send a symbolic message. In many cases, the rationale for incorporating it is clear: ­epigraphy is intended to convey a message, as well as to guide those viewing it in their interpretation of the ornament and the space. This use of epigraphy has a long tradition in Islamic art, although its renderings are less complex in older examples compared to the symbolic interpretations found in the Alhambra. In the decorative language used in the synagogues of Cordoba and El Tránsito, Nasrid art has a strong presence, especially in the way that epigraphy is used. In the Alhambra, one example of a very complex symbolic program that illustrates this relationship between epigraphy and ornament is found in the Hall of Comares. The ceiling of the room is decorated with seven layers of stars, causing some to interpret it as a representation of heaven. Separating the ceiling from the walls is Surah 67, which refers to the seven heavens. Blessed be He in Whose hands is Dominion; and He over all things hath Power; He Who created Death and Life, that He may try which of you is best in deed; and He is the Exalted in Might, Oft-Forgiving; He who created the seven heavens one above another: no want of proportion wilt thou see in the Creation of (Allah) Most Gracious [ . . . ]. This surah adds new meaning to the way the ceiling can be interpreted. Specifically, it ceases to be a representation of a starry sky and instead becomes a representation of the seven superimposed heavens of Koranic literature (Fig. 7.8). This relationship between text and ornament is only a small part of the symbolic objectives of the Comares Throne Room. It is also the room in which the power of the king is translated into a cosmic sphere.15 If the key in Surah 67 is not deciphered, the symbolic reading of the other poetic texts in the room is lost.16 Many rooms in the Alhambra were decorated at the same time that the Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogues were built. Some researchers have even suggested that groups of Nasrid artisans must

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Figure 7.8  Ceiling of the Hall of Comares in the Alhambra (courtesy of Patronato de la Alhambra y el generalife)

also have labored in the Kingdom of Castile. This supposition is plausible since good diplomatic relations between King Pedro I and Mohammed V of Granada are known to have fostered artistic exchange, particularly noticeable in palaces from the period, such as the palace in Tordesillas (ca.  1340), which features purely Nasrid decorative motifs. Juan Carlos Ruíz Souza, who studied the decoration of this palace, has even suggested that some of the Nasrid artisans who worked on the Tordesillas palace also participated in decorating the El Tránsito Synagogue.17 The interior ornamentation in the El Tránsito Synagogue is largely concentrated in two areas, the upper part of the prayer room, in the ceiling and the frieze that runs around the perimeter of the room, and the heikhal (holy ark) in the direction of which the congregants pray (Fig. 7.9). The ornamentation on the eastern wall comprises three large rectangular decorative panels and a honeycomb cornice that tops the three panels and separates them from the frieze in the upper part of the room. The central panel has an opening in the lower part formed by three lobed arches. Above them is a sebka covered in carved rhombuses, rosettes, and pineapples. The side panels are decorated with plant motifs above two plaques bearing the coat of arms of Castile and Leon; it also holds six lines of Hebrew inscription that praise the beauty of the synagogue and its furnishings. The left plaque compares the synagogue design with the Tabernacle built by Bezalel: And its atriums for those attentive to the perfect Law/and its seated places for those who sit in His shadow/of such a type that those who see it must almost say: The design of this [temple] / is like the design of the work by Bezalel/Walk, nations, and enter through its doors/and look for God, since the house of God it is, like Bethel!18 According to the biblical narrative (Exodus 31:1–6), Bezalel was chosen by God and given the artistic skills to construct the Tabernacle. Thus, the use of the figure of Bezalel gives the building a special symbolism—similar to how Surah 67 functions in the Hall of Comares. Tractate Berakhot 55a from the Babylonian Talmud says that he was called Bezalel because of his wisdom, since his name means “in the shadow of God.” The passage continues with an argument about the meaning of his name and includes this paragraph: Rabbi Judah said in the name of Rav: Bezalel knew how to combine the letters by which heaven and earth were created. It is written here and He hath filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom

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Figure 7.9  Interior of the El Tránsito Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

and in understanding and in knowledge (Exodus 25:31) and it is written elsewhere: the Lord, by His wisdom, founded the earth; by understanding He established the heavens (Proverbs 3:19). And it is also written, by His knowledge the depths were broken up (Proverbs 3:20). A viewer-reader of the period, who would be familiar with the Holy Scriptures, would be able to perceive, understand, and interpret this relationship between the synagogue design, Bezalel, and the Creation of Heaven and Earth—and therefore understand why the ornamentation of the synagogue is divided into two levels (Fig. 7.10). The upper ceiling is decorated with stars, which could be interpreted as a conceptual representation of heaven, while the lower part is a frieze decorated with vegetal motifs, which could be interpreted as a schematic representation of the earth. Between the two levels, a sequence of lobed arches—a complete architectural scheme in miniature with arches, bases, columns and capitals—encircles the prayer room. Once again, the key to interpreting this element is one of the shield plaques in the heikhal (holy ark); specifically, the one on the right where the arches are compared to the “windows of Ariel,” Ariel being one of the names for the city of Jerusalem, a tradition that has its origins in Isaiah 29:1–4. Look upon the sanctuary consecrated in Israel/and the house built by Samuel/and the wooden tower for the Reading of the Law in its center/and its rolls and crowns dedicated to Him/and its plates and lamps for illumination/and its windows, like the windows of Ariel.19 By comparing the synagogue arches to those of Ariel, this architecture in miniature outlines the image of Jerusalem situated between heaven and earth, a Jerusalem that separates and unites the heaven and earth, thanks to the duality inherent in the existence of a celestial and an earthly Jerusalem (Fig. 7.10). This image of the city as the place nearest heaven and, symbolically, the highest place on earth, is reflected in the Hebrew term for the action of making a pilgrimage to Israel which uses the verb to rise or go up. Taken together, the frieze and the ceiling can be interpreted as a whole that shows in the upper portion a starry ceiling enclosing heaven, and in the lower region a frieze depicting a garden, with a representation of Jerusalem between the two. This is only one aspect of the synagogue’s symbolic program. The other texts that decorate this house of worship also contribute to creating the image of the separation between heaven and earth.20

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Figure 7.10  Ornamentation of the upper part of the prayerhall, El Tránsito Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

The symbols used in the synagogue also include another type of inscription found in the Alhambra in which the architecture, via the use of epigraphy, seems to speak with its own voice through the poetic genre of fakhr (boastfulness or vainglory).21 Of the eighteen poems inscribed on the walls of the Comares Palace and the Court of the Lions, a full eleven are written in the first person, either beginning with a clear “I” or with a verb in the first person.22 This deliberate design feature personifies this architecture, which at times even directly addresses viewers by “speaking” to them. One example is Verse 6 of the poem by Ibn Zamrak (1333–94) describing the Fountain of the Lions (Fig. 7.11), which reads as follows: “Don’t you see how water overflows the borders/and the warned drains are here against it? / They are like the lover who in vain/tries to hide his tears from his beloved.”23 A second illustration is the first verse of another poem written by Ibn Zamrak for the Hall of the Two Sisters: “I am the garden adorned with beauty/one glance suffices to reveal my rank.”24 These decorative strategies were also used in the Cordoba Synagogue, in which the key to interpreting its symbolism can be found in the verses that frame the door to the prayer-room, directly addressing the fortunate viewer. The inscription, a combination of Proverbs 8:34 and Isaiah 26:2, reads: “Blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors/ Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth the truth may enter in.” As in the Alhambra, the architecture in the Cordoba synagogue is personified and speaks directly to those viewing it to inform them that they are, indeed, standing before the gates of Jerusalem. From this stimulus, the viewer-reader understands that the line of inscription framing the balconies of the ladies’ gallery is intended to draw attention to the outline of the battlements of a fortified gate, while the ornamentation on the southern wall represents a gate to the city of Jerusalem (Fig. 7.12). The outsized synagogue door is justified in this case, not by any specific utilitarian function, but by the need to transmit this symbolic representation of a city gate. In short, the door is presented to the viewer as a monumental door, its disproportionality in relation to the size of the prayer room being symbolic.

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Figure 7.11  Fountain of the Lions, Alhambra (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

Figure 7.12  Representation of the gate of Jerusalem on the southern wall of the Cordoba Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

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The artistic resource of an epigraphic outlining of battlements would be familiar to a Jewish viewer. Micrography (i.e., images drawn using the words from a text) was quite common in some Eastern cultures. In Jewish culture, this art form was highly developed in the so-called ornamental masorah that decorate medieval religious manuscripts. Joseph Gutmann has discussed the relationship between the ornamental masorah in Hebrew manuscripts and Mudéjar stucco ornamentation in palaces, churches, and synagogues. In particular, he noted the aesthetic similarity between the lines of inscription that frame the decorative panels of these buildings and the masorah that frame some carpet pages.25 This relationship is unlikely to be causal since the use of epigraphy as a decorative element in synagogues has its origin in Islamic religious art. Nonetheless, the aesthetic appreciation and function are similar and connections can be established between the use of epigraphy in synagogues and ornamental masorah.26 While it seems clear from a historical perspective that Castilian Jews had few direct contacts with Muslim culture once they had established themselves in the Christian kingdoms, in my view this important relationship with Al-Andalus was perpetuated through decoration and the use of calligraphy in synagogues. Indeed, elements borrowed from fourteenth-century Andalusian art and culture evoked a glorious past that later came to be idealized and preserved by the Castilian Jews. The way in which these synagogues were decorated does not derive from the mere repetition of old models, but constitute a living and updated dialogue. This decorative language makes it possible to understand how this cultural legacy forms a primordial part of Castilian-Jewish identity. The Jewish desire to maintain this legacy shaped the design of the synagogues’ interiors, which remained relatively impervious to Christian models until the fifteenth century.27 Although artistic and decorative elements of the Nasrid dynasty are also to be found in Christian buildings, the deliberate incorporation of this style of ornament in synagogues goes beyond fashion and became part of the identity of the Jewish minority. When Arabized Jews arrived in Castile, they brought with them the language and the culture of Al-Andalus, and consciously retained Arabic cultural elements rather than adopting the dominant artistic style of their host Christian society. Islamic Cultural Elements in the Jewish Communities of Castile The Andalusian Jews borrowed many cultural elements from the Arabs who inhabited the Iberian Peninsula, and in turn contributed a great deal to the intellectual and artistic world of Al-Andalus. As noted, however, with arrival of the Almohads, conditions worsened for all religious minorities in the region, forcing many Jewish families to settle in Christian kingdoms, taking the Arab culture and language with them. Far from forgetting this culture, they kept it alive. During the next two centuries, the prevalence of an Arab cultural substrate was discernible in the Jewish communities of Castile. This legacy manifested itself in the use of Arabic in different contexts such as science and medicine,28 the preservation of the Arab literary traditions of Al-Andalus, the preference for the Hispano-Arab aesthetic as seen in the Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogues, and even in their ­retention of the customs and culture of Andalusian life rather than adopting the sober Castilian model.29 Two examples that reinforce this conscious effort among Castilian Jews to retain their Andalusian heritage can be found in the Arab epigraphic ornamentation found in the Cordoba Synagogue, in which Psalm 22:28 is written in Arabic on two honeycomb panels that decorate the alcove of the tevah (pulpit)30 (Fig. 7.13)—and in a Arabic inscription in the El Tránsito Synagogue, which includes the formula “happiness, well-being, glory, and honor” encircling the prayer room (Fig. 7.14). In my view, the deliberate inclusion of the Arabic language indicates the pride that transplanted Jewish communities took in displaying their Andalusian roots. Why did the Jews of Castile remain attached to this artistic tradition two centuries later? Why is the Andalusian legacy an important element of Castilian Jewish identity? All the Jews of the Spanish Diaspora believe themselves to be descendants of the Jews deported by Nebuchadnezzar and Titus. Moreover, they identify Spain with the only mention of the place name, Sefarad in the Bible in Obadiah 20. Thus, Spanish Jews considered themselves to be exiles from Jerusalem who had migrated to the Iberian Peninsula during Antiquity. This interpretation of Sefarad, which appears in the Targum, gave the Spanish Jews something that all diasporas require but only rarely can claim—a biblical foundation.31 The association was also meant to claim that the Jews of Spain were members of an exclusive cultural community distinguished from the rest of the Jewish world through its descent from an elite genealogy. As asserted by Jonathan Ray, this was a powerful image that permeated Sephardi rabbinic texts throughout the Middle Ages.32 Over time, nuances were added to this

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Figure 7.13  Arabic inscription on a honeycomb decoration panel, Cordoba Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

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Figure 7.14  Arabic inscription frieze around the prayer room of El Tránsito Synagogue (© Daniel Muñoz Garrido)

biblical tradition, creating an even more complex and sophisticated heritage. It appears in several literary works that establish the superiority of the Andalusian diaspora. One example can be found in the Kitab al-Muhadara wal-Mudakara written by Moses ibn Ezra (ca.1055—after 1135) who wrote on the subject: This is due to many things: the first is their origin in the tribes of Judah and Benjamin, of which the Bible says: “Then rose up the chief of the fathers of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests, and the Levites, with all them whose spirit God had raised” (Ezra 1:5) and also: “Now these are the children of the province that went up out of the captivity, of those which had been carried away, whom Nebuchadnezzar the king of Babylon had carried away unto Babylon, and came again unto Jerusalem and Judah, every one unto his city” (Ezra 2.1; Nehemiah 7:6). The categories described are the people of the “honorable dais” (the Temple), Jerusalem the holy city—constructed and rebuilt in haste—and its outskirts. Thus, these exiles left Babylonia while others went to Christian countries and to Al-Andalus as it says in the Bible: “And the captivity of this host of the children of Israel shall possess that of the Canaanites, even unto Zarephath; and the captivity of Jerusalem, which is in Sepharad, shall possess the cities of the south” (Obadiah 1:20). The nation moved either to Zarephath, “France”, or to Sepharad, “Al-Andalus” in the language of the Arabs, named for the family of a man named Andalisan in the era of the ancient King Izdihaq. [ . . . ]. There is no doubt that the people of Jerusalem, to which the Diaspora belongs, were the most knowledgeable about the correctness of language and the transmission of the divine Law with respect to the other peoples and towns.33 For Ibn Ezra, the Andalusian Diaspora was superior to the other Jewish diasporas—firstly because its members had been deported by Nebuchadnezzar, and secondly, because they were descendants of the tribes of Judah and Benjamin and the priests and Levites of the Temple. Another example of this genealogical tradition is found in the twelfth-century chronicle Sefer ha-Qabbalah (Book of Tradition) of Abraham Ibn Daud (1110–80), a resident of Christian Toledo, in which he explains the origins of Yehuda ha-Nasi Ibn Ezra:

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His ancestors were one of the main families of Granada, inheritors of authority and positions in each generation in the kingdom of Badis ben Jabus, the Berber king, and Jabus, his father. According to a tradition among the community of Granada, they had been citizens of Jerusalem, the Holy City, and descendants of Judah and Benjamin, and not from demilitarized cities or towns. But R. Yehuda ha-Nasi and his father and uncles were four officials: R. Yitzhaq, the eldest, the second R. Moshe, the third R. Yehuda and the fourth R. Yosef, all of royal lineage and the nobility.34 Abraham Ibn Daud also looked to Jerusalem to establish his lineage, but unlike Moshe Ibn Ezra, he did not limit himself to geography. Rather, he established a genealogical line with the royalty and nobility of ancient Israel. This tradition provides a symbolic explanation for the Castilian Jewish upholding of the Andalusian cultural legacy even as late as the fourteenth century. The use of an aesthetic from Nasrid art to decorate the synagogues demonstrated and affirmed their Andalusian origins. In this way, the Castilian Jews linked themselves to a long and prestigious history that tied them to origins in Jerusalem, continued in Al-Andalus and, later, Castile. Their predilection for Andalusianinspired synagogue ornamentation, not based merely on a repetition of models from past eras, can also be seen in the decorations of biblical manuscripts. These artistic preferences provide evidence that they expressed the cultural identity of the Castilian Jews, not merely nostalgia for a JudeoIslamic past.35 After the 1492 Expulsion, Sephardi Jews—and in particular some members of the cultural elite— continued to maintain certain traditions that reinforced their quasi-aristocratic lineage. These traditions persevered and became enshrined in later literary works such as The Rod of Judah, in which Salomon Ibn Verga (ca. 1460–1554) highlighted the Sevillian origins of the Abrabanel family to demonstrate that they were descended from the royal house of Judah.36 Another example is Omer ha-Shikheha (The Forgotten Sheaf), a commentary on the Book of Proverbs in which the Gavison family, which had settled in Algeria, trace their family genealogy across generations to establish the family’s origins in the cities of Seville and Granada.37 Clearly then, Islamic cultural elements had an enormous and enduring influence. Conclusion The exterior appearance of Castilian synagogues is characterized by a simplicity that was intended to mimic its urban setting, a prime example being the Synagogue of Cordoba. In contrast, the architecture of other synagogues violated this general characteristic by instead pursing a symbolic function, an indication that the founder was a man of power and prestige, at least within the confines of Jewish society in largely Christian Castile. That is the likely origin of the El Tránsito Synagogue. Both buildings, however, feature strikingly rich interiors decorated in the Nasrid style. Also important to note is that despite the fact that stucco panels reveal Christian decorative features including coats of arms and Gothic-inspired vegetation, Castilian synagogues did not fully adopt the architectural style of Christian buildings, that was typical in other parts of Europe. As in other Islamic buildings of its time, the ornament and epigraphy that cover the walls of the Cordoba and El Tránsito synagogues go beyond ornamentation to send a message requiring the assistance and complicity of the person viewing and reading them. The walls of both synagogues are decorated with a symbolism expressed through the relationships and images that the epigraphy and ornament evoke in the mind of viewers. The symbolism of the interrelated ornamentation and epigraphy in the Cordoba Synagogue is based on a visionary interpretation of the “future” City of Jerusalem. The viewer witnesses a colossal image of the gates to Jerusalem—a “future” Jerusalem suggested by the builders and decorators, and hoped for/awaited by the faithful. The El Tránsito Synagogue, on the other hand, features a scene inspired by Genesis involving the separation of heaven and earth. In both synagogues, the epigraphic ornamentation was meant to inspire and guide Jewish viewers to read the architecture and its ornamentation as the Muslim kings and courtiers did in the rooms of the Alhambra Palace in Granada. The type of ornament in these synagogues and the existence of sophisticated and complex symbolic discourses, modeled after those found in the Alhambra, present a lively artistic dialogue between the Jews and the Andalusian culture whose last stronghold was Granada. The fact that the ornamentation in fourteenth-century Castilian synagogues was inspired by contemporary Andalusian artistic

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traditions (i.e., Nasrid art)—yet clearly not a mere repetition of those earlier models—confirming a predilection and affinity for Arab culture that contributed to the collective identity of the Castilian Jews. The synagogue design and ornament, in addition to cultural reference points and literary traditions, was intended to reaffirm the legendary origins of these communities by connecting them to the exiles described in Obadiah 20, and the most noble and illustrious inhabitants of Jerusalem in al-Andalus. The cultural and social life of these two synagogues continued to evolve; in the nineteenth century both were transformed into monuments. The Cordoba Synagogue is, together with the great mosque-cathedral, the most appreciated and visited monument in the city; and the El Tránsito Synagogue currently houses the Museo Sefardí, the most important national institution celebrating the history of Spanish Jewry. Due to the fact that the inscriptions that decorate the synagogues are in Hebrew, the ornamentation of both synagogues is unlikely to transport the viewer to faraway places like Jerusalem. Instead, contemporary visitors will see before them in ornamentation and epigraphy of a Spanish past distinguished by religious diversity. Notes 1. Jane S. Gerber, “The World of Samuel Halevi: Testimony from the El Tránsito Synagogue of Toledo,” in The Jew in Medieval Iberia, 1100–1500, ed. Jonathan Ray (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2012), 36. 2. The Dome of the Rock is the oldest Muslim building containing monumental epigraphy having an ornamental and symbolic meaning. Oleg Grabar has studied the mosaics that decorate the inside of the sanctuary, interpreting their epigraphy and decorative motifs. The purpose of the decoration and symbolism was to send a message in the combination of the Koranic epigraphy (which shows Christ as a prophet who preceded Mohammed) and ornament (representing the conquests and expansion of Islam) the revelation given to Mohammed being the final and true one. Oleg Grabar, The Dome of the Rock (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 113–119. 3. The inscriptions on the outer doors of the Cordoba Mosque have been studied by Susana Calvo Capilla. Although they are incomplete, she was able to put forward a new hypothesis regarding the intentionality and meaning of the Koranic texts found on the mosque walls. These texts were specifically selected and, in some cases, consist of non-consecutive ayahs from the same surah, indicating strong intentionality in the choice and composition of the epigraphy. Her study reveals that the mosque doors display a coherent epigraphic program, with connections to the religious, social, and political elements of the period, such as divine justice, the equity and mercy of God, the final judgment, and faith as a means of salvation. Other inscriptions relate to the religious controversy that shook Cordoba in the tenth century during the revolt of ʿ Umar ibn Hafsun, a Muslim who converted to Christianity. Inscriptions reject and refute Christianity under the maxim of “God has not begotten,” and implicitly condemn apostasy. See Susana Calvo Capilla, “Justicia, Misericordia y Cristianismo: Una relectura de las inscripciones coránicas de la Mezquita de Córdoba en el siglo X,” Al-Qantara 31 (2010): 149–187. 4. Darío Cabanelas Rodríguez, El techo del Salón de Comares en la Alhambra. Decoración, policromía, simbolismo y etimología (Granada: Patronato de la Alhambra y el Generalife, 1988). 5. José Miguel Puerta Vílchez, Los códigos de utopía de la Alhambra de Granada (Granada: Diputación Provincial de Granada, 1990). 6. D. Fairchild Ruggles, “The Eye of Sovereignty: Poetry and Vision in the Alhambra’s Lindaraja Mirador,” Gesta 36, no. 2 (1997): 180–189. 7. Katrin Kogman-Appel, “La iluminación de libros hebreos en la Iberia bajomedieval,” in Biblias de Sefarad, ed. Esperanza Alfonso et al. (Madrid: Biblioteca Nacional de España, 2012), 88. 8. Jane S. Gerber, “The World of Samuel Halevi: Testimony from the El Tránsito Synagogue of Toledo,” in Ray, The Jew in Medieval Iberia, 1100–1500, 42. 9. Juan Carlos Ruíz Souza, “Sinagogas sefardíes monumentales en el contexto de la arquitectura medieval hispana,” in Memoria de Sefarad, ed. Isidro Bango Torviso (Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Acción Cultural Exterior, 2002), 225. 10. Francisco Javier de Santiago Palomares (Toledo, 1728–93). Calligrapher, palaeographer, reproducer of twelfth- to sixteenth-century codices, and draftsman. Among other works, in 1752 he produced some drawings and maps for the El Tránsito Synagogue, and in 1762 he worked on the Catálogo de los manuscritos antiguos, griegos, hebreos, latinos y castellanos for the Escorial Library. Emilio Cotarelo y Mori, Diccionario biográfico y bibliográfico de calígrafos españoles (Madrid: Visor libros, 2004). 11. This work, written in Latin by the Valencia native Francisco Pérez Bayer, is the first monograph on the subject of the El Tránsito Synagogue. There are two extant manuscripts, one in the Spanish National Library and the other in the Toledo Public Library. Santiago Palomero Plaza, Historia de la Sinagoga de Samuel Ha Leví y del Museo Sefardí de Toledo (Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, Secretaría General Técnica, 2007), 85. 12. Juan Ramón Palencia Herrejón, “Elementos simbólicos de poder de la nobleza urbana en Castilla: Los Ayala de Toledo al final del Medioevo,” En la España Medieval 18 (1995): 163–179. 13. Francisco Cantera Burgos, Sinagogas Españolas (Madrid: CSIC, 1984), 112–113.

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14. José Miguel Puerta Vilchez, Los códigos de utopía de la Alhambra de Granada (Granada: Diputación Provincial de Granada, 1990), 80–81. 15. Darío Cabanelas Rodríguez, El techo del Salón de Comares en la Alhambra. Decoración, policromía, simbolismo y etimología (Granada: Patronato de la Alhambra y el Generalife, 1988), 81–90. 16. Puerta Vílchez, Los códigos de utopía, 166–177. 17. Ruíz Souza, Sinagogas sefardíes monumentales, 237. 18. Cantera Burgos, Sinagogas Españolas, 98. 19. Ibid. 20. Daniel Muñoz Garrido, “La creación del mundo en el arte medieval: La Sinagoga del Tránsito,” Ilu. Revista de Ciencias de las Religiones 15 (2010): 138–145. 21. José Miguel Puerta Vílchez, “Speaking Architecture: Poetry and Aesthetics in the Alhambra Palace,” in Calligraphy and Architecture in the Muslim World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour et al. (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013), 34. 22. Puerta Vílchez, Los códigos de utopía, 147. 23. Ibn Zamrak, verse 6 of the poem inscribed on the Fountain of the Lions. José Miguel Puerta Vílchez, Leer la Alhambra: Guía visual del Monumento a través de sus inscripciones (Granada: Patronato de la Alhambra; Edilux, 2010), 169. 24. Ibn Zamrak, first verse from the poem in the Hall of the Two Sisters (Puerta Vílchez, Los códigos de utopía, 213–215. 25. Joseph Gutmann, “Masorah Figurata: the Origins and Development of a Jewish Art Form,” in Estudios Masoréticos (V Congreso de la IOMS), ed. Emilia Fernández Tejero (Madrid: CSIC, 1983), 54. 26. Significantly, the text that outlines the battlements and the gate provides details about the image that it is drawing. It explains that this is not merely a representation of the city, but that the gate pertains to a heavenly and future Jerusalem. The text in the line that frames the balconies of the women’s gallery and the gate battlements is taken from Psalms 122:6–9, Psalms 27:1, Psalms 102:13, and Psalms 57:1–2. The epigraphy clearly associates the strength of God with concepts related to defense and refuge—qualities that, in turn, are associated with the concept of the fortified city: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalms 27:1) and “Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.” (Psalms 57:1). Francisco Cantera Burgos is credited with the original identification of this epigraphic text; I have incorporated some modifications, after undertaking a study of some fragments of the epigraphic ornament in the Cordoba Archaeological Museum. 27. The remains of fifteenth-century synagogues display an architectural and artistic Gothic language. In my opinion, this can be interpreted as a move toward architectural assimilation by Jewish communities themselves, in order to avoid being viewed as the “other” after the anti-Jewish attacks of 1391. The Valladolid Taqqanot (ordinances) of 1432 contain sumptuary laws concerning Jewish dress designed not to arouse envy among Christians. See Fontes iudaeorum Regni Castellae, V. De iure hispano-hebraico, las taqqanot de Valladolid de 1432. Un estatuto comunal renovador, ed. Yolanda Moreno Koch (Salamanca: Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca, Universidad de Granada, 1987), 92–97. 28. Luis García Ballester, La búsqueda de la salud. Sanadores y enfermos en la España medieval (Barcelona: Península, 2001), 447–449. 29. Ángel Sáenz-Badillos, “La sociedad de Toledo en el siglo XIII vista por los poetas judíos,” in La sociedad medieval a través de la literatura hispanojudía, ed. Ricardo Izquierdo Benito et al. (Cuenca: Universidad de Castilla la Mancha, 1998), 207. 30. Cantera Burgos, Sinagogas Españolas, 29. 31. José Ramón Ayaso Martínez, “Antigüedad y excelencia de la diáspora judía en la Península Ibérica,” Miscelánea de Estudios Árabes y Hebreos, sección hebreo 49 (2000): 238–239. 32. Jonathan Ray, “Images of the Jewish Community in Medieval Iberia,” Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies 1, no. 2 (2009): 196. 33. Moses Ibn Ezra, Kitab al-muhadara wal-mudakara, trans. from Arabic into Spanish by Monserrat Abumalhan Mas (Madrid: CSIC, 1986), 59–60. 34. Abraham Ibn Daud, Sefer ha-Qabbalah (Libro de la tradición), trans. from Hebrew into Spanish by Lola Ferre Cano (Barcelona: Riopiedras, 1990), 105. 35. Kogman-Appel, La iluminación de libros hebreos, 122. 36. Salomón Ibn Verga, Sefer Šebet Yehudah (La vara de Yehudah), trans. from Hebrew into Spanish by María José Cano Pérez (Barcelona: Riopiedras, 1991), 48–49. 37. Esperanza Alfonso Carro, “From Al-Andalus to North Africa: The Lineage and Scholarly Genealogy of a Jewish Family,” in Ray, The Jew in Medieval Iberia, 395–419.

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Chapter Eight

The Ottoman Jews of Nineteenth-century Istanbul and the Socio-cultural Foundations of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue Meltem Özkan Altınöz The phrase “What it means to be Jewish” appeared on the cover of Time Magazine on April 10, 1972, accompanied by photographs of sixteen people chosen to represent the diversity and geographical spread of the Jewish identity.1 These sixteen individuals are varied in color, age, and manner of dress—yet they all seemingly share the same faith. Their portraits vividly reflect how distinct living environments and different cultural-geographic origins have left their mark on the Jewish identity over time, as well as allude to the cosmopolitan cultural structure of being Jewish (Fig. 8.1). We know that, from the earliest times, the Jews were impacted by a succession of enforced exoduses, particularly the expulsion policies in Europe that led to the emergence of a distinct cultural entity, that of Ashkenazi Jewry in Eastern Europe. The term “Ashkenazi” refers to a heterogeneous religious grammar of Jewish beliefs that was mainly centered in Poland and used the Yiddish language. Periodically, the Ashkenazim found themselves forced to flee their homes, with many given refuge in the Ottoman Empire. From its thirteenth-century beginnings, the Ottoman Empire contained several notable Jewish settlements. Although permitted to practice their religion openly, these Jews were subjected to various restrictions on the construction of their synagogues. As a mostly pragmatic Islamic dynasty, the Ottomans were content to levy additional taxes on their Jewish subjects, along with those imposed on other non-Muslim populations living within the Ottoman Empire2. The overall success of this arrangement was reflected in the fact that territory under Ottoman-Turkish rule soon became a favored destination for Jewish settlement, composed of culturally distinct sects of Romaniots (Greek Jews), Sephardim, Ashkenazim, and certain other Jewish minorities. Inevitably, the religious practices of these groups differed, with the unwanted result that social divisions and class stratification were nourished. Nevertheless, the fragmented nature of these communities within Ottoman Jewry provided opportunities for leaders such as Rabbi Dr. David Marcus to unite many of them during the closing decades of the Ottoman Empire. This chapter seeks to describe how the cultural diversity of this influential minority and the orientalism of the era were reflected in their built environment. The first part of this chapter describes the emergence of Ottoman Ashkenazi Jewry and addresses the multiplicity in the architectural designs of their synagogues. Ashkenazi congregations came from different social and economic backgrounds, something clearly reflected in the surviving example of an Ottoman-era synagogue—the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue on the Galata Peninsula in Istanbul, founded by the wealthiest members of the Ashkenazi community. This chapter then examines the range of synagogue styles that can be found in close proximity to the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue. Also included here is a review of Islamic Iberian, Mudéjar and pan-­Andalusian terminology, with the intention of clarifying the stylistic preferences in evidence in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue. The chapter will then detail the oriental style of this notable synagogue within a framework of both nineteenth-century Ottoman and world architecture. Sources for the oriental inspiration and architectural style of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, with its distinctive horseshoe arches, will be evaluated within the context of the preferences for westernization of the period. In summary, this contribution is designed to address three important questions: Can the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue be accepted as a concrete example of the growing harmony between the Ashkenazi and Sephardi Jewish cultures, one that formerly had been absent? Can this building be viewed as a symbol of the modernization of the Ashkenazi community, in a style of synagogue architecture that later merged with the Pan-Andalusian style (the Iberian source of orientalism)? Finally, does the emergence of the orientalism evidenced in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue have more to do with the Ottoman Empire’s attempts at westernization?

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Figure 8.1  Cover of Time Magazine, April 10, 1972 (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

Emergence of the Ashkenazi Congregation in the Ottoman Empire Ashkenazi culture evolved from Western European Jewry, which was subjected to forced migrations from England and France in the late thirteenth century and in Germany, in the late fifteenth century. This series of expulsions swelled Jewish congregations in Poland, Russia, and Lithuania—areas that

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soon became the hub of a new cosmopolitan Jewish structure,3 and contributed to the formation of the Ashkenazi culture. Over time, Ashkenazi Jews came to represent a major religious network throughout Eastern Europe. The dominant culture of this group was Germanic; indeed, most spoke the Yiddish language, a dialect of German,4 which contains words of German, Hebrew, Aramaic, Roman, and Slavic origin. While Yiddish was used in everyday life, Hebrew continued to be used for religious purposes. The Yeshiva, an academic institution developed in Germany, was a system later adopted by other Jews who settled mainly in Poland. The number of Polish Jews eventually reached about 800,000, but being a compact and close-knit society, this group had limited relations with the rest of the Europe. In 1648, the Ashkenazi population of Poland and the Ukraine fell victim to genocide resulting from the collaboration of the Greek Orthodox leader, Bogdan Chmielnicki, and the Crimean Tatars in their rebellion against the Poles. It is estimated that 100,000 Ashkenazi Jews lost their lives. Subsequently, Crimean merchants forced the survivors into a life of slavery, some of whom were rescued by Italian, Fez, and Ottoman Jewish congregations. The experience of the surviving Ashkenazi community was reflected in the adoption of new religious constructs such as Cabbalism and others that ascribed mystical properties to certain rabbis. As a result, Ashkenazi Jewry mainly evolved in a conservative manner with strict religious rules governing everyday life.5 Ashkenazi Jewry was further fragmented when Poland was partitioned between the Russians and Prussians under the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the late eighteenth century. The majority of the Ashkenazi population was subsumed by Russia, which did not embrace it with open arms. As evidence, the word pogrom is of Russian derivation (literally meaning “to destroy or devastate”) and appeared for the first time in the nineteenth century. In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth centuries, a series of devastating pogroms in Russia forced whole Ashkenazi communities to seek shelter elsewhere—including the Ottoman territories6. It must be noted, however, that Jewish congregations had already migrated to Ottoman territories from different parts of Europe; for example, the Romaniots had roots in the area dating back to Byzantine times. The Ottomans implemented special settlement policies for the Jewish immigrants—notably seeking to accommodate them in strategic urban locations with a view toward accelerating trade and growing the economy. This approach was not new to the Ottomans; indeed, it had long been practiced by rulers in Europe who recognized the potential of using the creativity and abilities of local Jews to their economic advantage. Although the gains from accommodating Jews were positive financially, Europe’s rulers subsequently abandoned this policy7. In contrast, the Ottoman rulers paid special attention to developing good relations with the religious leaders of the Jewish community, who, in turn, conveyed this spirit of acceptance to their coreligionists near and far. For example, the Ashkenazi Rabbi Isaac Tzarfati’s letter to Ashkenazi communities promoted the peacefulness of the Ottoman Empire and recommended it as a good place for any Jewish family to live and practice the religion8. In fact, the relationship between the Jews and the Ottoman sultan was so good that in the case of the Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, it was commemorated in a Jewish poem in which the sultan appears as a master of Judaism. Shmuel Ha-Levi, a publisher, wrote, “In Istanbul, the fine city, the city of a great king, a faithful shepherd, our master the Sultan Suleiman, may his splendor be exalted, and his honor grow, and in his times and ours Judea and Israel be redeemed, and may the redeemer come to Zion.”9 In 1566, a few months prior to the death of Suleiman at the battle of Transylvania, prominent members of the Jewish community extended their good wishes for his success and safety: “May the Lord bring him back here in peace without obstacles, and may the Lord cause all his enemies to be defeated by him.”10 Along with other non-Muslim communities, the Jews were subjected to special taxes, though this does not seem to have deterred the growth of their communities in the Ottoman Empire. Jews were under extreme cultural pressure in many areas of Europe, which resulted in their persecution, being forced into slavery, or expelled. Consequently, it is not surprising= that they viewed the Ottoman Empire so favorably—even with the imposition of such taxes. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, more Jews lived in the Ottoman Empire than in any other part of the world. The Crimean War (1853–6) between the Ottoman Empire and Russia resulted in a further influx of Jews into Ottoman territories. The Ottoman state also became the final destination for Ashkenazi Jews escaping from the terrible pogroms in Russia and surrounding areas. As Jewish cultural historian Avigdor Levy stresses, the world’s largest and most vibrant Jewish communities—of various origins— lived within the Ottoman Empire during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The diversity of this community was expressed in their built environment. The Ashkenazi Jews of Austro-Hungarian origin who settled in Istanbul were particularly successful thanks to their economic activities,11 that resulted in the construction of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue. Others within the same

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community were less fortunate, however, particularly those women who had lost their husbands during the war and were not permitted to remarry. Despite the fact that some of these widows were forced into a life of prostitution, these disenfranchised women still managed to build their own synagogue12 within walking distance of the preeminent Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue. Another example of synagogue architecture is the Tofre Begadim synagogue in Galata, a suburb of Istanbul, which had been created by tailors.13 The distinctive architecture of the buildings not only developed as a result of social stratification, but also reflects a divergence of ethnic origin. The multiethnic structure of Ottoman Jewry led to cultural barriers forming between the various communities—but particularly between the Sephardim and Ashkenazim. The Romaniots regarded themselves as natives who had lived in the region since the age of the Byzantine Empire14; they viewed the Sephardi community as deportees who were forced from the Iberian Peninsula. Conversely, the Sephardim considered themselves to be the elite subjects of the Ottoman Empire, thanks to their rich Andalusian past that had flourished in the Iberian Peninsula. The Ashkenazi Jews maintained strained relations with Sephardim, mainly because they found them to be too liberal in terms of certain religious practices. Nonetheless, the Sephardim gradually became a sort of donor culture for the other Jewish congregants in the Ottoman Empire. Furthermore, the fragmentation of the Ashkenazi congregation into separate social classes deepened the perceived differences between the groups. The Ashkenazim included Jews of Austro-Hungarian origin, whose trade-related wealth enabled them to secure increased privileges over the other Jewish groups. They had excellent relations with the Austrian Embassy and were able to take advantage of tax-free trading opportunities, particularly towards the end of the Ottoman Empire. This wealthier group of Ashkenazim also became a modernizing force within their community. Yet even though they adopted a more Western style of dress, they continued to maintain a conservative social distance from other Jews and the general public.15 The social, class, and regional differences among Ashkenazi congregations accelerated the regression of Jewish culture in the Ottoman setting. Their generally conservative attitudes challenged modernization and led to their social estrangement from regional technological and cultural developments. Later, this cultural intractability was challenged from within the Ashkenazi community by a group of reformers who established the Alliance Israélite Universelle in Paris, France, that later extended its influence over a much wider region. The aim of the Alliance was to integrate Mediterranean and Eastern Jewry and to create a modern Middle Eastern European Jewry.16 The Alliance was influenced in part by the French Enlightenment (the Siècle des Lumières), a philosophical movement that dominated Europe in the eighteenth century. Within a few years, the schools associated with the Alliance Israélite Universelle began to improve the cultural standing of Ashkenazi Jewry in the Ottoman Empire. For instance, these schools reached out to and educated Sephardi congregations, and in so doing reduced the perceived tensions between these communities. Despite their progressive position, Alliance schools were strongly opposed to Zionist ideas and also accepted Muslim and Christian students.17 The Alliance approach was soon challenged, however, by the establishment of the Goldsmith School, which had good relations with Zionists seeking to reduce the cultural dominance of France among Ashkenazi Jewry. The Goldsmith School, which sent Dr. David Marcus (1870–1944) to Istanbul to administer it, adopted the German educational system. Upon arrival, Marcus found a deeply divided Ashkenazi congregation and turned his attention to uniting the community. In particular, his establishment of a special Jewish high school, the Bnei Brith school, in association with Chief Rabbi Haim Nahum, accelerated the modernization of the social structure of Ashkenazi Jewry.18 In its closing decades, the Ottoman Empire became a new hub of Jewish identity and a bridge to Palestine, which at the time was controlled by the Ottoman Empire. Influential German Zionists also sought to extend their culture eastward and sponsored the migration of Ashkenazi Jews to Palestine in the nineteenth century. Their aims were supported by the German Empire, which sought to reduce its own Jewish population and extend Germanic culture through the East via German Jewry. Apart from these international ventures, the relationship between the Ottoman Empire and its Jewish subjects was an equivocal one. While the Ottoman Empire profited from the taxes levied on its Jewish population, which supported its efforts toward Westernization, the Jews were for the most part left to practice their religion without burdensome restrictions. Indeed, relations between Turkey’s Jewish subjects and the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul remained strong; consider, for example, that special hymns that were sung in synagogues for the protection of Ottoman soldiers during wars in the nineteenth century. Synagogues also collected donations from their congregations to support the war effort and kept records of Jewish volunteers in the Ottoman army.19

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Table 8.1  Information chart of Ashkenazi Synagogues in Galata, Istanbul (© Meltem Özkan AltınÖz) Building

Date

Location

Style

Owner

Condition

Tofre Begadim (Schneidertemple-Edirneli Synagogue) Or Hode∞-New Light

1894

Felek Street/ Galata

Neo-Greek/ eclectic

Ashkenazi congregation

Exist/ Transformed into art gallery

1895

Neo-Gothic

1904

Ashkenazi congregation Ashkenazi congregation

Exist/ ruined

Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue

Zürafa Street/ Galata Yüksek Kaldırım Street

Oriental/ Neo-Islamic Iberian

Exist/ in use

The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue Before making a detailed examination of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, it is interesting to mention several surviving Ashkenazi synagogues that illustrate the social and cultural standing of Jewish communities in the final decades of the empire (Table 8.1). Constructed in 1894, the Tofre Begadim Synagogue was used by various Sephardi Jews originating from the city of Edirne, in the westernmost province of the Ottoman Empire (Fig. 8.2). Consequently, this synagogue was renamed the Edirneli Synagogue. The Or Hode∞-New Light Synagogue (1895) was built in Zürafa Street in Istanbul; its existence is linked to widows who escaped from the pogroms but were not permitted to remarry. Despite the fact that many of these women were forced into prostitution as a result of their poverty, they were still able to finance the building of this synagogue—in addition to a rest home for the elderly attached to the synagogue (Fig. 8.3).20 The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue/Oesterreichischer Tempel was constructed in 1904 on Yüksek Kaldırım street in Galata by Jews from Russia and Eastern Europe. Prior to that date, as far back as 1831, the community held services in a house located on Hendek Street. This timber building eventually fell victim to the frequent fires that plagued Istanbul in 1866. Over time, plans emerged for the construction of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, which came to ­represent Figure 8.2  The Tofre Begadim Synagogue, exterior view, Istanbul (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

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Figure 8.3 Religious composition of Galata, nineteenth century (modified by the author, after Eldem, Galata’nın Etnik Yapısı, 59)

M

Muslim Living Areas

Jewish Living Areas Lan and Frank Living Areas

M

Greek and Armenian Living Areas

M

M

M

M

M

M

M

M

M M

L M

M

L

A G G

M G

G

L M

MM

M

M

M G A L

M M M M

Mosque Greek church Armenian church Lan church

L

Figure 8.4  The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, exterior view with horseshoe arch (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

the high social standing of these wealthier Ashkenazi Jews. Given that the project’s key donors were affluent Austrian Jews, a sizable budget of 60,000 gold francs was assigned to the construction of the synagogue, which was completed in memory of the 50-year rule of Emperor Franz Joseph I. Thus, the building not only commemorated the social distinction of Ashkenazi Jews in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but also testified to the social and political importance of their community in Istanbul. Designed by Italian architect G. J. Cornaro, it resembles an Ottoman summer pavilion or kasır in appearance (Figs. 8.4–8.8). The central feature of the synagogue is the Torah ark in which the Torah scrolls are stored; the design of the ark is credited to Master Fogelstein 21. Ashkenazi leaders made special plans for the opening ceremony of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, which was deliberately completed before the High Holidays, the Festivals

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Figure 8.5  The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, interior view (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

Figure 8.6  The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, interior view (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

of the New Year and the Day of Atonement. Important political and religious figures were invited to the opening ceremony, including the Austro-Hungarian ambassador, Baron de Kalaci, and the Ottoman Chief Rabbi, Mo∞e Ha-Levi. Other dignitaries were also present to celebrate Jewish life in the Ottoman Empire. The Torah scrolls were put in their place under the supervision of the Chief

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Figure 8.7  Dome of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

Figure 8.8  The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, Azara – ladies’ gallery (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

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Rabbi, and Cantor Vladovski sang hymns and lit the perpetual oil lamp (ner tamid).22 This new house of worship soon became one of the most important synagogues in the Ottoman Empire, its monumental structure proclaiming the social and cultural standing of the wealthy Ashkenazi Jewry. The Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue also includes an interesting detail in the façade, namely, its horseshoe arches, which have been (incorrectly) associated with al-Andalus and the culture of Sephardi Jews. In fact, the use of the arch has no specific relation to the Sephardi community, but instead emulates the prevailing taste of late nineteenth–century Istanbul for Andalusian architecture. Indeed, while this shape of arch is not found in other Jewish buildings in the Ottoman Empire, it can be seen in certain contemporary mosques, turbes (tombs), and civic structures, representing a similar orientalist taste. It must be noted, however, that while such architectural features have been described as Ottoman architecture, they were, in fact, largely absent in classical Ottoman architecture. This stylistic dilemma arose during a period when there was a significant movement to westernize the Ottoman Empire, as discussed in the next section. Nevertheless, the architectural design of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue is reminiscent of the stylistic influences of al-Andalus. This distinctive and evocative style began life on the Iberian Peninsula and featured pre-Islamic forms, such as Roman and Visigoth architecture, along with the culture of the Middle Eastern, Mediterranean, and North African regions. The roots of al-Andalus date back to the ninth century ce and the Islamic presence on the Iberian Peninsula, and it continued to influence later Christian and Jewish culture, especially the emergence of the Mudéjar style that continued in use on the Iberian peninsula between the eleventh and seventeenth centuries.23 After the re-conquest of Spain by the Christian kings, Christian and Jewish communities continued the use of Islamic forms, which suggests that their ubiquitous presence had become a shared cultural phenomenon. The architectural importance of the Mudéjar style can be seen in the manner in which its forms were incorporated into Toledo’s Santa María La Blanca and El Tránsito synagogues, in which horseshoe arches, elaborately decorated ceilings, and even calligraphy reveal an Islamic influence. These places of worship in Spain were commissioned as synagogues in the Mudéjar style,24 heavily influenced by Islamic esthetics and later converted into churches after 1492 following the expulsion of Jews from Iberia by Ferdinand and Isabella (Figs. 8, 9, 10). Iberia’s noteworthy Islamic past and Mudéjar influence then went on to impact the nineteenth-century oriental “epidemic,” which subsequently spread the pan-Andalusian style throughout Europe. Figure 8.9  Santa María La Blanca, a former synagogue, Toledo, Spain (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

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Figure 8.10  El Tránsito Synagogue, Toledo (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

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In this way, orientalism and aspects of Islamic Iberia were brought to the shores of the Ottoman Empire—effectively as a by-product of the wave of westernization. For many years, however, this foreign orientalism, imported from the West, was simply subsumed into the general designation of nineteenth-century Ottoman architecture. Istanbul’s Galata Peninsula Synagogues From the late fourteenth century when Jews began arriving in Istanbul after their expulsion from Spain, the Galata Peninsula served as a favorite destination. Much later, in the nineteenth century, when Westernization brought new opportunities to the non-Muslim populations of the Ottoman Empire, Jewish groups benefited from these sociopolitical changes. As a result, their presence in the Galata district of Istanbul increased, as did their economic investment in the area. The architectural manifestations of Jewish culture on the peninsula can be seen primarily in its remaining synagogues that, as discussed, serve as a testament to the cultural and economic importance of Jews in the Ottoman Empire.25 As a rule, each separate Jewish community (Italian, Ashkenazi, and Sephardi, and so on) worshiped in their own synagogues. The wealthier among them—mainly in the Ashkenazi community—built several synagogues that reinforced their social and economic importance both in the community and throughout the broader Ottoman Empire. While some of these synagogues have been lost to the ravages of time, abandonment, and neglect, several surviving synagogues are still in use; more importantly, they preserve the memory of lateperiod Ottoman Jewry. Similar to the “architectural repurposing” of synagogues in other regions of the world (for example, those in Herat, Afghanistan, as detailed in this volume), a number of Galata’s synagogues have been repurposed in innovative ways. The Tofre Begadim Synagogue, for example, is now a popular art gallery in Istanbul, while the Zulfaris Synagogue—in close proximity to the Tofre Begadim and Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi synagogues—has a new life as The Quincentennial Foundation Jewish Museum of Turkey. Whether converted or not, Istanbul’s surviving synagogues share the fact that they were mostly constructed or renovated in the nineteenth century. The reformist political agenda of the Ottoman Empire at this period enabled the construction of these non-Muslim religious buildings that, prior to that time, were officially restricted in Ottoman lands. Funded by community donations or wealthy Jewish patrons, these synagogues were eye-catching monuments featuring the distinctive stylises of the period. Typically, wealthier Jewish groups who admired the antique revivalism of the nineteenth century preferred Greek Renaissance and Neoclassical styles. The Tofre Begadim Synagogue and the Zulfaris Synagogue were built with antique revivalism as their architectural inspiration. The Neva S¸alom Synagogue in Galata, constructed in the early 20th century, which served the Sephardi community, is classical in its design; the interior was subsequently renovated according to neo-Renaissance influences. Classical patterns were dominant not only in religious architecture, but also in governmental buildings of the Ottoman Empire. Another style favored in the synagogue architecture of Galata is the neo-Gothic style. Both the “Italian Synagogue” that served Italian Jews (also known as Kal de los Frankos) and the Or Hode∞(New Light) Synagogue of the Ashkenazi community were constructed in a distinctly neo-Gothic style. Despite the fact that the latter synagogue was abandoned and later partially demolished, the neo-Gothicism is still evident in what is left of the façade. 26 Interestingly, although the gothic style was valued in the synagogue architecture of Istanbul, it was rarely applied to other Ottoman buildings. As a departure from these two dominant stylistic choices for synagogue architecture, the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue is distinctive in that it was built in the so-called “oriental style,” as evidenced by its remarkable façade of horseshoe arches, which represents a reflection of nineteenth-century European orientalist trends. Orientalism in the Ottoman Empire in the Late Nineteenth Century Orientalism has become a popular subject for historical study—primarily due to, Edward Said, who published his Orientialism theory in in 1978. In it, Said suggested that studies of Eastern cultures up to that point had only served to establish European cultural dominance; in other words, a prior history of European colonial rule had distorted a much more nuanced understanding of the region. Although many scholars have disputed his argument, the book sparked renewed interest in the societies and peoples of Asia, North Africa, and the Middle East. In the fields of art and architecture, orientalism (in its basic interpretation) refers to Westerners who use Eastern forms; however, it is also clear that this interest coincided with some of the colonizing activities of the period. This

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growing interest in the East was not restricted to the nineteenth century, as can be seen in works from Antiquity and the Renaissance. Some Italian Renaissance painters clearly incorporated an Eastern style into the carpets they depicted in their paintings, indicating centuries-old economic and cultural ties between East and West.27 This artistic relationship intensified during the nineteenth century, however, when architects and poets also joined in this romantic, orientalist movement. While some nineteenth-century designers were seeking technological innovation, others sought to resist industrialization and its effects on art and architecture. Despite the fact that the Industrial Revolution had introduced significant technological advancements, it also negatively impacted the crafts and artisans of earlier periods. Mass production manufactured more items in less time, with less effort and more economically. This new industrial approach also had the unforeseen outcome of rekindling a nostalgia for nature and nourishing romantic feelings about the past. Consistent with the era’s contradictory industrial and romantic atmospheres, several new artistic and architectural styles came into being. For example, proponents of the Arts and Crafts movement that originated in mid-nineteenth-century England celebrated the return to hand-made crafts such as stained glass, pottery, and wood furniture. 28 Several decades later, the practitioners of Art Nouveau used organic, nature-inspired designs featuring flora and fauna as prominent design features. The multi-stylistic character of the nineteenth century also included orientalism. In this romantic and exotic reformulation of the past, a global perception and approach to orientalism became one of the artistic themes of the nineteenth century. Orientalism in art appears as a combination of modernist and romantic tendencies. For many Europeans, the use of Orientalist forms was something new and exotic. In contrast, for those in the East or the inhabitants of locations having an Islamic past, such as Spain, the emergence of Orientalism bordered on the romantic. In an ironic twist, craftsmen and architects in the Near and Middle East eventually borrowed the orientalist style from Western designers. The drive for modernization in the Near East contributed an orientalist appetite for eclectic romanticism. Yet this romantic trend was occasionally foreign to Western architects, since the classical traditions of the West consisted of distinct, rather than mixed, eastern styles. The cultural influence of the world fairs so popular in the nineteenth-century was also notable for their “orientalist” representation of Eastern cultures.29 For instance, many of the displays at the 1889 Exposition Universelle in Paris reflected a rapidly growing interest in the East, fueled by burgeoning trading opportunities between the East and West, as well as the curiosity of travelers and explorers in the East during the second half of the nineteenth century. These exhibitions sought primarily to display the East and its material cultures to the West.30 Some of the most influential images from the Exposition Universelle include photographs of the Spanish Pavilion with its neo-Mudéjar influences. The Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes held in Paris in 1925 featured a Spanish Moroccan pavilion. In showcasing Moroccan culture, the designer intended to depict Spain as one of the world’s great powers. In addition, the pavilion also served to arouse the love of exoticism in the Western viewers by using forms and colors seen in Almohad mosques and the minarets of Rabat and Marrakech.31 Earlier, at the Great Exhibition held in London in 1851, themes from the Alhambra Palace had been used to represent Spain, significantly increasing interest in Spain’s Andalusian past.32 Clearly, these architectural representations embraced the orientalist trends of the time, choosing to promote a distinctly romantic-orientalist attitude toward the East, rather than providing a true depiction of the period of Islamic rule in Iberia between 711 ce and 1492 ce and its influence on Spanish culture. From among other Eastern sources, the Andalusian past became one of the most important resources for nineteenth-century orientalism. Centuries of Islamic-sourced stylistic concepts flourished in art and architecture. The close connection between the peoples of North Africa and their Islamic-Iberian descendants was later embodied in the art and architectural forms of Iberia. With roots dating as far back as the eighth century ce, this esthetic taste for so-called Moorish art (Islamic-Iberian Art), features the liberal use of horseshoe arches, multi-lobed arches, ornamental masonry, and multi-colored glazed bricks.33 These innovative architectural features introduced a high level of sophistication in architecture and became representative of the leading political and  religious  agendas of the time. The Great Mosque of Córdoba had been built on the foundations of the San Vicente church, in whose construction Roman and Visigothic materials were reused. Indeed, Córdoba became a symbol of the spiritual and political center of the new Emirate34 (Fig. 8.11). As in nineteenth-century Istanbul and elsewhere in the Ottoman Empire, Córdoba also featured Judaic and Christian influences in the same geographical sphere. This cultural symbiosis proved to be highly influential in Iberia’s constructed environment, which gave birth to the Mudéjar

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Figure 8.11  The Cordoba Mosque, Cordoba, Spain (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

style of architecture between the eleventh and seventeenth centuries when the re-conquest was active.35 The orientalist approach that reached as far as the Ottoman Empire carried profound references to the Andalusian influence in Europe. Indeed, many nineteenth-century European designers favored the historical and cultural uniqueness of the Iberian Peninsula for its Islamic past, and in so doing extended its reach. Though the aim was to revive the Andalusian style in nineteenth-century Europe, the Western touch “mudéjarized” this style to some extent. The result was the nineteenth-century pan-Andalusian style that combined Islamic and Christian architectural patterns. In a curious migration, the Ottoman Empire eventually became a showcase for this Pan-Andalusian style. While the Ottomans were keen to keep pace with European military and technological power, the style can be seen to affect the empire’s art and architecture. It should also be noted that a “European ­understanding” of orientalism sometimes combined several eastern forms to create an exotic hybridized style. The emergence of an eclectic Islamic architecture ironically appeared to be incapable of reflecting a thorough understanding of the influences of Eastern art and architecture. The reigning sultan of the period, Abdul Hamid II, achieved his goal of Islamic unification within the context of this eclectic Islamic style. The end-result was that such extensive borrowing from the West soon made the incongruity of Western design obvious. Structures were commissioned that were remote from the empire’s traditional architecture (Fig. 8.12). This repeated use of the P ­ an-Andalusian style occurred regardless of a building’s function or purpose. For example, the Sirkeci Train Station in Istanbul features horseshoe arches and gothic windows that reflect a combination of Islamic and Christian architectural tastes (Fig. 8.13). Similarly, in the example of the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, the cathedral style of the West is combined with horseshoe arches, thereby

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Figure 8.12  The Madrasa of Köprülü Mehmed Pasha, Istanbul (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

Figure 8.13  The Sirkeci Train Station, August Jasmund, Istanbul (© Meltem Özkan Altınöz)

blending Western and Eastern architectural sensibilities in the same structure. In summary, the use of the Pan-Andalusian style seen in Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue probably has more to do with the stylistic trends of the period rather than serving as a cultural reference to the Sephardi tradition.

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Conclusion For most of its history, the Ottoman Empire had been a refuge for Jews fleeing religious discrimination in Europe, harsh treatment that too often resulted in expulsion, slavery, or worse, in outright genocide. Over time, the Ottoman Empire became home to these religious minorities, who later nourished the cosmopolitan cultural structure of the region. To varying degrees, Ottoman’s Jews experienced class, economic, and even gender-based struggles that were reflected in their social structure and architectural preferences. The relationships between different Jewish communities and their architectural practices shed light on the cultural evolution of Ottoman Jewry, which embraced immigrants from different parts of the Europe, as well as the native Jewish population who had resided in the region since Byzantine times. Ottoman Jews also experienced sectarian divides, as evidenced by the centuries-long rivalry between Sephardim and Ashkenazim. The fragmented social stratification of Ashkenazi Jewry developed as a result of regional and economic differences among its members. The internal architecture of Ashkenazi synagogues embodies these socio-economic differences. The chasm between various groups comprising the Ashkenazi minority was deepened by tensions between conservatives and reformers, which is reflected in the educational policies that embraced the ideals of the Enlightenment emanating from France on one end of the spectrum, and Zionist leanings from Germany on the other. The Pan-Andalusian artistic and architectural expression of the Ashkenazi community, as evidenced in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, revives memories of Islamic IberianAndalusian culture in the Ottoman Empire. To answer the question of whether this building represents a bricks-and-mortar example of the growing harmony between the Ashkenazi and Sephardi cultures, the answer must be no. This is a purely Ashkenazi synagogue, since the Andalusian style was one that had already been popularized by the Europeans. In other words, this structure resulted from a growing hybridization in the late-nineteenth century when romantic, modernist, and colonial action resulted in historic eclecticism and confusion in architecture. In this regard, the Pan-Andalusian approach evidenced in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue represents these tendencies. The eye-catching construction of the synagogue reveals the role of Ashkenazi Jewry, who became pioneers in the struggle for Westernization, while at the same time the community supported the Ottoman Empire through its many contributions to trade and the economy. The synagogue embodies the Ashkenazi spirit of the period and represents Ashkenazi integration into the social and cultural system of the Ottoman Empire and the West. Its orientalist—and particularly Pan-Andalusian—preferences can also be seen in many other Ottoman buildings of the era. For this reason, the synagogue’s distinctive horseshoe arches eventually lost their meaning as a direct reference to Islamic Spain; rather they came to represent an orientalist symbol of the nineteenth-century Westernization of the Ottoman Empire. Notes 1. Time Magazine, April 10, 1972. 2. Avigdor Levy, Jews, Turks, Ottomans; A Shared History, Fifteenth through the Twentieth Century (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2002), xviii. 3. Hayim Ben-Sasson, A History of the Jewish People (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,1985). 4. Medieval rabbinic literature uses the word “Ashkenazi” to refer to Germany. Erdal Frayman, “A∞kenazların Kökenleri,” in Yüksekkaldırım’da Yüz Yıllık Bir Sinagog; A∞kenazlar, ed. Erdal Frayman, Mo∞e Grosman, and Robert Schild (Istanbul: Galata A∞kenaz Kültür DerneÌi, 2000), 10; Haim Abraham and Leah Bornstein, “Suleiman I,” in Encyclopedia Judaica, no. 3 (2008), 718, https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/ judaica/ejud_0002_0019_0_19345.htm (accessed February 23, 2015). 5. Frayman, A∞kenazların Kökenleri, 10. 6. Ibid. 7. Nina Rowe, The Jew, the Cathedral, and the Medieval City: Synagoga and Ecclesia in the Thirteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). 8. Frayman, “A∞kenazların Kökenleri,” 12. 9. Abraham and Bornstein, “Suleiman I.” 10. Ibid. 11. Levy, Jews, Turks, Ottomans, xviii; Frayman, A∞kenazların Kökenleri, 14. 12. Naim Güleryüz, Geçmi∞ten Günümüze BeyoÌlu (Istanbul: Beyoglu Belediyesi, 2004); Ònci TürkoÌlu, “Haliç’in Òki Yakasındaki Sinagoglar Üzerine Gözlemler,” in Dünü ve Bugünü ile Haliç Sempozyumu, ed. Süleyman Faruk GöncüoÌlu (Istanbul: Istanbul Büyük S¸ehir Belediyesi), 479–498. 13. Meltem Özkan Altınöz, “The Tofre Begadim and the Non-Muslim Policy of the Ottoman Empire in

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the Nineteenth Century,” in Sacred Precincts: Non-Muslim Religious Sites in Islamic Territories, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 334–352. 14. Nilüfer Nahya, “Anadolu’da Bir Kayıp Yahudi Halkı: Romanyot Yahudileri,” Journal of Anatolian Folk Beliefs: Kırkbudak 3, no. 12 (2008): 5–21. 15. Frayman, A∞kenazların Kökenleri, 14. 16. Henri Nahum, Òzmir Yahudileri-19.20.yy (Istanbul: Òleti∞im Yayınları, 2000), 40, 102, 103; Rodrigue Aaron, Türkiye Yahudilerinin Batılıla∞ması, Alliance Okulları (Istanbul: Ayranç Yayınları, 1997), 64, 98. 17. Nahum, Òzmir Yahudileri, 103, 109, 113, 114, 127; Walter F. Weiker, Ottomans, Turks, and the Jewish Polity (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1992), 237, 238. 18. Weiker, Jewish Polity, 279; Mo∞e Grosman, Dr. Markus: 1870–1944 Osmanlıdan Cumhuriyete Geçi∞te Türk Yahudilerinden Görünümler, Dünden Bugünden Yarına (Istanbul: As Matbaacılık, 1992); Frayman, A∞kenazların Kökenleri, 15. 19. Nahum, Òzmir Yahudileri, 73. 20. Güleryüz, BeyoÌlu, 479–498. 21. Mo∞e Grosman, “Sinagoglar,” in Frayman, Grosman, and Schild, Yüksekkaldırım’da Yüz Yıllık Bir Sinagog, 18, 19. 22. Ibid., 19, 20. 23. Etymologically, Mudéjar was a term applied to the Muslims who were allowed to stay in the Iberian Peninsula after the re-conquest until their conversion in the sixteenth century. Although the term etymologically signified the Muslims, its context did not. In Spanish art and architectural history, Mudéjar architecture addresses the architectural style applied by Muslim, Christian, and Jewish masters after the re-conquest under Christian patronage. Gonzalo Borrás Gualis, “Introducción,” in El Arte Mudéjar (Zaragoza: Iber Caja, 2005), 16; Jerrilynn D. Dodds and Daniel Walker, “Introduction,” in Al-Andalus: The Art of Islamic Spain, Jerrilynn D. Dodds, ed. (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1992); Marianne Barrucand and Achim Bednorz, Moorish Architecture in Andalusia (Cologne: Taschen GmbH, 2007). 24. There are several arguments about the Mudéjar identity, depending on whether it is a specific style or not; however, the author of the paper uses the style not only as a formalistic or technical issue but also to describe a social and cultural phenomenon that reflects the period. 25. Meltem Özkan Altınöz, “Urban History of the Ottoman Empire in the Nineteenth Century: Exemplary Study on Galata’s Jewish Congregations,” Journal of East Central Europe (ECE) 42, nos. 2–3 (2015): 163–180. 26. Özkan Altınöz, “Tofre Begadim,” 340, 341. 27. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978); Bernard Lewis, The Middle East (New York: Scribner, 1997); Seyfi Ba∞kan, “The Ottoman in the 18th and 19th Century European Art, Turquerie and Orientalism,” in The Great Ottoman-Turkish Civilization: Ottoman Culture and Art, ed. Kemal Çiçek, evol. 4 (Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2000), 792–805. Lord Byron, upon his return from Greece and the Levant in 1811, mentions the East in his poems. Victor Hugo similarly, while writing about Granada, pays special attention to the Alhambra. John Sweetman, Oriental Obsession: Islamic Inspiration in British and American Art and Architecture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 1, 13, 112, 120. 28. Larry Shiner, Sanatın Òcadı (Istanbul: Sanat ve Kuram, 2004). 29. Zeynep Çelik, Displaying the Orient (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992); Yavuz Yıldırım, Son Dönem Osmanlı Ve ÇaÌda∞ Türk MimarlıÌında “Orientalist” Yakla∞ımlar, Çukurova Üniversitesi Türkoloji Ara∞tırmaları Merkezi Ar∞ivi, http://turkoloji.cu.edu.tr/GENEL/34.php (accessed March 4, 2015). 30. Zeynep Çelik, 19.yy’da Osmanlı Ba∞kenti DeÌi∞en Òstanbul (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 1992). 31. Barbara Fuchs, “1492 and the Cleaving of Hispanism,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 37, no. 3 (2007): 498; Danya Crites, “From Mosque to Cathedral: The Social and Political Significations of Mudéjar architecture in late medieval Seville” (Ph.D. diss., University of Iowa, 2010). 32. Çelik, Orient; Yıldırım, Orientalist Yakla∞ımlar. 33. Wijdan Ali, The Arab Contribution to Islamic Art: From the Seventh to the Fifteenth Centuries (Jordan: The Royal Society of Fine Arts, 1999); Dodds, Al-Andalus, xx, xxi; Barrucand and Bednorz, Moorish Architecture, 15. 34. Natascha Kubisch, “Spain and Morocco: Architecture,” in Islam: Art and Architecture, ed. Markus Hattstein and Peter Delius (Cologne: Könemann Verlag, 2000), 221, 227; Ewert Christian, “The Presence of Islam and Islamic Art: Caliphate of Cordoba and Its Wake,” in Art and Architecture of Spain, ed. Xavier Barral i Altet (Boston: Bulfinch Press, 1998), 203; Watt and Cachia, Islamic Spain, 65, 66. 35. Christians were particularly influenced by Muslims in the linguistic, commercial, and architectural fields. When the modern Spanish language is analyzed, it can be seen to contain several words of Arabic origin. Barrucand and Bednorz, Moorish Architecture, 15, 17, 18; W. Montgomery Watt and Pierre Cachia, A History of Islamic Spain (Piscataway, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2007), 42.

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THE OTTOMAN JEWS OF NINETEENTH-CENTURY ISTANBUL

Chapter Nine

The Architecture and Ornamentation of the Nahon and Bendrihem Synagogues of Tangier: Modernization and Internationalization of the Jewish Community M. Mitchell Serels Tangier was an internationally recognized city throughout Moroccan history. After its original exile from Tangier, the Jewish community returned to the city in the late eighteenth century, but began to emigrate after 1956; such movements of the population are reflected in the changing influence on the city’s style and architecture. One prime example of this is situated on the Calle de las Synagogas. The Nahon Synagogue, as it was generally known, reflected the contribution of Jewish banker, Moses Nahon. The external appearance resembles that of surrounding residential buildings except for the name inscribed in the ironwork gates leading from the street to the courtyard. Once inside the synagogue, however, a visitor can reflect on the opulence of the Sephardic heritage, modeled after the El Tránsito synagogue of Toledo. No longer in use, the Nahon Synagogue, with its beautiful interior, is intended for a Jewish Museum of Tangier. By contrasting this smaller synagogue with the synagogue known as “the synagogue on the Boulevard Pasteur”—Shaar Rafael or Bendrihem, the change in the Jewish community is also evident. The Shaar Rafael Synagogue was originally a villa on the newly developed Boulevard Pasteur, and was gifted to the community by the Bendrihem family at a time when the head of the family still remained a dominant force in the administration; it was the chief rabbi’s synagogue. The Shaar Rafael is more reminiscent of European synagogues, however, with its large chandeliers and marble facings. Interestingly, the architecture, internal design, and decoration of these two synagogues has never been compared. Today, while one is now a museum and the other barely functioning, both still retain a common religious function but with different internal and external styles. This study reflects the impact of the change in the status of the Jewish community and its role in the structure of the international zone within Tangier. Tangier differed in a historical context from the rest of Morocco, as reflected in the nature of the synagogues of the city (Fig. 9.1). The Jewish community was reconstituted in the latter half of the eighteenth century due to the internal migration of Jews from Meknes, Tetuan, and other cities in Morocco. Previously, Tangier had been occupied by various European powers, causing the Muslim population to consider that the city had been “defiled” in some manner by the preponderance of non-Muslim populations. As a result, the Jews were subjected to an irregular application of the dhimmi status, although this allowed them to live more freely in Tangiers among the Muslim population in comparison with the situation of Jews in other parts of Morocco. A Christian traveler, using the pseudonym Ali Bey Al-Abbassi, described the situation in the first decade of the nineteenth century as: “the Jews in Morocco are in the most abject state of slavery: but in Tangier, it is remarkable that they live intermingled with the Moors, without having any separate quarter as is the case in all other places where the Mohametan religion prevails.”1 The construction of synagogues was permitted under the traditional local regime, but was limited to nondescript buildings. The development of the Nahon Synagogue (Ma’asat Moshe)2 is typical of this type of synagogue. Christian diplomatic missions and embassies, though authorized by the sultan of Morocco, were often restricted to Tangier. Over time, these European residents organized themselves into a Sanitation Committee to ensure that Muslim pilgrims returning from Mecca did not spread disease. Eventually this citizen committee of various nationals developed into a globally recognized, treaty-developed international government. The Jews were to be ­represented on the Sanitary Committee (later known as the Hygiene Commission) as an entity in their own

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ngh

Siya

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Synagogues of the Tangier Madina

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Medersa

Grand Mosque

MARKET

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THE MADINA CIRCA 1900 SCALE I : 1000

GATE

Muslim Religious Shrines BEN: DER QUARTER Street of the Synagogues

Figure 9.1  Map of Tangier and its synagogues, ca. 1900 (© Susan Miller)

right within the Moroccan delegation. Some Jews who had foreign citizenship gained signatory powers once the Hygiene Commission was officially converted into the Legislative Assembly. Consequently, more Jews began to prosper under international rule. With this shift of perspective from being Moroccan subjects to enjoying European protection came wealth in real estate through the development of new areas of the city, including the Boulevard Pasteur. Inevitably, the Jewish developments included a villa on this primary new street, central to the expansion of the city, which became the Bendrihem Synagogue, also known as Shaar Raphael, reflecting the Europeanization of the Jewish population.3 Wealthy individuals founded both institutions as projects for the benefit of the community. In style and décor, the two synagogues are typical of the respective periods in which they were built and the changes in the Jewish community with consequently differing cultural influences and world views. Initially, each synagogue reflected the historical influence of the donors, the area of the city, the architecture of the synagogue, and its specific décor. A review of the historic conditions for their construction and decoration will provide a deeper understanding of the changes from a traditional Jewish community in a Muslim Arab country to a modern European community. The Nahon Synagogue is in the older area of the city and was built before modernization and i­ nternationalization. Its original

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purpose was always that of a synagogue, construction being funded by a wealthy banker. In contrast, the Bendrihem Synagogue was built during the modernization period to reflect increased Jewish economic and political power as evidenced by the fact that it was built as the villa of a wealthy realtor and subsequently donated as a synagogue. The condition of each synagogue today will be examined as it reflects the general position of the municipal Jewish community. Some features are found in all synagogues as required by the demands of religious practice.4 The nature of these two synagogues remains unexplored in terms of their internal decoration, their external aspect to the public, and the congregation that each synagogue attracted. Early History of Jews in Tangier While Jews have lived in Morocco since antiquity, the Jewish community in Tangier is relatively new.5 Thanks to its strategic location at the entrance to the Mediterranean, the city was coveted by European powers seeking control of the port. In the sixteenth century, the Jewish population numbered only fifty-one.6 Most were Spanish-speaking Jews from neighboring Tetuan who had arrived in the general area at the time of the Expulsion from Spain and landed at a site that became known as Wadi el-Yehud (Gully of the Jews) before moving on to other cities throughout Morocco. The English authorities eventually expelled the Jews due to their economic ties to the besieging Arab forces. Nevertheless, Jews also provided support for the British governor. The English forces could not maintain control of Tangier and eventually retreated, handing the municipality back to the Muslim authorities in 1684. Reestablished Muslim control over the city found a population that included a large number of Christians. The city had a variety of Europeans speaking various languages, which constituted a potentially useful population. Consequently, the authorities felt that Tangier would be an appropriate residence for foreign representatives. Jews were invited to return to the city after which Jews from Meknes slowly began arriving. Forty years later, the community numbered about one hundred and fifty. The population was augmented by the continued migration of Jews from Meknes and Tetuan. Both those cities had specific Jewish quarters; Tangier had no specific Jewish quarter, despite allegations made by some scholars. Twenty years later, the community still remained small. Ben Maman of Meknes, treasurer to the Sultan, encouraged Jews from Salé and more from Tetuan to move to Tangier by providing them with tax exemptions; few arrived however. Ten years later, there were still incentives for Jews to move from Meknes and Fez. The oldest Tangerian synagogue was the Auday Synagogue, supported by Samuel Auday, a man of wealth, whose father, Yahya Auday, became its rabbi. This patronage was indicative of the general pattern in Morocco, that of privately owned and privately maintained synagogues. Some of these small synagogues were known as nogita.7 While this system was not unique to Tangier, many of these synagogues became popularly known by the name of the donor’s family, as in the case of the Auday Synagogue. At this time, Tangier was under the religious jurisdiction of the nearby Bet Din (rabbinical tribunal) of Tetuan. Tetuan was known as a city of scholars and a “little Jerusalem” as well as being a source of Jewish migration to Tangier so this jurisdiction was a natural development. The Basha of Tangier, the representative of the Sultan and the effective governor of the city, recognized the religious authority of the Bet Din of Tetuan over the Jews in Tangier. The local Jewish community more often looked to the Toledano family for religious inspiration and advice, however. The four Toledano brothers, who were originally from Meknes, ingratiated themselves into another synagogue as well, for family reasons, as well as due to differences in custom.8 Some of the Jews of Tangier traded with the British forces in Gibraltar after the British occupation of the fortress city in 1706. Some of the Jews who emigrated to the new British colony of Gibraltar were from Tetuan and spoke Spanish. This trade brought English-speaking Jews to Tangier and to Gibraltarians who did business with Tangier. Consequently, the position of the Chief of Customs of the Port of Tangier fell to Jews even though Jews still retained the status of dhimmi, non-Muslim, second-class subjects of the Sultan. One of the restrictions on the dhimmi was the payment of the jizya, a tax paid by non-Muslims, in this case Jews, through the Sheik el-Yehud, the officially recognized secular head of the community. Since there was no organized community, the position was hereditary. In 1798, a communal disagreement occurred over ritual slaughter performed by Rabbi Moses Cohen and a ruling by Rabbi Abraham Toledano. Cohen was a descendent of migrants from Tetuan and therefore referred the question to the rabbis of Tetuan according to custom. Rabbi Toledano, a descendent of migrants from Meknes, referred the question to the rabbis of Meknes. The Bet Din

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(rabbinical court) of Tetuan sided with Rabbi Cohen. This caused the community to declare its ­independence, when the heads of sixty-eight families gathered in the Toledano synagogue and signed the Askama de Tanger (Agreement of Tangier) thus establishing the Tangerian Jewish Community as an independent Jewish body.9 The rabbis of Tetuan objected, as did the Bet Din of Fez. However, the Bet Din (rabbinical court) of Meknes, as well as those of Rabat and other cities, supported the Askama, as might be expected. This division was to be expected, as the Jews from Tetuan and Fez were now in the minority compared to those from Meknes and other cities. Nevertheless, these developments caused Tangier’s Jewry to mature into a community even though no specific neighborhood had been set aside for their residence. Modernization and Internationalization of Tangier International informal control of Tangier was established by the Sanitary Commission in 1796 when the various European consuls met, as well as representatives of the Jewish community. The Madrid Conference of 1880 allowed the Commission to continue to function with informal international recognition. The Treaty of Algeciras allowed for an international police force which was formed in 1906. The Protectorate Agreement of 1912 formally changed the name of the Sanitary Committee into the Hygiene Commission and began the legal process of internationalization, one that was interrupted by World War I. Tangier officially became an International Zone in 1924 under the League of Nations. This development had been decades in coming, given the original remit of the Sanitary Commission to enhance the status and insure the health of the foreign and diplomatic communities in Tangier. Having acquired an international status, Jews sat under the auspices of the Moroccan delegation, but remained a unique segment. Although they were considered subjects of the Sultan, they were European in dress and language. Three Jewish representatives were to be selected by the Sultan from nominees offered by the Jewish community. Jews with foreign citizenship—of whom there were many—could sit on the Legislative Assembly as part of the foreign delegation, but were excluded from the list of Jewish nominees. They often represented European powers: Abensur for Great Britain, Hasson for Portugal, Bendelac for the Netherlands, etc.10 With their new-found political power, the Jews found relief from the old interactions with the local Moroccan government as the dhimmi arrangement was abandoned. Internationalization brought an improved economic position and an expansion of the city. A number of Jews entered real estate development.11 David Benelbaz developed the Calle Tetuan.12 The Laredo brothers began a major development of the newer area away from the Calle de los Sinagogas. Housing units were constructed in the 1920s and in 1924, the street became known as Boulevard Pasteur.13The streets in this new area often bore the names of European cultural figures or Moroccan royalty. Apartment buildings were erected as homes for the newly prosperous Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Often, these buildings had storefronts at street level. Occasionally a villa was built, reflecting the new money of the expanding economy. The Nahon Synagogue: The Banker’s Beauty The Jews of Tangier were polyglots and many were employed by the European delegations as a ­dragoman—an official translator for a foreign mission. Isaac Nahon was a descendent of a family expelled from Spain in 1492, who settled in Fez, later in Tetuan and then Tangier. His son, Moses, became a banker in 1860 through lending money to wheat buyers as well to the British diplomatic services. His firm, Banque Nahon, quickly rose in prominence, eventually corresponding with a number of important European banking institutions including the Banque d’Espagne, the Credit Lyonnais, and the Banque de Paris et Pays Bas.14 In 1863, Moses Nahon accompanied Sir Moses Montefiore on his historic visit to the Sultan in Marrakesh, thus denoting his rise in wealth and prestige.15 In 1878, he founded the Nahon Synagogue, as it was popularly known, its Hebrew name being Ma’asat Moshe. This manner in which synagogues were founded was typical, not only of Tangier but of the whole of Morocco. A wealthy individual would dedicate a house or other property as a synagogue for the benefit of the general Jewish population. The Nahon synagogue was built on the same narrow street in which Moses Nahon had his lavishly appointed private house (Fig. 9.2).16 Due to the founder’s importance to the community council, Ma’asat Moshe became the principal synagogue of Tangier from its founding in 1878. At the time it was considered to be exquisite until

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Figure 9.2 Tangier street (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.3  Charity boxes dedicated to various communal funds (© Mitchell Serels)

it was superseded by the Bendrihem synagogue nearly ninety years later. As the principal synagogue, it had to be the most beautiful and its congregation was looked to for various funding contributions from other community institutions. Nahon served as president of the community from 1862 when the community council became known at the Junta Governativa de la Congregación Hebrea de Tanger (Governing Board of the Hebrew Congregation of Tangier), a name indicative of a desire to imitate the structure of European Jewish congregations.17 Nahon tried to model this community board after the Board of Deputies of British Jews. He ran the Jewish community like a business and often led the community during times of crisis, particularly in an economic recession.18 This synagogue also became a focal point for the Nahon family, as well as others from Tetuan and those prominent in Jewish business life. In 1925, the synagogue donated 300 francs to support of the Yeshiba Ets Haim of Tangier,19 maintain the synagogue, or for other local and foreign charities. There were no annual synagogue budgets, no membership drives or appeals for funding of the synagogue. Charity was generally offered at the morning daily prayer Vayebarekh David (And David Blessed) when donation boxes were placed near the entrance of a synagogue (as in the case of the Nahon Synagogue) or there were slots in the wall for this purpose (as in the case of the Bendrihem Synagogue). Each charity was clearly marked, since individual donors had their favorites (Fig. 9.3).20 The Nahon Synagogue is located off the street known as Rue Cheik el-Harrak, often called the Calle de las Sinagogas (Fig. 9.4 and 5),21 close to the Rue Siaghine, a major thoroughfare leading to the port. The street is unobtrusive and attracts little attention, an apparent acquiescence to Muslim sensitivities concerning the position and prominence of synagogues.22 The Toledano brothers originally built their synagogue there and had erected several buildings in which to house their extended families,23 thus the street began to closely resemble a specifically Jewish quarter of Tangier. This did not create a ghetto, judería, or mellah but was rather useful for Jewish ritual purposes to permit the carrying of items between buildings on the Sabbath in the form of an erub haserot.24 This was not to be construed as the development of a mellah, as some academicians have asserted.25 The Nahon Synagogue was considered by some to be the most beautiful in Morocco. In keeping with the dhimmi status of the Jewish population, however, the facade of the building is plain and appearing to the uninitiated to be a residential dwelling, similar to others on the L-shaped street. The entrance is a door with a grille above it, bearing the initials of the name Ma’asat Moshe in the

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Figure 9.4  Courtyard of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.5  Entrance to the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.6  Wall and ceiling of the Nahon Synagogue featuring the Mudéjar work (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

form of a Romanized MM and the Hebrew year of construction, 5638,26 which simply appears to be the building’s street number. Internally, however, the synagogue’s beauty was made to rival that of the Shearith Yosef synagogue built in 1862 by Moses Shriqui in honor of his father Joseph Shriqui (also known as Suiri) who had been active on many committees along with Moses Nahon.27 That synagogue was dedicated a year later. Many synagogues had slightly different customs and styles that were indicative of the origin of their founding families. David Shriqui, the ancestor of the family had arrived three generations earlier from Mogador while the Nahon family originated from Tetuan. Neither synagogue had memberships in the sense used by Western European and American synagogues. Family, friends, associates, and others from similar backgrounds attended without having to pay a fee and seats were inherited. Other seats would be assessed as necessary, which may account for the forced relocation of the tevah (pulpit) to the north wall.28 The decoration combines elements of gothic and Islamic styles (Fig. 9.6 and 7).29 The walls are covered in white plasterwork outlined in ocher, the same relief repeated on the underside of the women’s gallery on three sides of the sanctuary. The women’s gallery is supported by a number of columns, having leaf patterns on the capitals. The floor is in the typical Moroccan tile checker pattern.30 The only side not surrounded by the galley is the eastern side containing the ark for the Torah scrolls. That wall is also covered with the Mudéjar work except where the heikhal (ark) itself is located.31 The lower part of the wall is covered in Hebrew inscriptions from the Bible. The heikhal is made of wood and the wall above it depicts the two tablets of the Decalogue beneath a crown (the keter Torah). It is bordered by two column posts of four cylindrical columns on each platform of the heikhal. There are three steps up to the tevah (pulpit) which appears to be in a non-traditional location because of the removal of the middle aisle to accommodate sufficient bench seating for congregants and the bend of the street so that the tevah may actually be facing northeast while the heikhal is on the northern wall. Thus although the reader always faced east toward Jerusalem, some congregants faced the north and some faced south, while others faced east. When they prayed standing, they would turn to the east with their left side facing the heikhal (Fig. 9.10). This differs from traditional layouts in which the tevah was in the middle of the sanctuary or closed on the western side, facing east toward Jerusalem, while the heikhal was on the eastern side (Figs. 9.8 and 9.9). By allowing for additional seating with this adapted layout, this synagogue could contain a greater number of congregants and thus became the predominant religious center. Originally, there may

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Figure 9.7  Chandelier in the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

Figure 9.8  Tevah (pulpit) of the Nahon Synagogue placed against the wall to allow for additional seating (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.9  Interior of the Nahon Synagogue, showing the colored glass above the doors. View from the Tevah (pulpit) (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

Figure 9.10  Bimah (pulpit) of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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have been the traditional tevah–heikhal axis. There are three steps up to the tevah. The seating was of benches placed back-to-back so that some congregants faced north and some faced south while others faced east. This arrangement allowed for a greater number of congregants. The synagogue, like most Moroccan synagogues, was under the auspices of the individual patron who was in charge of the maintenance of the synagogue. There were no membership dues, forms, or committees. The patron often determined who would be honored during the service by being granted a Torah reading or opening the heikhal. He was generally seated on the bench just below the tevah, facing east. Donations were voluntary for those granted an aliyah (Torah reading) and usually described as Shemen La-Maor (oil for lighting). Some of the money donated in honor of the Torah could be used for general purposes. At other times, ritual objects were donated: finials, pointers, lamps, etc., which remained the property of the synagogue and later, of the community in general. The lighting consisted of 40 silver lamps containing glass bowls,32 in which there were floating wicks in water and olive oil that rose to the top. When entering the synagogue from the street via a small alley, one passed by the toilet and a covered entrance.33 Some of the religious ceremonies were performed in the courtyard, typical of the region, where people could gather before or after services. In warmer weather, “berakhot” (foods of varying types) were offered here for the congregants to sample in memory of a deceased, marking the commemoration of the anyo or mismara (the anniversary of the death of a loved one). A small room was used as a Bet Midrash (study house). A staircase leads to the women’s gallery.34 There was an entrance door to the sanctuary (measuring 9.7 x 12.8 meters (32 x 42 feet) in size) that faced the heikhal built of ebonized wood. The prayer-hall is an elongated rectangle. There are patterned stained glass windows above the doorway. The parochet (curtain covering the ark that contains the scrolls) is inside the heikhal, surmounted by the two tablets of the law with a crown above, symbolizing the primacy of the Torah. Around the tablets and from the wall to the ceiling the decoration consists of Mudéjar work.35 Benches run along the wall and in the center, with back-to-back benches forming the aisles. The center of the ceiling contains a skylight to provide additional natural light.36 On some occasions, the oil lamps are lit. The reader’s platform was to the left of the entrance to the hall and the chief rabbi would be seated there when this was the principal synagogue of the community. A narrow aisle separates that bench from the reader’s desk. The Torah reader would be seated next to the chief rabbi. Both the bench and the desk were on a raised platform of one step.37 The reader’s platform is beneath the women’s gallery such that the women could not see the Torah during the reading. There are also several memorial plaques along the wall. The epigraphic wording around the lower portion of the gallery echoed the theme of da lifnei mi ata omed (know before whom you stand).38 The style parallels the Arabic writing in mosques. The Nahon family was originally from Tetuan and it is possible that the local synagogue there was the inspiration for the elaborate work in the Nahon Synagogue.39 Indeed, this family traced their origins back to Avila before the expulsion. This décor reflects not only the Islamic architecture and art influences in Spain but also the continued aspiration of those families, who were megurashim, those exiled from Spain in 1492.40 The seating seems to indicate an attempt to maximize the number of congregants at the expense of the traditional positioning of the reader’s platform and the tevah–heikhal axis (Figs. 9.11 and 9.12). Nameplates are attached to the bench to indicate who had the right to sit there. Congregants would stand and turn to face the heikhal for recitation of the silent prayer. They would remain seated, facing in various directions, during other times of prayer. Through the natural growth of families, more individuals required places to sit in the synagogue. At the height of Tangier’s Jewish population, there were not enough seats in all the synagogues of Tangier to cater for the entire male population (women generally did not regularly attend synagogue). Because the synagogue was forced to remain non-descript when viewed from the outside, the internal structure was restricted in order to retain this arrangement because the building itself could not be enlarged (Figs. 9.13–9.15). 41 In the 1990s, the Nahon Synagogue underwent extensive renovation through the efforts of Ami Sibony and Norman Benzaquen, both of New York City.42 The walls have been restored to their previous beauty and the masonry walls have been significantly repaired. The tevah was restored to the side at right angles to the heikhal. The upper fresco with the tablets above the heikhal has been restored in the Spanish Baroque style. The interior decoration was meticulously restored to the beauty of the original Mudéjar designs. The building now serves as a museum of Jewish Tangier, although it is rarely visited. Those who do visit are rewarded with the beauty of the arabesque walls in their renovated stucco glory. Services are no longer held here and the street is devoid of Jews. The

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Figure 9.11  Ark of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

external grille remains, stating the name and date of consecration— a present, modest statement of what had once been. Bendrihem Synagogue: The Realtor’s Villa One villa was erected on a triangular parcel of land. The property was developed by the Toledano Brothers, the villa itself having been built by Albert Toledano. The building subsequently became the property of Raphael Bendrihem, who was also involved in land development. After the death of

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Figure 9.12  Ark of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

Raphael Bendrihem and at the wishes of his father, his son Issachar and widow Hoala (Rachel) turned the building into a synagogue. The Hebrew name for the congregation subsequently became known as Sha’ar Raphael (Gate of Raphael, one of the four principal angels) or the Bendrihem Synagogue (Fig. 9.16), though it was popularly called the “Sinagoga de la Boulevard” given its position on the corner of Boulevard Pasteur and Avenue Prince Moulay Abdallah. Elias Bendrihem, brother of Raphael and active member of the Hevra Kadisha (Burial Society) and the Junta of the Jewish Community, became the administrator (more likely the patron) of the synagogue. The Tangier Jewish community subsequently opted to replace the Nahon Synagogue with the Bendrihem Synagogue as the seat of the Chief Rabbi. The original villa had to be refitted to convert it from a private residence into a synagogue. From the street, a gate and grille separate the courtyard from the street, so that the building continued to resemble a villa, except for a discreet glass panel to indicate a synagogue. Later, on the Boulevard Pasteur side of the building, an apartment house with storefronts was built. The windows to the street were covered by a solid wall and painted pale yellow. The other windows on the second floor facing the boulevard, as well as the windows on both levels on the northern side of the building, were rectangular in shape, typical of European housing. From the street, the windows contained an arabesque arch surrounded by plasterwork (Figs. 9.17 and 9.18). The approach to the synagogue building itself was via a horseshoe-shaped staircase. A small platform preceded the entrance into the building, in which a door to the left of a small hallway led to the synagogue. The stairwell facing led to the women’s gallery. The hallway, as well as the entire floor of the prayer room, was covered in pale-colored, highly polished marble. On entering the sanctuary, the tevah can be seen at the back of the prayer-hall. On the platform, there is a bench separated from the reader’s desk by a small aisle. This was the seat of the Chief Rabbi Yamin Cohen.43 Behind the

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Figure 9.13  Rimonim (Torah finials) of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.14  Rimonim (Torah finials) of the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.15  Chandelier in the Nahon Synagogue (photo by Joshua Shamsi, courtesy of Diarna GeoMuseum of North African and Middle Eastern Jewish Life)

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Figure 9.16  Tevah (pulpit) in the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue (© Sonia Cohen)

tevah, there is a gray marble plaque indicating that this synagogue, Shaar Raphael, had been dedicated by Raphael Bendrihem. A bench in front of the tevah was occupied by Elias Bendrihem who would determine who should be honored by being called to the Torah or he would lead a section of the prayers from his own seat. The women’s gallery above is supported by arches, covering the area on three sides, except over the heikhal. Four steps covered with an oriental-style runner carpet up to the rectangular and plain heikhal, which had brown wooden doors. Laterally, they were flanked on each side by a stand on which stood an electrified seven-branched menorah. An elaborate, electrified eternal lamp (ner tamid), more typical of European than of Moroccan synagogues, hung in front of the heikhal. Painted above the heikhal doors was the familiar biblical phrase in Hebrew –da lifnei mi ata omed (know before whom you stand). Another Hebrew quotation was painted on a plaster panel surmounted by two tablets of the Decalogue. An arch surrounded the frontal area. There is a small railing with a grille on either side allowing access to the center steps up to the heikhal. The room was lit with crystal bowl-shaped chandeliers and electric lighting. Sconces on the wall provide additional lighting, as there is no natural light and the sanctuary has no functioning windows. The décor was patterned after the Sephardi synagogues of Europe, such as Bevis Marks in London, but lacks the grandeur of its European equivalents.44 The europeanization of the Jewish community during the internationalization of the city is reflected in the décor. Gone are the appointments of the Nahon Synagogue. Gone are the arabesque arches and Mudéjar walls of the Nahon synagogue. The walls of the Bendrihem Synagogue are painted pale yellow (Fig. 9.19). The floor is of polished marble. Gone are the decorated walls, replaced by simple pale-color paint with white trim, less Moroccan and more Franco-Spanish in color scheme. The intricate Mudéjar walls had no place in a European synagogue, nor were arabesque arches appropriate in a synagogue of Europeanized Jews. The interior had to reflect the newly found status, which was less Moroccan and more French. The seats are more permanent without the randomization of other Tangerian synagogue seating layouts. The men’s seating faces the central aisle, which forms the tevah–heikhal axis. Order had replaced chaos and randomness of the synagogues of the “street” as the population had grown just as the international government replaced indigenous rule. While the synagogue has the feel of a rather plain European sanctuary, the street-side frontage

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Figure 9.17  Exterior of the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue (photo by Michael A. Toler, courtesy of Archnet)

resembled that of an important European villa on an important European avenue. There are meetingrooms as well as an additional, smaller space for prayer. Since 2014, the Bendrihem Synagogue is no longer used for services as the community has only about fifty remaining members. While functional and impressive in its position in the city, the décor has lost its distinctive quality and impressive artisanal decoration. It has lasted about sixty years because of the declining population of Jews in Tangier, three decades less than the Nahon Synagogue.

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Figure 9.18  Exterior of the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue (photo by Michael A. Toler, courtesy of Archnet)

Figure 9.19  Heikhal (ark) in the Bendrihem (Sha’ar Rafael) Synagogue (© Sonia Cohen)

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Location The two synagogues are only a leisurely fifteen-minute walk from each other. Nahon Synagogue is in the Beni Ider quarter of the older part of Tangier.45 Although there was no Jewish quarter per se, Jews tended to live in areas or on streets with many of their co-religionists, such on the Calle Tetuan development by the Benelbaz family.46 With modernization and internationalization, the nature of the synagogue changed, as did the living conditions of the Jews. The community came to envision itself as being European since its location was so close to Europe. While appreciative of and loyal to the Sultan of Morocco, the Jews also had a sense of being very Spanish due to their language usage. Jews moved away from the Beni Ider quarter into districts created by developers who included Jews. The free-standing Villa Albert Toledano was a manifestation of the newly developed areas of Tangier. With the change to the outside of the structure came a more startling change to the interior décor. Externally, the synagogue appears European and retains signs of wealth and prominence. Internally, the synagogue became less exciting, less Islamic and less Spanish. This reflects the change of behavior among Tangerian Jews. The Nahon Synagogue reflects the idea that a Jewish house of worship had to be discreet, unobtrusive, and hidden, demonstrating wealth at home but not attracting attention externally.47 The synagogue was a center for family, friends, and associates and reflected the history of the Jews fleeing Christian Spain into an Islamic land. Individual wealth could be an object of jealousy and temptation. A rich patron took care of those less fortunate than himself. With internationalization, the restrictions imposed by the Islamic status of dhimmi had been abolished. New areas of the city, developed by Jews, could become the new residential neighborhood. The façades of the houses reflect that transition to Europeanization of French or Spanish influence. The Jews had representation in the international administration as if they, too, were a European nation, although the Jewish representatives were still appointed by the Sultan. With all of these societal and cultural changes, religion became an internalized, individualized experience. While the Jews remained adherents to their ancestral faith, the religious fervor in Tangier diminished. Tangier was not considered a particularly pious city. There were no locally grown sadiqim (saintly individuals). Even under internationalization, in which the Jews were required to have their own religious tribunals, they had to import a rabbi as the third member of their three-man panel. Although Tangier had a yeshiva (religious academy), the greater influence came from the Alliance Israélite Universelle. Some Jews now sent their children to non-Jewish schools such as Scuola Italiana or the Lycée Renault. Judaism was still observed, however, as these institutions allowed for all the rituals. The synagogue still remained under the control of a patron but for different reasons. Nahon had developed a bank for dealing with the Europeans. Bendrihem had earned his money through developing property. Modernization came at a price, however. All of the fine detailing reflective of the Hispano-Islamic history of the Jews was replaced by a bland décor, thought to emulate European style. The change in the synagogues also indicated a shift in internal dynamics as Jews sought to be more similar in appearance to their European neighbors. Traditional dress was abandoned. In 1956, Morocco obtained its independence with the removal of the French Protectorate. Three months later, the Spanish Protectorate also ended when there was unification with the former French (blue) Zone. Tangier became part of the newly established Kingdom of Morocco three months later. Nevertheless, there was a delay in which Tangier remained separate for a half year more. With independence, Moroccan Jews began to leave, mainly for Israel, despite the protection assured by the Moroccan monarchy, a protection that had even been extended to Jews during the Vichy period. The Alawite dynasty had been protective and supportive of the Jews. Tangerian Jews understood that their history differed from that of the majority of Moroccan Jews and generally chose countries of settlement other than Israel, mainly Venezuela, Canada, and Spain with smaller groups going to France and Argentina. Previously, Tangerian Jewish men had emigrated to Portugal and then on to Brazil, Peru, Cape Verde, Angola, and Mozambique. Generations earlier, many of these young men had returned to Tangier, their fortunes made, ready to invest in the future. Their descendants now wanted to be part of western society with the new worldview, different to that of other Moroccan Jews which is why Tangerian Jews chose to relocate to new countries other than Israel.48

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Conclusions Two synagogues located a short fifteen-minute walk from each other reflect significant historical and cultural differences. The Nahon Synagogue is located on a small street with a non-descript exterior but a beautiful interior. Built by a banker, it includes the elements of Mudéjar architecture and arabesque arches similar to those of the older synagogues in Tetuan. This in turn reflects Spanish tradition.49 The congregants were family, friends, and others originating from the same city. The owner lived nearby. Thanks to its beauty, Ma’asat Moshe became the seat of the Chief Rabbi. Clearly the interior décor reflects the wealth of the individual who donated the synagogue as well as Islamic influences, including the Arabic lettering on the Mudéjar walls. In contrast, with internationalization and the increase influence of the French education through the schools run by the Alliance Israélite Universelle, the new Bendrihem Synagogue looked pleasing from the street but the interior had no distinctive character. The building belonged to a property developer and was originally used as a private residence before being donated under a legacy and supported by the widow and family. The interior, furnished in European style, remained as bland as the paint used on the walls. The only significant decoration in the European style is around the heikhal. Today, the Nahon Synagogue, considered to be one of the most beautiful in all of Morocco, has been restored to its former beauty through the efforts of Ami Sibony and Norman Benzaquen. While ostensibly an infrequently visited museum, the building has become something of a national monument to the nature and uniqueness of Tangerian Jewry. The Bendrihem Synagogue, while still in use until two years before the time of writing, is no longer in use as the community is too small to maintain the building. The synagogue was built to reflect the Europeanization of the community under the internationalization of Tangier, all of which is now in the realm of history. Notes 1. Ali Bey Al-Abbassi, Travels of Ali Bey in Morocco, Tripoli, Cyprus, Egypt, Arabia, Syria and Turkey: Between the Years 1803 and 1807 (Ithaca, NY: Ithaca Press, 1993), 20. Al-Abbassi was the pseudonym of the Catalan Domenech Badia y Leblich (Barcelona, 1766–Syria, 1818). He studied Arabic in London and spent six years in various Muslim countries, dressing as a Muslim. He returned to Spain in 1809 to work for King Joseph Bonaparte. With the withdrawal of the French, Badia y Leblich fled to Paris. His work was published first in French, then in English in 1816. He was apparently murdered in Syria by British agents. Badia y Leblich was denied a Muslim burial when a cross was found in his possession. For details of Dhimmi status under Islam, see Mark R. Cohen, Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 2. While Tangerian synagogues had Hebraic names, they were often named for their owners or their location. Consequently, Shearith Yosef was known as the Suiri Synagogue named for Joseph Ashriqui. It was simply known as “the Suiri.” There were also the Estudio, the synagogue of Chief Rabbi Mordejai Bengio and the Yeshiva (“Yeshiba”), both being named for their location. Tangerian Jews pronounced the Hebrew letter Bet and the Hebrew letter Vet with the same sound, B. This is similar to Castilian Spanish, which makes no distinction between B and V. Throughout this paper, the transliterations reflect the Tangerian pronunciation. 3. Susan Gilson Miller, “Apportioning Sacred Space in a Moroccan City: The case of Tangier, 1860–1912,” City and Society 13, no. 1 (2001) American Anthropologist Association, 60. 4. William Tachau, “The Architecture of the Synagogue,” American Jewish Year Book 28 (1926–27): 155–234. Also see Rachel Wischnitzer, Synagogue Architecture in the United States (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1955). Tachau (1875–1969) was born to a Jewish family in Louisville, KY. He received a Ph.D. from Columbia University and graduated from the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris in 1903. He was a partner first in Pitcher & Tachau and then in Tachau & Vought, which specialized in designing mental health hospitals. He also designed Temple Israel in New York City. 5. Sarah Taïeb-Carlen, The Jews of North Africa: From Dido to De Gaulle, trans. Amos Carlen (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2010). Years of occupation and war limited the size of the Jewish population of Tangier until the late eighteenth century. 6. M. Mitchell Serels, A History of the Jews of Tangier in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New York: Sepher Hermon Press, 1991), 1–2. 7. Alegria Bendelac, Voces Jaquetiescas (Caracas: Centro de Estudios Sefardies de Caracas, 1990), 20–23. There is an excellent blog run by Eliza Sissu Raz, entitled Voces de Haketia. There is also a very good blog entitled Judíos de Tanger, Tangeryotrasutopias.com, to whom the author is indebted for some of the photographs used here. 8. Serels (1991), 13–14; Abraham Laredo, Les noms juifs du Maroc (Madrid: CSIC, 1978), 618. Also see Joseph Toledano, La Saga des familles: Les juifs du Maroc et leurs noms (Tel Aviv: Editions Stavit, 1983). 9. Jacob M. Toledano, “Hayehudim Be Tangir,” HUC Annual, vol. 8–9 (Cincinnati, 1932), 486.

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10. Carlos de Nesry, Le Juif de Tanger et de Maroc (Tangier: Editions Internationale, 1956), 64. The multiculturalism of Tangerian Jews prevented anti-Semitism in Tangier. 11. Miller, “Apportioning Sacred Space,” 62. 12. The property remained in the hands of the author’s wife’s family until the 1990s. 13. Isaac J. Assayag, Tanger: Le Boulevard Pasteur (Tangier: Editions Marocaines et Internationales, 1978), 73. At one time the street was popularly known as boulevard de los Toledanos. Rents in the apartment building were about 150F per month. The date of the building is unclear though the book mentions 1919. 14. Isaac J. Assayag, Tanger . . . Regards sur le passé . . . ce qu’il fut (Tangier: I. Assayag, 2000), 49. 15. Laredo, Les nos juifs du Maroc, 862. 16. Susan Gilson Miller (2001), 71. The street is sometimes called Calle Nahon. 17. Actas. An original copy of the minutes of the Jewish community Junta is in the possession of the author. The Actas were later published in Israel by Gladys and Sidney Pimienta as 1860–1863 Libro de actas de la junta selecta de la communidad hebrea de Tánger (Paris: Jem y Erez, 2010) 18. Susan Gilson Miller and Mauro Bertagnin, eds., The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Graduate School of Design, 2010), 746. 19. Actas. Entry for February 10, 1925.Yeshiba was spelled with a “b” as the Tangier Jews pronounced both the bet and vet of the Hebrew alphabet as “b.” This is in keeping with the influences of the Spanish language. This transliteration is found in the communal minutes, a manuscript copy of which is in the possession of this author. 20. The author has an example of such a box. It has four slots, one for each charity: akhnasat orhim (wayfarers’ accommodation), Rabbi Meir Baal Haness (Rabbi Meir the wonderworker), Gemilut Hassidim (burial society), Ozer Dalim (poor fund). The lettering has begun to disappear with age. 21. Susan Gilson Miller (2010), 145–147. Miller tries to fit the Jewish community of Tangier into the mellah model which was typical of other Moroccan cities. There was no official Jewish quarter, however, nor even a de facto quarter. See Vaidon Lawdom, Tangier: A Different Way (London: Scarecrow Press, 1977). 22. Susan Gilson Miller (2001), 68. Many report that there were eight synagogues in the area. This does not report on the other synagogues in Tangier, however. 23. Isaac Laredo. Memorias de un Viejo Tangerino (Madrid: C. Barmejo, 1935), 48–49. 24. In order to be able to carry items on one’s person on the Sabbath, if there are no ghetto walls there has to be a ceremony called Erub Haserot. The ceremony allows food and belongings to be transferred from residence to residence on the Sabbath. Later, a municipal erub was established when the Jews moved to newer areas. The author has a copy of the boundaries of the original erub. The municipal erub prevents the necessity of a weekly erub over public streets and courtyards. This procedure is further evidence of the lack of a mellah or judería in Tangier. 25. Mellah, Juderia, el-Hara refers to a closed, often gated, Jewish quarter. “And I Shall Dwell Among Them: Historic Synagogues of the World” (New York: Apenture Foundation, 2001). 26. Assayag, Tanger . . . Regards sur le passé, 187. 27. Serels (1991) op. cit. 15. Shriqui and Nahon served on the Junta together. By 1990, the Suiri synagogue was functional only on Sabbath morning. It later closed. 28. Dominique Jarrassé, Synagogues: Architecture and Jewish Identity (Paris: Vilo International, 2001), 13–14. The author mentions this as a reestablished custom of personal ownership in the late eighteenth century, which, of course, is when the Tangerian community was reconstituted. 29. George Kubler and Martin Soria, Art and Architecture in Spain and Portugal and Their American Dominions: 1500 to 1800 (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1959), 10–17. Jewish architecture reflected Islamic rather than Spanish Christian art. 30. Lisa Lovatt-Smith, Intérieurs Marocains (Cologne: Taschen, 1995), 270. This volume has a number of innovative interiors of private villas in Tangier. Note the use of the floor tiles in the Nahon synagogue pattern for the splashback by the bathtub. 31. Too often, books on Jewish Morocco use Ashkenazi terminology for places and synagogue artifacts. See Vivian Mann, Thomas F. Glick, and Jerrilynn D. Dodds, eds., Convivencia: Jews, Muslims and Christians in Medieval Spain (New York: Jewish Museum, 1992), 116–119. 32. Jarrassé, Synagogues, 24. There was no real ner tamid (eternal lamp) in Moroccan synagogues. 33. Joel Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco: An Architectural and Preservation Survey, photographs by Isaiah Wyner (New York: Jewish Heritage Council, World Monuments Fund, 1993), 57. 34. Ezrat Nasim was the enclosure for the women. Women in Tangier rarely attended synagogue, however, except for special family events. They also attended on Kol Nidre, the eve of the Day of Atonement and the Neilah service at its end, as well as the night of Simhat Torah, the Rejoicing of the Law. See Baruch Litvin, Sanctity of the Synagogue (New York: Ktav, 1962). 35. Jerrilynn D. Dodds, “Mudéjar Tradition and the Synagogue of Medieval Spain: Cultural Identity and Cultural Hegemony,” in Convivencia: Jews, Muslims, and Christians in Medieval Spain, ed. Vivian B. Mann et al. (New York: Jewish Museum, 1992), 113. 36. Jarrassé, Synagogues, 20, re the need for ambient light. 37. Dodds, “Mudéjar Tradition and the Synagogue of Medieval Spain,” 117. 38. Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco, 57. 39. However, this design may also be copy of a wall in the Samuel Halevi Synagogue in Toledo. See Jarrilynn

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Doods. Op.cit. 26. Some believe this design may be similar to the south wall of the Cordova Synagogoue. See Joel Zach, op. cit.16. 40. Megurashim. Hebrew: Expulsees. Susan Gilson Miller and Mauro Betagnin. (2010), 150. The author believes that this style is similar to the el Transito Synagogue in Toledo. See de Nesry, Le Juif de Tanger et du Maroc. 41. Taïeb-Carlen, The Jews of North Africa, 18. 42. Serels, Los Judíos, 306. 43. Rabbi Yamin Cohen, Chief Rabbi of Tangier, was stabbed in the throat by an individual seeking to revenge the capture of Jerusalem during the 1967 Six-Day War. The rabbi had just exited the Bendrihem Synagogue and was walking along the Boulevard Pasteur. Such an unheard-of attack shocked the various ethnic communities of Tangier. The King sent his personal physician to tend to the rabbi. 44. The author extends his appreciation to Steven S. Serels, Ph.D., of McGill University and the Zentrum Moderne Oriente in Berlin. 45. For a more complete description of the Beni Ider area of Tangier, see Miller, “Appropriating Sacred Space.” 46. David Benelbaz (the author’s wife’s great-grandfather) and his partners José and Mimon Bendahan were originally from Tetuan, hence the name of the street. They had made their fortune in Argentina and bought the land for 150,000 hassani ducats in 1905. Many family members rented apartments on the street. David Benelbaz had an office at the beginning of the street. Calle Tetuan remained in the family possession until the early 1990s, when it was gradually sold off. See Assayag, Tanger . . . Regard sur le passé, 136. 47. The same is true of Tetuan. See Jarrassé, Synagogues, 70. 48. M. Mitchell Serels, The Jews of Cape Verde: A Brief History (New York: Sepher-Harmon Press, 1997); also see idem, “The Contribution of the Sephardim to the Development of Lusophone Africa,” in Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century, vol. 2, Judit Taragona Boraras and Angel Saenz-Badillos, eds. (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 641–648. 49. Dodds, “Mudéjar Tradition and the Synagogue of Medieval Spain,” 22–23.

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Chapter Ten

Synagogues and Sacred Rituals in Tehran: An Ethnographic Analysis of Judeo-Persian Identities and Spaces Arlene Dallalfar Iranian Jews, in their religious practices in synagogues and at home, are directly involved in the production and reconstruction of both an Iranian identity and Judeo-Persian cultural and religious traditions. This study frames dimensions of the urban environment and Muslim–Jewish relations by comparing and contrasting different styles of synagogues in Tehran, primarily the Yusef Abad, Abrishami, and Hakim synagogues as these are representative of the Iranian-Jewish community, and the Ettefagh synagogue and school compound which was built by and for Babylonian (Iraqi) Persian Jews. These synagogues are located across multiple mixed neighborhoods in Tehran. Unlike most synagogues in the Arab world, they continue to be active centers for religious worship as well as cultural and educational settings for the local Jewish communities. This study explores the contemporary Jewish experience and the synagogues of Tehran, Iran with an emphasis on the role of religion and gender among upper- and middle-class Persian Jews. In providing an overview of one of the oldest Jewish communities in the world, this study highlights ancient Assyrian, Persian, and Islamic traditions that have shaped the experience of Iranian Jews as an ethno-religious minority. It explores ancient Judeo-Persian traditions and Jewish holy shrines used for pilgrimages by both Muslims and Jews, such as the tomb of the prophet Daniel. These architectural structures create inter-communal public spaces and sanctuaries illustrative of the continuing presence of Iranian Jews in the cultural and social landscape of contemporary Iran. Synagogue sermon encourage pilgrimages to these sites, as they serve to reinforce the ancient legacy of Persian–Jewish identity in Iran. Using primary sources as well as qualitative research, the author examines the foundations of Iranian-Jewish religious sites and the social landscape of synagogues in Tehran. Through interviews, oral histories, and participant observation this research examines the constituent relationship between gender, observance, and culture.1 Ethnographic data illustrates how women are important conveyors of Jewish tradition and are taking a more active role in both the public sphere at synagogues as well as in the private sphere of the home. These methods address issues related to Judeo-Persian culture and the complex constructions of the meaning of national and religious identity in Iran.2 This chapter provides an overview of the demographic and cultural factors, both during the Pahlavi era (1925–79) as well as in the current Islamic Republic. Prior to the Islamic Revolution of 1979, approximately 80,000–100,000 Iranian Jews lived in Tehran, and in other cities such as Shiraz, Isfahan, and Hamadan. In addition, a sizable and influential community of Jews of Babylonian (Iraqi) origin immigrated to Iran in the early decades of the twentieth century and had become a sub-community of the Iranian–Jewish cultural landscape. Today, it is estimated that approximately 15,000–20,000 Jews live in Iran, making it still the largest community in the Middle East after Israel. Historical and Social Context “We go back a very long time,” an Iranian–Jewish woman told the author as we walked to her home in northern Tehran. She continued emphatically: “Remember the 2500-year celebration of the Persian Empire held by the Shah? We shall always remember it as another celebration, a celebration of our past as Jews who could have returned to Jerusalem but did not. Our core is Persian, having lived here for so long, our language, our food, the music we like, our names, our love of poetry and our lifestyle and taste, the way we like to arrange our homes, we are just like the other Iranians, we are Iranian Jews not just Jews.”3

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This comment is illustrative of the complex junctures of history, culture, and religion of the Jews of the Mesopotamian region, part of which is modern-day Iran. The books of Esther, Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel provide links to a physical landscape that contextualizes cultural and religious rituals of the Jews as a religious minority living in Babylonia, Mesopotamia, and the Persian Empire. From accounts of Cyrus the Great’s liberation of Jews from Babylonian captivity in 539 bc to the subsequent voluntary settlement of Jews in Iran, Jews have been living in this region continuously for over 2,700 years. Other Biblical documents provide a link to a more ancient landscape. Jews emigrated in two waves during the Assyrian conquest in 727 and 721 bce. They settled in Media (in what is now northwestern Iran), in Ecbatana, now referred to as Hamadan (considered to be the burial site of Queen Esther) and in Susa in southwestern Iran (the sanctuary and tomb of the prophet Daniel).4 Since Persian Jews have lived in this region from ancient times, their mother tongue, culture, and religious practices are intimately interwoven with and reflect their Persian past. During the twentieth century, after the Constitutional Revolution of 1906, and particularly after 1925, with the establishment of the Pahlavi dynasty, religious authority and institutions were reorganized to promote the secularization and modernization policies of both Reza Shah and his son Mohammad Reza Shah. Numerous discriminatory laws enacted in the late Safavid period (1502–1736) were abolished, such as the jizya (the capitation tax imposed on non-Muslims); najes (the prescribed codes of contact in public space, non-Muslims being considered impure), and restrictions in housing and residential opportunities. In the 1950s, economic and social interaction between Muslims and non-Muslims increased; Jews were now permitted to hire Muslim workers and to send their children to state schools and universities. These changes markedly improved the status of urban Iranian Jews, especially in the rapidly modernizing capital city.5 By the 1970s, Iranian Jews in the major cities of Iran—Tehran, Hamadan, Shiraz, Isfahan, Mashhad, and Kermanshah—were mostly integrated into urban secular society. Many moved out of the mahalleh (urban neighborhood) and assimilated in the broader economic, educational, ­literary, artistic, and cultural landscape of Iranian society. The social and architectural composition of Tehran determined that the poor predominantly inhabited the drier southern areas of the city. As it expanded northwards, the middle classes and the elite came to live in the cooler areas, closer to the Zagros Mountains, which were less congested and p ­ olluted. Iranian Jews purchased and rented homes and apartments in different neighborhoods, living side-by-side with Muslim, Christian, and Zoroastrian neighbors. They shopped in the same stores and intermingled in public spaces throughout the city. In these communities, religious minorities were often referred to as belonging to a minority without specificity as to religion.6 Synagogues gradually moved northward in Tehran,  from Ettefagh located near Tehran University in the center of town to Yusef Abad in  ­mid-town and  finally to where the Hakim synagogue is located, in the far north close to the mountains of Tajrish. During the 1979 Revolution, the Ayatollah Khomeini recognized Persian Jews as a religious minority that should be protected, making a clear distinction between Judaism and Zionism. He allowed the Jewish community, despite its small size, to continue to have one representative in the Iranian Parliament.7 In response, thousands of Jews took the conscious decision to remain in their homeland.8 Today, on the thirty-eighth anniversary of the Islamic Revolution, the majority of Jews reside in Tehran. Despite the sizeable reduction in the population, Iran in 2015 remains home to the largest community of Jews in the Middle East outside Israel. In an interview, a middle-aged Jewish woman reacted to the attempts by many in the West, including American and Iranian Jews living in the Diaspora, to split, isolate, and separate Jewishness from being an Iranian. She stated: “I am speaking to all Jewish Iranians. During your lifetime, do you ever remember a second in which you were Iranian, not Jewish? Or do you remember a second in which you were Jewish, not Iranian? Being Iranian and being Jewish, at least for us, are not two concepts, patched together. It’s the story of the head and body, if they are separated, neither head is head, nor body is body. The Jewish-Iranian will always be Jewish-Iranian. Denying Iranian identity is actually denying Jewish identity. Do the conspirators and/or their audience not know that if a Jewish Iranian denies being Iranian, he will no longer be Jewish as well?”9 This comment brings to mind Amin Maalouf’s statements on having multiple affiliations and allegiances such as religion, ethnicity, or nationality that are not in conflict with one another.10 It is the long history of coexistence; of shared linguistic, culinary, and cultural beliefs, and of mutual

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rituals, traditions, superstitions, norms, values, and attitudes that resulted in Iranian Jews remaining in their homeland after the Islamic Revolution. For Jews, Nowruz, the Persian New Year, is also associated with the holiday of Passover, which occurs around the same time and is referred to as Eid-e Nissan, or Festival of Nissan, being the Hebrew month in which Passover is celebrated. Iranian families gather around the sofreh haft sin (a ceremonial cloth displaying seven objects each beginning with the Persian letter sin, to hopefully bring health, happiness, prosperity, patience, joy, and renewal) and socialize until the exact moment of transition to the New Year. Family members often proudly take turns reciting verses from favorite poems memorized from childhood, especially from venerated Iranian poets such as Hafez and Omar Khayyam. Pious Muslim families also recite verses from the Qu’ran. Among Jewish families, the Torah is substituted for the Qu’ran and many also place a book of poems at the haft sin. A seventythree-year-old Tehrani woman, now living in Los Angeles, mentions in an interview with Saba Soomekh, a Jewish studies scholar, that celebrating the Iranian holiday of Nowruz also emphasizes Iranian–Jewish identity.11 These cultural practices illustrate the high level of integration and identity that Jews still experience in Iranian society, and that they practice in their synagogues and homes. Sacred Pilgrimages, Holy Tombs, and Judeo-Islamic Traditions The Jewish presence in ancient Persian and Islamic communities is evident in archeological and religious sites located across Iran. The enduring tradition of religious pilgrimages to holy tombs and shrines reflects the complex links of the Jews of Iran to their ancient past. For Iranian Jews, in addition to synagogue attendance, a vital component of Jewish religious identity is linked to pilgrimages to the holy shrines. Like their Muslim compatriots, Iranian Jews often use the two-week Nowruz vacation, and other holidays, to go on a religious pilgrimage (ziyarat) to the Esther-Mordechai tomb or the tomb of the prophet Zekharia in Hamadan. Soomekh indicates that “Iranian Jewish women, like Muslim women, practice (namaz) a combination of praying to God, embarking on a sacred pilgrimage, and making a monetary donation; in return, they believe their prayers will be answered.”12 Arash Abaie, Cultural Affairs Director of the Iranian Jewish Committee, notes that one of the most popular activities of The Tehran Jewish Committee is to organize overnight trips and pilgrimages to Susa and other heritage sites, such as the shrine of Serah, the daughter of Asher, near Isfahan, or the tomb of Harav Oursharga, in the city of Yazd. These trips are often sold out, being especially popular among youth.13 In March 2009, during the two-week Nowruz vacation period, the author joined the pilgrimage along with hundreds of others, both Muslims and Jews, to the Tomb of Daniel Naby, the prophet Daniel, located in the ancient Elamite city of Susa (Figs. 10.1 and 10.2). The ziggurat and tomb were recently renovated. The courtyard is designed to resemble the open spaces surrounding mosques and Muslim shrines. In addition, the exterior is tiled in a style reminiscent of Islamic patterns and colors. Entering the sanctuary, one immediately experiences a sense of sanctity and holiness. The ornate interior sanctuary of the tomb, perfumed with rosewater, is framed by exquisite mirror work, again similar to traditional Islamic decorative architecture and calligraphy.14 A Muslim caretaker of the tomb, interviewed in an article published in the Committee’s magazine Ofegh Bina, stated: “All of us worship one unique God and we are equal and there is no difference between a Jew and a Muslim.” Referring to this foundation of the Judeo-Persian heritage, a student who joined the tour in 2008 said, “I like participating in these tours; these places make us feel more integrated. I’m not so much a fan of going to synagogue, but I usually participate in such programs so that I am in more contact with my community.”15 This sanctuary affirms the ancient heritage of Judeo-Persians in Susa before the advent of Islam, and also illustrates the shared Judeo-Muslim traditions of this shrine, as well as at other historical sites in Shiraz, Hamadan, and elsewhere. In synagogues throughout Tehran, references to these ancient sites affirm the enduring bond of Iranian Jews to the land and its unique Judeo-Persian cultural heritage. Synagogues in Tehran At the time of writing, Tehran, had thirty-four synagogues. They are referred to as Kenesa by Persian Jews, a term that is derived from the ancient Aramaic language spoken by the Babylonian Jews. The

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Figure 10.1  Daniel Naby (Daniel the prophet) ziggurat and tomb in Susa, Iran (© Arlene Dallalfar)

Figure 10.2  Mirror work inside the Tomb of Daniel Naby (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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oldest synagogues in Tehran, the Hadash or Hakim Asher, built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, were originally homes in which a section or room was converted into a synagogue. All these synagogues are located in the southern part of Tehran, in which the oldest Jewish neighborhoods (mahalleh) were located. They are not considered to be particularly old, especially when compared to those found in cities like Mashhad, Hamadan, and Isfahan in which the holy sites and synagogues existed for several centuries. An important feature of synagogues and communities in Tehran today is that they are dispersed throughout multiple neighborhoods within the urban landscape, no neighborhood being exclusively Jewish. This layout differs from that of other cities with specific Jewish neighborhoods, such as the Jubareh district in Isfahan, in which the synagogues date back to the eighteenth century. The residential neighborhoods of Yusef Abad and Kakhe Shomali have a cluster of synagogues and Jewish residents, but mosques can also be seen in the same neighborhood. For example, the Abrishami synagogue is on the same street as a mosque, and this phenomenon illustrates the daily sharing of streets and other public spaces between Muslims and religious minorities. In the following discussion, the distinctive qualities of the Abrishami, Ettefagh, Yusef Abad, and Hakim synagogues will be examined. For example, as well as being a house of prayer, Abrishami also has an affiliated boys’ school and Ettefagh has an affiliated girls’ school. Yusef Abad has emerged as a primary cultural venue for the community. Hakim synagogue, located farthest north, with its hexagonal dome, represents a modernist structure for worship. In addition, both Abrishami and Yusef Abad has renovated and remodeled the mikvah, indicating women’s increased involvement at the synagogues. Synagogue buildings are central to Jewish communal life, providing a venue for worship and prayer, assembly, and religious study. Dr. Lee Shai Weissbach, a professor of history, in reflecting on the role of architecture as sacred space, mentions how synagogue architecture can be used to better understand historical and cultural patterns in urban spaces.16 Specific synagogues in Tehran, such as the Abrishami and Yusef Abad, have exterior and interior designs and layout that have been influenced by local Persian architectural styles for religious buildings. These include plain brick exteriors and glazed tiles, stucco walls, painted plaster, arches, domes, and pillars in the interior.17 As previously indicated, Jewish residences can best be identified within older neighborhoods surrounding south central Tehran such as the areas near the Yusef Abad, Abrishami, and Ettefagh synagogues. Nevertheless, due to the move of residents northward since the 1960s, the Hakim synagogue in northern Tehran has also emerged as a prominent synagogue in the city. Traditionally, Jewish prayers may be conducted whenever ten Jewish men (a minyan) are present, especially for certain communal prayers. In a study of Iranian synagogues, architectural historian Mohammad Gharipour indicates that sanctity in the Jewish perspective is rooted in particular items of furnishings, texts, or the assembly of worshippers, rather than the synagogue architecture.18 Synagogues in Tehran also embody another quality of Persian architecture namely the hierarchy of spaces, with courtyards serving as intermediate spaces. Mohammad Gharipour and Rafael Sedighpour explain it as follows: “The main internal elements of the prayer hall in a synagogue are as follows, ranked by descending religious and spatial importance: the Holy Ark (heikhal); the platform on which the person reading aloud from the Torah stands (bimah); seats for men; a women’s section (khazarat nashim or ezrat nashim); the entrance; and a perforated wall which is in most cases ornamented with brick and tile.”19 The synagogues of Tehran that have been listed here also have a main sanctuary in which prayers are held. It is usually the largest hall; some also contain smaller rooms, which are used for study and offices. This layout is clearly visible in the Abrishami synagogue, located in one of Tehran’s predominantly Jewish neighborhoods, Yusef Abad. Given its connection to the private Jewish boys’ school next door, the boys frequently use the anterooms in the synagogue to prepare for their bar-mitzvah ceremony. Men’s and women’s seating areas are separated. The women’s section is located in the balcony or behind a partition created to separate men from women, as in Orthodox synagogues in the West. The synagogue building is oriented toward Jerusalem. Mohammad Gharipour and Rafael Sedighpour add: “In all synagogues, the heikhal (the Ark holding the Torah scrolls) is located on the western side of the interior in order to face Jerusalem. The orientation was always signified by an elaborately decorated wall facing Jerusalem. The requirement to direct oneself toward Jerusalem has roots in

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the Mishnah and Talmud, which explain that Jewish people who pray must direct their hearts toward the city of Jerusalem.”20 The ark is always a step or more higher than the floor of the prayer-hall, and ornate curtains and/or doors cover and protect the interior space in which the Torah scrolls are housed. The synagogue design also often includes windows to bring light into the interior (Fig. 10.3). According to Figure 10.3  Windows and filtered light in the Ettefagh Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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Abraham Isaac Kook, the renowned Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Palestine under the British Mandate, synagogue windows were to serve as reminders that during prayer, worshipers should be aware of the outside world. Weissbach adds that in synagogues, windows often are expected to be twelve in number, corresponding to the twelve tribes of Israel, “each with its own window to heaven, so to speak.”21 The Ettefagh and Hakim synagogues are excellent examples of how these sanctuaries use windows and light to inspire an interior sanctity within the physical space.22 An important feature of Iranian synagogues is the centrality of the bimah, the raised platform where the Torah scrolls are placed for reading and praying (Fig. 10.4 and 5). There is also a tradition of placing the bimah in the center of the sanctuary. This practice has a deep symbolic meaning. According to Gharipour and Sedighpour, “inside the synagogue, two focal points shape the spatial experience. The bimah serves as the centralizer and the Holy Ark orients the viewer. The two are the signifiers of a synagogue, and are points at which light enters. In the wall above the heikhal, a small window shows the direction towards Jerusalem.”23 All of the synagogues of Tehran, as well as elsewhere in Iran, have floor coverings consisting of exquisite Persian carpets with smaller carpets framing the bimah, as well as other materials and textiles containing Jewish symbols found on chairs and columns (Fig. 10.6). Anton Felton, the first scholar to articulate a cultural framework for examining the art of Jewish carpets, clarifies their

Figure 10.4  Carrying the Torah from the heikhal (ark) to the bimah (pulpit) in the Abrishami Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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Figure 10.5 Jewish–themed carpet covering the bimah (pulpit) in the Abrishami Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

Figure 10.6 Jewish–themed carpets in the Abrishami Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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s­ ignificance as being primarily in the use of traditional Jewish symbols such as the menorah, the Star of David and Hebrew inscriptions, thus giving them a enduring identity.24 In Jewish families, the woman’s primary religious responsibilities as a daughter, wife, and mother are within the private domain of the home. Since the 1979 Revolution, however, as public space has become more religious and Islamic, many Iranian Jews, and especially women, have also become more observant, learning to read from the Torah and participate more actively in ­synagogue  worship.25 For example, women have petitioned for more mikvaot to be built in the  courtyards of existing synagogues. These cultural changes have led to six of the larger ­synagogues  constructing a ritual bath within their courtyards and compounds. These are open most days and evenings, except on Saturday. When the author visited the Abrishami synagogue, the attendant, Sima, gave her a tour of the facility and described the process of full ritual immersion in water. She  confirmed that more families are attending synagogue services and that the community as a whole has become more observant. She mentioned that for women, “in addition to keeping the Sabbath and kashrut, adhering to ritual purification is a vital component of family and community life.”26 In the changing room, I saw leaflets in Farsi that describe the importance of the mikvah, providing step-by-step instructions for proper enactment of the ritual. As we entered the inner room in which the shower and ritual bath are located, Sima pointed to the walls and to the blue tiles spelling out a Persian transliteration of the Hebrew blessing to be uttered after each of the three immersions. For Iranian Jews, Farsi (Persian) is the language used for worship and ritual practice. The mikvah has become an integral part of Jewish women’s routines, particularly in relation to purification rituals for Jewish holidays, menstruation cycles, weddings, sexual activity, and childbirth.27 Thus, within the compounds of the Yusef Abad and Abrishami synagogues, the investment in building, expanding, and maintaining a mikvah affirms both the increasing role of women’s participation in religious rituals for spiritual purification and the increasing centrality of women’s religious customs in Jewish communities of Tehran (Fig. 10.7).28 These Iranian customs and traditions passed down by both men and women reinforce a Middle Eastern Jewish cultural identity. Figure 10.7  Mikvah (ritual bath) in the Abrishami Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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The Hakim (also known as Pessian) Synagogue The Hakim synagogue clearly displays numerous elements of symbolic design discussed above, such as the centrality of the bimah, stained and colored glass windows providing filtered light, and Jewish carpet designs. The architect and engineer of this unique structure were Mansur Makabi and Amir Shoshani. The Hakim synagogue represents the most contemporary synagogue design in Tehran. The construction of the synagogue began in 1965 and was completed in 1973, having been sponsored by Mr. Hakim and his sons. The site is located on Pessian Street, in the wealthy district of Zafaranieh in northern Tehran, and consists of a 1,000 sq. m. (10,764 sq. ft) plot of land in a residential area. The building occupies 650 sq. m. (nearly 7000 sq. ft) of the property of which 500 sq. m. (5382 sq. ft) is devoted to the entrance section, the library, and the men’s and women’s sections in the synagogue. From the street the gated exterior gives it a look that is very similar to other walled buildings, the tops of trees visible indicating that there is a garden in front of the building. The Hakim synagogue is also located in a mixed Jewish and Muslim neighborhood, segregated more along class lines than by religious affiliation. The exterior of the building is framed by a distinctive hexagonal dome that is fourteen meters high at its highest point, under which the prayer-hall is located. Each of the walls of the building has two white triangular support structures with long stained-glass windows next to them. The entrance to the synagogue is of marble with three steps and two pillars supporting a square canopy over a door of dark wood. There is room in the Hakim for 400 seats, men occupying the lower sections underneath the dome, and seating for women located in the rear elevated areas. The east and north sections are reserved for women, with benches placed in a graduated step layout to allow clear views of the bimah. This seating formation also creates an intimate environment as congregants pray and worship in very close proximity to each other. In the men’s section, a number of small wooden tables with white tablecloths are placed in front of a row of chairs behind the bimah for prayer books that have been translated into Persian. The floor is covered with numerous ornate Persian carpets and a large chandelier hangs in the center of the room, with a smaller one near the Holy Ark. The building contains an entrance, office, reception area, library, and kitchenette as well as the prayer-hall.29 In the entrance room leading to the synagogue there is a billboard showing pictures of the construction of the synagogue and a description of how the unique hexagonal structure of Hakim synagogue is representative of an ancient Israelite tent as described in the Torah. This synagogue is also illustrative of geometric patterns and hexagonal designs that have been used in Islamic architecture for centuries.30 Hakim synagogue is a sanctuary that offers visual serenity, creating a peaceful and sacred experience. In particular, the twelve stained-glass windows offer poetic variations in shadow and filtered colors of red, blue, and yellow, as the light shifts throughout the day and afternoon, creating a unique spiritual atmosphere. In Iranian synagogues, except when praying, congregants speak in their mother tongue, Farsi, and sing hybridized Farsi and Hebrew melodies that echo throughout synagogues on every Sabbath and festival.31 A distinctive feature of the synagogue is that the hexagonal shape offers excellent acoustics so that the services can be heard throughout the synagogue without the need for a microphone (Fig. 10.8). The Ettefagh Synagogue and School Nearly half of the synagogues of Tehran are attached to larger buildings that are private Jewish schools. These include the Abrishami, Ettehad, Ettefagh, Bag-e-Saba, Rah-e Danesh, and Rouh-e Shad synagogues, among others. Two synagogues, the Ettefagh and the Fakhrabad, are separate from the school building. Others, such as Mullah Yusef and Azizkhan, are not linked to schools and are unadorned rectangular structures located beside a courtyard. At times, even a private house can be designated as a synagogue, one example is the Gisha synagogue.32 The Ettefagh synagogue and school is the legacy of the Iraqi–Iranian Jewish community in Tehran. The Jews of Iraq, much like the Jews of Iran, can trace their history and culture back nearly three millennia to various Babylonian–Jewish communities that co-existed with other peoples in the region during the Persian, Arab–Islamic, and Ottoman periods. Between 1918 and 1932, during the  British Mandate in Iraq, most Jews lived in Baghdad, numbering 50,000 according to a 1920 census. Approximately 37,000 Jews lived in other cities throughout Iraq, including the 18,000 Jews in the Kurdish region of Iraq, such as in the town of Zakho. Ariel Sabar, a Kurdish Jew, journalist, and writer states that by forming a prosperous class of merchants, bankers, and financiers, the Jewish

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Figure 10.8  Sabbath service in the Hakim Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

community established numerous economic and social ties with Muslim merchants and contributed to the promotion of international trade.33 Throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the Jews of Iraq and Iran maintained contact with each other through trading, while also maintaining their links through Talmudic studies. The increase in Iraqi-Jewish migration to Iran can be traced back to World War I when young men fled conscription by the Turks. Many relocated just across the border from Basra to the southern towns of Iran, primarily Ahvaz, Abadan, and Khorramshahr, as well as Kermanshah in the north. Unlike its neighbors, Iran offered Jews the opportunity for lucrative employment and trading. The next major wave of emigration of Iraqi Jews to Iran occurred between 1940 and 1951 as tensions increased in Iraq. This was particularly the case in 1941, when British troops landed in Basra and defeated Rashid Ali, reinstating their ally, Crown Prince Abdullah on June 1. Rioters and mobs attacked Jewish homes and businesses and slaughtered an estimated 150–180 Jews, the massacre known as the Farhud. The largest exodus of Jews from the area occurred after the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948; 120,000 Jews left Iraq, many of whom traveled through Iran or decided to resettle their families in Iran. Jewish communities across the Arab world were negatively affected by the rise of pan-Arab nationalism, anticolonial movements, pro-Nazi movements, Zionist activity, and the establishment of the State of Israel. In contrast, in Iran, particularly the period from the 1950s through the late 1970s, proved a period of increased economic prosperity for Jewish Iranians as well as for the blossoming Iraqi-Jewish community in Tehran. David Menashri, Professor of Middle Eastern and African History at Tel Aviv University, conducted research in Tehran in the mid-1970s and wrote: “I witnessed a Jewish community that was free, educated, and wealthy.” He adds, “Although there were people of low income among them, the vast majority could be defined as middle class or upper middle class. Some became very rich, taking full advantage of the freedom granted to them, the reform programs and the growing oil income.”34 Similarly, by the mid-1970s, members of the Iraqi-Iranian Jewish community in Tehran used their trans-national connections and multilingual skills (most spoke and read Arabic, Farsi, French, and English) to establish lucrative business and trade relations with European and American companies interested in investing in Iran.35

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Iraqi Jews in Iran were a minority within a minority. They created a tightly knit community in Tehran, and despite economic differences between families, the practice of endogamy was promoted within this sub-community, in order to retain their separate Iraqi traditions. Most Iranian Jews referred to them as “the Arabs”, thus distinguishing them as different and culturally separate from their own Judeo-Persian roots. They spoke Arabic at home and in synagogue. In the Ettefagh synagogue, English and Arabic, in addition to Farsi, were used in the exhibition of commemorative artifacts and in prayers. The complex cultural reality is manifest in the plaques bearing the names of members of the community on the synagogue chairs. Younger members of the community, especially the first generation of Iranian-born children, learned to negotiate their Arab heritage creatively while simultaneously forging an Iranian identity. One of the most notable and significant Iraqi-Jewish contributions to the host Jewish community was the building of a private co-educational school, the Ettefagh School, often referred to as the “Iraqi School.” The school and adjacent synagogue were designed and constructed by an established Jewish Iraqi engineer, Mayer Abdollah Basun. In order to do so, he purchased a large parcel of land adjacent to property that had already earmarked for the synagogue located next to Tehran University and Engelab Street. It is estimated that he spent close to ten million U.S. dollars in today’s currency, in his donations to charities and community causes for the wider Jewish community of Tehran. Saleh and Davud Mushi-Hezquel-Hayim funded the land acquisition, and donations from members of the community enabled completion of both projects in 1947. The Ettefagh School and synagogue are architecturally significant landmarks for the Jewish community in Tehran.36 The school and synagogue compound is located at the corner of Engelab Street and takes up a whole city block. It has a brick facade typical of post-World War II buildings in Tehran. The building has two entrances, a door that leads to the school and a gate that opens onto a narrow rectangular courtyard with the synagogue on the left and school on the right. Upon entering the courtyard, there is a two-story brick building on the left which houses the synagogue’s janitor. From the entrance of the courtyard four metal doors can be seen; these lead to the men’s section and the main floor of the prayer-hall. The women’s entrance is at the end of the courtyard, distinguishable by two columns that support an arch bearing a Hebrew inscription. This entrance leads directly to the second floor of the synagogue. Also visible is a row of three windows on the second floor. The interior of the Ettefagh synagogue has an east–west orientation with high ceilings, and a U-shaped balcony, which provides seating for women and children. While visiting the synagogue, Mrs. Najia Lavie, a prominent member of the Iraqi-Iranian Jewish community, pointed out that its construction was similar to that of an amphitheater, allowing all members of the community, regardless of where they were seated, so that everyone had a clear view of the service in the prayerhall below.37 Between the bimah in the center of the synagogue and the Holy Ark, there is a row of three large crystal chandeliers. This rectangular spatial orientation of lighting and chandelier placement, allows for communal unity evident in many elements of the architectural design as well as the central location of the bimah for leading prayers. Windows, offering natural light, are located on both the second and third floors facing the courtyard. One unique feature of Ettefagh synagogue is the series of white onion-bulb lamps engraved in Farsi, Hebrew, and English, in memory of members of the community who have passed away. Wooden chairs upholstered in velvet stand around the perimeter of the sanctuary. When worshipers stand up to pray, everyone faces the Ark. Most chairs bear small plaques engraved with the names of men who were benefactors of the synagogue. Chairs of the most prominent members of the community are arranged in the front rows, closest to the Holy Ark. Chairs located in the seating area under the balcony, next to the slender supporting pillars frame the spacious interior of the synagogue (Fig. 10.9). During the service, when there is a ceremonial procession, a few of the Torah scrolls are removed from the Ark, and the men carry them down the stairs, alongside the members of the congregation, who are standing, many of whom reach out to touch and kiss the Torah scrolls as they are carried to the bimah. The Ettefagh synagogue possesses some of the oldest Babylonian Torah scrolls; these sacred texts are a constant reminder of the continuity of Jewish culture and tradition in the countries now known as Iran and Iraq.38 In this synagogue, the bimah is surrounded by rows of chairs on both sides; women sitting in the balcony section above can see all the congregants below during the services. This affirms the centrality of the multiple functions of Ettefagh Synagogue as a house of prayer, study, and of assembly, as well as the closeness of the community. In 2010, Mrs. Najia Lavie initiated a restoration project for the upkeep of the building and its interior, cleaning and mending the carpets, re-upholstering and creating new plaques for chairs that are in disrepair, as well as electrical repairs and re-painting the

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Figure 10.9  Chairs and lights surrounding the bimah (pulpit) in the Ettefagh Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

walls. Funds earmarked by the Iranian Jewish Committee for repair, restoration, and maintenance of synagogues in Tehran have allowed for major structural improvements in numerous synagogue buildings, including the Ettefagh. The Ettefagh compound, including both the synagogue and school, illustrates the ways in which the Iraqi–Iranian Jewish community has sought to both continue its Arab–Jewish legacy and honor its new homeland by adapting to fluency in the Farsi language and Iranian-Jewish culture.39 For over 20 years, income generated by the Iraqi synagogue and the use of the grand ballroom built in the school for large functions such as weddings (also currently used for student examinations) funded the Ettefagh school, and enabled hundreds of students from poor families (about thirty percent of the total student body) to attend the school on a full scholarship. In the 1970s, under the direction of Barukh Berukhim, Ettefagh boasted an 85 percent pass rate in the difficult university entry examinations. With its high standards of academic excellence, the school attracted non-Jewish students as well, and in the 1970s about twenty percent of the two thousand student body were Muslim, Christian, and Baha’i Iranians.40 After the Islamic Revolution, most of the Iraqi Jews left Iran. The Ettefagh synagogue is currently used by Iranian Jews for weekly prayers and festivals (Figs. 10.10 and 10.11). The remaining members of the Iraqi–Iranian community, particularly those who married Iranian Jews, continue their tradition of worship at the synagogue. Since the mid-1980s, the balcony section has been closed off, and women congregants now sit in the section behind the bimah during services.41 The Ettefagh School across the courtyard has been converted into a Muslim elementary school for girls. About 150 Jewish students still attend the Ettefagh school, and Hebrew and Judaism studies are available for these students. Both the land and the buildings are still owned by the Iraqi-Jewish Committee of Tehran, under the auspices of the Iranian Jewish Committee. The school’s headmistress, Ms. Rahmani, indicated that although Jewish students are no longer the majority of pupils at the school, its reputation is still intact and given its rigorous standards, there is a waiting list for those interested in transferring to the school.42 Jewish girls often walk across the courtyard in the early morning to pray in the synagogue before classes start. During the hours when Islamic teachings and the Qu’ran are taught to Muslim students, Hebrew and Jewish religious teachings of the Torah and Talmud are taught

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Figure 10.10  Ceremonial Hall in the Ettefagh School, now converted into an examination room (© Arlene Dallalfar)

Figure 10.11  Ettefagh students at a Bat-Mitzvah ceremony (© Arlene Dallalfar)

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to Jewish girls. Every spring, girls from the Ettefagh School celebrate their bat mitzvah in a group ceremony at one of the large event halls in Tehran.43 The sociologist Susan Sered advocates research that addresses the meeting-point of religion and culture. While interviewing Middle Eastern Jewish women, some of whom originated from Iran, about their religious activities, Sered realized that the respondents consistently answered in terms of food and food preparation.44 It shows that for women foodways are a symbol of Jewish identity and continuity of both the Iranian and Jewish culinary traditions. Muslim laws prohibiting the eating of pork or animals that have not been ritually slaughtered, i.e. meat that is not halal, demonstrate cultural similarities with Jewish dietary laws. Muslims and Jews also observe similar laws in food preparation and consumption.45 Thus, in addition to synagogue attendance, religious women express their attachment to Judaism by maintaining kashrut and cooking special dishes and pastries. They perform many rituals in the home, such as the weekly lighting of candles and preparation of a rice dish for the Shabbat dinner, as well as for other holidays such as the Jewish New Year, the Day of Atonement, Chanukah, Purim, and particularly Passover. During these holidays, the family, often including the extended family, gathers to share a communal meal.46 Sered explains that on the Sabbath, observant Jewish men attend synagogue services, while women are responsible for preparing the Sabbath meal.47 For women, the preparation of food and maintaining dietary rules such as kashrut is a dynamic spiritual and cultural activity and plays an important role in preserving religious Iranian-Jewish ethnic identity. The Jews also cook foods that are associated with centuries-old Iranian culinary traditions such as observing traditional dietary regulations by classifying foods as hot (garmi) or cold (sardi) in addition to maintaining a kosher kitchen.48 Studies performed by Saba Soomekh on Jewish women’s responsibilities in the domestic sphere demonstrate that their participation in synagogue activities is replaced by food preparation.49 The Yusef Abad Synagogue Given its convenient location in central Tehran, the Yusef Abad Synagogue has emerged as one of the most popular synagogues in Tehran over the last two decades. In the 1950s, a small synagogue named Suket Shalom served the Jewish population in the Yusef Abad community of central Tehran. The Yusef Abad compound covers a large area of 1076 square meters (11,582 square feet) on Seyed Jamal-e Din Asadabadi Street and Fifteenth Street. Its growing membership led to a decision to expand the synagogue, and in 1966, Ebrahim Yusian initiated the project, contributing to the purchase of land abutting the Suket Shalom Synagogue. He acted as an advisor to the engineers and architects replacing the old synagogue with a new larger building, completed a year later, to accommodate the increasing demand for synagogue services. In 1997, faulty electric wiring caused a fire, severely damaging the eastern section of the synagogue. This resulted in a new plan to construct an additional ceremonial hall with space for 250 persons in which to hold religious and cultural events. On the southern side of the compound, there is a small balcony and a courtyard. A kitchen, washrooms for men and women, and a small mikvah that was refurbished in 2000, are located within this courtyard. In the last decade, the yard has also been used to accommodate larger crowds (primarily women and adolescent girls) on the Sabbath and other ceremonial occasions.50 From the street, the synagogue building resembles the residential buildings. It stands behind a stone wall 2.5 meters (eight feet) high with tall metal railings rising above it. One distinguishing feature is also visible from the street, namely the presence of two arches in the ­brickwork that flank a rectangular window. The arches are surmounted inlaid mosaic tiles and a Hebrew inscription identifying the building as a place of worship and a synagogue. One of the metal gates leading to the inner compound is centered beneath the window. There is a striking ­contrast between the plain brick and stone exterior wall of the compound and building and the  ornate interior of the synagogue with handsome mosaic tiles and large chandeliers. When ­entering the compound from the gate, one encounters a narrow alleyway. The two-story brick building is located in the northern section of the plot, with two entrances from the street, facing west and south. The dining, reception, mikvah, and washroom sections are further down the corridor leading to the back of the compound. The synagogue is on two floors and can hold 800 people; the ground floor, reserved for males, holds up to 500 people, and the balcony and second floor, reserved for females, can hold 300 people. The synagogue is built in a contemporary style, with exquisite tiling framing the walls and columns facing the street. There is a large central chandelier surrounded by four smaller ones in a square formation enhancing the beauty of the tiles facing the bimah and the congregation. A distinctive

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Figure 10.12  Tile mosaic in the Yusef Abad Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

feature of the Persian style of architecture is the use of colored tiles as surface ornamentation to decorate edges and interiors of buildings. The tiles beside the Holy Ark feature traditional floral and plant designs as well as geometric motifs. There are shamdan (candles) on each side at the lower level and an illustration of the Ten Commandments at the higher level. The tiles illustrate the magnificence achieved in creating art in the service of a spiritual a­ esthetic. The use of different types of tiling in Iranian architecture, such as inlaid and mosaic tiles, has a long tradition dating back to the Elamite and Achaemenian periods. After the rise of Islam, particularly during the sixteenth century and the Safavid period, tiles were used extensively in the architecture of religious buildings. Tile decorations continue to be used to  embellish, adorn,  and decorate religious buildings as well in public spaces throughout the country (Fig. 10.12).51 In Tehran, the Yusef Abad synagogue is a magnificent example of Persian tile mosaics. The colors used are mostly dark and light blue, white and black, with traces of green, yellow, and beige. There are also geometric patterns and curving floral and plant motifs surrounding Hebrew inscriptions reminiscent of the religious quotations seen in mosques throughout Iran (Fig. 10.13). Beautiful tiling frames the two separate sections in which the Torah scrolls are kept. There are also two corresponding areas for reading the Torah.52 These tile mosaics and spaces illustrate how Iranian Jews have adopted and used principles associated with Persian and Islamic tile art in the most sacred space of the synagogue, as a surround for the Holy Ark. In the Yusef Abad synagogue, wherever the worshipers sit, they are surrounded by beautiful craftsmanship. Rows of beige chairs are arranged in the front facing the Holy Ark and on either side, additional rows of chairs are placed at right angles to them, directed toward the center of the room. The large rectangular wooden doors of the Holy Ark facing the bimah are also noteworthy. These doors and panels were commissioned in 1967 and were built for the synagogue by artisans in Isfahan in 1971. They display geometric fretwork and intricate floral arabesque designs carved in the wood. Yusef Abad synagogue is an e­ xquisite example of how synagogue architects incorporated and adapted local styles and the  national ­architectural environment. This phenomenon is well explained by Weissbach who notes:

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Figure 10.13 Hebrew inscription in the Yusef Abad Synagogue (© Arlene Dallalfar)

“The selection of national styles by architects, and their acceptance by Jewish congregants, provides a concrete illustration of the way in which at least some Jews in some countries were making an effort to identify with their homelands, whether out of self-confidence, pride, and a genuine sense of allegiance, or in order to refute any lingering suspicions that they were aliens even within their own countries.”53 The Yusef Abad Synagogue is an example of the vital need to understand the nuances behind the architecture in the wider cultural context of Iranian society. Given the restrictions on public recreational activity and because of its large spacious interior and exquisite tile work, Yusef Abad has emerged as the most popular synagogue in Tehran. Cultural functions, such as poetry readings and lectures, are routinely held at the synagogue, encouraging attendance by the younger generation, and creating new opportunities for youth and families to socialize. At times, non-Jewish guests are also invited to these cultural events. One of the colorful flyers posted on the bulletin board in the courtyard of the Yusef Abad Synagogue states, “The essence of Judaism consists of the Sabbath, kashrut, and cultivation of family.” The Yusef Abad Synagogue is very much a house of assembly, providing a community space for socializing and matchmaking in addition to its historical function as a house of prayer and religious study. One can easily witness an intimate communal atmosphere in both the women’s and men’s sections of this synagogue.54 Jewish men perform the sacred rituals in synagogue, while Jewish women are not active in leading prayers and reading the Torah in synagogue worship. Instead, pious women experience a strong spiritual connection to Judaism through synagogue attendance and, more importantly, daily activities such as preparing kosher food in the home. In this sense, for observant women, the synagogue is just one door that leads to holy and spiritual acts, and maintaining a kosher home is equally vital in creating sacred practices and maintaining Jewish identity.

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Conclusion The Jewish community and synagogues in Tehran continue to be vibrant. Jewish and Muslim Iranians have many similar notions of space as well as cultural and religious practices. Ancient religious sites and the importance of rituals, such as pilgrimages to Jewish shrines, offer a link between Islamic and Jewish religious practices demonstrating shared Abrahamic faith and traditions. The Jews, as citizens of Iran, retain the elasticity and fluidity of both their national and Jewish identities. Iranians Jews do not inhabit separate or segregated spatial and cultural environments. Rather, they coexist with other minorities and Muslims, creating intercommunal neighborhoods across the city where socio-economic class is the primary determinant of their options. In their religious practices in synagogues and at home, Iranian Jews are directly involved in the production and reconstruction of both Iranian identity and Judeo-Persian cultural and religious traditions. Gender interacts with religion in both the home and in the synagogue, establishing a framework for addressing physical space. Synagogues have expanded to include a mikvah, primarily used by women. These sacred public and private sites are the most overt expression of a Jewish “place,” a focus of Jewish material culture. Furthermore, they provide a clue to the broader meanings of how “place” articulates the community experience at the local level for Iranian Jews. As the numbers of Iranian Jews have dwindled in the last four decades as so many have emigrated, and with increasing internal migration from smaller cities, Tehran has emerged as the dominant center of Jewish life in Iran today. Further research could help in the understanding of differences in spatial and ritual practices of Jews moving to Tehran from other cities such as Mashhad or Hamadan, and the influence of the incomers on existing rituals and religious ceremonies in Tehran’s synagogues. Today, the Jewish–Iraqi–Iranian community in the Diaspora lives mostly in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Israel. Iranian Jews living in Long Island, New York have established their own synagogue designed to emulate the Ettefagh (Babylonian style) synagogue that includes the Babylonian Jewish Center. Members volunteer their time for religious and cultural activities aimed at reinforcing their multicultural traditions and rituals. Similarly, in Los Angeles and New York, Iranian Jews, despite the presence of multiple Ashkenazi and Sephardi synagogues in their communities, are also building their own synagogues in order to ensure that their JudeoPersian traditions and language survive in the Diaspora. Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Arash Abaie, Najia Lavie, and Courtney Mitterling for their valuable help in the research and collection of primary source documents. Also, her special thanks go to Fereydoun Safizadeh, Nahid Mozaffari, Mohammad Gharipour, and anonymous reviewers for their thoughtful comments on previous drafts of this paper, and to Rafael Sedighpour for making available a chapter from his Master’s thesis on synagogues in Tehran as well as his publications in Farsi. Notes 1. Arlene Dallalfar, “Worlds Apart: Mothers, Daughters, and Family Life,” in Esther’s Children: A Portrait of Iranian Jews, ed. Houman Sarshar (Philadelpha: Jewish Publication Society, 2002), 405–414; idem, “Iraqi Jews in Iran,” in Sarshar, Esther’s Children, 275–281; idem, “Negotiated Allegiances: Contemporary Iranian Jewish Identities,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 30, no. 2 (2010): 272–296. Feminist ethnographic methods have also enhanced our ability to recognize the importance of women’s roles in family and society and the necessity of incorporating their points of view when gathering data. The author finds that the varied dimensions of sacred space and rituals extend beyond the recognized parameters of synagogues to homes and other places. 2. Deborah A. Gordon, “Border Work: Feminist Ethnography and the Dissemination of Literacy,” in Women’s Writing Culture, ed. Ruth Behar and Deborah A. Gordon (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 373–390; Sherry B. Ortner, “Introduction,” Representations 59 (1997): 1–14; Lila Abu-Lughod, “Introduction: Feminist Longings and Postcolonial Conditions,” in Remaking Women: Feminism and Modernity in the Middle East, ed. Lila Abu-Lughod (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 3–33. 3. Jaleh Hakim, interviewed by Arlene Dallalfar, March 15, 2000, in Los Angeles, California. 4. Trita Parsi, Treacherous Alliance: The Secret Dealings of Israel, Iran, and the United States (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 1–19. 5. Moshe Yegar, “The Jews of Iran,” The Scribe: Journal of Babylonian Jewry 56 (1993); Janet Afary, “From Outcasts to Citizens: Jews in Qajar Iran,” in Sarshar, Esther’s Children, 137–145. 6. David Menashri, “The Pahlavi Monarchy and the Islamic Revolution,” in Sarshar, Esther’s Children, 395.

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7. The official site of the Iranian Jewish Committee in Tehran, “Archive,” Tehran Jewish Committee, http:// www.iranjewish.com (accessed May 9, 2011). The site contains many interviews in Farsi and English, including statements by prominent members of the Jewish community regarding their decision to remain in their homeland. 8. In the winter of 1978 demonstrations against the Pahlavi regime intensified, culminating in the 1979 Revolution and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Iranian Jews, particularly the younger generation, were active in demonstrations and gatherings, expressing allegiance to Iran and their solidarity with other citizens struggling to create a more democratic society. See Dallalfar, “Negotiated Allegiances,” 293. 9. Anonymous quote in Ofegh Bina: The Cultural, Social, and News Magazine of Tehran Jewish Committee 9, no. 34 (2008): 4. 10. Maalouf, a Lebanese–French author, was born and raised in a Christian family in Lebanon, where he lived until the age of twenty-six, and has also resided in Paris for more than two decades. Amin Maalouf, In the Name of Identity: Violence and the Need to Belong (New York: Arcade, 2000), 26. 11. Saba Soomekh, “Iranian Jewish Women: Domesticating Religion and Appropriating Zoroastrian Religion in Ritual Life,” Journal of Jewish Women’s Studies and Gender Issues (2009): 30. 12. Ibid., 27. 13. Arash Abaie, interviewed in Tehran by Arlene Dallalfar, January 4, 2014. 14. Inside the sanctuary, the author was quickly pulled into the wave of worshippers rotating clockwise around the shrine and kissing it. A Muslim woman had a small booklet in her hand and was reading prayers from it as she moved around the tomb. The author asked if she could look at it, and holding it close to herself, she told me that it describes the Jewish prophet Daniel’s life story and how he survived being thrown into a den of lions. In a whispering voice, she turned to a page and pointed to the quote by Imam Ali stating, “The person who makes the pilgrimage to visit my brother Daniel is in fact also visiting me.” 15. Anonymous, Ofegh Bina: The Cultural, Social, and News Magazine of Tehran Jewish Committee 9, no. 34 (2008): 4–5. 16. Lee Shai Weissbach, “Buildings Fraught with Meaning: An Introduction to a Special Issue on Synagogue Architecture in Context,” Jewish History 25 (2011): 1–11. 17. Rafael Sedighpour, “Architecture of Iran’s Synagogues,” Quarterly Science and Research Publication in Architecture and Urbanism 13, no. 39 (2003): 85–90; Mohammad Gharipour and Rafael Sedighpour, “Synagogues of Isfahan: The Architecture of Resignation and Integration,” in Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities Across the Islamic World, ed. Mohammad Gharipour (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 178–202; Rafael Sedighpour, “Synagogues: Jewish Places of Worship” (Master’s thesis (in Farsi), Shahid–Beheshti University, 2003–4). 18. Gharipour and Sedighpour, “Synagogues of Isfahan,” 182. 19. Ibid., 190. 20. Ibid. 21. Weissbach, “Buildings Fraught with Meaning,” 2; Gharipour and Sedighpour, “Synagogues of Isfahan,” 185; interview with Arash Abaie. 22. Weissbach, “Buildings Fraught with Meaning,” 2. 23. Gharipour and Sedighpour, “Synagogues of Isfahan,” 193. 24. Anton Felton, “Jewish Persian Carpets” in Sarshar, Esther’s Children: A Portrait of Iranian Jews, 295. 25. Halacha, the Jewish code of law, and laws of kashrut permit specific foods for consumption. There also are specific instructions in the Pentateuch for implementing the legal codes regarding preparation and consumption of food such as the ritual slaughter of animals, forbidding the eating of pork or of fish that do not have fins and scales, and not mixing milk with meat in meals. For further details, see Susan Sered, “Food and Holiness: Cooking as a Sacred Act among Middle-Eastern Jewish Women,” Anthropological Quarterly 61, no. 3 (July, 1988): 129–139. While carrying out fieldwork in Tehran over the past three decades, the author has seen more families reverting to keeping kosher, and many no longer drive on the Sabbath. 26. Abrishami Synagogue, participant observation by Arlene Dallalfar, February 16, 2009, in Tehran, Iran. 27. Ibid. 28. Dallalfar, “Negotiated Allegiances,” 292; interview with Arash Abaie. 29. Sedighpour, “Synagogues,” 109–111. 30. Gharipour and Sedighpour, “Synagogues of Isfahan,” 111. 31. Arash Abaie, interview by Arlene Dallalfar, December 23, 2014, in Tehran, Iran. The website http:// www.7dorim.com (in Hebrew and Farsi) (accessed on June 10, 2016) provides much information on the Jewish communities in Tehran and elsewhere in Iran, with images and descriptions of shrines, synagogues, activities of the Jewish Committee, and contributions of influential Jewish Iranians in various social and scientific fields. To hear unique Iranian Jewish melodies, prayers, and singing, one can visit this website and simultaneously watch pictures of various synagogues and hear congregants in the background. 32. Sedighpour, “Architecture of Iran’s Synagogues,” 85–90. 33. By 499 ce, Jewish scholars in Iraq had completed the landmark Babylonian Talmud, an Aramaic text recognized then and now as the world’s most authoritative guide to Jewish laws. For further research on Iraqi Jews, see Dallalfar, “Iraqi Jews in Iran”; Nir Shohet, The Story of an Exile: A Short History of the Jews of Iraq (Tel Aviv: Association for the Promotion of Research, History and Art, 1982), 226–228. Also, Ariel Sabar’s memoir, My Father’s Paradise: A Son’s Search for His Jewish Past in Kurdish Iraq (Chapel

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Hill: Algonquin Books, 2008), provides both a rich account of his grandfather’s and father’s experiences in Zakho, and much information on the Jewish community in Baghdad as well. 34. Menashri, “The Pahlavi Monarchy and the Islamic Revolution,” 395. 35. Sabar, My Father’s Paradise; Dallalfar, “Iraqi Jews in Iran.” 36. Dallalfar, “Iraqi Jews in Iran.” 37. Mrs. Lavie, interview and participant observation by Arlene Dallalfar, December 28, 2014, in Tehran, Iran. 38. Sedighpour, “Synagogues,” 68 and 102. 39. Julian Cole Phillips, “The Iraqi-Jewish Diaspora in Iran, 1880–1980” (unpublished term paper, New York University, 2012), 1–27; idem, “Iraqi-Iranian Jewry in Diaspora: Transnational Communities and Mediated Memories” (unpublished term paper, New York University, 2012), 1–28. 40. For many Iraqi–Iranian Jewish parents, the Ettefagh School, a private Jewish school, created an opportunity to advance the future opportunities for their children, to become multilingual and develop fluency in Farsi, English, and Hebrew. Sending their children to the school also helped the children create an enhanced sense of belonging to their hybridized Iranian identity. In a conversation with Mrs. Lavie, when visiting the Ettefagh school, she remarked: “I am so glad I decided to have our sons attend Ettefagh school instead of the American Community School; those students did not really learn Farsi, and our sons are successful businessmen now because they have fluency in Farsi, in addition to English. It has served them so well.” Language, like food, is critical in understanding one’s sense of belonging and identity when part of an ethnic and religious minority. (Participant observation by Arlene Dallalfar, in Tehran, Iran, January 21, 2015.) 41. Ettefagh Synagogue, participant observation by Arlene Dallalfar, December 28, 2014 in Tehran, Iran. 42. Growing up in Tehran in the decades of 1950s–1970s, girls did not have opportunities for religious schooling in preparation for a bat mitzvah. In contrast, since the Revolution, the Cultural Committee of the Tehran Jewish Committee has organized special classes for religious schooling in Hebrew, held early on Friday mornings (the Iranian weekend holiday) for girls attending public schools rather than Jewish private schools. (Ms. Rahmani, interview by Arlene Dallalfar, January 15, 2009, in Tehran, Iran.) 43. Arash Abaie, interview by Arlene Dallalfar, December 23, 2014, in Tehran, Iran. 44. Sered, “Food and Holiness,” 134. 45. Interview with Arash Abaie Tehran December 27, 2014. I have observed more kosher restaurants in Tehran today than before the Revolution. For example, Topo and three other restaurants near Abrishami and Yusef Abad synagogues feature traditional Persian food, such as chelo kabab (rice with lamb or beef) or the traditional herb stew (ghormeh sabzi) dish. 46. Daughters observe and learn from their grandmothers, mothers, and aunts regarding how to maintain a kosher home, and since they are the ones in charge of food preparation, they have this ultimate responsibility to ensure food is properly prepared (Sered, “Food and Holiness,” 133). In December 2014, the author joined family friends after a synagogue service, for lighting of the candles and a Sabbath dinner. 47. Ibid., 134. 48. Batmanglij, New Food of Life, 432–433, provides detailed information about this Iranian classificatory schema. 49. Soomekh explains that “[Jewish Iranian women] had been excluded from the study and formal prayers of Judaism, and their religious world was concentrated within the sphere of the home, kitchen, holidays and familial duties. They viewed the profane activities of cleaning the house or preparing food as sacred acts of ritual devotion, epitomized by Sabbath observance. While their husbands’ religiosity stemmed from synagogue attendance and study of the Torah, the women’s religiosity was not mediated by men; rather it stemmed from the domestic duties that God had given them. A woman forged a union with God by being an altruistic wife and mother.” (Saba Soomekh, “Iranian Jewish Women,” 19.) 50. Sedighpour, “Synagogues,” 113; “Kenesa,” Ledorvador: Jewish Studies Research Center of Iran (2009), http://www.7dorim.com/Tasavir/kenisa.asp (accessed November 15, 2012). 51. See Keith Critchlow, Islamic Patterns: An Analytical and Cosmological Approach (Rochester: Inner Traditions, 1999), 7–104 for further examination of spiritual and philosophic reasoning in Islamic architecture as a form of sacred art and Islamic spirituality. Also, on Persian Safavid architecture, decorative arts, and carpets, see Markus Hattstein and Peter Delius, eds., Islam: Art and Architecture, trans. George Ansell, Anthea Bell, et al. (Königswinter: Tandem Verlag, 2010), 494–530. 52. Sedighpour, “Synagogues,” 113. 53. Weissbach, “Buildings Fraught with Meaning,” 17; Noel Siver, “Arthur Upham Pope,” in Encyclopaedia Iranica, online edition, last amended July 20, 2005, http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/ pope-arthur-upham. 54. For instance, daughters with well-manicured nails, impeccable makeup, and designer silk scarves sit next to their friends and mothers, whispering and conversing throughout the service being conducted by the men in the synagogue prayer-hall. Some mothers are looking out for possible suitors for their daughters. At a Shabbat dinner, Ithe author asked her hostess what attributes were most desirable in finding a husband for her eligible daughters, and she replied that it wasn’t wealth that was important but the fact that the family was reputable and the man had “an eye to religion, the synagogue, and God.”

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PART III ARCHITECTURE AND INTERIOR DESIGN

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Chapter Eleven

Decorating Synagogues in the Sephardi Diaspora: The Role of Tradition Vivian B. Mann

In the western Islamic world stretching from the lands bordering the eastern Mediterranean to Al-Andalus, few synagogues survive, even in a fragmentary condition. Even fewer can be situated within their surrounding urban fabric during the period in which they flourished as centers of communal life. Insufficient remains, later construction on the original site, or inadequate documentation preclude reconstructing the neighborhood of a synagogue or even the appearance of the building itself, neither its exterior nor its interior, except in a few cases. This essay will first examine the decoration and furnishings of the twelfth-century Ben Ezra synagogue in medieval Fustat, which is distinguished from all others by its ample documentation in records from the Cairo Genizah and by the modern excavation of its site. A discussion of the decoration and furnishings of the synagogues in medieval Spain follows, as evidenced by physical remains and documentation. An examination will then be made of how these Sephardi forms were transferred to the Diaspora. Perhaps the most comprehensive attempt to reconstruct the location and the appearance of medieval synagogues in one geographic area is José Luis Lacave’s Juderías y Sinagogas Españolas published in 1992.1 Lacave was an historian and hebraist for twenty years at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid. On the basis of archival research and the examination of existing remains, he identified 118 Spanish cities that had contained at least one synagogue, with many cities b ­ oasting n ­ umerous Figure 11.1  Christ among the Doctors, panel from a Spanish altarpiece, early fifteenth century, tempera and gold on wood (courtesy of Metropolitan Museum of Art)

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Dâr Bayna’l-Kanîsatayn Waqf al-Yahûd Dâr Bayna’l-Kanîsatayn Dâr al-Yahûdî WaqfMuffarij al-Yahûd Dâr b. Nimr Dâr Levi Muffarij al-Yahûdî The Courtb.ofNimr Malka bint Amram Dâr Levi Dâr Z edaqa b. Manasse . The Court of Malka bint Amram b. Murdukh) 34 (Dâr Dâr Z.Elija edaqa b. Manasse (Dâr Elija b. Murdukh) smaller streets a Zuqâq mah.at.t. al-libn smaller streets b a Zuqâq Zuqâq al-masâkîn mah.at.t. al-libn c Sûq al-yahûd b Zuqâq al-masâkîn dc Zuqâq al-kanîsa Sûq al-yahûd e d small Zuqâqalley al-kanîsa kanîsat al-‘Îrâgiyîn ef Zuqâq small alley (Khawkha al-khabîs .a) f Zuqâq kanîsat al-‘Îrâgiyîn g S âh at al-qâ’a . . (Khawkha al-khabîs.a) g S.âh.at al-qâ’a

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Dâr b. ‘At.t.âr b. Mu‘ârid Dâr b. aI-Barqî Dâr ‘At.t.âr b. Mu‘ârid Dâr aI-Barqî al-H.alabî Dâr Dukkân Dâr al-H.‘Avoda alabî Zara Dukkân ‘Avoda Mû’sir al-H . awrânîi Dukkân Zara Dâr al-Burj Dukkân Mû’sir al-H.awrânîi Dâr al-Burj Abraham the Scribe Dâr b. Samuel Dâr‘î Dâr Abraham the Scribe Dâr Sitt Ghazâl b. Samuel Dâr‘î Dâr Sitt Sumâna Dâr Ghazâl Dâr Sumâna b. Bishr Dâr Dâr b. Bishâra. Dâr Bâ b. Bishr Dâr Khabîs.a Dâr Zuqâq Bâ b. Bishâra. Jiwâr Kanîsat al-Shâmiyîn Dâr Zuqâq Khabîs .a Dâr Jiwâral-Heqdesh Kanîsat al-Shâmiyîn Dâr H assân al-S abbâgh . . Dâr al-Heqdesh Dâr bintal-S Abraham Dâr Natir H.assân . abbâgh Dâr . asid Dâr al-H Natir bint Abraham Dâr Dâr al-Rayyis al-H.asid Abû’l-Fad.l Dâr Christian Dâr al-Yâsir al-Rayyisthe Abû’l-Fad .l Dâr b. H.asan Dâr ‘Alî al-Yâsir the Christian Dâr Dâr Samuel ‘Alî b. H.asan Bab Sirr (Gate of the Women) Dâr Samuel The Bab Well Sirr (Gate of the Women) The The Sukka Well al-Funduq The Sukka Dâr Hibat-Allah al-Funduq Burj Kanîsat al-Yahûd Dâr Hibat-Allah Mas .a Burj. âs Kanîsat al-Yahûd Dâr al-Nagid Mas.âs.a Dâr al-Nagid

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Figure 11.2  Plan of Fortress of Babylon in the twelfth century, Fustat (Cairo) (courtesy of Menahem Ben-Sasson)

e­xamples. The largest medieval Jewish community in Spain, Toledo, supported ten houses of worship, while Zaragoza had seven. Lacave found that archival records vary from the mere mention that a synagogue existed in a city to a record of its name or location in a city or town. The most expansive texts describe both the building and its decoration. Other historians, such as Asunción Blasco Martínez, professor at the University of Zaragoza and author of numerous articles on the history of Aragon, have published the documentary evidence on single sites.2 In addition to documents, actual remains and manuscript illuminations depicting the interiors of Spanish s­ ynagogues

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indicate the traditional Sephardi forms of synagogue decoration and furnishings, and allow identification of those elements that were reproduced by Sephardi Jews in their new homelands after the Expulsion from Spain in 1492. All synagogues built in lands governed by Muslims were subject to the restrictions stated in the “Pact of ʿ Umar,” a document governing relationships between Muslims and dhimmi—the protected minorities of conquered countries—that is now believed to have been written over a period of time, and not entirely attributable to the second Caliph (r. 634–44). Non-Muslims were forbidden to build new places of worship or to repair existing buildings that were ruined, although this stricture was often circumvented. Christians and Jews were also required to allow Muslims to enter their houses of worship at any time during the day or night.3 The Decoration of Synagogues in Fatimid Egypt The earliest synagogues whose appearance and appurtenances can be described are the Ben Ezra Synagogue in Fustat, the synagogue of Jews from Jerusalem, and to a lesser extent, the nearby contemporary synagogue of the Babylonians built by those who came from the East. Both synagogues were located in an area of old Cairo known as the Fortress of Babylon that is defined by the remaining walls and towers of a Roman fortress built in the third and fourth centuries (Fig. 11.2).4 Following the Arab conquest of Egypt in 641 and the establishment of Fustat, the Fortress area was populated by Copts and Jews; by the fifteenth century many Muslims also lived within the quarter. Their houses of worship—a mosque, the two synagogues, and several churches—were located within the fortress; the churches and the Ben Ezra Synagogue were based on similar ground plans. The Coptic church of St. Barbara, for example, was built at the end of the seventh century as a basilica with two aisles, as were the eighth-century Church of the Holy Mother, later churches, and the Ben Ezra synagogue constructed in the eleventh century. These similarities suggest that Copts were the builders and artisans who worked on both churches and synagogues. The famous Cairo Genizah, a repository for worn documents written in Hebrew script, is located in the Ben Ezra Synagogue. Most of its contents—now removed—date from the eleventh to the t­hirteenth centuries and enable an understanding of the appearance and decoration of the ­synagogues  despite the absence of physical remains other than the foundation walls that lie beneath the present Ben Ezra synagogue and wooden boards with inscriptions that were deposited  in the  Genizah. Menahem Ben-Sasson, now president of Hebrew University, was able to reconstruct the neighborhood containing the synagogues based on documentary evidence (Figs. 11.2 and 11.3).5 When first built in the tenth century, the Ben Ezra was surrounded by the homes of wealthy members of the community, some of whom bequeathed their properties to the synagogue, enabling it to expand within the Fortress quarter. As more affluent Jews moved outside the Fortress area to the new city of Cairo after its establishment in 969, the area surrounding the Ben Ezra declined. Many of the houses came to include the storefronts of craftsmen, such as weavers, goldsmiths, and perfumers.6 The Ben Ezra Synagogue continue to dominate the neighborhood by virtue of its size, its architecture, by being set off from surrounding houses by a courtyard, and by its importance as the center of communal activities. Part of the synagogue courtyard was used as a sukkah (a temporary dwelling or booth) during the Feast of Tabernacles in the Fall, while other portions were rented out as farmland. The original Ben Ezra Synagogue was razed around 1013 when the Caliph al-Hakim (r. 996–1021) ordered the destruction of churches and synagogues, but it was rebuilt in 1039–41. It exists today in the form of a modern restoration of its nineteenth-century state. Excavations conducted in 1978/9 revealed that the second synagogue building of 1039–41 was a basilica consisting of a nave and two side-aisles.7 The main space was separated from the aisles by twelve marble columns that simultaneously supported two balconies for women, who entered through a separate staircase outside the building. A larger, white marble column stood at the southwestern end of the synagogue and supported the women’s balcony, which was supported by five additional columns. The heikhal or ark was at the eastern end of the men’s prayer-space, while a raised reader’s desk stood in the center of the synagogue, reached by means of a staircase with twelve stone steps. Inventories of the furnishings in Babylonian and Jerusalem synagogues found in the Genizah8 indicate the continuation of decorative schemes known from earlier churches and synagogues of the classical and early Byzantine periods. Textiles were hung from the columns,9 a feature depicted in the sixth-century mosaics of the church of Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna.10 Another example

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Figure 11.3  Decorated boards from the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Fustat, eleventh–thirteenth centuries (The Jewish Museum, New York)

of continuity in decoration is the use of textiles as Torah curtains mentioned in the 1080 i­ nventory of the Synagogue of the Babylonians.11 Curtains hung in front of the ark appear in the mosaic floors  of the ancient synagogues in Hammat Tiberias (second half of the fourth century), Khirbet Samara (fourth century), and Beit Shean A (sixth century), and on fourth-century gold-decorated glassware found in the catacombs of Rome.12 Holes in the walls of the Torah shrine at the synagogue in Dura-Europos (ca. 244–5 ce) are thought to have held curtain rods.13 Many of the Fustat Torah curtains were made of damask in two colors known as siqlatun. This type of textile was often woven with gold and silver threads representing the “official Fatimid imagery of luminous splendor and divine light” in the words of Yedida Stillman.14 Siqlatun was used to cover the reader’s desk, and was used for Torah mantles and binders, book wrappings or covers, and for prayer-shawls, according to an inventory dated 1080.15 Two siqlatun textiles with inscriptions—a complex form of weaving that was so highly prized in Fatimid Egypt that the textiles were given as gifts by officials to their subjects “as tokens of honor”— are mentioned in the same inventory. The preciousness of siqlatun is indicated by its detailed description in the inventories that includes notations on the colors, and through the donation of old pieces to the synagogue.16 Despite their age, these pieces were deemed worthy of being donated to a holy place. Silk and silk brocade were used for the mantles that protected the Torah scroll, according to an inventory of the Ben Ezra Synagogue compiled in 1186/7.17 This synagogue owned twenty-four such covers for the Torah scroll, the most sacred object in the synagogue, an indication of the high value accorded to silk in the Genizah period when it was considered to be the equivalent of currency. The hanging of textiles on the Torah ark (tevah) and the reader’s desk (bimah) marked their importance; the ark was also emphasized by its decoration with carved and inscribed wooden boards, similar to those found in mosques such as the eighth-century Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, as well as in Byzantine churches. Because they bore Hebrew inscriptions, the Ben Ezra carved wooden panels, dating from the eleventh to the thirteenth centuries, were deposited in the Genizah of the Ben Ezra synagogue and may be found today in various museum collections (Fig. 11.3). Most are carved with dedications, a few with passages from the Psalms.18 Their workmanship varies; some are only incised, while others are carefully carved in high relief and decorated with vines and floral designs. In 1992, the boards in the Jewish Museum, New York, were detached from the modern ark in which they had been placed by Solomon Schechter when he served as president of the Jewish Theological Seminary (1902–15), revealing painted trial inscriptions for carved boards, now in other museums, on their reverse, evidence of the care taken by the woodcarvers in the placement of the decoration. A more elaborate and complete work of carved wood is represented by a pair of doors for a Holy ark that was photographed in situ in the Ben Ezra Synagogue in 1979. Each panel was decorated with a Mameluke medallion surrounded by four corner-pieces, the whole surmounted by a carved band inscribed with a passage from Psalms that begins on the right-hand door above the medallions and finishes on the left (Fig. 11.4).19 Only one of these panels survives.

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Figure 11.4  Torah Ark panel from the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Fustat, eleventh century with later additions (courtesy of Yeshiva University Museum and the Walters Art Museum)

Wood was also used to create the tikim, the cylindrical cases that house the Torah scroll in the Sephardi/Mizra˙i traditions. An inventory of the Ben Ezra Synagogue dated 1075 is the e­ arliest document to mention rigid tikim of copper and wood.20 A later inventory of 1159 lists tikim of wood plated with silver and one of solid silver.21 Their creation was paralleled by the creation of boxes to hold the Qur’an in the eleventh century. The development of these new types of protective covers for Holy Scriptures may have been due to the increasing number of printed books available in Egypt and adjacent regions after paper began to be produced locally.22 The production of a greater number of books and their placement in houses of worship—as documented in lists of books belonging to synagogues found in the Cairo Genizah23—meant new means had to be found to distinguish holy books from other texts. The decorated cases for the Torah scroll and the Qur’an fulfilled that need. The inventories of 1075 and 1159 also include silver ornaments for the Torah scrolls. Both mention silver crowns and pairs of finials for the staves made of silver, silver-gilt, and silver embellished with niello work.24 Metals of various kinds were used to create lamps that allowed the reading of prayers during services held at night. The lamps mentioned in the Fustat inventories include chandeliers, scorpions, and flat lamps.25 One unusual lamp was in the form of a menorah that hung in the Torah ark,26 a usage unknown elsewhere.

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The Decoration of Spanish Synagogues Following the Expulsion in 1492, only five synagogue buildings remained in Spain prior to the modern era. Three were saved by their conversion into churches. These are Santa María La Blanca (1205) and El Tránsito (1357) both in Toledo, and a synagogue in Segovia (ca. 1300) that was demolished in the late nineteenth century due to its state of dilapidation. The Mehab Synagogue in Córdoba (1314/5) became a hospital. The fifth, in Lorca (first half of the fifteenth century), was discovered accidentally in the late 1990s by archaeologists. The city of Toledo was re-conquered by Castile from Muslim control in 1085. Santa María La Blanca and El Tránsito, as well as some Christian buildings, were nevertheless constructed in Mudéjar style, being heavily influenced by Islamic architecture. Santa María La Blanca is perhaps the most obvious example, since its ground plan of five parallel aisles resembles that of a mosque, for example, the twelfth-century Tinmal mosque in Morocco (Fig. 11.5).27 Figure 11.5  Interior of the Santa María Blanca Synagogue, Toledo, thirteenth century (public domain)

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Figure 11.6  Interior of the Isaac Mehab Synagogue, Cordoba, 1314–15 (courtesy of Nicolas von Sapieha for the Jewish Museum, New York)

The east end of the building presumably housed the Torah ark but its traces were obliterated when Santa María was converted into a church. It is difficult to understand, however, where the second focal point of the synagogue, the reader’s desk, was placed so as to enable it to be visible to a majority of the congregants. These difficulties and affinities may indicate that Santa María was originally a mosque that had been transferred to the Jewish community after the Re-conquest of Toledo, as had

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happened in Seville.28 That the same plan was used for a synagogue in Segovia suggests that other synagogues of the same type may have existed.29 The small synagogue built by Isaac Mehab in Córdoba in 1314–15 and the much larger El Tránsito synagogue built by Samuel Ha-Levi Abulafia (1320–61),30 chief treasurer to Pedro I (the Cruel, ­1350–69) (Figs. 11.6 and 11.7) were both designed as single, rectangular spaces with a women’s balcony along one side. This plan, in effect, transformed the hall of a palace into a synagogue,31 a particularly appropriate form in the case of El Tránsito, as the synagogue was built adjacent to Abulafia’s home. Architectural structures to house Torah scrolls at one end of the space marked the buildings as Jewish houses of worship. The wall with three niches in El Tránsito would have accommodated three scrolls in tikim, while the ark built into the eastern wall of the Córdoba synagogue would have been to store the scrolls that were covered by mantles or tikim. The reader’s desk in Córdoba seems to have been placed near the lambrequin arch on the west side of the space, since the inscriptions around it refer to towers, but the location of the almemor in El Tránsito can no longer be determined (Fig. 11.6). Just as palaces were considered to be the dwelling of an important individual, these two synagogues were furnished with prominently sized and placed dedications that emphasize the importance of their patrons. In Córdoba: “I, Isaac Mehab, son of the honorable Ephraim, have completed this lesser sanctuary and he built it in the year 75 [1314/15] as a temporary abode. Hasten, O God to rebuild Jerusalem.”32 The inscription in El Tránsito likewise emphasizes the patron, but also praises his generosity by naming all the furnishings of the synagogue that he contributed, consisting of the raised reader’s desk, the Torah scrolls with their crowns, lavers for washing the hands, the lamps, and the windows “like those in Jerusalem.” It even mentions the function of auxiliary structures attached to the synagogue, such as the space for the rabbinical court and a hostel. Finally, the inscription concludes by comparing El Tránsito to the biblical Tabernacle created by Bezalel, and its sanctity to Bet El, the site of Jacob’s vision of angels and his receipt of a message from God (Gen. 28:10–17) (Fig. 11.7). See the sanctuary which was dedicated in Israel and the house which Samuel built, and the wooden tower for reading the law in its midst, and its Torah scrolls and their crowns to God, and its lavers, and its lamps for illumination, and its windows like the windows of Ariel [Jerusalem]. And its courts for those diligent in the perfect Law, and a residence for those who would sit in the shade of God. And those who see this form will almost say, It is the image of the work that Bezalel wrought. Go nations and come into the gates and seek God; and it is House of God like Bet-El. All four of these synagogues were decorated with Mudéjar stucco, forming plant motifs and  abstract patterns that were bordered by inscriptions, a type of decoration that appears in Muslim and Christian buildings of the fourteenth century, such as the Madras Bou Iniana in Fez and the Convent of Las Dueñas in Cordoba. Patterns such as the expanding star can be found in both Cordoba and Granada, repeated diamond-shaped cells above the Torah niches in El Tránsito and in the Court of the Lions in the Alhambra. Hebrew inscriptions appear in El Transíto and the Mehab Synagogue and Latin passages in the Toledan Church of San Román. That stucco decoration had become one mark of a sacred building can be seen by the remnants of stucco found in the Lorca synagogue, on the border between Christian Spain and Al-Andalus. A chance find in 1999 represents the unusual case of a medieval synagogue whose appearance and setting are known from archaeological investigations. The construction of a hotel revealed the ruins of a fourteenth-century synagogue within the castillo (castle) of Lorca that guarded the border between medieval Castile and Andalusia (Fig. 11.8).33 Like the walls of other contemporaneous religious buildings, those of the Lorca synagogue and its reader’s desk were covered in carved stucco. Unlike the other fourteenth-century houses of worship, however, whose stucco overlay is completely Islamic in character, the diamond-shaped frames of the Lorca building enclose Gothic lilies, a mixing of motifs expressive of the location of the synagogue on

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Figure 11.7  Interior of El Tránsito Synagogue, Toledo, 1357 (© Vivian Mann)

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Figure 11.8 Synagogue in Lorca, first half of the fifteenth century. (courtesy of Bellas Artes y Bienes Culturales, Murcia)

the border between Christian and Muslim Spain. The use of stucco, characteristic of Islamic architecture in a synagogue located on that border and within the castle precincts of the local Christian ruler, also signifies that stucco decoration had become symbolic of the sacred nature of a building. As the Lorca synagogue was never converted into a church, its ruins include many original furnishings, such as the stone base of the reader’s desk, the steps leading to the ark in the eastern wall, as well as the benches along the walls for seating congregants. There is a large cathedra at the end of  the southern wall and near the base of the reader’s desk that probably served as a seat for the worshipper who held the Torah scroll between readings, and may have served during circumcisions as the seat of the man holding the baby boy. Beneath the base of the reader’s desk, the excavators found the largest cache of glassware known from medieval Spain, which allowed the reconstruction of the types of lamps used in the synagogue.34 Some of them resemble lamps in synagogue scenes depicted in contemporaneous haggadot, the service books for the Passover seder. By 2006, eleven homes adjacent to the synagogue had been excavated, setting the synagogue within the Jewish quarter of medieval Lorca.35 For the first time since the twelfth-century Ben Ezra Synagogue was found to have been located within the medieval buildings in the Fortress of Babylon area of Fustat, on the basis of documentary evidence, the surrounding Jewish quarter or judería of a synagogue could be reconstructed. Like the Ben Ezra, the Lorca Synagogue was separated from the buildings surrounding it by its forecourt that led to a narthex or vestibule, and then to the interior of the men’s prayer-hall. The Furnishings of Spanish Synagogues At the time of the Expulsion, Jews were forbidden to take personal or even communally owned works of art with them; these were confiscated to retrieve the monetary value of their materials. Synagogue textiles, for example, were melted down to retrieve the gold and silver thread used in their embroidery. As a result, only two works made for Spanish synagogues survive, namely, a pair of lavishly decorated late fifteenth-century finials for a Torah scroll that was placed in the cathedral treasury of Palma de Majorca,36 and a fourteenth-century carpet found in the Tyrol and now in the Islamisches Museum in Berlin (I.27) (Fig. 11.9).

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Figure 11.9  Rug from a Spanish synagogue, fourteenth century (courtesy of the Museum of Islamic Art, Berlin)

The Torah finials had been made in the tower form of finials used for surmounting bishops’ staves and so could easily be adapted for use in the Church, despite the presence of Hebrew inscriptions. There are no comparanda, however, for the long, narrow carpet depicting the Holy ark—reminiscent of the mosaic flooring in the Synagogue at Bet Alpha in Israel that dates from 527 ce, but arranged as the blossoms in a flowering tree composition. The shape of the carpet suggests it was used for seating, a function mentioned in many rabbinical responsa from Spain. Other synagogue seats were made of wood or stone and were individually owned, enabling the seats to be sold or bequeathed, and leading to disputes that were adjudicated by a rabbi. Another contentious issue related to synagogue seats was a revision of their monetary value when the structure of a synagogue changed. Since the value of a seat was determined by its placement relative to the ark and the reader’s desk, changes in the plan of a synagogue impacted on the price of seats. This issue appears among the responsa written by Solomon ibn Adret (1235–1310), a rabbi in Barcelona, and by Asher ben Yehiel (1250–1327), head of the rabbinical court (bet din) in Toledo.37 Another responsum of Rabbi Asher, dated between 1304 when he arrived in Spain and his death in 1327, discusses another use for rugs in synagogues, that of wall hangings: “You inquired about the matter of the small carpet that is called a sajjada in Arabic on which is it is the custom of the Muslims to pray . . . whether it is permitted to hang it in the synagogue next to the ark . . . In Toledo, they were accustomed to forbid placing such a rug in the synagogue in order to sit on it; certainly it is forbidden to hang it at the side of the ark.”38 The only Judaica excepted from confiscation at the time of the Expulsion were Hebrew manuscripts, including four fourteenth-century haggadot decorated with miniatures depicting

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­ reparations for the holiday including a scene of men, women, and children in the synagogue who p gathered for the recitation of the haggadah.39 These depictions are another source of information about the ceremonial art used in Spanish synagogues before 1492; they can be supplemented by the naturalistic depictions of synagogues in Spanish retablos (altarpieces), and by rabbinic texts that mention Judaica (Figs. 11.1 and 11.10).40 The synagogue scene in the Sarajevo Haggadah includes an open Torah ark housing three scrolls dressed in differently colored and patterned materials that are fringed at bottom. Their flaring silhouettes indicate the “skirt-type” mantles that were made in all the communities of the Sephardi diaspora, unlike the cylindrical mantles represented in medieval Ashkenazi manuscripts. Each Torah bears a silver or gilt crown and a pair of rimmonim (finials). Other types of synagogue furnishings visible in the miniature are the ark that is inset into a stone wall and flanked by so-called “mosque” lamps, and a free-standing reader’s desk in front of the ark. This one miniature yields the following information: the Torah mantles used in Spain were of the skirt-type and fashioned of variously patterned textiles; Torah finials and crowns were used as sets and were made of precious metals; and the ark was inset into the stone fabric of the building. Synagogue scenes in the Barcelona Haggadah Figure 11.10 Synagogue scene, Sarajevo Haggadah, ca. 1320–60 (courtesy of the Bosnian National Museum, Sarajevo)

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Figure 11.11  Synagogue scene from the Barcelona Haggadah, ca. 1370, ink and gouache on parchment (courtesy of the British Museum)

(British Library: Add. 14761) and in the Sister of the Golden Haggadah (British Library, Or. 2884) depict a more elaborate tevah (pulpit) showing such Islamic architectural features as poles topped with piriform finials (Fig. 11.11).41 The synagogue scene in the so-called Sister of the Golden Haggadah (British Library, Or. 2884, fol. 17) presents details of synagogue furnishings not found in other manuscripts (Fig. 11.12). Here, the stairs of the tevah, its intarsia decoration, the reader’s desk, and the central space are illuminated by mosque-style lamps suspended from lines and pulleys. An ark of dressed stone reached by three steps is on the left. Two synagogue furnishings appear repeatedly in retablos, altarpieces in which scenes from the life of Jesus and later Christian history are depicted as taking place in Jewish spaces, synagogues, and Jewish quarters that were viewed as substitutes for the Temple and the “Holy Land.”42 In a painting of the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple on the retablo of the church of San Salvador in Ejea de los Caballeros (Fig. 11.13), a tik is prominently placed on the altar to signify that the scene takes place in the Temple in Jerusalem. On another retablo whose subject is Christ among the Doctors (Fig. 11.1) the young Jesus is shown mounting the stairs of a raised reader’s desk that is surrounded by congregants seated in rows parallel to the walls of a synagogue.43 There are many other instances of the same conceit: the synagogues and juderías of late medieval Spain were substitutes for the Temple and the Terra Sancta. Sephardi Forms in Diaspora Synagogues The exodus of Jews from the Iberian Peninsula began at least a century before the final Expulsion. Pogroms in 1391 decimated Jewish communities throughout Spain, with the consequence that many Jews left the country. The Decree of Expulsion, promulgated in 1492, led to the exodus of greater numbers who settled principally in North Africa, Italy, and the Ottoman Empire. At first, Sephardim tended to establish their own synagogues whose names—for example, the Seville Congregation in Istanbul—indicated the congregants’ place of origin;44 however, no diaspora synagogue built immediately after the Expulsion survives. The widespread use of timber in the Ottoman Empire resulted in repeated fires, after which Jews under Muslim rule were often forced to consolidate their congregations in order to receive the permission necessary to rebuild their

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Figure 11.12 Synagogue scene, Sister of the Golden Haggadah, ca. 1320–60, ink and gouache on parchment (courtesy of the British Museum)

synagogues. Continual rebuilding also took place in North Africa. Still, the ground plans of extant Diaspora synagogues reflect Spanish models, with the ark at one end of the prayer-hall and the raised tevah (pulpit) being at or near the other end. Some of the elevated readers’ desks in the synagogues of Izmir (Smyrna) and Istanbul are unique among those in Sephardi synagogues, being shaped like ships, a metaphor for the constancy of Sephardi Jewry despite the travails of the Expulsion and the Inquisition.45 The symbol of the ship appeared on the title page of the 1553 Ferrara Bible, a translation into Spanish to aid conversos wishing to return to Judaism. The synagogue scene in the so-called Sister of the Golden Haggadah includes a wooden reader’s desk whose corner poles are adorned with silver piriform finials (Fig. 11.12). Later examples of finials

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Figure 11.13  Blasco de Grañén, The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, 1427–59, panel from the main altarpiece, tempera on wood, San Salvador, Ejea de los Caballeros (courtesy of San Salvador, Ejea de los Caballeros)

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Figure 11.14  Rug Torah curtain, Bursa or Istanbul, early seventeenth century (courtesy of the George Washington Museum and the Textile Museum)

for the reader’s desk can be found throughout the Sephardi diaspora, for example in Bevis Marks in London, in the Ahrida Synagogue in Istanbul, and in the Scuola Spagnola in Venice. Soon after Jews arrived in the Ottoman Empire, sixteenth-century prayer rugs began to feature compositions similar to those on Torah curtains. These consisted of doubled columns framing the center field, the incorporation of symbols such as flowers representing Paradise, and a hanging lamp or lamps in a niche (Fig. 11.14).46 Rugs for Jewish use as curtains before the ark continued to be made in the Ottoman Empire throughout the nineteenth century. In Italy, after one hybrid rug that includes both Renaissance architectural elements and Islamic symbols was produced in the sixteenth century, the form was abandoned as a synagogue furnishing.47 There was no cultural context in Italy for the creation of rugs specifically for houses of prayer. There are also forms of synagogue decoration without artistic or literary provenance that were used in the disparate lands of the Sephardi dispersion and probably reflect forms once used in Spain. The hanging of a decorated textile from the front of the reader’s desk is one example. These antependia are found in Morocco, the Ottoman Empire, and England. Another usage is the decoration of the synagogue with corame work, tooled and painted leather hangings. These were used on the walls of the Scuola Spagnola in Venice, the Nahon Synagogue in Tetouan, and to line the ark in Bevis Marks synagogue in London (Fig. 11.15). During the fifteenth century, corame hangings were imported from Spain to Italy; ca. 1500, shortly after the Expulsion of the Jews from Spain, these ­decorated leathers began to be produced in Venice, perhaps by Sephardi refugees. Jews were subsequently active as dealers of corame work. Conclusion The transfer of Spanish forms and compositions to the diaspora illustrates the strong sense of tradition that is part of Sephardi religious culture. Several years ago, a collector of Jewish ceremonial art showed the author a ketubah (Jewish marriage contract) from the island of Rhodes illustrated with rather crude decoration. What was most interesting was the name of the bride, Malkah the daughter of Eliezer of Castile. In 1923, the date of the marriage, it was still a matter of pride to the bride’s family that they had lived in Castile more than 400 years earlier. In a wedding held in Tangier in

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Figure 11.15  Detail of corame (embossed and painted leather) lining of the Torah Ark, Bevis Marks Synagogue, London, seventeenth century (© Vivian Mann)

2004, when the rabbi read aloud the name of the bride’s family, he read mishpakhat Azagury migorshei Castiliah, the Azagury family who were among those expelled from Castile, wording still used in marriage contracts written in six Moroccan cities on the shores of the Mediterranean that had provided refuge to Sephardim fleeing the Expulsion. These are not isolated examples of identification with medieval Spain expressed in inscriptions that grace the ceremonial art of the Sephardi diaspora. The centuries of Jewish life on the Iberian Peninsula were remembered as a creative period in Jewish philosophy, Jewish thought, Hebrew literature, and science, and a time when Jews could reach high levels of power. It is widely recognized that distinctive aspects of Sephardi liturgy and customs, language, and songs tie the descendants of émigrés from Spain and Portugal to their medieval homelands. What is less well recognized is that traditional forms of ceremonial art and the ways in which they are used are an echo of medieval Iberian types. For Sephardim throughout the diaspora, ceremonial art was, and is, a link to a glorious past, whose recreation in new homelands was a factor in maintaining their identity. Notes 1. José Luis Lacave, Juderías y Sinagogas Españolas (Madrid: Mateu Cromo Artes Gráficas, 1992). 2. Asunción Blasco Martînez, La Judería de Zaragoza en el siglo XIV (Zaragoza: Institución Ferdinand Católico, 1988), 144–162. 3. For a translation, see Mark R. Cohen, Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 57–58. 4. On the Fortress of Babylon, see Peter Sheehan, “The Roman Fortifications,” in Fortifications and the Synagogue: The Fortress of Babylon and the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Cairo, ed. Phyllis Lambert (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1994), 48–63. 5. This brief discussion of the medieval Ben Ezra synagogue is based on Menahem Ben-Sasson, “The Medieval Period: The Tenth to the Fourteenth Centuries,” in Lambert, Fortifications and the Synagogue, 200–223. 6. Moshe Gil, Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from the Cairo Genizah (Leiden: Brill, 1976), 71; Ben-Sasson, “The Medieval Period,” 208–209. 7. Johan Bellaert, “An Account of the Ben Ezra Synagogue Restoration Project,” in Lambert, Fortifications and the Synagogue, 135–165.

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8. For a translation into Hebrew and a discussion of the inventories, see S. D. Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings According to the Records of the Cairo Genizah,” Eretz-Israel 7 (1964): 169–172 (in Hebrew); English summary, 169–172. 9. Ibid., 92. 10. Wolfgang Fritz Volbach, Early Christian Art (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1961), Fig. 152. 11. Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 92. 12. For synagogue mosaic floors with curtains in front of Torah arks, see Rina Talgam, Mosaics of Faith. Floors of Pagans, Jews, Samaritans, Christians, and Muslims in the Holy Land (Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi Press; University Park, PA: Pennsylvania University Press, 2014), 339, 417–418, and 420. For gold glasses with Torah curtains, see A. Reifenberg, Ancient Hebrew Arts (New York: Schocken Books, 1950), 151, and Steven Fine, ed., Sacred Realm: The Emergence of the Synagogue in the Ancient World (New York: Yeshiva University Museum; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), cat. no. 14; Pl. XVII a. 13. Fine, Sacred Realm, 84. 14. Yedida Stillman, Arab Dress: From the Dawn of Islam to Modern Times; A Short History, ed. Norman A. Stillman (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 54. A sîqlâtȗn with gold threads is listed among the furnishings of Ben Ezra synagogue in an inventory of 1080 (Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 92). 15. Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 92. 16. Ibid., 96. 17. Richard Gottheil, “Tit-Bits from the Genizah,” in Jewish Studies in Memory of Israel Abrahams, ed. George Alexander Kohut (New York: Press of the Jewish Institute of Religion, 1927), 164. 18. See Ben-Sasson, “The Medieval Period,” 219–223 for images of the panels and translations of their inscriptions. 19. Israel Museum, The Torah (Jerusalem, 1979), 37. The one surviving door panel is jointly owned by the Yeshiva University Museum in New York (2000.231) and the Walters Art Gallery in Baltimore (64.181). 20. Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 91. 21. The singular of tikim is tik. Ibid., 95. 22. Vivian B. Mann, “The Tik and the Qur’an Box,” in Art and Ceremony in Jewish Life: Essays in Jewish Art History (London: Pindar Press, 2005), 177–194. 23. See Gottheil, “Tit-Bits from the Genizah,” 161–165 for books from the synagogues of the Palestinians (the Ben Ezra) and the Babylonians (Oxford: Bodleian Library, Ms. Feb. 56 (Catalogue 2821) and Ms. Feb. G 56 (Catalogue 2821)); see Goitein for corrections to Gottheil’s translations (“The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 96 (Hebrew)). 24. Gottheil, “Tit-Bits from the Genizah,” 164; Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 95 and 172. 25. Goitein, “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings,” 93. 26. Ibid., 85. 27. Francisco Cantera Burgos, “La Sinagoga,” in Simposio “Toledo Judaico” (Toledo: Publicacciones del Centro Universitario de Toledo, Universidad Complutense, 1972), 17; for the comparison to the mosque in Tinmal, see Jerrilynn D. Dodds, “Mudejar Tradition and the Synagogues of Medieval Spain: Cultural Identity and Cultural Hegemony,” in Convivencia: Jews, Muslims, and Christians in Medieval Spain, ed. Vivian B. Mann, Thomas F. Glick, and Jerrilynn D. Dodds (New York: George Braziller, 1992), 115–117. 28. Lacave, Juderías y Sinagogas Españolas, 341. 29. Dodds, “Mudejar Tradition and the Synagogues of Medieval Spain,” 116. 30. On Samuel Ha-Levi and his synagogue, see Jane S. Gerber, “The World of Samuel Halevi: Testimony from the El Transíto Synagogue of Toledo,” in The Jews in Medieval Iberia 1100–1500, ed. Jonathan Ray (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2012), 33–59. The Cordoba synagogue measures approximately 6.4 x 7 m. (21 x 23 ft); the main space of the El Transíto synagogue measures 23 x 9.5 m (75 x 31 ft). 31. B. Pavón Maldonado, “Una problema arqueológico en la sinagoga El Tránsito,” Sefarad 36, no. 1 (1976): 141. 32. Underlying this inscription is a comparison between the synagogue as a mikdash me’at, a smaller or less important sanctuary in comparison to the Temple in Jerusalem, and the wish that Isaac Mehab’s house of worship be a temporary abode until the Temple will be rebuilt. 33. On the excavation of the synagogue at Lorca, see Ángel Iniesta Sanmartin et al., eds., Lorca: Luces de Sefarad [Lights of Sepharad] (Murcia, Spain: Tres Fronteras, 2009). 34. Juan García Sandoval, “El Resplandor de las lámparas de vidrio de la Sinagoga de Lorca,” Lorca: Luces de Sefarad, 260–303. 35. On the Jewish quarter, see Juan Gallardo Carrillo and José González Ballestero, “El Urbanismo de la Judería Medieval de Lorca a la Luz de las Últimas Excavaciones (2004–6), Alberca: Revista de la Asociación de Amigos del Museum Arqueológico de Lorca 4 (2006): 129–52; Iniesta Sanmartin et al., Luces de Sefarad, 182–202. 36. For an image of the finials, see Isidro M. Bango Torviso et al., Memoria de Sefarad (Toledo: Centro Cultural San Marco, 2002), 161. 37. Solomon ibn Adret, Responsa Rashba, no. 52; Asher ben Yehiel, Responsa Asheri, pt. 5, no. 7. 38. Asher ben Yehiel, Responsa Asheri, pt. 5, no. 2. 39. The caption above the synagogue scene in The Sister of the Golden Haggadah reads: “The head of the household and those of his house reciting the haggadah.”

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40. For example, Maimonides listed the following as appurtenances of the Torah scroll: tikim, textile ­wrappers, the ark, the reader’s desk, the chair prepared to rest the Torah on it [between lections], and rimmonim [finials for the staves] in his code of law, the Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Sefer Torah, 10:4). 41. Fruit shapes must have been the most common form of finials since Sephardi rabbinic texts refer to Torah finials as tapuḥim [apples], and the earliest extant Ottoman finials dated 1601/2 are in fruit form. For an example of the use of the term apples for finials in a rabbinic text, see Yom Tov ben Abraham Ishbili, Teshuvot haRitba [Responsa of the Ritba] (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Levin-Epstein Brothers, 1958), no. 259. For the earliest Sephardi finials, see Alexander Scheiber, Jewish Inscriptions in Hungary (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó; Leiden: Brill, 1983), 402–403. 42. Vivian B. Mann, “Jews and Altarpieces in Medieval Spain,” in Uneasy Communion: Jews, Christians, and the Altarpieces of Medieval Spain (New York: Museum of Biblical Art and D. Giles Ltd., 2010), 76–127. 43. Mann, “Jews and Altarpieces in Medieval Spain,” Fig. 42. 44. The name of this synagogue appears on a late seventeenth-century copy of a 1608 Torah curtain now in the Jewish Museum, New York. See Norman L. Kleeblatt and Vivian B. Mann, Treasures of the Jewish Museum (New York: Universe Books, 1986), 44–45. 45. Vivian B. Mann, ed., Gardens and Ghettos: The Art of Jewish Life in Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), cat. no. 69. 46. For a similar Torah curtain, see Walter B. Denny, The Classical Tradition in Anatolian Carpets (Washington DC: The Textile Museum; London: Scala Publishers, 2002), 108–109. 47. See Mann, Gardens and Ghettos, 44, for an illustration.

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Chapter Twelve

Djerbian Culture and Climate as Expressed in a Historic Landmark: The Case of El-Ghriba Synagogue in Djerba, Tunisia Nesrine Mansour and Anat Geva The history of the Jewish diaspora in Tunisia is considered to begin in 586 bce when Jews settled in Djerba following the destruction of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem.1 Long before the Muslims conquered North Africa, the Jews and Phoenicians had established a home in Ifriquia, now known as Tunisia.2 Until the major migration to Israel and France in the 1950s, the island of Djerba was home to the largest Jewish community in Tunisia, followed by the mainland cities of Gabes and Tunis.3 Other Tunisian Jewish communities were scattered around the country, mainly in the south.4 Djerbian society is a heterogeneous and composite one, in which different races and religions coexist. It is even referred to by mainland Tunisians as “the island of minorities.” Despite this diversity, a unified Djerbian identity has always been apparent. Unlike on the mainland, the coexistence of Jews and Muslims served as an inspiration in the construction of the island’s synagogues. The exceptional collection of more than twenty synagogues on the island attested to this coexistence and the paramount role that religion and ritual played amongst Djerbian Jewry. The continuous emigration of Djerba’s Jewish population during the second half of the twentieth century, as well as the precarious state of some of these synagogues, has left most of them abandoned. Today, only eleven synagogues function in one of the two Jewish villages on the island, with five in the other, serving mostly as places of study (yeshivot).5 The most significant synagogue in Djerba is the El-Ghriba, the oldest synagogue in North Africa6 that unified Jews and Muslims and serves as a national landmark. 7 Focusing on the El-Ghriba synagogue as a heritage site, this chapter attempts to address how the building design merged local heritage and culture while responding to the island’s environment. Specifically, how El-Ghriba was built as part of the island’s Jewish history, influenced by the architectural relationships between the synagogues and mosques and by the local climate (Fig. 12.1). The Jews of Djerba and their Synagogues In Tunisia, the Jewish presence preceded Roman rule and the dominance of Islam, and Jews coexisted with the local Berbers and Bedouins.8 The Jews of Djerba witnessed an amalgamation of different ethnicities, religions, and cultures into a single society. Over the last 1300 years, this coexistence has been marred on occasion by injustices inflicted on minorities, including Jews.9 These tensions increased following the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948,10 yet Djerba’s residents never ceased to recognize the continuous Jewish presence, the antiquity of their settlements, and their contribution to the island’s mixed culture. According to legend, the first Jewish settlers in Djerba were a group of high priests (kohanim) who escaped from Jerusalem following the destruction of the First Temple (586 bce).11 These refugees are held to be the founders of a small village known as Hara Sghira. It is known by the Hebrew name of dighet or delet (“door”), with reference to an artifact believed to have been saved from the destroyed Temple.12 The association of the high priests with the Temple in Jerusalem and the legend of their settlement on the island led the Jews of Djerba to be considered as a holy community or in Hebrew, “po qahal qadosh Jerba”.13 The other village in which most of the Jews of Djerba currently reside is called Hara Kbira or the big village.14 The inhabitants of Hara Kbira have claimed their origin to be migration from the west (Morocco and Spain) and are considered to have acquired their faith only through the learning of sacred texts, unlike the kohanim who served in the Temple.15 The location of the Hara Kbira, near the north coast and two kilometers (just over a mile) from the main city of

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the island, Houmt Souk, enabled greater cultural and economical contact with the wider Djerbian society than the secluded location of the smaller Hara Sghira (Fig. 12.2). Regardless of the differences between the inhabitants of the two villages, it was essential for both of them to cooperate and build a united Jewish society. Both communities maintained the Jewish spiritual bond, and cherished and revered their association with El-Ghriba synagogue. The celebration of holidays, festivals, and marriages in the synagogues between the two communities enabled them to develop their relationship.16 The island’s Jews maintained an almost biblical lifestyle devoted to the fulfillment of religious laws and rituals. They adhered to Jewish laws and built their own institutions such as synagogues and schools.17 Yet, both villages remained subject to the Tunisian administrative system, and the government even nominated rabbinical judges to deal with issues of status and social interactions in the community. In 1839, during the Ottoman colonization of Tunisia,18 a series of Turkish reforms called the Tanzimat were promulgated, putting pressure on Tunisia’s ruler (the Bey) to improve Jewish living conditions and their legal status. The Jews were eventually granted full autonomy in organizing their religious life.19 During the French colonization of the 1920s and 1930s,20 Jews were allowed to acquire French citizenship. This changed the relationship between Jews and Muslims, especially in Tunis (the

Figure 12.1  Entrance to the Ghriba Synagogue complex (© Nesrine Mansour)

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capital city) where most Jews had become assimilated to French culture, separating themselves from the Muslims with whom they had lived for centuries.21 In Djerba, however, the Jews did not have any connection with French culture and continued to coexist with their Muslim neighbors. This coexistence is also manifested in the island’s architecture of synagogues and mosques. Both were simple and modest in their design, with minimal decoration and no opulence on the exterior. It is not clear which house of worship influenced the others, but similarities in building patterns between both religious edifices attest to their mutual relationship as well as local environmental influences. The small size of the synagogues enables their courtyards and thickly whitewashed walls to blend into the local surroundings. Fear of persecution may have led Jewish congregations to prefer to remain unremarkable, and regional Islamic laws required synagogues to be lower than the lowest mosque in the city.22 The synagogues are identified by the presence of a lantern, a square structure with glazed windows on the sides on top of the prayer-hall over the bimah.23 All Djerbian synagogues are based on the same design. There are double rooms parallel to each other and oriented towards Jerusalem with an entrance facing the focal point of the synagogue, the wall containing the Ark (heikhal). In most synagogues, one room consists of a colonnaded courtyard that allows a cool breeze and air to circulate; the second room is a covered prayer-hall, regarded as the synagogue’s sanctuary.  These spaces were designed to accommodate the island’s summer and winter conditions, and enable the hosting of two services simultaneously.24 Toward the end of the summer, the courtyard  is used for the Feast of Tabernacles (Sukkot),25 and during the cold season the covered room shelters the worshipers from bad weather. In contrast to the humble exterior, each synagogue’s interior glorifies the holy books and Torah scrolls that remain the most valuable possession in these buildings.26 Despite the strong tradition of the island’s synagogues, there are almost no public archives or other documents that describe these buildings: “the most popular account of the [Jewish] community’s history is that there is a void between the arrival from Jerusalem and the eighteenth century as not a single fact, event, personality, or name fills the span of two millennia.” 27 Most of the information found in the literature today is based on four resources: (a) stories and myths perpetuated from one generation to the other; (b) limited information from archives established by the French Protectorate; (c) incomplete scholarly documentation of some of the island’s synagogues;28 and (d) a recent, more comprehensive database.29 Location and Cultural Context of El-Ghriba Synagogue El-Ghriba Synagogue is located north of the center of Djerba, one kilometer (about half a mile) from the Hara Sghira, and seven kilometers (just over four miles) from Hara Kbira (Fig. 12.2). It is in a rural area surrounded by domesticated cacti and olive trees,30 and there are no buildings adjacent to the synagogue complex (Fig. 12.3). Its proximity to the Jewish village of Hara Sghira, whose inhabitants are considered to be closer to God and to the Holy Land due to their priestly descent from the kohanim,31 serves as a sign of sanctity. The distance from the villages creates a sacred path for ­worshipers who walk to the synagogue to pray. The isolation of El-Ghriba in an olive grove, located on a well-defined land of its own, is reminiscent of the Djerbian mosques’ pious  Islamic  ­tradition  ­(Fig.  12.3).32 Recent security measures—the addition of concrete blockades  and  a  ­security  ­checkpoint at the entrance—have further isolated the synagogue (Figs. 12.4 and 12.5). In addition to the house of worship (the synagogue), the complex includes a large inn for pilgrims, four stores, olive fields, and gardens.33 It is best known for its yearly ceremony of Lag Ba’omer, the festival held 33 days after Passover, that celebrates the revelation of the Kabbalistic book of the Zohar (Book of Splendor), the basic text of Jewish mysticism. These festivities attract Jewish pilgrims from all over the world, as well as Tunisian government officials. The festival lasts for almost four days during April/May between the fourteenth and eighteenth days of the Hebrew month of Iyaar, known as the “the month of passage.”34 This pilgrimage to El-Ghriba has become part of the synagogue’s image, enhancing its cultural significance. Jews interpret the pilgrimage as a family reunion within a religious expedition, a way to travel back in time and re-live the past. The yearly visitors to El-Ghriba try to re-create the long-gone history of their North African Jewish a­ ncestors.35

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Figure 12.2  Map showing the location of the Ghriba Synagogue on Djerba (© Nesrine Mansour) HOUMT SOUK

HARA KEBIRA

HARA SGHIRA

DJERBA ISLAND

El Ghriba Synagogue

These ancestral traditions, dating back thousands of years, are still vital in the current life of Jews of Djerba. Today, El-Ghriba’s annual pilgrimage is a reunion space for an amalgam of different nationalities, ethnicities, and social groups, one in which Jews and Muslims work closely together to celebrate the feast, selling food, drinks, books, souvenirs, and clothing.36 Visiting El-Ghriba during the pilgrimage is considered a sacred journey, one that recalls the Muslims’ pilgrimage to Mecca. As when entering a mosque, everyone is required to cover their head and remove their shoes before entering the synagogue. The procession continues into the prayer-hall where visitors light a candle and undertake solemn vows to El-Ghriba.37 El means ‘The’ (in Arabic) or ‘God’ (in Hebrew) while the name Ghriba (Arabic) means the miraculous, the marvelous, or the strange.38 This appellation is associated with manifold legends about El-Ghriba serving as a continuation of place/space from ancient Jerusalem to North Africa. This abiding connection to the Holy Land gives El-Ghriba a sense of sanctity that exceeds that of the island’s other synagogues. The presence of a relic identified as coming from the First Temple in Jerusalem (a door or a fragment of wall) serves as evidence of El-Ghriba’s sanctification.39 This ­suggests that the value of El-Ghriba lies not only in its architecture, but also in its historical and

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EL GHRIBA COMPLEX ARIAL VIEW PARKING

SECURITY CHECKPOINT

SYNAGOGUE

PILGRIMAGE ACCOMODATION

Figure 12.3  Aerial view of the synagogue complex (© Nesrine Mansour)

spiritual attributes. This historic fragment acts as a connection to holiness, conveying a feeling of sanctity and a sense of belonging.40 The pilgrims’ sacred journey also includes the procession of the Menara, a five-level hexagonal pyramid-shaped candelabra, beautifully decorated with Hebrew inscriptions and silver tablets of the law, and draped in silk fabric.41 The Menara, also called Aroussa,42 is carried by worshipers in a round trip of two kilometers (more than a mile) between the synagogue and the village of the kohanim, Hara Sghira. The journey and the name Aroussa, which means a bride, resemble a traditional local Djerbian wedding ritual in which the bride, is conveyed on a camel inside a colorful, bright, beautifully decorated palanquin called a Jahfa, from her father’s house to the groom’s house.43 This and other similar wedding practices among the island’s Jews and the local Muslims serve as another example of the coexistence, intermingling, and mutual influence between the island’s inhabitants.44

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Figure 12.4  Urban setting of the Ghriba Synagogue, panoramic view (© Nesrine Mansour)

Figure 12.5 Security checkpoint at the entrance to the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

Like other synagogues in the island, the exact date(s) of the first construction of El-Ghriba synagogue were never recorded so they are uncertain and are based only on myths and their interpretations.45 The legends are mainly associated with the ancient roots of the Jews of Djerba and the establishment of the earliest Jewish settlement on the island allegedly by a group of kohanim in 586  bce. Another legend associated with that period is the arrival in Djerba of a mysterious ­beautiful Jewish girl named Algribh. The belief is that she managed to escape during the Destruction  of  the  Jerusalem Temple, carrying with her a Torah scroll or a stone from the Temple.46 This myth is accompanied by stories about miracles that surrounded her. A synagogue was built on the spot on which she lived/died to commemorate her legend. In another variation of the legend, the synagogue was allegedly built on a site previously occupied by the hut of a mysterious, strange (ghriba in Arabic) and beautiful young girl, who died in a fire that nevertheless did not destroy her face and body. These stories made her into a saint, an uncommon status in Jewish tradition.47 According to Beit Hatfutsot, the Museum of the Diaspora in Tel Aviv, Israel, the synagogue was mentioned as early as the sixteenth century “when it was destroyed during a Spanish military expedition to Djerba and reconstructed later in the same century”.48 A recent source mentions a letter from Rabbi Makhlouf Aydan that stated the date of the inauguration of El-Ghriba followed the Shauvot holiday of 1647.49 Other dates are mentioned in relation to the reconstruction and restoration of the synagogue. Major reconstruction work was performed in 184050 following the easing of religious restrictions during the Ottoman colonization of Tunisia, and some restoration and

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refurbishment works were accomplished in the 1920s and 1930s during the French colonization,51 when the building was listed as a protected historical monument in Tunisia by the Architecture Department of the National Heritage Institute.52 In 1994, the Tunisian government funded a restoration project for El-Ghriba. The aim was to preserve the building as being holy to Jews and Muslims, promoting tourism in Djerba, and safeguarding Tunisian national historic monuments and the island’s local heritage.53 In 2012, the island of Djerba itself was nominated for inclusion in a tentative list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites.54 One of the arguments presented to UNESCO was the fact that Djerba hosts El-Ghriba, the oldest synagogue in North Africa. Today, the building maintains its early twentiethcentury appearance, although it is obvious that the synagogue has undergone successive reconstruction and renovation to accommodate pilgrims and tourists. Some changes made to the synagogue’s architecture occurred during this restoration work. According to scholarly analysis, it is believed that the major early change was the closure of the courtyard and its conversion into a covered prayer-hall.55 The synagogue’s original structure was similar to that of the other synagogues on the island, a prayer-hall adjacent to an open courtyard. Today’s plan shows that, at some period, the synagogue was altered to include two covered halls, one of which replaced the colonnaded open courtyard.56 The simple square shape metamorphosed into two separate rectangular rooms, one consisting of a covered peristyle colonnade, and the other housing the bimah and the heikhal that holds the ark (Fig. 12.6).57 The wall separating the two halls

Figure 12.6  Plan of the Ghriba Synagogue based on Pinkerfeld’s plan, 1957 (© Nesrine Mansour)

HEKHAL

N

BIMAH

0

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

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includes two windows placed between three entrances. This indicates that the wall was part of the exterior of the building and faced a courtyard.58 The growing size of the congregation and the need for a larger prayer-hall to accommodate the yearly pilgrimage were probably the reason for enclosing the courtyard (Fig. 12.7).59

Figure 12.7  Separation wall between the main prayer room and the ark (© Nesrine Mansour)

The Architecture of El-Ghriba Synagogue The most typical features of every synagogue are its orientation toward Jerusalem, the axis between the bimah and the ark, and the decoration of the heikhal and the ark. El-Ghriba synagogue’s plan and details comply with these major features. The building is oriented toward Jerusalem, with the heikhal facing this eastern direction. The entrances to the sanctuary and the seating arrangements determine the axis between the bimah and the Ark. This relationship culminates at the heikhal, the focal point of the synagogue, and thus its most heavily decorated feature. The architecture of El-Ghriba’s synagogue enhances faith rituals and shows how important it was for the building’s design to embrace the island’s Jewish identity and culture. At the same time, the  building accommodates the special needs related to the yearly celebration of the Lag  Ba’omer  festival illustrating how the synagogue serves as a cultural icon for both Jews and Muslims. The prayer-hall has one atrium containing the bimah, the dais from which the Torah is read. It is from here that the clergy or the leaders of the congregation conduct prayers and sermons. The rest of the space is defined by a series of arches and columns converging on the heikhal, with its Ark. The bimah of El-Ghriba is a square pavilion standing in the sanctuary facing the Ark. It is situated close to the wall connecting the sanctuary to the other synagogue hall (Fig. 12.8). This location allows

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Figure 12.8 The bimah (pulpit) in the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

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services to be conducted in the other prayer-hall when required. The bimah is topped by a lantern, which originally, like other synagogues on the island, consisted of twelve windows representing the twelve tribes of Israel.60 However, El-Ghriba underwent a remodeling that increased the size of the lantern and the number of its windows from twelve to sixteen (Fig. 12.9). All are of stained glass, which adds to the overall colors of the interior and enhances the sanctity of the space. Three doors connect the main sanctuary and the other hall that used to be the courtyard. The sanctuary’s central door opens directly onto the bimah (Fig. 12.8). The other two doors direct people to walk into the sanctuary providing better circulation. Three steps positioned on three sides of the bimah offer access to the podium. The steps are directed towards each entrance of the prayer hall, with the middle steps leading to the desk on which the Torah scrolls are opened for reading (Fig. 12.6). The central entrance to the bimah directly faces the heikhal, creating the important axis between the bimah and the Ark. The sacred procession toward the heikhal requires the colonnaded space to be divided into three equal parts leading to the holiest space in the synagogue. Pews are situated on both sides of the bimah within the spaces between the arches, allowing worshipers to sit and read sacred texts while others are circumambulating in the prayer-hall in procession (Figs. 12.10 and 12.11). The circulation space caters well to the flow of pilgrims during the annual religious festival. The seating arrangement on both sides of the bimah and its position in the hall are characteristic of Sephardi synagogues61 (Fig. 12.10). The heikhal is located on the east side of the sanctuary,62 facing Jerusalem, It contains the ark, the most prominent feature of the synagogue (Fig. 12.11). The original middle part of the heikhal used to include seven cabinets (aronot hakodesh). Following the 1930s restorations, only five holy cabinets were left, each crowned by a wooden crest in the shape of an arch.63 Each cabinet contains a display of differently shaped engraved silver ex-votos (plates) (Figs. 12.11 and 12.12).

Figure 12.9  Bimah lantern in the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

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Figure 12.10 Seating arrangement in the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

Some take the shape of a hand (for a blessing), while others take the shape of a fish, a symbol widely used among Jews and Muslims.64 The heikhal’s upper section is a panel of carved wood that includes small slits into which worshipers place folded pieces of paper containing their wishes (Fig. 12.12). This design of the heikhal reminds the worshipers of the Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. Most synagogues include a panel of stone or an unplastered section of wall in memory of the Destruction, while El-Ghriba’s heikhal emulates the ritual of worshipers placing pieces of paper between the stones of the Temple’s Western Wall. Perhaps this special wall was added because of the hallowed tradition of the synagogue as a keeper of a door or a fragment of a wall from the first Temple.65 This artifact acts as El-Ghriba’s symbolic memorial stone. The lower part of the heikhal holds a niche or maghara covered by a small, two-leaved wooden door (Fig. 12.13). This niche acts as a sepulcher in which the fragment is buried and in which people place candles in honor of El-Ghriba. Both Jews and Muslims who visit El-Ghriba follow this tradition. During the pilgrimage, eggs on which quotations from the scriptures are written are placed in the crypt to cook through the heat of the candles and oil lamps. Both religions believe that if a woman eats that egg, her wish for a husband or a child will be fulfilled within the year.66 The wall of the heikhal wall is a good example of the synagogue catering to faith rituals and myths associated with the legends of El-Ghriba. The colonnade in front of the heikhal reflects both functional and spiritual needs. It was designed to accommodate the circulation and seating arrangement of worshipers, and resembles the plan of the three-bay main halls of the Temples of Jerusalem.67 El-Ghriba Synagogue was originally built as a square structure and is described as having a somber appearance, lacking a specific style.68 Similar to the island’s mosques and other synagogues, the exterior of the synagogue was modest, simple in geometry, and whitewashed. The simple whitewashed

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Figure 12.11 The heikhal (ark) of the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

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Figure 12.12  Cabinets and silver plates in the heikhal (ark) (© Nesrine Mansour)

exterior stands in clear contrast to the lavish ornamentation of the interior (Fig. 12.14). The brightly colored ceramic tiles are reminiscent of those used in abundance in noble Tunisian houses in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries.69 Ceramic tiles are also found in Tunisian mosques on the mainland, such as the luster-glazed tiles surrounding the Mihrab of the great mosque of Kairouan.70 The decoration of El-Ghriba synagogue displays the local aesthetic and has no Jewish significance. The inconsistency of the tile design and its placement around the synagogue attests to different construction periods as well as remodeling and reconstruction work.71 Although the choice of colors is not documented, blue, symbolizing protection and heaven, predominates inside the synagogue. This color symbolism is significant to both Jews and Muslims and is used in both synagogues and mosques. The interior of El-Ghriba synagogue is glorified by beautiful tones of blue and deep green on the painted plastered arches and columns, the plaster crown moldings, and the painted ceiling (Fig. 12.14). In addition, gold leaf decorates the column capitals, and large crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling (Fig. 12.9). The light that emanates from the lantern above the bimah and shines on the blue tones of the interior enhances the synagogue’s color scheme and its evocation of sky and heaven (Fig. 12.14). El-Ghriba’s Architecture and Climate In addition to its holy symbolism, El-Ghriba catered to the island’s environment. The island’s specific conditions dictated the synagogue’s layout to fit in with elements of local architecture, and to enhance the mutual influence between the island’s Jewish and Muslim houses of worship. Djerba’s geography, climate, and light conditions are distinct from those of the North African mainland.72 Its location in the Mediterranean Basin and at the edge of the Sahara Desert is characterized by a subtropical steppe, subtropical, semi-arid climate.73 In summer, especially in June and July, midday temperatures can reach over 45°C (113°F) with an average temperature of approximately 32°C (99°F).74 The humidity is higher than on the mainland due to the proximity to the sea and its breezes. Conversely, winters are mild with an average temperature of 8–10°C (46–50°F),75 and

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Figure 12.13  The recess in which the heikhal (ark) is set in the Ghriba Synagogue and its eternal light fixture (© Nesrine Mansour)

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Figure 12.14  Interior view of the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

rainfall reaching a peak (44 mm or 1.7 inches) in November.76 The island receives abundant sunlight of 10–12 hours per day during the summer and 7–8 hours per day during the winter.77 These sunny conditions and bright skies affect the quality of light, especially during the summer. In addition, the island’s flat terrain with its white and yellow sand, combined with its steppe climate, increases the reflection of bright light. No comprehensive or specific set of building guidelines have been published for the Tunisian climate. Therefore, those specified for a comparable climate region in the USA, namely that of the southwestern United States, the Arizona Desert, were used.78 Even though Arizona is not an island and is not exposed to sea breezes, it lies close to Djerba’s latitude79 and both regions are considered semi-arid, hot climates with harsh summers and mild winters.80 The guidelines used include site  layout, orientation, building shape and geometry, construction and finishing materials, and architectural details.81 Summary design guidelines for construction in these climatic conditions provide three major recommendations for the summer and two for the winter.82 During the summer, the building should be protected from direct sunlight and glare; thermal mass should be used to even out daytime temperature swings. In spring and fall, the sea breezes should be utilized for natural ventilation to cool the building. During the winter season, the sun should be captured and its heat should be retained. Each of these guidelines consists of specific criteria and energy strategies. The eleven criteria for the summer include specifications for the building’s orientation; the layout; the surrounding conditions (landscaping, vegetation, surfaces); shading devices; construction materials and methods; exterior finishes; apertures; and high ceilings (Table 12.1). For the winter season in this region the guidelines specify eight criteria for the building’s layout and orientation; compact design; the surfaces of the

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surroundings; the use of thermal mass; and apertures (Table 12.2). Thermal comfort can be achieved if a building fulfills most of these criteria.83 To demonstrate the impact of the Djerbian climate on the design of El-Ghriba synagogue, an analysis was conducted along these guidelines and how they were implemented in the synagogue’s design before a recent installation of air-conditioning units.84 The results of the synagogue’s compatibility with Djerba’s summer conditions show that the synagogue fulfilled seven of the eleven design strategies and criteria (64%); partially fulfilled three criteria (27%); and left only one strategy unfulfilled (9%) (Table 12.1). The fulfilled criteria include the synagogue’s whitewashed walls that reflect the sun; the massive construction of the walls thus contributing to the thermal mass effect as well as cooling the building; and openable windows, which allow for cross-ventilation. The hot air rising from the interior space is able to escape through the lantern’s operable windows. The synagogue’s exterior shutters constitute the only shading system. When closed, they protect the interior from direct sun and some of the heat, but contribute to a decrease in air circulation (Fig. 12.15). The olive trees only partially fulfill the criterion for providing shade as they are too small and too distant from the synagogue’s walls (Fig. 12.16). The north–south orientation is partially fulfilled due to the faith requirement of an eastern orientation facing Jerusalem. Avoidance of light-colored soil is not fulfilled due to the sandy soil surrounding the synagogue. Table 12.1  Analysis of the compatibility of El-Ghriba Synagogue with the summers in Djerba (© Nesrine Mansour) Design guidelines

Specific criteria

Excludes excessive heat, avoids direct sunlight and glare

Orientation (north–south axis)

*

Vegetation: olive trees Avoiding light-colored ground Exterior shade (shutters) Shaded outdoor spaces (porches, courtyard) Highly reflective building surface Solid construction materials Daytime hot air removed by closing all openings Use of high ceilings Openable windows on all sides Open plan 11

*

Use of thermal mass Natural ventilation Total Percentages

Completely fulfilled (*)

*

Partially fulfilled (*)

Not fulfilled (–)

–

*

* * * * * *  7 64%

 3 27%

1 9%

Table 12.2  Analysis of the compatibility of El-Ghriba Synagogue with the winters in Djerba (© Nesrine Mansour) Design guidelines

Specific criteria

Retaining the heat

Small openings (the lantern light has large openings around the building) Compact design/minimum surface area-tovolume ratio Minimizing window area except for southfacing windows Layout and orientation (North-South) Long axis running east-west Use south-facing clerestory windows Use of thermal mass Light-colored ground 8

Letting in winter sun

Total Percentages

Completely fulfilled (*)

Partially fulfilled (*)

Not fulfilled (–) –

*

* –

* * *  3 37.5%

– *  2 25%

 3 37.5%

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Figure 12.15 Windows and shutters in the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

Figure 12.16 Landscaping and air conditioning unit in the Ghriba Synagogue (© Nesrine Mansour)

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The synagogue fulfilled three winter criteria out of eight (37.5%); partially fulfilled two criteria (25%); while three were not fulfilled (37.5%) (Table 12.2). Entry of the winter sun was mostly fulfilled by the synagogue’s orientation and the use of thermal mass. The brightly colored sandy soil reflects the sun’s rays into the building, adding some heat in the winter. Because the synagogue is a one-story building and the surface area to volume is not minimal due to its high ceilings, it is  ­considered as a partially compact design. In addition, the few south-facing clerestory windows are considered as partially fulfilling two categories. Most criteria for heat retention are not fulfilled because of the synagogue’s orientation to the east rather than the south, as well as its large openings on all sides of the lantern. These results demonstrate that the synagogue’s architecture is more compatible with the summer’s hot and arid climate than with the mild winter conditions. As summer is the crucial season on the island, the findings corroborate the premise that the island’s climate affected the synagogue’s architecture, which was adapted to these special conditions. Following the recent installation of air-conditioning units in the synagogue to accommodate the tourists visiting this national icon, all the windows have been closed, blocking natural crossventilation. Consequently, the building’s passive thermal strategies have decreased, especially in times of high occupancy.85 Alongside the climate, light is considered a pivotal factor in determining the impact of the environment on religious architecture. In addition to its function, light is perceived as uplifting the worshiper’s soul and contributing to the spiritual experience.86 Some even see light as an expression of a folk love-story, nestling between the Divine Presence (shekhina) and the light that emanates from it.87 Rituals and beliefs enhance these universal attributions of light, which are translated into the house of worship as integral parts of the architectural plan, geometry, surface, form, and space. Light in synagogues is not only functional but also spiritual in glorifying the Lord and respecting the place, “Wherefore glorify ye the Lord in the fires” (Isaiah 24:15). According to the Talmud, worshipers should not be distracted while praying or studying in the  sanctuary.88 The laws call for translucent rather than transparent openings, or for a higher positioning of the windows. A uniformly soft light is required by the Jewish faith to enable all to read the Scriptures.89 The Kabbalah requires twelve windows, three on each side.90 In the original El-Ghriba prayer room, twelve windows were located high above the bimah. Following the restoration that added openings to the lantern, abundant daylight enters through the sixteen windows over the bimah and from the side upper walls. This light allows the leaders of the congregation and the worshipers to read the prayer-books and concentrate on the rituals. It is also used as an architectural light to enhance the verticality of the space, enabling the worshipers to connect to the sky and celebrate their faith. The reflections from the bright colors of the ceramic tiles, the blue-painted columns and arches, the green-painted ceiling, and the brightly colored marble floor also enhance the connection to heaven (Fig. 12.14).91 The accent and architectural lights in the sanctuary room diminish and soften towards the heikhal. The absence of side-windows in the inner area of the sanctuary and the series of nine arches preceding the heikhal block the natural light. Candles are usually used to illuminate the area facing the heikhal and its symbols, adding to the mystical impression and to the drama of the sacred space. This treatment illuminates the symbols of the sanctuary and celebrates the faith’s focal point. Nowadays, the lower windows are covered in closed shutters, creating a contrast between the dark lower spaces and the bright upper ones, that produce a somewhat uncomfortable glare. This condition called for electric light, which overwhelms the natural light in El-Ghriba synagogue.92 The change in brightness decreases the mystical ambiance and the original design of the synagogue to let in the daylight. Nevertheless, with the abundant bright skies in Djerba, the level of light inside the synagogue is comfortable enough in certain areas, mainly under the lantern where the light always penetrates through the stained glass (Fig. 12.9). This analysis illustrates the special attention that was paid to light in the synagogue’s original architecture, corroborating to our initial premise that climatic conditions and light affected the synagogue’s architecture. Conclusion The examination of the research question of how El-Ghriba synagogue’s architecture demonstrates  the interactive influence of traditions and local conditions on its built form shows that the synagogue was built to cater to the mixed cultural context of the island and accommodate its special climate and light conditions. The design of the building illustrates the influence of Jewish

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ritual and the island’s cultural identity, including the mutual influences between synagogues and mosques. It also takes into account the specific conditions of the island’s environment, which affected all Djerbian houses of worship. Like the island’s synagogues, most mosques avoid architectural ornamentation and hierarchical classification.93 The modest architecture of the mosques includes thick, whitewashed walls and an open courtyard. The courtyard is part of the building’s response to the local climate of hot summers with sea breezes, and the walls utilize the thermal mass effect to its best advantage while their whiteness reflects the sun. Contrary to other mosques in Tunisia and in most Islamic countries, Djerbian mosques retain a sense of restraint and simplicity. Their low height and wall construction are similar to the island’s local architecture. The use of simple forms in both the synagogues and mosques can be also interpreted as a need to create a pure relationship with God, free of any sign of wealth or distinction among the different classes of worshipers. The use of simple building technology is a method of presenting God with a purified soul, eliminating any narcissism and arrogance.94 Thus, simplicity and modesty are characteristic of the island’s religious structures, as well as their need to accommodate the local climate conditions and the mixed culture. Similar exceptions to these architectural themes are found in both synagogues and mosques. El-Ghriba Synagogue and some of the island’s mosques belonging to the Ibadis, a distinct sect of Islam neither Sunni nor Shiite,95 lack an open courtyard in their designs. For instance, the Sidi Fathloun Mosque, dating back to the fourteenth century, has a simple square design with no open courtyard.96 This study demonstrates that in contrast to literature that emphasizes the dominance of cultural/ religious factors on the design of houses of worship, the island’s particular environment interacted with its mixed culture to affect these structures. Djerba, and more precisely El-Ghriba, are significant in maintaining the longevity of the inherited Jewish traditions and their coexistence with the other islanders. Emigration has resulted in Tunisian Jews abandoning the land, but not their culture or their history. The immigrants in Israel built their synagogues in the style of the Djerbian El-Ghriba.97 Those who stayed in Djerba represent a minority in Tunisia, but on the island they are a community that still relies on its past traditions to the extent that when one of the Djerbian synagogues burned down in the 1970s, Jews mourned as if it was the re-enactment of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The persistence of tradition, co-existence with the local population, and accommodation to the island’s environment are the reasons for the survival of El-Ghriba synagogue across the centuries, making it a national landmark and cultural icon of unity and a constant reminder of the past.

Notes 1. Abraham Udovitch and Lucette Valensi, The Last Arab Jews: The Communities of Jerba, Tunisia (Chur, Switzerland: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1983); Shlomo Deshen and Walter P. Zenner, eds., Jews among Muslims: Communities in the Precolonial Middle East (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1996). 2. Norman Stillman, The Jews of Arab Lands: A History and Source Book (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1979). 3. Deshen and Zenner, Jews Among Muslims. 4. Ada Aharoni, “The Forced Migration of Jews from Arab Countries,” Peace Review 15, no. 1 (2003): 3–60. 5. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 6. “The fame of the El-Ghriba Synagogue of Djerba is based on numerous traditions and beliefs that emphasize its antiquity and importance,” http://www.bh.org.il/el-ghriba-synagogue-djerba-tunisia/ (accessed February 10, 2015). 7. The synagogue’s significance was recognized by the Association de Sauvegarde de l’Ile de Djerba (ASSIDJE), which listed the building as an official Djerbian monument. “Association of the Preservation of the Island of Djerba,” ahttp://djerba.net.free.fr/histoire.htm (accessed February 10, 2015). The mission of both ASSIDJE and the Institut National du Patrimoine (INP) is to safeguard the history and memory of the island’s historic sites, especially the building of El-Ghriba Synagogue. 8. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews; Sarah Taïeb-Carlen, The Jews of North Africa: From Dido to de Gaulle, trans. Amos Carlen (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2010). 9. Ibid.; Maurice Roumani, The Case of the Jews from Arab Countries: A Neglected Issue (Tel Aviv: World Organization of Jews from Arab Countries, 1983). 10. In Tunisia the population of Jews decreased from more than 100,000 in 1948 to only 2000 in 1976 and reduced to1000 Jews residing on the island today (yearbooks of the Jewish communities). 11. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews, 8. 12. Ibid.; Jacob Pinkerfeld, The Synagogues of North Africa (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1974). 13. Ibid.

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14. The first time the two Jewish villages were marked geographically on a map was in 1570. “Djerba— Tunisie,” http://www.nachoua.com/Jerba2002/Jerba.htm (accessed February 10, 2015). 15. Shlomo Deshen, “Southern Tunisian Jewry in the Early Twentieth Century: Elements of French, Arab, and Jewish Culture,” Journal of North African Studies 10, no. 2 (2005): 183–199; Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 16. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 17. Ibid. 18. The Ottoman colonization of Tunisia occurred from 1534 and lasted until 1881. Simon S. Reeva, Michael M. Laskier, and Sara Reguer, The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003). 19. Ibid. 20. French colonization of Tunisia occurred from 1881 until 1956, when Tunisia received its independence. Ibid. 21. Reeva, Laskier, and Reguer, The Jews. 22. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 23. The Bimah is the podium (stage) from where the reading of the Torah, the holy scrolls, is conducted. 24. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews, 121. 25. Sukkot is a weeklong autumn harvest festival that also commemorates the forty-year period during which the Israelites wandered in the desert, living in temporary shelters covered by palm branches. Rodney Manley, “Feast of Tabernacles Celebrates Church’s Jewish Roots,” McClatchy Tribune Business News, September 16, 2006, http://libezproxy.tamu.edu:2048/login?url=http://search.proquest.com/docview/4645 55983?accountid=7082 (accessed March 15, 2015); Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews, 121. 26. Taïeb-Carlen, The Jews of North Africa, 58. 27. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews, 16. 28. Pinkerfeld, The Synagogues of North Africa. 29. Colette Bismuth-Jarrassé and Dominique Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie: Monuments d’une histoire et d’une identité (Paris: Editions Esthétiques du divers, 2010). 30. “Djerba, the Island of Dreams,” http://hellotunisia.com/albums/mednine/djerba/ (accessed February 10, 2015). 31. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 32. Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie. 33. Ibid, 29. 34. “Lag Baomer,” http://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/42944/jewish/Lag-BaOmer.htm (accessed February 10, 2015). 35. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 36. Ibid. 37. Dora Carpenter-Latiri, “The Ghriba on the Island of Jerba or the Reinvention of a Shared Shrine as a Meronym for a Multicultural Tunisia,” in Sharing the Sacra: The Politics and Pragmatics of Intercommunal Relations around Holy Places, ed. Glenn Bowman, 118–138 (New York: Berghahn Books, 2012). 38. Ibid. 39. Ibid; Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews; Nahum Slouschz, Un voyage d’études juives en Afrique du Nord (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1909). Nahum Slouchz was a Hebraicist and explorer, the first to write in-depth studies on the history, ethnography, and archeology of the Jewish communities of North Africa. 40. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews, 125. 41. Ibid.; “Jews Revive Annual Pilgrimage to Africa’s Oldest Synagogue,” Reuters India, April 27, 2013, http://in.reuters.com/article/2013/04/27/us-tunisia-jews-idINBRE93Q07L20130427 (accessed February 10, 2015). 42. Aroussa means “bride” in Arabic and “fiancée” in Hebrew; Carpenter-Latiri, “The Ghriba on the Island of Jerba.” 43. An image of the “Jehfa,” Flickr, July 25, 2008, https://www.flickr.com/photos/22277447@N04/2702353376/ in/photostream/ (accessed March 15, 2015). 44. The Djerbian Society: Marriage Traditions, http://traditionshttp://www.djerbamuseum.tn/index. php%3Foption%3Dcom_content%26view%3Darticle%26id%3D69%26Itemid%3D82%26lang%3Den (accessed April 28, 2016). 45. Haim F. Ghiuzeli, “El-Ghriba Synagogue, Djerba, Tunisia,” http://www.bh.org.il/el-ghriba-synagogue djerba-tunisia/ (accessed May 18, 2016). The Synagogue and the Spree Algribh, translated from Hebrew, http://img2.tapuz.co.il/forums/1/417b83ce-6fc4-4d7f-81b4-e44d80cd68ff.doc (accessed May 18, 2016). 46. Ibid. 47. Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 48. Ghiuzeli, “El-Ghriba Synagogue, Djerba, Tunisia.” 49. Shavuot observes and celebrates the giving of the Torah to the Children of Israel at Mount Sinai. BismuthJarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie, 131. 50. Ibid.; Pinkerfeld, The Synagogues of North Africa. 51. Ibid. No reference was found about the involvement of the Ottomans and French in these restorations.

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52. “Monuments classés” (May 15, 2012), http://www.inp.rnrt.tn/Monuments_classees/monuments_classes. pdf (accessed August 30, 2015). 53. Nancy Davidson, “Where History and Myth Meet,” The New York Sun, August 27, 2007, http://www. nysun.com/travel/where-history-myth-meet/61323/ (accessed June 5, 2015). 54. “World Heritage Centre, Tunisia,” http://whc.unesco.org/en/statesparties/tn/ (accessed August 30, 2015); “World Heritage Centre, Tunisia Tentative List,” http://whc.unesco.org/en/tentativelists/5686/ (accessed August 30, 2015). 55. Pinkerfeld, The Synagogues of North Africa. 56. Ibid. 57. The ark is a cabinet where the scrolls of the Torah are kept. 58. Pinkerfeld, The Synagogues of North Africa. 59. Ibid. 60. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews; Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie; Jacob Pinkerfeld, Un témoignage du passé en voie de disparition: Les synagogues de la région de Djerba (Carthage: Musée Lavigerie, 1957); Slouschz, Un voyage d’études. 61. Sephardic synagogues have the bimah as a box, and read the entire service from there. Borrowing from the Islamic al-Minbar (platform), the Sephardi bimah is also called the Almemar. “Synagogue Architecture,” Synagogue Architecture, accessed February 10, 2015, http://www.bje.org.au/learning/ history/­synarchitecture.html. 62. Since Djerba is located west of Jerusalem all synagogues must face the east. 63. Pinkerfeld, Un témoignage du passé; Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie. 64. Some of the plates are a commemoration of members of the congregation who have passed away, leaving their legacy eternal in the shrine. Others include the names of newborns. 65. Udovitch and Valensi, The Last Arab Jews. 66. Carpenter-Latiri, “The Ghriba on the Island of Jerba.” 67. Shalom Dov Shtienberg, The Format of the First Jerusalem Temple (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Vagshel, 1994); ibid. 68. Slouschz, Un voyage d’études. 69. Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie, 134. 70. “Khan Academy,” text by Dr. Colette Apelian, https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/art-islam/ islamic-art-early/a/the-great-mosque-of-kairouan (accessed February 10, 2015). 71. Bismuth-Jarrassé and Jarrassé, Synagogues de Tunisie, 134–135. 72. Djerba is located 4 km (2.4 miles) off the southeast coast of Tunisia in the Gulf of Gabes on the Mediterranean shore (33° 48′ 00″ N, 10° 54′ 00″ E). 73. “World Maps by Köppen-Geiger Climate Classification,” http://koeppen-geiger.vu-wien.ac.at/present.htm (accessed February 10, 2015). 74. Elizabeth Fentress, Ali Drine, and Renata Holod, eds., An Island through Time: Djerba Studies, vol. 1, The Punic and Roman Periods (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Studies, 2009). 75. Ibid. 76. “Djerba Climate and Temperature,” http://www.djerba.climatemps.com/precipitation.php (accessed February 10, 2015). 77. “Welcome to the World Climate Guide,” in World Climate Guide, http://www.worldclimateguide.co.uk/ (accessed February 15, 2015); Climate Consultant, a graphic-based computer program, was used to analyze the weather data for the region of Djerba. This software helps to figure out the local climate by translating raw climate data into meaningful graphic displays. Energy Design Tools, http://www.energy-design-tools. aud.ucla.edu (accessed February 10, 2015). 78. “World Maps by Köppen-Geiger.” 79. Djerba’s latitude is 33.7833° N; southern Arizona is 33.4500° N. 80. Norbert Lechner, Heating, Cooling, Lighting: Sustainable Design Methods for Architects (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2009). 81. Ibid.; Anat Geva, Saaroni Hadas and Jacob Morris, “Measurements and Simulations of Thermal Comfort: A Synagogue in Tel Aviv, Israel,” Journal of Building Performance Simulation 7, no. 3 (2014): 233–250. 82. Lechner, Heating, Cooling, Lighting, 116–117. 83. Ibid. 84. The data collected for the paper’s analysis were determined from a field visit and the literature found on the synagogue. 85. These conditions were observed from the author’s field visit. 86. Henry Plummer, Poetics of Light, Extra edition no. 12 (Tokyo: A+U, 1987), 8–11. 87. Marie-Madeleine Davy, Le thème de la lumière dans le judaïsme, le christianisme et l’islam, vol. 4 (Paris: Berg International, 1976). 88. Talmud Bavli: Eiruvin 65a and Shulchan Aruch: Orach Chayim 98:2 89. David Cassuto, ed., Ve Shachanti Be’tocham [I May Dwell among Them] (Jerusalem: Israeli Ministry of Education and Culture, The Government Publisher, 1976), 46. 90. Ibid. 91. Mollie M. Clarahan, “Inspired Illumination: Sanctuary Lighting Must Do More than Simply Chase the Shadows Away,” Your Church 50 (2004): 42–44.

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92. The keeper of the synagogue confirmed that the reasons for closing the shutters are security driven and a strategy to keep the space cool while the air-conditioning units are in use. 93. Stablo, Les djerbiens. Prevost, Les Mosquées. 94. André Raveraux, Le M’zab une leçon d’architecture (Paris: Sindbad, 1981). 95. Valerie J. Hoffman, The Essentials of Ibadi Islam (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2012). 96. Stanley Ira Hallet and Ali Djerbi, The Mosques of Djerba (San Francisco: Blurb, 2010), http://www.blurb. com/b/813169-the-mosques-of-djerba (accessed February 10, 2015). 97. For example, El-Ghriba synagogues in Ofakim and Lod, Israel.

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Chapter Thirteen

Synagogue Architecture in Kerala, India: Design Roots, Precedents, Tectonics, and Inspirations Jay A. Waronker

India is home to more than forty synagogues, just over half of them still operational and the others inactive or decommissioned. They range in date from the mid-sixteenth to the twenty-first centuries,1 the oldest being located in the southwestern coastal state of Kerala. Though Kerala’s early synagogues, believed to date from the late tenth through the thirteenth centuries, disappeared long ago as a result of natural disasters or enemy attacks, or were abandoned when congregations moved (as did the first confirmed synagogue authenticated to 1344 by a surviving inscription), those originating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries endure.2 These synagogues, albeit altered over time, are the oldest in south Asia and in the British Commonwealth.3 When placed in the context of Jewish houses of prayer globally, they are outstanding for their considerable age coupled with their distinct architectural and liturgical characteristics. Kerala’s Jews, always the most diminutive minority community, lived for centuries, if not millennia, within a particularly multicultural and diversely religious setting. The fact that they often coexisted in harmony with their indigenous fellow citizens and came figuratively and in some cases literally to build their synagogues alongside other religious buildings implies that Keralan Jews were free to express themselves while also openly making use of what others had done. This affirms a level of cooperation, attainment, interaction, and respect for one’s neighbors, and is testimony to a native consciousness and even pride in the Jewish presence and contribution.4 Jews and their synagogues became integral parts of Kerala’s history and sense of place.5 When constructing their houses of prayer, the Jews of Kerala were regularly inspired by many of the same architectural traditions and devices embraced by other local faiths, including the Muslims with their mosques. This interaction denotes a prolonged history of sharing if not imitating. What transpired can best be described as a process of compilation—taking from here and copying from there—for much of the architecture-making in Kerala. The state is characterized by a string of small towns and villages, linked by a system of natural canals and narrow roadways. The practice of architectural borrowing and exchanging has long been pervasive. The synagogues created in Kerala, alongside contemporaneous mosques and other religious buildings, represent analogous examples of this trans-societal, multidimensional building legacy. This chapter positions the seven surviving Keralan synagogues, all located in the central region of the state, in the framework of regional Indian architecture. The synagogues of Kerala are prime examples of deep-rooted and long-standing local architectural conventions, which include religious and secular concepts. Through the synthesis of Jewish and Keralan traditions established and refined over time, a distinct and remarkable synagogue aesthetic developed. Presented here is how this was achieved, a story revealed through an analysis of the architectural roots, precedents, liturgical influences, tectonics, materiality, and climatic considerations. Some Keralan synagogues have been included in general publications concerning this building type, yet little space has been allocated to them. Since the synagogues of Kerala hold a singular place in the annals of Indian, as well as Jewish, architectural history, what is described here represents an attempt to fill a gap in the existing literature. The Keralan Context Over time, a kaleidoscope of forces and factors helped shape the architecture in the Malabar Coast (malabar means “place of hills” in Malayalam) area of India where Kerala lies. Through the fusion of these constituents, Kerala’s unique architecture came into form. Some ­ influences stemmed

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from the natural context and a response to the tropical climate—annual ­monsoons, lush greenery, inter-coastal waterways, the abundance of lumber, accessibility of local stone, and other natural resources. Other inspirations were derived from Kerala’s centuries-old seafaring tradition, interactions with foreigners, the lucrative spice trade, and a port economy. Sources were also cultural, such as the Kerala’s blend of religions, tolerance, village life, and distinct rituals and customs. All had considerable effects on the region’s architecture, including its synagogues and other religious buildings, just as they did on the daily lives of the people of Kerala. In Kerala, religious institutions, native leaders, and visiting imperialists built countless structures, several of them architecturally important, which in turn influenced more modest buildings such as synagogues. Kerala is particularly notable for its religious diversity, which is evinced in its extraordinary repertory of religious architecture. Along with synagogues, there are mosques, Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, and Jain temples, churches, monasteries, rock-cut sanctuaries, stupas, shrines, megaliths, pagodas, and ceremonial sites. In addition, there is a cornucopia of secular structures built by the local people or European colonialists, including palaces, forts, town halls, port facilities, markets, schools, military installations, transportation facilities, and an array of domestic dwellings. Synagogues have rarely, if ever, conformed to stylistic rules anywhere in the world or, as a building type, been resolved in unique or recognizable terms. Judaism has never had a central authority, governing body, or dedicated text to direct precise construction and aesthetic policies, and Jews were dispersed throughout the ages, living in small groups among the dominant communities. A lack of specific design and construction traditions or dogma resulted in a mélange of results. The synagogues of Kerala are no exception, but they managed to adopt a characteristically Indian image, blended with Judaic liturgical elements. Since individual synagogue builders may have had substantial latitude to design as they saw fit, or were required to conform to social, economic, political, or environmental circumstances, synagogues around the world have varied considerably. What resulted was a way of building that was not wholly pure and distinguishable yet, through a mixture of component parts, was unique in its own way. This is precisely what happened in the case of the synagogues of Kerala. Vernacular, highbrow native, and colonial-period designs were blended with broadly Jewish and explicitly Keralan requisites to create a distinctive synagogue construction. For this reason, the synagogues of Kerala, although not recognizably “Jewish,” are architecturally unique. The exteriors of Keralan synagogues, which blended in comfortably with the streetscapes, do not typically contain any overt Jewish symbols, forms, or markings.6 In synagogue interiors, the quintessentially Jewish elements of the tevah (pulpit) and heikhal (ark) reveal that these are synagogues, yet otherwise the spaces overall seem typical of Keralan conventions. This tradition of architectural ambiguity is not unique to the synagogues of Kerala. The façades of some of the local mosques or pallis built in a similar period are also unremarkable and visually undefined as places of prayer. For instance, the Cheraman Juma Mosque in Methala, Kodungaller Taluk of the Thrissur district, said to date to 629 ce and reconstructed in the eleventh century in the Keralan style, was an aesthetic cousin of Kerala’s synagogues until it was renovated.7 Other vernacular examples of Keralan mosques include those at Kuttichira, Muchchandi, Panthalayani in Kozhikode district, Odatheel in Thalassery (formerly Tellicherry), Thanur in the Garhwal district, Ponnani in the Malappuram district, and Malik Dinar in the Kasargode district. The applies to the interiors of other historic religious buildings in Kerala, including mosques with their vernacular Keralan spaces recognizable as Islamic prayer spaces only through the liturgical elements of the qibla (wall facing the Kaaba in Mecca) with its minbar (pulpit) and mihrab (niche). Rather, it is the assemblage of multiple design and planning variables, historical references, and dedicated ritual spaces that make the Keralan synagogues Jewish. They represent a chapter in history when Jews built synagogues voluntarily by incorporating elements from a variety of contemporary and antique, local and external influences, fused with their particular religious and cultural needs. That synagogues and mosques jointly drew from broad local design and construction traditions and were often similar aesthetically and in their planning reveals a tradition, not of one group influencing, dominating, or dictating another but rather of sharing, joint borrowing, and commonality. As minority faiths in Kerala living side-by-side, often in relative peace and friendship, Jews and Muslims drew from the same architectural conventions. Kerala’s Jews and where they Constructed their Synagogues Narratives claim that the Jews were traders, originating from Judea, Babylonia, Yemen, or Persia, who reached the shores of Kerala as far back as two and a half millennia ago. According to local legend, the first Jewish immigrants to arrive at the Malabar Coast came as a result of Cyrus the Great’s

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ending of the Babylonian Jewish exile in 538 bce. They were followed after the Roman destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in 70 ce and continued Roman aggression in Judaea in circa 130 ce, Jews are also rumored to have arrived through migrations from the Balearic Islands in the fifth century to the port town of Muziris (referred to by the Keralan Jews as Shingly and also known as Cranganore). There are no written records or conclusive accounts of their earliest history, however, and nothing about their synagogues. As with many Jewish communities, the Jews of Kerala did not necessarily construct synagogues immediately, electing to use private homes, simple structures, or temporary facilities, if any at all, for worship. An early synagogue in Kerala is believed to date to the late tenth century. According to local narrative, the Keralan Jew Joseph Rabban, who accepted copper plates on behalf of his community granting the Jews land and a set of privileges by the Chera Dravidian dynasty King Bhaskara Ravi Varman, was also given wood by his majesty for building a synagogue around 1000 ce.8 While no physical evidence of this and any other building from a similar period survives, literature, Jewish folksongs, and narratives support the notion that there may have been synagogues in the Malabar Coast during this era. Some of these medieval-period buildings perished when the Keralan Jews abandoned them, due to the threat of persecution by the Moors and the Portuguese or as a result of natural disasters.9 Others were rebuilt after natural disasters, fires, modernization efforts, or for various other reasons. The first documented synagogue, built in the State of Cochin in Kerala before the Keralan Jews resettled there en masse in the sixteenth century, dates from 1344. It was located in Kochangadi, on a narrow peninsula south of Mattancherry, now part of the city of Kochi (formerly Cochin). It was most likely constructed when the Jews abandoned an earlier house of prayer in or around Cranganore, a half day’s trip north of Cochin State, which was flooded by the Perriyar River in 1341.10 The Kochangadi Synagogue is believed to have been razed by the army of Tipu Sultan from Mysore during the Anglo-Mysore Wars of the 1780s. Tipu Sultan was intolerant of faiths other than Islam, persecuting non-Muslims and destroying houses of prayer other than mosques.11 Nothing of the Kochangadi Synagogue remains except an inscription, which today can be seen inset in a courtyard wall of the Paradesi Synagogue in Kochi–Mattancherry’s Jew Town.12 Synagogues dating from the fifteenth to first half of the sixteenth centuries existed in central Kerala, but all vanished as a result of natural or man-induced destruction.13 From the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, synagogues were built within or around Kochi, including at Palur, Tir Tur, Saudi (or Southi), Muttam, and Fort Cochin.14 None of these buildings survive, and no documentation about them has been located. All of Kerala’s remaining synagogues have been altered or partially rebuilt over the years. The oldest extant synagogues in Kerala, based on physical inscriptions, date to the mid-sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Others were rebuilt over the years as the consequence of deliberate attacks, fires, expansions, or restorations, dating from the eighteenth, nineteenth, or early twentieth centuries. Every one of these synagogues was realized in the traditional Keralan style, described below. Currently, seven synagogue buildings that once belonged to the Jews of Kerala can be found in Kochi proper, which today consists of the mainland plus islands, and in the three northern towns/ villages of Parur (Paravur), Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam), and Mala. In Kochi, a pair of synagogue buildings, the Paradesi and Kadavumbagam, are located on the west side of Mattancherry–Jew Town’s north–south oriented Synagogue Lane, a relatively quiet and pedestrian-friendly part of the city.15 The Paradesi (“foreigners”) Synagogue dates from 1568. It was badly damaged by the Portuguese in the mid-seventeenth century, repaired, and then modified over the centuries.16 Today it is the sole functioning synagogue in Kerala and a popular tourist attraction (Fig.  13.1).17 Nearby is the Kadavumbagam Synagogue (in Malayalam, kadavum means “landing place” and bagam means “side”), said to date from 1130 or 1400, when the Jews abandoned the Kochangadi Synagogue, or to the same period as the Paradesi Synagogue when some Kerala Jews fled from the Moors and Portuguese to settle in Kochi under the relative protection of the Rajah of Cochin (Fig. 13.2).18 The synagogue closed in 1955 when its congregation immigrated to Israel. The building was then sold by its Jewish caretaker to a non-Jewish owner for commercial purposes.19 The structure lost its gatehouse and breezeway when the road was reoriented in the 1960s, and the building’s elaborate interior finishes were removed in the early 1990s and sent to the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. Today the building is a ruin. In the mid-1950s, a third synagogue existed in Mattancherry–Jew Town before the land was sold by its members at the time of their immigration to Israel. The building was eventually demolished and replaced by a private home some years later.20 This was the Tekkumbagam (tek meaning south side

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Figure 13.1  Exterior of the Paradesi Synagogue clock tower, Kochi–Mattancherry, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

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Figure 13.2  Exterior of the Kadavumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Mattancherry, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

in Malayalam—a reference to an earlier south-side synagogue that existed in Cranganore as per narratives), also located on the west side of Synagogue Lane between the Paradesi and Kadavumbagam Synagogues. Two more Keralan synagogues, both closed for years due to the diminished Jewish community that began leaving almost exclusively for Israel from 1955 onward, are located in the bustling commercial district of Ernakulam across the harbor on the eastern mainland. One, also called the Kadavumbagam, is on the west side of Market Road just south of the intersection with Jews (or Jew) Street (Fig. 13.3). The synagogue as it appears today can be attributed to rebuilding efforts during

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Figure 13.3  Interior of the Kadavumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala (© V. Issac Sam)

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Figure 13.4  Interior of the Tekkumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala (© V. Issac Sam)

the early eighteenth to early nineteenth centuries.21 Following a period of neglect and deterioration after the congregation ­emigrated, since 1985 the former synagogue has been used as a fish store and plant nursery for a native Jewish owner. At its west end, the sanctuary remains largely intact and is available for viewing.22 The second synagogue building in Ernakulam, also called the Tekkumbagam, is just around the west corner on the north side of Jews Street in mid-block before the intersection with Broadway (Fig. 13.4).23 This Keralan-style structure—dating from as recently as the 1930s but never completed due to the outbreak of World War II followed by the decline of the Keralan Jewish community— occupies the site of an earlier, smaller synagogue complex that dates back to anywhere between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. It probably had a covered breezeway and a gatehouse.24 One synagogue stands in each of the outlying communities of Parur and Chendamangalam, both in the Ernakulam district, and in Mala within Kerala’s Thrissur district. The Parur Synagogue, located close to the town’s commercial center in a small district known as “Jew Town” that borders a canal, was constructed in 1164 and rebuilt in 1616 according to a Hebrew inscription affixed to the synagogue compound wall (Fig. 13.5).25 The complex of buildings and walled spaces, according to narratives, fell into decline in the sixteenth century; it was heavily damaged by Tipu Sultan’s armies in the early 1780s, and then repaired and rebuilt decades later.26 It continued to be used as a synagogue into the 1970s and 80s, when nearly the last of its congregation had completed the pattern of immigration to Israel that had begun in 1955. In the closing years of the twentieth century, with only a handful of Jews still residing in the area, the synagogue closed. In 2009, after years of neglect, the Association of Kerala Jews assigned stewardship of the building and the rest of the property to the Keralan government. With funding from the Keralan and Indian governments, the restoration of

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Figure 13.5  Exterior of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

the Parur Synagogue began and continued into 2013. The site is now a government-operated cultural venue open to the public.27 The synagogue in the village of Chendamangalam, located two miles north of the Parur Synagogue and said to date to 1421 per narratives, was rebuilt after a fire in 1614, and rebuilt again later in that century.28 The synagogue was also severely damaged by Tipu Sultan’s armies in the early 1780s before it was repaired some decades later.29 Once its congregation emigrated to Israel, starting in

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Figure 13.6  Exterior of the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

1955, the synagogue building deteriorated over time. By the 1980s, its structural integrity was severely threatened. In response, in 2005, the Keralan office of the Indian Department of Archeology began restoration of the synagogue and its grounds. Work was completed in early 2006, and at that time an exhibition on the history of the synagogue opened in the former prayer space (Fig. 13.6).30 The third and farthest afield of the Keralan synagogues built outside of Kochi proper is located in the town of Mala, right in the commercial center on Trichur Mala Road (Fig. 13.7). The original construction date is the subject of debate among historians, but a synagogue with a date attribution of 1597 likely replaced an earlier one—probably dating from as long ago as the eleventh century—on the site, before this one was also damaged by Tipu Sultan’s armies in the 1780s. It was later modified, including alterations in the early twentieth century.31 The Mala Synagogue was deeded to the local panchayat (municipality) in December 1954 when the congregation emigrated to Israel. Eventually stripped of most of its interior fittings, its spaces were used initially as a school and civic hall, but eventually fell into disrepair (along with the Jewish cemetery to the east of town). Mala Synagogue’s gatehouse and breezeway were appropriated and compromised by local merchants.32 None of the seven surviving synagogue buildings of Kerala are identical, yet they have many features in common. There is some variation in scale, details, and planning, but in a broader sense they are aesthetically similar. While there is no physical evidence or recorded information about the architecture of Kerala’s earliest synagogues, it is reasonable to think that first-generation buildings served as models for later ones. Architectural and liturgical elements and conventions recalling those in Cranganore and other early Keralan synagogues were logically included, even if expressed in diverse ways. Some deviations may have been subtle while others were more pronounced, perhaps in the inclusion of new types and relationships of spaces. Over the centuries, new building conventions and stylistic influences from near or far as later rounds of Jews settled in Kerala affected the next area synagogue, yet, over time, fundamental components were maintained. As second, third, and latergeneration synagogues were built by Kerala’s Jews, what could be described as a Keralan synagogue formula was devised. The result was a distinct way of expressing a religious building typology, based on its own lineage coupled with evolving local internal as well as external influences.

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Figure 13.7  Exterior of the Mala Synagogue, Kerala (© V. Issac Sam)

Kerala’s Architectural Traditions and their Influence on Synagogue Design Keralan synagogues were not only shaped by a variety of Jewish influences developed over the centuries, inspired by or paralleling the placement of the heikhal on the wall facing Jerusalem, separate seating areas for men and women as per Orthodox Jewish convention, and the central position of the tevah. Other Judaic influences to consider included the inclusion of a courtyard and  outdoor  spaces,  the axial hierarchy of the suite of rooms, and spatial terminology that ­emulated  the ancient Court of the Tabernacle or the Temple in Jerusalem. Yet, a number of Indian-based factors were also pivotal in shaping Keralan synagogues. Kerala consists of a strip of land running along India’s southwestern Malabar Coast, juxtaposed between the blue Arabian Sea to the west and the green towering Western Ghats to the east. It famous for its lush, tropical scenery,  miles of coastland, canopy of trees, year-round warm temperatures, and the  creeks and backwaters that crisscross the landscape. The heavy annual monsoon contrasts with the abundant sunshine at other times of year. The monsoon rains and other distinctive climatic features of Kerala have also affected the political, social, and architectural character of the state. Much of the region’s architecture has traditionally been of on a modest, sensitive, intimate scale, in harmony with nature. From physical and climatic elements specific to Kerala, coupled with religious, social, economic, and political considerations, a mode of vernacular architectural expression emerged. It was produced, not necessarily by architects, but by native craftsmen trained in the use of regional materials and construction techniques to deal with local cultural and environmental conditions.33 While slow to evolve, the Keralan architecture style showed gradual and methodical development influenced by changing situations. It is also an architecture that has been influenced at times by contemporary “high” forms and techniques afforded to the most important buildings used for worship or by the ruling elite. Details and components of these fancier buildings were in turn simplified and applied to more modest structures, including synagogues.

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Mosques also came to be built in the Keralan style, but rarely do these Islamic buildings remain standing today in their complete original form. Once Kerala’s vernacular features were deemed not to be Islamic enough by their devotees, they were replaced with architectural elements considered international, such as minarets, a large, and often bulbous, central dome, smaller domes, muqarnas (honeycomb-like decoration), more vertical massing, and cusped and pointed arches all applied to a brightly painted concrete structure. This modernization tendency of recent decades was never imposed on synagogues of Kerala, since by the mid-1950s to 1960s most of the Jewish population had left. For this reason, synagogues designed in the vernacular tradition still stand in some form in Kerala. In marked contrast, the Muslim community of Kerala grew substantially during this same period, and mosques often did not escape the trend to renovate, expand, or rebuild for the sake of newer space, architectural perception, fashion, and convention. The Keralan Style Since synagogues and mosques came to express the local design and construction traditions of Kerala, it is important to understand how these practices developed and were perfected. For this reason, a synopsis seems necessary, less as architectural description and more as an historical context, to explain why the buildings came to look the way they did. Originally, Kerala’s earliest traditions of building incorporated indigenous and abundant coconut palms that were sliced into long planks to be used for erecting small structures, the leaf petioles being used for roofing. The roof frame was set on walls constructed either of wood or coconut frond sections, made by folding a frond and interweaving the leaflets. In time, more durable materials were incorporated. The Malabar Coast has heavy seasonal rainfall, with an iron-rich hardpan is found in the subsoil. Laterite, a variegated reddish-brown soft stone, is formed in abundance in Kerala. Laterite, meaning ‘brick stone’ and known locally as vettukallu, is obtained in the lowlands and midlands of the state from hundreds of quarries. When moist, the soft laterite can be easily cut by hand with a spade into bricks or small blocks which harden upon exposure to air.34 According to the architectural historian H. Sarkar, the tradition of employing the stone in Kerala dates back to about 200 bce–100 ce.35 The surfaces of the thick laterite walls were either left bare, veneered with mud, or more frequently veneered with chunam, a polished lime plaster common in Kerala. The chunam was sometimes mixed with jaggery, locally produced sugar cane molasses, to make the material stronger and more workable. This practice became popular during European colonial times that began with the arrival of the Portuguese in 1498, and was continued by the Dutch who assumed control in Kerala in the seventeenth century, and subsequently by the British. The process of whitewashing involves lime combined with a blue powder. The finished product is naturally white, although it can be colored with natural admixtures or a washable distemper. The synagogues of Kerala faithfully followed this local tradition, as did many mosques and other religious buildings in the region. Since laterite does not take detailed or intricate carving well, the chunam walls were mostly plain. Carved, sculpted or projecting stonework was confined mainly to heavy molded “soft” horizontal courses at the top of plinths, along floor lines, or framed openings. Drawing on Portuguese colonial architecture style, decorative flourishes appeared on the chunam walls.36 The flourishes seen at the Keralan synagogues in the form of fan-like alettes with radiating striations, engaged stylized pilasters, circular roof vents with star-patterned outlines, rope patterns, and scrolls in relief are representative of the Keralan aesthetic. Wood was introduced for framing roofs. While wood had been used centuries earlier as the principal material in the construction of important buildings throughout India, with advancements in technique and technology it was mostly replaced by more permanent stone. Kerala has always been the exception in India for continuing the primary use of wood, which was never relegated to lesser applications. Timber structures dominated the methods of construction well into the modern period.37 For centuries Kerala was rich in timber, the southern part of the state alone boasting six hundred species of trees.38 This abundance of local timber, coupled with a centuries-old tradition of woodworking stemming from the boat-building, seafaring economy, inspired the well-crafted and structurally sound timber roofing structures. Accurate joinery, skillful assembly, and delicate carving of woodwork for various structural and decorative architectural components developed as the characteristics of Keralan architecture. The profile of roofs of traditional Keralan structures, including those of some synagogues and mosques, resembles the upturned hull of a vallum, or local fishing boat.

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The most popular woods for construction in Kerala for centuries, even for contemporary projects, are teak, rosewood, jack wood, mahogany, redwood, cedar, coral wood, and ebony. Teak, resistant to rot, is not only particularly suitable for ship-building as well as construction in the humid, rainy climate of Kerala, but it can also be beautifully carved. The teak heikhalot in all the Keralan synagogues are intricately carved, showing how a local material can be used for the religious ­requirements of a synagogue with the Jewish tradition of providing visual interest to this most important of Jewish objects within a prayer space (Fig. 13.8). From Kerala’s vast variety of trees, strong timber was used for the main rafters but softer wood was the material for doors, carved panels, trim, and accessories. The Keralan synagogues follow this tradition as did neighboring mosques. Drawing from the Portuguese colonial style which in Kerala is notable for its wooden balustrades—the Portuguese preferred to use iron but because the metal was rare and expensive in Kerala, the locals substituted it for the more abundant wood—the vernacular traditions of the Malabar Coast evolved to include similar, albeit simplified lathe-turned or profiled railings, struts, and partitions. These wood features are shared by the Keralan synagogues and contemporaneous mosques. The easy workability of wood allowed for the intricate design details that decorate the beams and rafters, supporting brackets, and columns with their capitals. Jali, or wooden lattices, and perforated panels at the hip gable, as screens between spaces and along wall openings, were commonly used for both ornamentation and ventilation. Some delicately carved wooden filigree trim was included in the form of fascia boards, running along the raking cornice of gable roofs as adornment, or at the attic level of the gable ends on a hipped roof.(Fig. 13.9). The end opening allowed air to circulate throughout the attic or open roof spaces for cooling purposes in this tropical region, and a steeply pitched, deeply projecting roof deflected the annual torrential rains. The Keralan vernacular style developed its individuality by not only tapping local natural resources used for construction such as laterite walls, timber framing, and clay roof tiles, but also by exploiting them to respond to the local environment. The exposed surfaces of the timber construction may have been decorated and carved. Here form and function were in balance. For centuries, roof tiles over timber framing were used sparingly, incorporated only into palaces or important Hindu temples. Only after the arrival of the Portuguese did baked clay increasingly replace thatching as a roofing material, as a result of a new manufacturing industry.39 Although it is usually claimed that Portuguese–Christian missionaries introduced tile-making to Kerala, they were simply instrumental in developing mass production of tiles at a low cost, and they popularized and refined their use. Granite is a material available in Kerala, yet in more limited supply and it is far harder to quarry than laterite. Consequently, this hard stone was sparingly used in only the most prominent locations or applications, such as at palaces, important religious buildings, and defensive structures. Where the architecture needed to be most durable and strong, granite was used extensively for the foundations of Keralan buildings, following the tradition of the hard stone plinth design found elsewhere in India. Floors of buildings and courtyards were also routinely surfaced in granite. The hard stone came to represent something special and vested with symbolic and ritual meaning. Granite is also impermeable, easy to clean, and free of impurities. Purity is revered in the religions practiced in Kerala, so the walled courtyards of religious complexes were frequently paved in granite. This is the case with the Paradesi Synagogue, the covered front porch of the synagogue in Chendamangalam, and some of the unenclosed yet covered spaces of the Parur Synagogue. The use of granite may speak to the Keralan Jewish community’s prosperity and willingness to invest considerable funds in their religious architecture but, more importantly, according to the Keralan Jewish historian A. B. Salem, it confirmed an outside influence on local synagogue architecture.40 At the Paradesi Synagogue, it was the tradition for caretakers to regularly wash the floor of the courtyard.41 Some synagogues in Kerala also once used a special black flooring material—a distinctive feature of traditional Keralan architecture. Such floors, used in special applications as in rooms of the Rajah of Cochin’s Dutch Palace in Mattancherry (near three of the synagogues), looked like polished black marble but were actually a mixture of burned coconut shells, charcoal, lime, sugar cane or other plant juices, and egg white. That certain synagogues once had this unusual flooring denotes the Jewish reverence for an important Keralan architectural tradition. Kerala’s Jews were free to borrow from local customs, bestowing pride and purpose on the synagogue as the center of local Jewish life. Some Keralan synagogues also used soft sand to carpet the outdoor space surrounding the building and to edge the outer walls of the property. This fine and pure charol sand taken from a nearby riverbed was spread over the courtyard space, creating a distinct sense of place.42 The layout of Kerala’s synagogues is a distinctive feature. Drawing on the centuries-old Keralan

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Figure 13.8  Tevah (bimah) and heikhal (ark) of the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

religious and domestic architectural tradition of sprawling arrangements of buildings featuring courtyards and covered yet unenclosed spaces—often designed by a stapathi, or master builder, who synthesized the practical and technical matters with astrological and mystical portents—the synagogues are not single buildings but inwardly focused compounds of successive indoor and outdoor spaces surrounded by a wall.43 Except in the densely populated central market and business

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Figure 13.9  Exterior of the Tekkumbagam Synagogue, Kochi–Ernakulam, Kerala (© V. Issac Sam)

districts, buildings in Kerala, compared to many other areas of India, are generally more dispersed. The Indian historian A. Sreedhara Menom attributes this in part to the availability of good drinking water throughout Kerala.44 The setting of a building in the plot of land was also necessitated by the benefit of wind circulating around the building to give relief from the hot and humid climate. Tightly clustered houses are rarely seen in villages in Kerala, and by Indian standards large cities are absent from the Keralan landscape. The Keralan synagogues are not single buildings but are organized as a collection of spaces, in the form of a compound, surrounded by a property wall or neighboring buildings. This planning provided

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both an insular, private arrangement as well as an exclusively inwardly focused orientation. There is a similarity with Keralan vernacular dwellings built around a central courtyard, known as nalukettu and illam.45 These residential compounds consisted of a variety of connected or freestanding outdoor, partially enclosed, and interior spaces serving public or private functions and surrounded by or connected to outdoor rooms or courtyards. While synagogues do not have the same spaces or layouts as these homes, it is likely that they came to influence the sprawling spatial arrangements of Kerala’s synagogue architecture.46 This type of planning was not unique to synagogues but was also incorporated into other examples, including the Cheraman Juma Mosque, referred to above, and others. Kerala’s synagogues may have featured a padipura, or gatehouse, and the synagogue compound was reached at its eastern end—so that anyone entering would face Jerusalem—through this portal (Fig. 13.10). One would transition from the bright, hot, and dusty or wet and humid public street into this calmer, dimmer, and contained private space. The gatehouses were usually built two stories high and taller than neighboring, often Jewish-owned, residential and commercial buildings. This tradition imparted a level of importance to the synagogue and could be said to recall the axial entry at the short end of the ancient Court of the Tabernacle (away from where the Tabernacle was placed) and the physical and spiritual elevation of the ancient Temple atop its mount with an entry along an axis with the Tabernacle. Drawing from local precedents, Keralan synagogue gatehouses were likely more inspired by those at some local Hindu temple complexes or the entrances to large native

Figure 13.10 Gatehouse (during restoration) of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

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residential complexes or colonial-period houses. In most cases, breezeways connected Kerala’s synagogue gatehouses to the sanctuary buildings. Linking elements are common features of Keralan religious and secular buildings, not p ­ articular or necessary to synagogues. In the Keralan synagogue application, the breezeway’s ground level was open on both sides. The upper level was used as passage to the women’s seating area, a space that was more contained, although not fully enclosed, having lattice work and struts with openings between them resembling fixed venetian blinds. (The upper level of the breezeways was also used as a place where mothers could retreat with their children to quiet them.) These design elements are shared by secular and religious architecture in Kerala. The Aesthetic of the Kerala Synagogue Interior The interiors of the synagogues of Kerala are relatively simple. Perhaps this has as much to do with a reverence for the natural beauty outside—so as not to compete with it—as with the Jewish inclination not to incorporate images of humans or other animate objects in the space intended as a house of God. Although there are synagogues around the world that feature such images, many do not since they could be perceived as idolatrous, something not allowed in Judaism. These images can be regarded as contrary to the second commandment: “You shall not make for yourself a graven image, or any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth.”47 The limited interior decoration of synagogues, a practice also followed in Kerala’s mosque architecture, does not mean that synagogues need to be bare. Geometric, organic, and abstract decoration and ornamentation is allowed and is commonly employed. The need for liturgical yet non-figurative art fitting comfortably into the Jewish non-representational tradition of ornaments, eternal lights, candelabra, the heikhal doors, and the parochet (heikhal curtains) provided synagogues with opportunities for visual expression and beauty. Keralan synagogues have long had mostly bare, white chunam walls and simple shuttered windows and clerestories, but they also contain meaningful symbols and eye-catching design elements. In Kerala’s synagogues the most striking object, located in the center of the rectangular sanctuary, is the tevah. In a planning arrangement common to synagogues throughout the world, the freestanding tevah (the reader’s table known to Ashkenazim as the bimah) allows the congregation to surround the reader of the Torah, thus emphasizing its centrality in worship. In Keralan synagogues, the tevah is positioned so that male congregants gather around all sides in unfixed bench seating. Boys sit on a low bench surrounding the tevah. No specific rules have ever been associated with how the tevah needs to look within a synagogue. A review of examples from around the world, dating back to medieval times, reveals a variety of shapes and sizes, yet an overwhelming number are rectangular if not square and compact. Others are modified versions of this geometry with chamfered or curved edges. A square or rectangle provides a functional and practical space, and straight lines are easier and less costly to fabricate than pronounced curves and unusual angles. Circular or curved tevot (plural) are hence rare and anomalies. Although a couple of ones are now missing, Keralan synagogues feature a tevah that has the shape of a keyhole or lyre, designed with a distinctive tiered railing set on turned balusters. The Keralan tevah in a keyhole or similar plan is undeniably unusual. This distinct form is repeated many times within this small geographical region. While they vary somewhat in material, color, and detail—in some Keralan synagogues the tevah is fabricated of local wood and gilded, while in the balance of buildings brass (in some cases completely replacing wood) is used—the Keralan synagogue tevot are collectively similar (Fig. 13.11). Another prominent feature of the synagogue interior is the heikhal (also known as the aron hakodesh or holy ark). The heikhal is normally the most prominent feature, and hence one that is most decorated or embellished in any synagogue, and those in Kerala maintain this tradition. Keralan heikhalot (plural) are all hand-carved from local teak wood left plain or highlighted with gold, red, and sometimes green, white, and blue paint that contrasted with the plain, whitewashed walls. The carvings on the surfaces of the heikhal are mostly organic and floral, popular motifs in many synagogues. Since Jews living in Kerala, with its port economy, had regular contact with Jewish communities abroad, they would have known about the long-standing Judaic tradition of heikhal decoration. Lotus flowers, a distinctive native decorative motif found in architecture throughout Kerala, were found on Keralan synagogue heikhalot and in other places within the buildings (Fig. 13.12). The myriad of oil lamps hung from the ceiling add to the Keralan sanctuary experience. The large crystal chandeliers are mostly of European origin (primarily Belgian and Dutch). There are also traditional dome-shaped, scalloped, or fluted glass shades, traditional Keralan chattakam vilakku brass lamps, globe lights, and an assortment of metal fixtures, creating a host of color, texture, and

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Figure 13.11  Interior of the Paradesi Synagogue, Kochi– Mattancherry, Kerala (© Shalva Weil)

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Figure 13.12 Lotus flower-patterned ceiling and gallery level of the second tevah (bimah) at the Chendamangalam (Chennamangalam) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

­ aterials. A profusion of hanging fixtures was not so much a local synagogue custom but a Keralan m one, where similar coconut oil-burning lights can be found in religious buildings that include Kerala’s mosques as well as in its secular architecture.48 Light and incense-burning have long played a central role in ritual ceremonies in India, resulting in a profusion of lamp designs, some of which found their way into the synagogues and were adapted to its special needs (Fig. 13.13).

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Figure 13.13  Interior of the Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

Conclusions The synagogues of Kerala can be described as structures that expressed the influences of a variety of local and foreign, religious and secular traditions in Jewish buildings. They all showed how the vernacular traditions, based on climatic and cultural factors, influenced several eras of synagogue design and construction. While the synagogues built over the centuries in Kerala were not unique, instantly recognizable Jewish houses of prayer, particularly from the exteriors, they established a design ­specific

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to the location. Their architecture responded both sensibly and elegantly to the local landscape, climate, materials, and construction techniques, and the designs were also shaped and influenced by friends and foes who built in India. Along the way, the Jews of Kerala blended the vernacular and other designs with their own cultural needs and liturgical requirements and traditions. As a result, a definite synagogue architecture came into being with a distinct aesthetic. This process was not unique to synagogues of Kerala as its mosques also responded to many of the same factors. This does not mean that Keralan mosques and synagogues were identical or even that one had a marked influence on the other. As building compounds in terms of their planning, materiality, tectonics, and overall appearance they nonetheless were indeed aesthetic cousins. The sharing of design and construction customs in the creation of houses of prayer of similar structure should be noted and emphasized. One group did not dictate to the other, but rather both freely and equally drew from the same traditions. Keralan Jews were never a homogeneous community who spoke with a single voice. They originated from various parts of the world and at different times. Distinct subgroups were established, and they normally lived separate lives including when it came time to pray, socialize, and marry. Some of Kerala’s Jews were wealthy and entered the professions, while others were less affluent and worked as tradesmen. Communities of Jews existed in the cities, towns, and villages of Kerala. Regardless of these differences, they established synagogues. While the details of the structures varied from place to place, the overall pattern was that of a compound with complete exterior, partially open as covered yet open to the sides, and wholly interior spaces constructed of the same building materials and techniques and linked by a processional path or breezeway. Unique features included the incorporation of an azara (a term borrowed approximately from a courtyard sacrificial space in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem), the gallery in which women sat, references to the Temple columns named Boaz and Jachin to support the gallery and frame the entry to the sanctuary, the shape, m ­ ateriality, and expression of their heikhalot and tevot, and the unique second gallery-level tevah (Fig. 13.14). This tevah on

Figure 13.14  Gallery level tevah (bimah) in the Mala Synagogue, Kerala (© Jay A. Waronker)

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the ground floor was positioned in the middle of the ground floor and was used for the daily prayer services when only the men were present. The upstairs tevah was used for Shabbat and holiday services when both the men and women were in attendance, and it was centrally placed between the genders. All these variables which were copied by successive synagogues combined to establish the aesthetic of Keralan synagogues.49 This architectural harmony had as much to do with the time-tested building traditions distinct to Kerala as with specific synagogue building customs. That this synagogue prototype was so closely aligned with that of contemporaneous mosques speaks to a native consciousness of the period. Jews and Muslims have lived for centuries in relative tranquility throughout Kerala, and in doing so they embraced some of the same practices and traditions. House of prayer construction represented just one example. Kerala today has lost its historic mosque design as a consequence of changes in taste and the internationalizing of architecture, but seven structures built as synagogues have managed to survive despite the overwhelming shrinkage in the region’s Jewish population beginning six decades ago. Although the once-vibrant community cannot be salvaged because nearly all Keralan Jews elected to emigrate to Israel and other nations, the Jewish houses of prayer that were left behind and have managed to hold on for dear life, are today being recognized as valuable artifacts in Kerala’s cultural and architectural history. While there are still challenges, most are now being restored or at least better maintained, preserved, and responsibly and appropriately repurposed through private and governmental efforts.50

Notes 1. Synagogue buildings in India can be found in central Kerala, Mumbai and its suburbs of Kurla and Thana, the Konkan Region/Raigad District of Maharashtra, Pune, Ahmedabad, New Delhi, Kolkata, Imphal Manipur, within Mizoram in the northeastern area of the country, the village of Kotta Reddy Palem near Chebrole in Guntur district in Andhra Pradesh, and the town of Machillitatnam in Andhra Pradesh. Some synagogue interiors remain intact even though the congregations have dwindled. These synagogues appear to be active but in fact are marginally operational or closed. 2. This repositioned inscription can today be found on the east wall of the courtyard at the Paradesi Synagogue in Jew Town in Kochi’s Mattancherry area. 3. The Paradesi Synagogue of 1568, although altered and rebuilt in part, is considered the oldest Jewish house of prayer in the British Commonwealth according to the World Monuments Fund, the organization responsible for restoring the synagogue in part in the 1990s. 4. As examples, the Tekkumbagam Synagogue in Ernakulam, Kerala is on the same Jews Street as a mosque. In the village of Chennamangalam, Kerala the hereditary prime minister saw to the construction of a synagogue, mosque, Hindu temple, and a church, all in relatively close proximity to each other. 5. The exchange might extend in the other direction, such as the introduction of some Hebrew terminology into the native language or in the ways in which the Jews of Kerala, through their professional and personal work, contributed to the local community. 6. An exception is the seventeenth-century clock tower of the Paradesi Synagogue, one of whose faces features Hebrew characters, these having been added to an earlier design. In more recent decades, signs and plaques (including those hung by the author) have been posted identifying the buildings as synagogues, but they are not original. Some houses near Keralan synagogues feature Stars of David, and these regularly confuse tourists into thinking they are synagogues. 7. According to local narratives, the mosque was first renovated in the eleventh century and again in the fourteenth century. Another renovation took place in the mid-1970s when, as a result of an increase in the  local Muslim community, the front of the mosque was demolished to make way for a new building. The oldest part of the mosque, including the sanctum sanctorum, was left untouched and is still preserved. Even more recent extensions were carried out in the mid-1990s and in the early twenty-first century. 8. Isaac Joshua, Settlements of Jews in Kerala: A Chronology of Synagogues from 70 ce–1988 (Kochi: selfpublished, 1988), 1–2. 9. The Moors had established themselves in Kerala and viewed the Jews as competition in the lucrative spice trade, while the Portuguese also viewed the Jews as trading competition. The Jews sided with the Dutch against the Portuguese in a power play in the mid-seventeenth century, and as a result the Portuguese damaged Jewish sites in Kerala. 10. Joshua, Settlements of Jews in Kerala, 1–2. 11. Ruby Daniel and Barbara C. Johnson, Ruby of Cochin: An Indian Jewish Woman Remembers (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1995), 127. 12. In 1818, when an exterior wall of the Kadavumbagam Synagogue in Kochi’s Jew Town–Mattancherry was being repaired, a stone slab was discovered from the Kochangadi Synagogue, which once existed nearby. According to this inscription, the synagogue’s construction was paused when the congregation was unable to complete and decorate it. Only later, with the help of the Paradesi Jew Baruch Levy, in the sixteenth

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century, was the Kochangadi Synagogue completed, according to historian David Solomon Sassoon. The Kochangadi Synagogue inscription was later moved to the Paradesi Synagogue courtyard. 13. Joshua, Settlements of Jews in Kerala, 1–2. 14. Ibid. 15. The Paradesi Synagogue is located in Mattancherry’s Jew Town at the northern end of Jews/Synagogue Street, and the  Kadavumbagam Synagogue is located on the same road in the southern section of Jew Town past the intersecting road leading to the ferry jetty. Kochangadi, where the first Cochini synagogue was built in 1344, lies to the south of Jew Town. For many years, Mattancherry’s Jew Town was a Jewish neighborhood in which Jews lived, shopped, were educated, and prayed, yet by the time of this publication, only four Jews remained in the area. 16. The Jews sided with the Dutch against the Portuguese, see note 10. 17. A few years ago, prayer services were led by a Chabad rabbi based in Kochi, who managed to draw in local and visiting Jews to make up a minyan, or quorum. In mid-February 2012, allegations were made that the Chabad rabbi and his wife were agents of the Israeli government, and soon afterwards the rabbi elected to leave the country. Today services are conducted by laymen. 18. David Solomon Sassoon, Ohel Dawid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1932), 1055. 19. Over the years, the synagogue has been resold or passed along to new owners. According to local belief, these people have experienced bad karma for interfering with property that once contained an active house of prayer. 20. According to local belief, the owners of the house became susceptible to bad karma because they had destroyed a house of worship, so that they suffered from poor health, financial woes, and personal conflict. 21. Joshua, Settlements of Jews in Kerala, 1–2. 22. The owner/caretaker of the “Cochin Blossoms” business based in the former Kadavumbagam Synagogue has, over the years, invested his own time and money in the upkeep of the former sanctuary space, although the work is incomplete. Recent examples include repair work to the roof, a tevah since the old one was missing, and coir to carpet the prayer hall. There is now an effort, led in part by the author of this essay, to establish a private trust for the long-term maintenance of this building as a cultural site once its caretaker immigrates to Israel. 23. The Kadavumbhagam Synagogue on Market Street is is now the home of the “Cochin Blossoms” plant and aquarium business. The Tekkumbhagam Synagogue is on nearby Jews Street, between Market Road and Broadway. It is marked by a plaque, installed by the author of this chapter; it is hidden behind an iron gate and row of buildings. 24. Sassoon, Ohel Dawid, 1055. 25. Ibid., 1056; J. B. Segal, A History of the Jews of Cochin (London: Vallentine Mitchell & Company, Ltd., 1993), 12. 26. Segal, A History of the Jews of Cochin; Daniel and Johnson, Ruby of Cochin, 127; Adv. Prem Doss Swami Doss Yehudi, The Shingly Hebrews (Trivandrum, India: Sachethana, 2000), 89; W. S. Hunt, The Anglican Church in Travancore and Cochin 1816–1916 (Kottayam: Church Missionary Society, 1920), 153. 27. The author of this essay along with Friends of Keralan Synagogues colleagues Shalva Weil, Tirza Lavi, Tirza Lavi’s brother, and Marian Sofaer assisted government officials with the Parur Synagogue restoration. 28. Segal, A History of the Jews of Cochin, 31; Yehudi, The Shingly Hebrews, 97. 29. Hunt, The Anglican Church in Travancore and Cochin 1816–1916, 153. 30. This exhibition was curated by the author of this chapter along with Dr. Shalva Weil of the Hebrew University and Marian Scheuer Sofaer of Palo Alto, CA. 31. Yehudi, The Shingly Hebrews, 93; Sassoon, Ohel Dawid, 1056; Hunt, The Anglican Church in Travancore and Cochin 1816–1916, 153. 32. In late 2016, the Mala Synagogue gatehouse and an unrelated late-1950s building added to its front side were demolished to widen the intersection in front. 33. When the Parur and Chendamangalam Synagogues were restored in the early twenty-first century, local Hindu craftsmen trained in traditional skills were involved. Their work included restoring or recreating the heikhal and tevah in both buildings. As an example of inter-faith collaboration and respect, the author of this chapter, with the assistance of Marian S. Sofaer of Palo Alto, California, worked closely with the craftsmen at Parur Synagogue to faithfully re-create these pieces. 34. Laterite’s properties can be compared to those of Italian tufa stone. 35. H. Sarkar, An Architectural Survey of Temples of Kerala (New Delhi: Archeological Survey of India, 1978), 273. 36. Jose Pereira, Churches of Goa (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), 22. 37. Concrete has today replaced wood as the main structural material for buildings in Kerala, particularly as buildings have become larger in recent decades. Kerala’s forests have also shrunk in size, and international trends have evolved to use concrete as a principle building material. Kerala’s historic mosques have been rebuilt in concrete in recent decades, and new mosques are also built in concrete. 38. Ronald M. Bernier, Temple Arts of Kerala: A South Indian Tradition (New Delhi: S. Chand & Company Ltd., 1982), 13. 39. Ibid., 15. 40. A. B. Salem, Jew Town Synagogue, 2nd ed. (Kiriyat Motzkin, Israel: Eliya Ben Eliavoo, 1972), 28. 41. Sam Hallegua, interview by author, Mattancherry, Kochi, Kerala, July 2000.

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42. Isaac Joshua, interview by author, Ernakulam, Kochi, Kerala, July 2009. According to Joshua, this fine sand covered the courtyard space of the Tekkumbagan Synagogue built in the 1930s in Kochi–Ernakulam. 43. There is no documentation concerning a Jewish equivalent to the Hindu stapathi, or master builder, for the synagogues in Kerala, although narratives reveal that the synagogues were built by Hindu craftsmen. There is a tradition of placing the heikhal along the wall closest to Jerusalem, so this alone orientates the sanctuary. 44. A. Sreedhara Menon, Social and Cultural History of Kerala (New Delhi: Sterling Publishers Pvt Ltd., 1979), 128. 45. In Kerala, the basic traditional house module was the nalukettu, four blocks built around a courtyard. Larger homes were known as illams, with rooms surrounding one, two, or even more courtyards. There is usually a verandah over the main entrance. When the Indian caste system was prevalent, not all visitors were allowed inside the house, and this space was used as a greeting area. This tradition seems akin to the azara in Keralan synagogues. Non-Jews and, in the case of the Paradesi Synagogue, non-member Keralan Jews were allowed in a Keralan synagogue, but they were typically permitted only as far as the azara during prayer services. 46. This arrangement may be somewhat in the tradition of the ancient Temple and synagogues in the Diaspora during the Talmudic period, when the heikhal shifted from being a moveable element, in the tradition of the ancient Tabernacle, to a fixed installation attached to the wall nearest Jerusalem. In this process, the focal point changed from the view outward to the visual focus within the sanctuary. 47. Exodus 20:4. 48. A variety of lanterns and chandeliers burning coconut oil were the only source of lighting in all Keralan synagogues until the buildings were electrified in the 1960s. 49. Several reasons for the two tevot in all Keralan synagogues have been given, including the theory that the second tevah is closest to the women’s gallery since women played an important role in Keralan Jewish family life. The most likely explanation, however, is that the main-floor tevah was used during weekly prayer services when only the men were present, while the gallery-level tevah was used when both men (sitting downstairs forward of the tevah) and women (sitting upstairs behind the tevah) were present to together so they could best hear, see, and even smell the prayer service. 50. At the time this chapter was written, privately sponsored discussion was underway to preserve two former synagogues in Kochi, and a plan was in place among the Islamic community to restore the Cheraman Juma Mosque to its Keralan vernacular aesthetic.

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Chapter Fourteen

Immigrants’ Sacred Architecture: The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue in Eilat, Israel Anat Geva

Three major forces influence the design of synagogues for immigrants in Israel. These are the State’s civic ideology, the immigrants’ collective memory, and local environmental conditions. The national civic ideology evolved from the special circumstances associated with the establishment of the State of Israel as a homeland for Jews from all over the world. The Israeli civic vision was to create a new, modern Jewish society as a melting-pot. Architecture and planning became one of the vehicles in this unification of the diverse cultures and traditions of Jewish communities arriving from Muslim lands and from Europe. A uniform architectural style, with no sensitivity as to immigrants’ heritage and traditions,1 was applied, not only to the design of mass public housing, but also to public buildings including synagogues. The state’s recommendations called for new synagogues to be based on the design principles of the Jerusalem Temples2 and the ancient synagogues of the Holy Land, employing architectural features suited to the environmental context (landscape and climate).3 These recommendations were countered by the immigrants’ strong collective memories of their synagogues in the Diaspora, which were maintained through their religious rituals. These dominating memories needed to be acknowledged. As a result, the State’s design guidelines for building synagogues in Israel were relaxed somewhat, allowing more pluralism to accommodate the expressions of some of the immigrants’ identity. For example, there is clearly a strong influence of European–Jewish immigrants on synagogue design, as well as a few attempts to design “neutral” multi-ethnic synagogues.4 The paper developed a conceptual framework to illustrate the relationships between civic ideology, immigrants’ collective memories, and the local environment as they influence the design of synagogues in Israel (Fig. 14.1). This conceptual model was used to analyze a synagogue in Eilat, that was built for immigrants arriving from the Maghreb, the Muslim countries of North Africa (Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria). It shows how immigrant communities from these countries (mainly Morocco) translated the architectural traditions of their synagogues into the context of the new land. The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue (2012) was designed for a community of French Jews5 who arrived in Israel at the beginning of the twenty-first century and for North African Jews who immigrated to Israel during the 1950s and 1960s, and who live in four neighborhoods surrounding the synagogue. The building was designated by the city’s Department of Religions as a North African synagogue, in which prayers are conducted in the Sephardi rite.6 The design incorporates the basic traditions and Islamic eclectic details of North African synagogues with fundamental concepts from the design of the Jerusalem Temple and features that accommodate Eilat’s desert conditions. The analyses exemplify how the forces described in the paper’s conceptual framework influenced the current design of an Israeli synagogue. The Forces Impacting Synagogue Design in Israel: A Conceptual Framework The conceptual framework (Fig. 14.1) posits that the immigrants’ individual and collective memories of their synagogues in the Diaspora were a strong force in the design of new synagogues in Israel. This finding is intriguing in light of the Israeli civic ideology of uniformity that was developed through the pressure to accommodate quickly and efficiently the large waves of immigrants following the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. In addition to pragmatic demands, Israel searched for a unified architectural style to express the new Jewish social ideals of a ‘melting pot’ society. This theme generated a strong civic pride in all aspects of life, including residential and public architecture.

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Figure 14.1  Forces impacting synagogue design in Israel: a conceptual framework (© Anat Geva)

The need to construct synagogues in the public housing neighborhoods constructed all over the country during the 1950s and 1960s led to the development and publication of design guidelines  for  synagogue construction.7 In 1955, the Ministry of Religious Affairs published design guidelines for synagogues in Israel.8 These recommendations attempted to support the Israeli policy of uniformity, that promoted the modern vision of a “melting pot” Jewish society. As with the interpretation of Halacha (Jewish Law ) in the Shulkhan Arukh published in 1565, the guidelines stated that the design of new synagogues in Israel should avoid the importation and imitation of synagogue architecture from the Diaspora. The guiding principles were founded on the beliefs shared by Jewish worshipers of all denominations, such as their longing to rebuild the Third Temple in Jerusalem and their adherence to the Bible and its laws. This strategy is captured in the left side of the horizontal axis of the conceptual model, which shows the civic policy of insisting on “uniformity” (Fig. 14.1). The immigrants’ individual and collective memories of the synagogues they left behind in their homelands nevertheless became a strong force in the design of synagogues in Israel. This phenomenon is expressed on the right-hand side of the figure and represents the counter-pressure from immigrants who strove to maintain their cultural identity.9 The Israeli context of a society in the making, and the total dependence on public funding for public building, caused the civic policy factor (shown on the left) to predominate.10 The 1955 design guidelines for building Israeli synagogues directed builders to the following reference points: (a) adoption of the basic design concepts of the First and Second Temple in Jerusalem; (b) incorporation of architectural features of the ancient synagogues of Israel; and (c) accommodation to local environmental conditions. The first inspiration was based on a uniform view of the First and Second Temples as the buildings most sacred to Jews everywhere. Following the destruction of the Temples (the first in 587 bce; the second in 70 ce) Jews were exiled from the Holy Land and dispersed in the Diaspora. The Second Temple had been built as soon as the Children Of Israel were allowed to return from the Babylonian Exile. The dream of rebuilding the Temple was so strong that a detailed description of the construction is recorded in the Books of Ezra and Nehemiah. With the destruction

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Figure 14.2  View of the city of Eilat (© Anat Geva)

of the Second Temple and the dispersal of the Jews all over the ancient world, the Temple became the symbol of their freedom and the image of their ultimate House of God. The second and third recommendations of these guidelines were to learn from the ancient and historic synagogues in Israel, while accommodating to the local climatic conditions. This emphasis linked the new Israeli synagogues to their place in the Holy Land. The guidelines11 included all the elements of synagogue construction, from the selection of suitable sites to the height, details, and decoration, as well as some consideration for the different Sephardi vs. Ashkenazi12 rites. Though the guidelines attempted to create a “one size fits all” synagogue design, it was impossible to ignore the style of worship that originated in different parts of the Diaspora. The diversity of rituals and services opened the door to the incorporation of some traditional architectural elements from Diaspora synagogues into those newly built in Israel (the arrow with dashes between “collective memory” and “uniformity” in Fig. 14.1 represents this indirect relationship). Thus, the immigrants’ collective memory influenced and still influences the expression of ethnic identity. The arrow between “collective memory” and “identity expression” in the conceptual model represents the reciprocal relationship between these two forces. New environments require changes that may modify not only the structures erected by immigrant communities, but also their familiarity with the creation of sacred places and spiritual experiences.13 The collective perception of religious buildings as a symbol of identity, cultural heritage, and origin governs the built form of immigrants’ sacred architecture.14 By the late 1950s and throughout the 1960s, the concept of uniformity, one that ignored the immigrants’ culture and traditions, changed, and elements of the immigrants’ ethnic identity was permitted expression in their new synagogues. Prominent Israeli architects designed these buildings in reinforced concrete as a sculptural material, yet incorporated some elements of the identity of the worshipers who would be using them.15 This change in ideology is expressed in the conceptual model by an arrow between “uniformity” and “identity expression” (Fig. 14.1). The Israeli uniformity policy, as applied to public housing, ignored not only the heritage of various ethnic groups but also variations in local environmental conditions prevailing in different regions of Israel (history, landscape, climate, light). Although synagogue design recommendations suggested accommodation to the local environment, these guidelines often failed to be implemented due to the

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need for fast mass construction (see the broken arrow between environmental conditions and civic policy in Fig. 14.1). Not all Diaspora synagogues had accounted for local environmental conditions in their design (see the broken-line arrow between the environmental conditions and identity in Fig. 14.1). Even though synagogues in Europe, much like the churches, ignored local environmental conditions, synagogues in Muslim countries such as North Africa reflected the local climate in their design in the same way as mosques.16 Since Israel lies in the Mediterranean Basin, the guidelines for the design of synagogues in Israel recommended using as models those found in the region especially those in North Africa. The study of North African synagogues reveals that they aimed to resemble the layout of the First Temple in Jerusalem (e.g., the peristyle surrounding a courtyard, interior prayer-hall, and some of  the decorations. The style of these synagogues also recalls the ancient synagogues of the Holy  Land, which were built before and during the first century bce.17All were constructed as modest, rectangular or square buildings oriented toward Jerusalem, and included a series of columns dividing the prayer-hall and supporting the ceiling, as well as a built-in stone bench around the walls.18 Design Elements of North African Synagogues Though North African Jewish communities are known for the diversity of their synagogue designs, there are some basic architectural patterns common to the synagogues of Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria.19 They were open to the sky and their ventilated space thus accommodated the hot summer conditions. A modest covered area adjacent to the courtyard served as the winter prayer-hall. This type of construction also complied with some of the Jewish laws (halakhot) for reading in the urban square,20 reflected memories of the Temple and its description in the Scriptures,21 and accounted for the Islamic prohibitions imposed on the Jews.22 In the fifteenth century, following the expulsion of Jews from Spain and Portugal and the Spanish Inquisition, a large number of Sephardi Jews settled in North Africa (Morocco, Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria) to live under the local and Ottoman regimes.23 The architecture of their synagogues was influenced by the collective memory of the synagogues they had left behind in Spain, which had been constructed within the confines of the Jewish quarter (judería). Following the reforms of the Ottoman Empire, the establishment of the French protectorate in Morocco in 1912, and the founding of the Republic of Turkey in 1923, the Jews moved to new parts of the cities and built large synagogues with prominent facades that contrasted with the unobtrusive facades of their older synagogues.24 The ground plan of most North African synagogues consisted of two major spaces,25 an open peristyle courtyard and a covered sanctuary containing the ark and the bimah (pulpit).26 The courtyard served as a suitable place in which to read from the Torah27 and celebrate festivals as well as family and community events. This concept is different from the courtyards found in Christian basilicas in Europe that served as a processional space to prepare the worshiper to leave the mundane and enter the sacred. The difference in the functions also reflects differences in the climates of the two regions. The courtyards of North African synagogues could serve the community for prayers and celebrations, due to the warmer, dryer weather. North African environmental conditions also influenced the design of mosques, which include an open courtyard as a major part of their structure.28 Thus, this layout reflects the mutual influence between the designs of synagogues and mosques. Both houses of God were built with a central courtyard in front of the sanctuary. In some cases, the courtyard was the actual prayer-hall, while in others it consisted of two parts, the central part serving as an open atrium and openings at the sides of the courtyard from which there was access to other parts of the synagogue or mosque complex (the sanctuary, classrooms, social hall, storage and others). These sides were often covered with flat ceilings, or with palm leaves as in the inner court of the Great Mosque of Aleppo, Syria and the Great Open Synagogue of Aleppo, Syria.29 The ­courtyard’s arcade was described as reflecting the design of the First Temple, and the ancient synagogues of the Holy Land.30 The courtyards in both mosques and synagogues were designed to accommodate faith rituals and local meeting-places. The rituals included gathering for prayers and ablutions (for Jews, washing their hands; for Muslim, washing their feet), and for community celebrations: “the courtyard was also characteristic of the places of worship of other religions, and its use was not purely functional, but also institutional and liturgical.”31 In addition, the construction of walls around the courtyard blocks out hot winds and sandstorms, offers privacy, and secures the area.

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The second major part of ground plans of Northern African synagogues includes a rectangular covered hall with columns dividing it into either two or three bays. From the sixth or seventh centuries onward, the hall served as the winter synagogue, while the courtyard became the summer synagogue.32 Women were often seated in a balcony above the sanctuary, but when there was no designated seating space for them they attended services in the courtyard. As required by the Jewish faith, the ark was situated on the side of the building facing Jerusalem. A raised bimah (pulpit) was located either in the center or at the back of the sanctuary. In Tunisia and Algeria, the bimah is adjacent to the courtyard, a location that enhanced the courtyard’s sanctity and made the bimah a central element of the synagogue complex.33 In Morocco, the bimah was usually located at the back of the sanctuary with no relation to the courtyard. It is believed that Jews who fled from Spain to Morocco brought this arrangement of the bimah with them, maintaining their collective memory of their homeland’s tradition.34 An additional feature frequently found in North African synagogues was a high ceiling built over the bimah. This was constructed to focus attention on the bimah, and to create a clerestory window or windows for streaming light over the reader’s desk where the scrolls of the Torah would be read. Often, this became the major light source for the synagogue, as there were few openings in the walls. In the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the bimah was located between four columns, supporting a flat high ceiling, in the center of the synagogue. This arrangement, which created a synagogue of a three-bay plan, spread to parts of the Ottoman Empire.35 Synagogues and mosques in the villages and towns of North Africa were constructed with simple exteriors and very modest interiors. Decorative motifs in synagogues usually appeared on column capitals, on the wall of the heikhal, on the ark door and curtain (parokhet) to the ark, and on the eternal lamp (ner tamid). Synagogues and mosques in large cities frequently have a more decorated interior, glorifying the holy space. The mutual influence between synagogues and mosques is also expressed in the large niche in the wall facing Jerusalem or Mecca topped by an arch. In synagogues, this niche contains the ark.36 Another Islamic feature adapted by Jews from the fourteenth century through the twentieth century was the Islamic prayer-mat. In most of the synagogues in North Africa and the Ottoman Empire, these mats were used as an ark curtain (parokhet) or to cover the reader’s desk.37 In summary, the individual and collective memory of Jewish immigrants from North Africa inspired the basic plan and details of their synagogues in Israel that featured a courtyard, a rectangular sanctuary, a classroom or classrooms, an ablutions area, the interior layout, and the decoration. This plan also reminded the immigrants of the courtyard plan of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem and provided them with some cross-ventilation during the summer heat, and the relationship between the architecture of mosques and synagogues.38 Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue in Eilat The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue was built in Eilat, Israel, which was founded in 1949 in a region mentioned in the Bible (Fig. 14.2). Although it is located on the Red Sea across from Aqaba, Jordan, no Muslim community was established there and no Jewish community existed in Aqaba. The synagogue is located on a main road, which contains a mixture of residential neighborhoods and public buildings (the synagogue, the public library, a cultural center, and a school). A shopping center is located further along the road and there is a hotel behind the synagogue. The synagogue serves the four surrounding neighborhoods and the hotel’s guests, but is open to all (Fig. 14.3). Most worshippers walk to the synagogue, observing the Jewish prohibition against driving on the Sabbath. Although the synagogue’s horizontal lines, flat roofs, whitewashed walls, and earth-colored fence wall blend into the surroundings, its blue domes and white barrel vault over the sanctuary stand out and glorify the synagogue as a special public building in the area (Fig. 14.4). A local architect, Eyal Logasi, founder of Eyal Logasi Architects in Eilat, designed the synagogue, which was built in 2012 (Fig. 14.5).39 The architect explains that the design was influenced by four major factors: (a) the individual memory of the Moroccan heritage of the client, the political figure, and the architect involved; (b) the collective memory of the North African origin of the Jewish communities in the area around the synagogue; (c) the study of the architecture of the Jerusalem Temples through the Scriptures and their interpretation; and (d) consideration of the harsh desert climate in Eilat.40 The synagogue was dedicated to the memory of the philanthropist Samuel Soayed, partner and friend of David Cohen, one of Eilat’s premier real estate developers.41 David Cohen was

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Figure 14.3  The Synagogue’s urban setting in Eilat (courtesy of architect Eyal Logasi)

Figure 14.4  Rabbi Meir BaalHaness Synagogue: exterior view (© Anat Geva)

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Figure 14.5  The architect Eyal Logasi in front of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue (© Anat Geva)

i­nstrumental in funding the project and also helped define its Moroccan style. He traveled to Morocco to bring back traditional lamps that were incorporated into the sanctuary’s design42 (Fig.  14.6). According to the Moroccan–Jewish tradition, the donation of oil for the synagogue’s lamps is a good deed (mitzvah), and donating the lamps themselves is to be blessed. The significance of this tradition comes from the ancient ritual of donating oil for the eternal lamp that hung in the Jerusalem Temple.43 Another influential figure involved in this project was Moshe Elmakias, Eilat’s deputy mayor and former chairman of the city’s Religious Council. Elmakias organized and brought together all administrative authorities and political parties to aid in the construction of the synagogue. His Moroccan background also influenced the synagogue’s North African style, as did that of the architect, Eyal Logasi, who designed the synagogue pro bono to promote and honor his parents’ Moroccan heritage. The individual memories of Cohen, Elmakias, and Logasi corresponded to the spiritual needs of the new immigrants from France, as well as the older generation of North African immigrants (mainly from Morocco) already living in Eilat.44 Thus, the design of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue not only demonstrates the connection of religion and sacred place through the architecture of a Sephardi synagogue, but also demonstrates the relationship between individual and collective memories as a factor influencing the synagogue’s design. This relationship illustrates the contribution of the individuals’ experience with houses of worship in their countries of origin to the collective memory of their sacred place.45 Memories are localized within a social group, situated in the mental and material spaces provided by that group.46 In interviews with Erev Erev, the local Hebrew-language newspaper47 and with the author, the architect indicated that his new design followed the basic traditional architecture of North African synagogues, especially those in Morocco. He emphasized, however, that it was not inspired by any specific Moroccan synagogue, but rather combined architectural features from North African synagogues and from mosques. The main criticism of the architect expressed in Erev Erev was that the design of the synagogue’s blue domes resembles mosque architecture and Islam.48 Mosques in Israel are all domed and make much use of blue in their various forms of decoration, such as ceramic tiles. Consequently, most critics perceive these architectural features as part of mosque design and Islamic architecture. They consider synagogues to be uniquely Jewish structures and

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Figure 14.6  (upper) Traditional lamps imported from Morocco; (lower) close-up of a traditional lamp imported from Morocco (© Anat Geva)

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miss the importance of the mutual influence between the synagogues and mosques of North Africa. The architect reacted to this criticism stating that he was blessed at being given the opportunity to build a synagogue that was not dictated by the Israeli Ministry of Housing, an entity that continues to advocate the Israeli ‘melting pot’ ideology. Rather, he was able to express the North AfricanJewish heritage and its Sephardi rituals, the elements of the Temples, and local vernacular desert architecture.49 The application of this chapter’s conceptual model of the relationships between the forces affecting synagogue design in Israel and the design of the synagogue in Eilat illustrates the fact that “identity expression”, the policy of “uniformity”, and the environment were all part of the design considerations of that synagogue. The attention to individual and collective memory represents the idea of “identity expression”, while the incorporation of the design concepts of the Jerusalem Temple corresponds to the ideology of “uniformity” and the design guidelines for Israeli synagogues. The architectural attempt to accommodate the local environment of Eilat represents the modern use of efficient building systems, such as air-conditioning, in combination with a design that takes the prevailing climatic conditions into account. Exterior of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue is similar in plan and design to the North African synagogues and the First and Second Temples.50 It is built around an inner courtyard defined by columns on three sides (the peristyle) connected by horizontal beams (Fig. 14.7). The courtyard is adjacent to the sanctuary with the main axis running from the courtyard gate to the sanctuary entrance and the bimah, but perpendicular to the ark. The initial intention of the design was to follow the North African tradition and include a courtyard with covered sides and a bench running along the walls. Due to budgetary constraints the bench was never built and the congregation covered one side of the courtyard with palm leaves (Fig. 14.8).

Figure 14.7  The Synagogue’s courtyard. (© Anat Geva)

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Figure 14.8  One side of the Synagogue’s courtyard covered with palm leaves (© Anat Geva)

These fronds provide shade on one side of the open atrium and allow the congregation to use the space even on hot summer days. The covering of palm fronds also serves as the Sukkah51 during the seven days of the Sukkot (Tabernacles) holiday. The courtyard is also used as a meeting-place in which people can congregate after services and talk with their friends and the rabbi. The shade and ventilation provided by the courtyard are suited to local weather conditions. Members of the congregation also use the courtyard for celebrating religious festivals and family events such as bar mitzvahs and weddings. Following a study of the ground plan of the First and Second Temples, and the memory of this type of synagogue, the architect designed the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue in the shape of three main u-shaped wings around the courtyard (Fig. 14.9). The rectangular prayer-hall measuring 17.0 x11.0 meters (55.7 x 36 feet) that can accommodate 150–200 worshipers is located at the southern end of the courtyard with its shorter side facing northeast towards Jerusalem. There is a social meeting-hall with a kitchen, connected to a classroom on the east, which also serves as a smaller prayer-hall for daily prayers; an additional hall is connected to the administrative office and the mikvah52 on the western side. In order to differentiate between the wings of the complex and the sanctuary and to glorify the prayer-hall, the architect designed a barrel-vaulted ceiling over the central area of the sanctuary, with domes and flat roofs covering the other wings (Fig. 14.10). The barrel-vaulted ceiling is oriented east–west, at right angles to the entrance, and resembles the ceiling of the Masud ben Harush synagogue in Casablanca, Morocco.53 It is also reminiscent of the gravestones protected by barrel-vaulting found in the historic Jewish cemetery of Fez, Morocco.54 Small domes cover the social meeting-hall, the mikvah, and the classroom (Fig. 14.11). These concrete domes are finished in turquoise-blue glass mosaic. North African Jews and Muslims believe that blue offers protection to a dwelling from demons, while in houses of worship this color is associated with heaven.55 The use of the color blue on the domes and window frames of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue was inspired by the mutual influence of mosques and synagogues in Morocco and Tunisia.56 An additional feature common to both houses of worship is the ablution space. In the synagogue in Eilat, this is situated on each side of a vestibule at the entrance gate to the courtyard, and includes

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a marble counter and a sink with mosaic décor above it (Fig. 14.12). Both Jews and Muslims perform the ritual of washing hands and/or feet before entering the sanctuary of a synagogue or mosque. In addition, the vestibule space of the synagogue commemorates the ablution rituals performed in the Jerusalem Temple. The synagogue’s exterior details are influenced by those found in Moroccan-Moorish architecture. The entrances to the courtyard, the sanctuary, the mikvah, the women’s gallery, and even the alcove housing the ark contain Moorish-style horseshoe-shaped arched doors (Figs. 14.5 and 14.13). Similar openings can be found in the gates of ancient Moroccan cities,57 Moroccan mosques built in the Moorish style58 and in the memorial candelabra used in Moroccan synagogues.59 A similar type of arch graces the interior of the Santa María La Blanca Synagogue in Toledo, Spain, built in the mid-fourteenth century and influenced by the Cordoba Mosque.60 It can be assumed that the Jews who fled the Spanish Inquisition and arrived in Morocco and other North African countries during the fifteenth century brought this style of architecture with them and translated the architectural traditions of their synagogues into the new context of Morocco. In turn, this feature was imported and incorporated into this modern synagogue in Israel. Thus, the strong impact of individual and collective memories passes from generation to generation, and creates the identity expression of immigrant groups. In an interview published in Erev Erev and in conversation with the author, architect Logasi stated that although the synagogue has an air-conditioning system, he attempted to cater to the desert environment by learning from local architecture.61 His design of the colonnaded courtyard helps with cross-ventilation, while the landscaping and the covered section of the courtyard create

Figure 14.9  Plan of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue (courtesy of architect Eyal Logasi)

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Figure 14.10 Drawings of the Synagogue’s north and south elevations (courtesy of architect Eyal Logasi)

Figure 14.11 The Synagogue’s blue domes (© Anat Geva)

shade. Cross-ventilation is also achieved when the congregation opens the windows on both sides of the sanctuary and the balcony. The orientation of the windows captures the prevailing breezes when weather permits. The high ceilings of the vaulted roof and domes collect heat rising from the spaces below, and some argue that the layers of heat at the upper level of the ceiling provide a form of insulation, while the whitewashed walls and roofs reflect the sun. These features not only provide some passive measures of protection against the heat, but also link the design to motifs in North African synagogues and mosques that catered to their local environmental conditions. Thus,

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Figure 14.12  The ablutions area on either side of the vestibule to the courtyard (© Anat Geva)

the architect’s environmentally conscious design enhances the congregation’s collective memory. In this case, the more compatible the synagogue is with the local climate, the more it retains and preserves the immigrants’ cultural identity. The combination of factors such as individual and collective memory, the study of the architecture of the First and Second Temples, and the concessions to the harsh climate are also expressed in the synagogue’s interior. Interior of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue The interior design of the sanctuary of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue illustrates the strong impact of collective memory and the congregation’s longing to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem. These influences on the synagogue’s interior reflect the traditions and heritage of North African Jewish rituals and prayers. The services are conducted according to the Sephardi rite that dictates the location of the bimah (pulpit) in relation to the ark, the seating arrangements on the main floor for male worshipers (Fig. 14.14), and on the balcony for women (Fig. 14.15). As in most North African synagogues, the entrance to the sanctuary is at right angles to the axis of the ark-bimah. Thus, worshipers entering the sanctuary face the bimah (rather than the ark), and walk to their assigned seats. Women climb an enclosed staircase located on one side of the main entrance to the prayer-hall to reach the balcony (Fig. 14.9). Neither entrances include a foyer or lobby, so the congregation gathers in the courtyard before and after prayers. When meals are served after the service, people congregate in the social hall. As in some North African synagogues, the interior of the sanctuary is divided on each side by a row of four columns, creating a three-bay plan (Figs. 14.9 and 14.14). The bimah is centrally located along the same axis as the ark, which are separated from each other by three rows of seating (Fig. 14.14). This central location enables the congregation to see and hear the Rabbi’s sermon and the reading of the scrolls when they are taken out of the ark. The seats on the main floor are arranged on four sides of the bimah. Some of the worshipers see each other across the bimah, other face the bimah, while those sitting in front face the ark. The u-shaped balcony enables women worshipers

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Figure 14.13  (upper) Architect Eyal Logasi’s sketches of the entrance to the Synagogue’s ark on the left and the Mikva on the right; (lower) entrance to the Synagogue’s sanctuary (sketches courtesy of architect Eyal Logasi; photo © Anat Geva)

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Figure 14.14  The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue: interior view (© Anat Geva)

to both (heikhal) ­surround the bimah from above and see the ark (Figs. 14.14 and 14.15). As required by the faith, the ark is situated in a niche at the northeast wall facing Jerusalem. Worshipers need to stand and face the ark at certain points during the service. The architect studied the decorative architectural features of the interiors of the First and Second Temples described in the Bible and in Shulkhan Arukh from 1565, and current references.62 Following the interior design of the Temple,

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Figure 14.15  The ladies’ gallery, Rabbi Meir BaalHaness Synagogue (© Anat Geva)

two decorative columns define the heikhal, with a granite wall behind it and it is topped by a dome adorned in silver glass mosaic (Fig. 14.16). In addition, to remind the congregation of their collective longing to rebuild the Temple in Jerusalem, the curtain (parokhet) of the ark is decorated with a representation of the Second Temple, as it was believed to have appeared after King Herod’s renovation in 20 bc (Fig. 14.16). The windows of the synagogues of North Africa and of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem were designed to provide light but prevent outside visual distractions. While the North African synagogues included few stained-glass windows and the major light source was the lantern above the bimah, the Jerusalem Temples contained opaque windows. The design of the windows of the synagogue in Eilat is a combination of opaque and stained-glass (eight windows on the south side and four on the west). As in North African synagogues, the stained-glass windows depict the symbols of the twelve tribes of Israel (Fig. 14.17).63 Natural light penetrates through these windows and bounces off the white interior walls to fill the space with soft illumination that allows worshipers to read comfortably. The architect explains that he positioned most of the windows on the south side of the sanctuary in order to capture the southern sun and light that enhance the beauty of the stained-glass images (Fig. 14.17). Indeed, during the day the windows highlight the delicate artwork of the stained glass. Since the windows were not shaded and generate heat from the southern sun, the congregation added interior window shades that block the view of the stained-glass images as well as some of the natural light. In addition to the major light fixtures, imported from Morocco, that hang in the center of the sanctuary (Figs. 14.6 and 14.16), other light fixtures resemble the eternal lamp (ner tamid) design in Moroccan synagogues.64 These lamps are hung throughout the prayer-hall, reminding the

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c­ ongregation of their origin (Fig. 14.16). Modern spotlights and a slit of artificial light in each of the long sides of the vaulted ceiling create an illusion that the roof is floating above the sanctuary. The multiple lighting techniques provide a unified, diffused light that enables all worshipers to read comfortably during evening services. Although the interior décor of the sanctuary is relatively simple, the rich materials, the stained glass, the decorative lamps, and the architectural features glorify the interior and enhance the spiritual experience of the worshippers (Figs. 14.14 and 14.16). Though the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue expresses symbolism of the immigrants from North Africa (especially Morocco) and caters to the congregation’s Sephardi rituals, the leadership and members claim that the synagogue is open to all and they welcome Jews from all over the world. Indeed, during a visit to the synagogue, the author talked with worshippers from Romania, Mexico, and Iran. They too felt that the sanctuary is inspiring as a sacred place, and lifts their spirits. They also like to celebrate the Sabbath and festival meals in the courtyard or in the social hall and claimed that they felt secure in a place that is separate from the mundane world and allows them to enter a sacred space. Thus, the design of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue successfully embraces universal elements of the sacred, such as earth (horizontal lines, earth-colored stone and stucco), air (courtyard open to the sky), fire (the eternal lamp), and water (hand-washing), incorporating the specifics of the Jewish faith. The synagogue serves as an example of the ideology of the “melting pot”, on which the state of Israel was founded, with the incorporation of North African Jewish identity.

Figure 14.16  View from the bimah (pulpit) looking toward the ark (© Anat Geva)

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Figure 14.17  One of the stained-glass windows depicting the twelve tribes of Israel (© Anat Geva)

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Conclusion: Immigration, Collective Memory, and Place Analyses of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue in Eilat corroborate the ethnographic studies of collective memory that highlight the combination of reality and the memory of the past.65 Similarly, the association between social identity and place can be represented by traditions that are passed down from generation to generation and expressed in historic buildings, houses of worship, districts, and cities.66 Place-making also reconstructs cultural traditions while establishing the social identities of specific ethnic groups of immigrants, “Building and sharing place-world . . . is not only a means of reviving former times but also revising them”.67 This tendency highlights a group’s urge to preserve their lifestyle, heritage, and shared experiences. The desire to uphold the past is such a dominant force that when immigrants leave their homelands, they attempt to recreate the built form from their country of origin in their new locations.68 In the case of Israel, however, civic and political ideology aimed at shaping a new, modern Jewish society, and thus initially ignored the diversity and identity of its various immigrant groups. Nevertheless, the collective memories of faith rituals, ceremonies, and synagogues from the Diaspora prevailed. In turn, the building guidelines for synagogues in Israel acknowledged the importance of the identity of immigrants’ ethnic origins and opened the door to incorporating some of those traditions to revive them in a new context. The Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue exemplifies this design idea in a building that incorporates contemporary design into the basic traditional architectural features and symbols of North African synagogues. The synagogue in Eilat thereby creates a sense of community and the collective relationship to religion: “shared values are typically connected with a specific place, and thus religion and mythology are often deeply rooted in the definition of meaningful places.”69 The analyses of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue, a North African Sephardi synagogue, demonstrates that, even today, sacred architecture continues to reflect immigrant groups’ commitment to their heritage. The collective perception of religious buildings as a symbol of immigrant identity, cultural heritage, and place of origin, governs the built form of their sacred architecture.”70 Studies of immigration and its link to architecture show that immigrants bring their old architectural forms with them and then modify and adapt them to their new environmental conditions.71 Although remembrance of the family home involves a narrative interpretation of the past, in reality, the immigrants change their communal buildings to accommodate the new conditions, or imitate the existing buildings in areas already settled. The original form of their houses of worship takes precedence over local needs as “ethnic groups frequently build places of worship that are architecturally reminiscent of their homelands.”72 The case of the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness synagogue demonstrates that the influence of the collective and individual memories of the immigrants from North Africa (especially Morocco) dominated its design style, despite state policy of unification, while taking local climatic conditions into consideration.

Acknowledgment I would like to thank architect Eyal Logasi and his firm in Eilat, Israel for meeting with me, and for providing the appropriate sketches, drawings, and images necessary for this chapter.

Notes 1. Hadas Shadar, “Between East and West: Immigrants, Critical Regionalism, and Public Housing,” Journal of Architecture 9, no. 1 (2004): 23–48; idem, The Foundation of the Israeli Public Housing (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ministry of Housing, 2014). Dr. Hadas Shadar is an Adjunct in the Faculty of Architecture and Town Planning at the Israel Institute of Technology. 2. The First Temple was destroyed in 587 bc; the Second Temple in 70 ad. 3. Architect Meir Ben-Uri was a consultant to the Israel Ministry of Religions during the early years after the establishment of Israel. His essay “Synagogues in the State of Israel” consists of design guidelines for building a synagogue and is included (in Hebrew: “Batei Knesset b’Medinat Yisrael”) in the book Synagogues: Articles and Essays (Jerusalem: Ministry of Religions, 1955). 4. See for example the “Dome Synagogue” in Be’er Sheva, Israel, a Brutalism-style design by architect Nahum Zolotov, 1970. 5. During the 1950s and 1960s, most of the Jews of North Africa (Morocco, Tunisia, Algeria) immigrated to

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Israel or France. They brought their homelands’ traditions with them and passed them down remembering their origins through symbolic and social processes. 6. Sephardi synagogues are built for Jews who originated from Spain, Portugal, Turkey, North Africa, and the Middle East and their descendants. 7. Ben-Uri, “Synagogues in the State of Israel” (see note 3). 8. Ibid. 9. “Synagogues subsequently built by Moroccan immigrants in Israel consist of an admixture of various regional traditions.” Ariella Amar, “Moroccan Synagogues—A Survey,” ARIEL—The Israel Review of Arts and Letters 106, http://mfa.gov.il/MFA/MFA-Archive/1999/Pages/Moroccan%20Synagogues-%20A%20 Survey.aspx (accessed October 9, 2015). 10. Shadar, The Foundation of Israeli Public Housing; Aba Elhanani, The Struggle for Independence: Israeli Architecture in the Twentieth Century (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ministry of Defense, 1998). Aba Elhanani (1918–2008) was a prominent architect in Israel. Among his many projects was the official residence of the President of the State of Israel. 11. Ben-Uri, “Synagogues in the State of Israel.” 12. See note 6 for Sephardi synagogues; Ashkenazi synagogues are built for Jews who came or are descended from inhabitants of western, northern, and eastern Europe. 13. Dell Upton, ed., America’s Architectural Roots: Ethnic Groups That Built America (Washington, DC: The Preservation Press, 1986); G. R. Nielsen, In Search of a Home: 19th Century Wendish Immigration (College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press, 1989). 14. Anat Geva, “The Interaction of Climate, Culture, and Building Type on Built Form: A Computer Simulation Study of Energy Performance of Historic Buildings” (Ph.D. diss., Texas A&M University, 1995); idem, “Lessons from the Past: The Interactive Effect of Climate and Culture on 19th Century Vernacular Architecture in South Central Texas,” in ACSA (Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture) Technology Conference Proceedings: Technology and Housing (2004). 15. Elhanani, The Struggle for Independence, 85–89. 16. David Cassuto, “Jewish and Moslem Places of Worship—Mutual Influences,” http://mfa.gov.il/MFA/ MFA-Archive/1998/Pages/Jewish%20and%20Moslem%20Places%20of%20Worship-%20Mutual%20 Influe.aspx (accessed October 6, 2015). David Cassuto, an architect and author of articles and books on the history of architecture in Israel, was Deputy Mayor of Jerusalem (1993–98) and is a Professor at the Ariel University School of Architecture. 17. Amiram Harlap, Synagogues in Israel from the Ancient to the Modern (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Ministry of Defense and Dvir Ltd., 1984). The book estimates that there were 480 synagogues in Jerusalem at the time of the destruction of the Temple (p. 22). 18. Ibid., 22, 31: more than 15 synagogues, built between the second and the seventh centuries ce, were discovered in Galilee. They were built on the basilican plan. 19. David Cassuto, “Synagogue Architecture in the Islamic Mediterranean Basin and Asia” (in Hebrew), Machanayim 11 (1994); Jacob Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa: Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1974). Jacob Pinkerfeld (1897–1956), an architect, was the first Israeli historian to document synagogues in Islamic countries, especially in North Africa. 20. Nehemiah 8:1–3. 21. 2 Chronicles and 2 Kings; Shalom Dov Steinberg, The Format of the First Jerusalem Temple (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Vagshel, 1994); idem, The Format of the Second Jerusalem Temple (in Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Vagshel, 1993). 22. Cassuto, “Synagogue Architecture”; Esther Juhasz, “Material Culture,” in The Jews of the Middle East and North Africa in Modern Times, ed. Reeva Spector Simon, Michael Menachem Laskier, and Sara Reguer (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 216–223. 23. Hayim Zeev Hirschbe, A History of the Jews in North Africa: From the Ottoman Conquest to the Present Time, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill 1981). 24. Esther Juhasz, ed., Sephardi Jews in the Ottoman Empire: Aspects of Material Culture (Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1970). 25. Cassuto, “Synagogue Architecture.” 26. The ark is the cabinet in which the Torah scrolls are kept. It always faces Jerusalem. In North Africa the space that contains the ark is called heikhal. The bimah is the pulpit on which the rabbi leads the prayers. It faces the ark. 27. The Torah is the first five books of the Bible (the Pentateuch) with the commentaries. 28. Cassuto, “Jewish and Moslem Places of Worship.” e.asp 29. “Great Mosque of Aleppo,” http://www.sacred-destinations.com/syria/aleppo-umayyad-mosque (accessed July 27, 2015); Haim F. Ghiuzeli, “The Central Synagogue in Aleppo, Syria,” http://www.bh.org.il/thecentral-synagogue-in-aleppo-syria/ (accessed July 27, 2015). 30. Steinberg, The Format of the First Jerusalem Temple; Cassuto, “Jewish and Moslem Places of Worship.” 31. Cassuto, “Jewish and Moslem Places of Worship.” 32. Ibid. 33. Cassuto, “Synagogue Architecture”; Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa. 34. Cassuto, “Synagogue Architecture.” 35. Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa, 122.

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6. Juhasz, “Material Culture,” 220. 3 37. Ibid. 38. The plan that included a courtyard, and the humble construction and finishes of North African synagogues and mosques in rural areas and towns, indicate the impact of climatic conditions and of mutual influences between the architecture of the houses of worship of the two religions. 39. Eyal Logasi, an Israeli architect and the founder of Eyal Logasi Architects in Eilat, his hometown, graduated from the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem, Israel. His work focuses mainly on projects in Eilat and includes residential neighborhoods, commercial, and public buildings. The Rabbi Meir BaalHaness Synagogue was his first religious project. Recently he was commissioned to design a synagogue in Eilat for a Jewish community from Yemen. 40. Eilat, Israel (latitude: 29.55° N, and longitude 34.95° E), is considered to have a subtropical, arid, desertified climate, with very harsh summers and mild winters. 41. Omer Carmon, “First Glance into the Splendid Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue” (in Hebrew), Erev Erev (Eilat’s local newspaper in Hebrew), August 2, 2012. 42. Ibid.; the author’s visit to the synagogue. 43. Neil Folberg and Yom Tov Assis, And I Shall Dwell among Them: Historic Synagogues of the World (New York: Aperture Foundation 1995), 19. 44. See note 5. 45. William James, The Principles of Psychology (Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1952), 425; Christine M. Boyer, The City of Collective Memory (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994); Diane Barthel, Historic Preservation: Collective Memory and Historical Identity (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996); Eleni Bastea, ed., Memory and Architecture (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 2004); Geoffrey Cubitt, History and Memory (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007); Niamh Moore and Yvonne Whelan, eds., Heritage, Memory, and the Politics of Identity: New Perspectives on the Cultural Landscape (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007). 46. Pierre Nora, “Realms of Memory,” in Realms of Memory: The Construction of the French Past, ed. Pierre Nora and Lawrence D. Kritzman, trans. Arthur Goldhammer, vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), xxvii–xxiv; Barthel, Historic Preservation. 47. Erev Erev (Eilat’s local newspaper in Hebrew), August 2, 2012. 48. Carmon, “First Glance into the Splendid Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue.” 49. Ibid. 50. Steinberg, The Format of the First Jerusalem Temple; idem, The Format of the Second Jerusalem Temple. 51. A sukkah is a temporary shelter built for the Festival of Tabernacles (Sukkot): “Live in sukkot for seven days, so your descendants will remember that I [the Lord] had the Israelites live in wilderness shelters when I brought them out of Egypt.” Leviticus 23:42–43 52. A mikva is a ritual bath of fresh running water which offers the individual, the community, and the nation of Israel the remarkable gift of purity and holiness (Chabad). 53. Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa, 108. 54. Ibid., 84. 55. Juhasz, “Material Culture,” 218. 56. Examples of window frames and shutters in blue, http://richardmcgibbon.photoshelter.com/image/ I0000xm1u0Hx9Rpk (accessed July 27, 2015). 57. See, for example, the gate of Quadiah Kasbah in Meknes, Morocco (Nnamdi Elleh, African Architecture: Evolution and Transition (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1996), 96, Fig. C.15). 58. Ismail Serageldin and James Steele, Architecture of the Contemporary Mosque (London: Academy Group Ltd., 1996), 92–97. 59. Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa, 65. 60. Ben-Uri, “Synagogues in the State of Israel,” 37 image 22. 61. Carmon, “First Glance into the Splendid Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue,” and personal meeting with the architect. 62. 2 Chronicles and 1 Kings; Joseph Caro, The Shulchan Aruch (1565); Steinberg, The Format of the First Jerusalem Temple. 63. See, for example, the windows of the Gribah Synagogue in Tunisia. 64. Pinkerfeld, Synagogues in North Africa, 74, 77, 79. 65. Joelle Bahloul, The Architecture of Memory: A Jewish–Muslim Household in Colonial Algeria 1937–1962 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 66. M. Jacobi and D. Stokols, “The Role of Tradition in Group–Environment Relations,” in Environmental Psychology: Directions and Perspectives, ed. N. R. Feimer and E. S. Geller (New York: Praeger, 1983), 157– 190; Geva, “The Interaction”; idem, “Lessons From the Past,” 288–297; Bastea, Memory and Architecture. 67. Keith Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places (Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press, 1996), 6–7. 68. Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1969); Upton, America’s Architectural Roots; Geva, “The Interaction”; idem, “Lessons From the Past”; Nancy Crowley, “The Influence of Local and ‘Imported’ Factors on the Design and Construction of the Spanish Missions in San Antonio, Texas” (M.S. thesis, Texas A&M University, 2005); Dave Dubbelde, “The Impact of Faith, Culture on the Built Form: The Case of Catholic Galveston, Texas, in the Nineteenth Century” (Ph.D. diss., Texas A&M University, 2006); Anat Geva and Jacob Morris, “Empirical Analyses of Immigrants’ Churches across

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69. 70. 71.

72.

Locations: Historic Wendish Churches in Germany, Texas, and South Australia,” ARRIS—The Journal of South East Chapter of the Society of Architectural Historians 21 (2010): 38–60. Thomas Barrie, Spiritual Path, Sacred Place: Myth, Ritual, and Meaning in Architecture (Boston, MA: Shambhala, 1996), 52. Upton, America’s Architectural Roots; Geva, “The Interaction”; idem, “Lessons From the Past.” Fred Kniffen, “Louisiana House Types,” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 27 (1936), 179–193; Fred Kniffen, “American Cultural Geography and Folklife,” in American Folklife, ed. Don Yoder (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976), 51–70; Henry Glassie, Pattern in the Material Folk Culture of the Eastern United States (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1968); idem, “Folk Art,” in Folklore and Folklife: An Introduction, ed. Richard Dorson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972), 253–280; idem, “The Variation of Concepts within Tradition: Barn Building in Otsego County, New York,” Geoscience and Man 5 (1974): 177–235; idem, Folk Housing in Middle Virginia: A Structural Analysis of Historic Artifacts (Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 1975). Bahloul, The Architecture of Memory, 126; Geva, “The Interaction;” Upton (ed.), America’s Architectural Roots.

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Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue—Sensitive Ruins: On the Preservation of Jewish Religious Sites in the Muslim World Susan Gilson Miller

On the evening of February 13, 2013, Moroccan television viewers were treated to an unfamiliar spectacle. Prime Minister Abdelilah Benkirane, leader of the pro-Islamist Justice and Development Party and official head of government since 2011, was shown presiding over a celebration marking the completed restoration the Slat Alfassiyine, a seventeenth-century synagogue located in the heart of the mellah (Jewish quarter) of Fez. Sharing the podium with the Prime Minister were various local and national figures, including Serge Berdugo, official head of the Moroccan Jewish community, as well as several rabbis and the Mayor of Fez, in a rare show of inter-communal solidarity. Even more surprising was the message read aloud by the Prime Minister that came directly from Morocco’s King Mohammed VI, proclaiming “the importance . . . of the preservation of the spiritual and cultural heritage of the Jewish community . . . one of the time-honored components of our national identity,” a pronouncement one often hears in Morocco nowadays, though usually not from an Islamist political leader. The most astounding news was yet to come, however, when Prime Minister Benkirane read the King’s pledge to restore “all the synagogues in the other Moroccan cities so that they may serve not only as places of worship, but also as forums for cultural dialogue and the promotion of our cultural values.” Evoking “the principles of coexistence, tolerance, and concord between the various components of the nation, under the wise leadership of the kings of the glorious Alawite dynasty,” the statement was nothing short of sensational. Yet apart from the inherent drama of the event, the royal call contained little that was substantive or practical, given the countless abandoned synagogues existing throughout the land, most of them now in a state of advanced decay, if not actually in ruins.1 The King’s proclamation was not simply about synagogues and their preservation, nor was it intended merely for a local audience. It was calculated to be widely resonant across Morocco and to reach to the outside world, as indeed it did. The speech was carried by numerous news organizations, reported by international news agencies, and made the front page of the English-language Jewish press. The King’s words were intended to project the image of a modern, enlightened state, Western in its values, differing from its neighbors through its tolerant and appreciative attitude toward its Jewish minority and protective of the valuable Jewish heritage still in Moroccan hands. Moreover, by putting these consoling words in the mouth of Morocco’s leading Islamist politician, the King demonstrated his own commitment to universal values of religious freedom, as well as his mastery over his domestic political field. It was a stunning maneuver, to be sure, intended to undercut the ambitions of those politicians in high positions who are far more ambivalent than he is about the wisdom of inserting Jews into the mainstream of public life and accepting them, as the King emphasized, as “loyal citizens.” Politicizing the question of preserving Jewish heritage in this manner is not unique to Morocco, nor to the Middle East or North Africa; indeed, the question of what to do with abandoned Jewish sites has created controversy even in Europe, where postwar governments have had to struggle with similar questions of how to memorialize the Holocaust, its victims, and the countless sites of Jewish memory.2 Leaving the Moroccan celebration, let us move on to another event that took place one and a half years earlier, in Libya. Following the tumultuous uprisings in Tunisia and Egypt early in 2011 now known as the Arab Spring, the Libyans also rose up against their longstanding dictator, Colonel Muammar Qaddafi, and established a National Transitional Council (NTC) as a platform for building a free, democratic state. In the unbridled fervor that followed Qaddafi’s fall, Libyan exiles living abroad returned home. Among their number was David Gerbi, one of the nearly 40,000 Libyan Jews

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expelled in the aftermath of the 1967 Israeli–Arab War. Believing that a new day was at hand, Gerbi visited the site of Tripoli’s main synagogue located in the Hara Kabira, the old Jewish quarter in the heart of the medina. Dar al-Bishri is an impressive three-story building in the Art Deco style that once served as the principal synagogue of the community; when Gerbi arrived, it was boarded up and in a ruined condition. Using a sledgehammer, Gerbi broke into the structure, revealing a garbage-strewn interior, a haven for feral cats. Returning the next day accompanied by a clutch of news media and wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with “I Love Libya,” Gerbi began to clean up the mess, claiming he had permission to do so from the NTC. Gerbi’s plan was to restore the synagogue using his own funds, and he vowed to remain in Tripoli until the job was done. Yet two days into the project, he was forced to abandon it after a group of angry protesters gathered at the site bearing signs in English such as “Get Out David, We don’t have a place for Zionism,” and “We are not against Judaism,” and in Arabic, “No!” A spokesman for the NTC made the rejection official when he reportedly said that the project had not been “authorized” and raised “a very sensitive issue at a very critical time,” abruptly putting an end to Gerbi’s plans for restoration.3 These two cases, the Moroccan and Libyan, represent opposites poles of a continuum. Why are some Jewish sites in the Muslim world preserved, while others are left to sink into oblivion, or even worse, allowed to remain standing in a state of ignoble decay? Who decides, and for what reasons? What constellation of factors contributes to deciding the fate of what are indeed “sensitive ruins”? Across the Muslim world, the architectural remnants of once-vibrant Jewish communities have become disputed ground, reflecting fraught historical legacies, current regime politics, popular attitudes, the influence of local and international Jewry, tourism planning, ideological shifts, religious feelings, local building needs, state-run urban schemes, and global development strategies—a complex interplay of elements that is difficult, if not impossible, to unravel. During the great mid-century exodus, Jews abandoned countless synagogues across the Muslim world, often taking with them nothing more than the Torah scrolls from in the holy ark. Ornaments, prayer books, wall-hangings, lamps, even prayer shawls, were left behind in the rush to leave. Subsequently, it was not unusual to find such accouterments in local tourist shops and antique stores. The denuded spaces were sealed off after they had been stripped of anything of value. The empty rooms were converted to other uses, such as private living space, a store, or a place of entertainment. Most of the houses of worship were embedded deep in the fabric of the quarter, adjacent to Jewish homes, so that they could conveniently serve ritual needs. In Fez, for example, the jewel-like Debaba Synagogue was converted into a private apartment, while the Slat Al-Fassiyine, before its recent renovation, served as a carpet factory and subsequently as a sports club, its tevah converted into a boxing ring.4 The nobler structures suffered a different fate. Tripoli’s Dar al-Bishri synagogue stood out from the urban fabric due to its location at a strategic point and its elaborate exterior ornamentation. Most of these grander synagogues were built in the late nineteenth century or the early twentieth century and were emblematic of the profound social changes that Jews had undergone in previous decades in the Muslim world, as they were gradually turned from subjects into citizens. Jews living in cities such as Tangier, Algiers, Tunis, Cairo, Alexandria, Istanbul, Aleppo, and Damascus, emerged into the public space as participants in a new, supposedly more secular order, in which religious identities were subsumed under a pervasive discourse of equality and universal citizenship. Yet in reality, old structures of power and inequality persisted, despite the rhetoric of openness. Nevertheless, the notion of a civil society in which everyone, including minorities, could flourish had became pervasive, offering reassurance to the state that, in return for its protection and limited interference, Jews and others who once formed a near-invisible social underclass would emerge from the shadows and contribute their support to the regime.5 The possibility now open to Jews to participate in civil society affected every sphere of daily life, including education, entertainment, culture, and the use of public space. Processes of emancipation, unevenly applied, shaped Jewish aspirations in almost every sphere, including public architecture, with synagogues becoming an expression of a new sense of freedom.6 The Eliyahu Hanavi synagogue in Alexandria, for example, rebuilt in the mid-nineteenth century with contributions from the Khedive, had seating for over 700 people, making it an ideal example of the type, as is Cairo’s Shaar Hashamayim synagogue, built in 1905. The Neve Shalom synagogue in Istanbul, constructed in the 1930s, is in this same style and inspiration, as is the Magen Abraham synagogue in Beirut, dating from 1925, and the Yusef Abad synagogue in Teheran, dating from the 1950s. Across the Muslim world, some of these monumental Jewish houses of worship are maintained in reasonable repair,

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despite the absence of Jews, serving as symbols of state support for the concept religious freedom—a support that, upon closer analysis, is often more fictional than real. If not intended for use by a depleted Jewish population, then what purpose do these model synagogues serve? Who is sponsoring these projects and to what end? How do they come about, who pays for and safeguards these sites? If not intended as regular places of worship, then what is their purpose and meaning? When we speak of “synagogue preservation” in the Muslim world today, what is the symbolic intent? Here we must turn for answers to the concept of memory and the role it plays in shaping human experience. As French historian Pierre Nora has eloquently written, the past is a foreign country we enter only through the mechanism of memory. Memory is the bridge between the present and what has been irrevocably taken from us. Yet pieces of the past are retrievable, Nora insists, because they are embodied in sites that have a “residual sense of continuity” with what has gone before. These sites are what he calls lieux de mémoire, as opposed to the milieux de mémoire in which memory is part of everyday experience.7 Nora makes a clear distinction between history—based on the sorting and rewriting of facts and the (imperfect) reconstruction of what no longer exists—and memory, that elemental and totalizing force that recycles heritage and social consciousness in order to remind us of who we are. Memory is pure emotion, he maintains, while history makes a pretense of being scientific and precise, and for this reason, history belongs to everyone, while memory is the province of the chosen few. The conjunction between Nora’s lieux de mémoire and the treatment of Jewish sites in the Muslim world today provides us with a means of understanding some of the processes at work in synagogue preservation projects. What better mechanism could there be for reinserting Jews, once considered as pariahs, back into a national discourse than by exhuming images that invoke a rosier vision of the past, without having to validate them by the use of facts? If the aim is to re-associate and reattach long-absent Jews to their former homes in some meaningful manner, the restoration of sites of memory—as opposed to a literal recreation of past lives that may be shot through with pain and remorse—is far more efficient than rewriting highly contested histories. Thus, Jewish architectural preservation is the natural consequence of identifying suitable lieux de mémoire that will involve the restoration of places in which public ceremonies of inclusion can take place. With great insight, interested parties (and there are many) have turned their attention to a readily available resource—the abandoned synagogues that dot the Middle Eastern and North African landscape. This has been done with the aim of appropriating these houses of worship as places for commemorative activities that exalt past glories. Inevitably, these ceremonies of inclusion are directed at repairing ties that have been ruptured and reviving passions that are long since spent. As imperfect and contrived as they may be, such places of memory serve an important purpose, because they capture the essence of powerful, if forgotten, auras that can be rehabilitated, purged of their bitter taste, and applied to present needs. Let us review a few areas in which synagogue preservation coincides with sectors important to emerging economies in the Middle East and North Africa. Tourism is the most salient, perhaps, because Jewish tourism has become a global phenomenon. Originally conceived in the immediate post-war period to bring American Jews to Eastern European sites associated with the Holocaust, Jewish tourism is now a worldwide phenomenon embracing Jewish sites everywhere, including those in the Muslim world. Today not only American Jews, but also Jews from Europe, Russia, and Israel come to the Muslim world to visit places of Jewish interest. Mizrahi, or “oriental” Jews—those whose ancestors came from Muslim lands—are especially eager to visit former homelands when they are permitted to do so; the more intrepid often seek out parental villages in remote locations. Tourism has also brought an unexpected flood of wealth to former Jewish quarters, to owners of market stalls selling “indigenous” artifacts, restaurants and cafés, and even to the non-Jewish caretakers of Jewish cemeteries. The purchase of souvenirs stimulates the local economy. The purchases tend to run to traditional household objects as reminders of a distant way of life kept alive in the local context but forgotten in their countries of adoption—items such as mortars and pestles, hand coffee-grinders, wooden trays, and metal teapots. Riding the train from Rabat to Tangier some years ago, the author sat opposite a Moroccan-born Israeli bank manager who was balancing a very large silver tray on his lap, the traditional siniyya he was taking home to his mother in Tel Aviv. Included in the tour of the old Jewish quarter is the synagogue, often but not always restored. In Morocco, visits to restored synagogues in Fez, Tetuan, and Tangier are now regular stops in the tourist circuit, even for groups not identified as Jewish. On a recent visit to the Fez mellah (Jewish quarter), the author was impressed by the crowd of European tourists standing in the diminutive

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space in front of the Slat Al-Fassiyine synagogue, patiently awaiting their turn to enter. Curiosity about the ghosts of the past compels visitors to ask questions about the relations between Muslims and Jews, the reasons for the Jewish departure, and the politics of restoration. Satisfying their curiosity is less a matter of referring to historical facts, and more one of evoking the symbolic aura of the place and what it meant to those who inhabited it; in other words, explaining why the synagogue is a lieu de mémoire and not simply any old building. Restored synagogues—ruined ones as well—are sites for an ongoing process of political nostalgia, affecting Muslims as well as Jews. Synagogue sites across the Muslim world, both monumental and modest, evoke memories of neighbors long absent, of commercial relations that have atrophied, of a richness and quality of life that no longer exists. In his monograph Memories of Absence: How Muslims Remember Jews in Morocco, ethnographer Aomar Boum writes of a visit in the early 2000s to the village of Akka in the Tata region on the edge of the Sahara where Jews and Muslims lived together for centuries. He found that the local synagogue, “like many Jewish synagogues in southern Morocco,” was a now a “pile of dirt.”8 Together with his local informant, a much older man named Moha, he pried open the door to the sanctuary and entered: “The corners of the run-down building still bore the smoke of oil lamps . . . a pair of cooing pigeons nested on the crumbling bimah . . . Piles of discarded vegetable matter, butchered foul, and a small dead rabbit were scattered around . . .” In the presence of this impromptu lieu de mémoire, the guide Moha began to talk about the departed Jews of Akka, telling his younger companion what he remembered as being most admirable about them: “You know the Jews are not like us . . . We respected and listened to our imam; they listened to their rabbi. You see this bench, this is where the rabbi used to sit and discuss social and religious Jewish matters. If they fight, the rabbi is their arbitrator. In the 1940s, I used to take manure from the house of Rabbi Youssef to the fields. I saw on many occasions Rabbi Youssef mediating between husbands, wives, and other fighting parties . . .”9 Though Moha begins his remarks by saying that “the Jews are not like us,” in fact, his recollection emphasizes the very opposite; that the departed Jews were in fact very much “like us,” respectful of religious authority, desirous of keeping the peace within the family, integrated into the social and natural ecology of the town. In this once holy place, Moha’s memory of Akka’s Jews is cleansed of the unpleasant facts of their departure, and becomes instead a distillation of positive feeling. Such is the magic of the synagogue as a place of memory. Urban planners are also conscious of the ways in which empty and abandoned synagogues can fit into schemes of urban renewal. Jewish quarters tend to be located in run-down parts of town, close to the city center; their housing stock is old and often rapidly turning into slums. In Balat, one of several former Jewish quarters of Istanbul that also contains sites of Muslim and Christian interest, a UNESCO-sponsored project conceived in the 1990s tried to carve a path between touristic concerns on the one hand, and the needs of the quarter’s low-income inhabitants, many of whom were Muslim Turkish migrants from the region of the Black Sea. Including the local stakeholders inevitably makes a project more complex, especially given the multi-ethnic makeup of the quarter, requiring a balancing act among players who range from local merchants and homeowners to municipal officials, even extending into the realm of the Ministry of Culture.10 Today, few Jews are left in Balat, but for centuries Balat was a home to them, as well as to Greek Orthodox, Muslim, and Armenian subjects of the Ottoman Empire. In this ethnically and religiously diverse quarter, one could hear Turkish, Greek, Ladino (the Jewish language based on Hebrew and Spanish, spoken by Jewish exiles from Spain), Armenian, and perhaps even French in the streets and marketplaces, blending in what is usually described as a cordial inter-confessional harmony. In spite of its ethnic and religious diversity, Balat is still remembered by Jews as a “Jewish quarter,” because of the high concentration of mainly working-class Jews who lived there in the late nineteenth century.11 Today most of Istanbul’s Jews live in garden suburbs far from the old urban core, yet the Jewish community of Istanbul maintains several houses of worship in the Balat district that hold value as symbolic reminders of its former urban identity. The Yanbol synagogue, with its painted Italianate ceiling, is perhaps the oldest in the quarter; nearby is the Ahrida, the main synagogue of the quarter, where the seventeenth century false messiah Shabbetai Zevi is said to have preached. The building

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has been completely restored with much attention paid to its original decor, including a prow-like tevah, perhaps the design of a local Jewish boat-builder. Older residents remember attending sumptuous banquets in the Ahrida synagogue where people dressed in their best finery danced, sang, and feasted. What the synagogue does not remind them of are the rabid pro-nationalist policies of the Kemalist regime of the 1930s and 1940s, with their forced program of turkification and secularization, and the havoc those measures wrought with the ethnic and religious pluralism of districts such as Balat. “When the state’s stand on turkifying became lack of tolerance for multiculturalism, we started isolating ourselves from the outer society and found ourselves in a particularly Jewish social life, “one former resident remembered.12 Synagogues such as those of Balat play a critical role in the self-perception and self-identification of the Jews of Istanbul and Jews in other cities of the Muslim world today. Even if rarely used, they are central nodes of representation and recall a cosmopolitan past when Jews were vital components of a diverse social ensemble. Their architectural magnificence, their prominence in the urban landscape, and the quality of their restoration represent the idea that convivencia—the “living together” that is often evoked but rarely made specific—is still alive. They provide a reason to stay put, despite all  the signs that Jewish life in Muslim lands is nearing the end of its millennial existence. How else to explain why the financing of restoration projects usually begins within the local community, and then spreads abroad? The Ibn Danan synagogue of Fez was restored using funds raised locally from the Ibn Danan family; only later did help come from the World Monuments Fund, American Express, and the American Joint Distribution Committee. It was first and foremost the Jews of Fez who “got the ball rolling.” The restoration of the tiny synagogue of Rabbi Abraham Toledano, the oldest synagogue in Tangier, was financed entirely from local funds, the project directed by local Jewish patrons. Traditionally the state—whether Arab, Turkish or Persian—contributed little, if anything, to the preservation of Jewish sites, including synagogues. Their maintenance was the responsibility of the Jewish community that owned them. The financial reach of these communities today, however, is not adequate to maintain an active program of restoration, and they often need outside help. Recently, a sea change took place in Morocco, when the King gave his blessing to the maintenance of Jewish cemeteries, thus conferring on them the status of national heritage sites. It was reported that some 12,600 graves were repaired “under the auspices of King Mohammed VI”; whether the King’s support was financial as well as moral is not clear, but his endorsement and even cooption of the project was an unequivocal message.13 What do state authorities gain from their involvement in Jewish historic preservation? What are the historic processes that allow derelict sacred property owned by Jews to become part of the national heritage? Across the region, the combination of discourses of liberalism and programs of historic preservation has produced a new trend of reinserting Jews into the national architectural heritage as well as into narratives of the nation. In Morocco, Tunisia, Lebanon, and Turkey, we see palpable evidence of this trend. Crucial to a program of reintegration is a demonstration of respect for Jewish religious sites and their restoration. The religious sphere is probably the least challenging and most amenable path to recovering a lost Jewish identity, skirting as it does the political minefields of colonialism, Zionism, Israel, and the state’s role in the Jewish exodus. The reasons underlying this new departure are many. They are derived from a critique of the colorless modernity that has subsumed the richest part of the Middle Eastern architectural heritage—its stunning eclecticism. Ruins in any shape, preferably Muslim ruins, but now Jewish and Christian ones as well, have taken on greater importance than ever before. Moreover, after generations of equating Jewishness with Zionism, a new generation of Middle Eastern political leaders conversant with Western thinking are less likely to make that mistake. Instead, the appropriation of things Jewish is linked to concepts of open-mindedness, diversity, democracy, and liberalism. It is no coincidence that Muslim leaders who wish to cast off the appearance of authoritarianism are also among the foremost advocates of a Jewish-inflected national culture. We do not often think of architecture and historical preservation as a litmus test for a society’s openness, and surely it is premature to say that the preservation of the remaining synagogues in the Muslim world will open a new age in Muslim–Jewish relations. The political cards are still stacked too highly against that sort of rapprochement to give it much traction. Yet we see the ground shifting under the “Jewish Question” in perceptible ways. The Jewish heritage in the Muslim world, whether it is artistic, social, material, or imaginary, is an enduring and accessible platform for beginning the process of reconciliation between the Muslim nations and the memory of their Jewish past. If enough palpable, meaningful, and mutually shared lieux de mémoire are created to increase public awareness of that patrimony, we may indeed begin to have cause for hope.

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Notes

1. The full text of the King’s message can be found at http://www.mapnews.ma/en/discoursmessages-smle-roi/hm-king-sends-message-participants-inauguration-ceremony-renovated-synag, February 13, 2013 (accessed November 28, 2015). Morocco’s Jewish population was estimated at 250,000 in the immediate post–World War II years, before the “Great Exodus” began in 1947–48. Today the official figure is 5,000, though in reality it is probably closer to 3,000. Before their departure, Jews were mainly concentrated in the big cities, but they also were found in rural areas distant from the coast. Communities usually supported numerous places of worship, from larger synagogues that could shelter the entire community to tiny prayer-rooms attached to a private house. Even today, with its small Jewish population of about 2,000, Casablanca, the main center of Jewish life in Morocco, has fifteen synagogues. 2. The literature on the post-war memorialization of Jewish sites in Central and Eastern Europe is immense. For a sampling, see C. Sturdy Colls, “Holocaust Archaeology: Archaeological Approaches to Landscapes of Nazi Genocide and Persecution,” Journal of Conflict Archaeology 7, no. 2 (2012): 70–104; M. Meng, “East Germany’s Jewish Question: The Return and Preservation of Jewish Sites in East Berlin and Potsdam, 1945–1989,” Central European History 38, no. 4 (2005): 606–636, and idem, “From Destruction to Preservation: Jewish Sites in Germany and Poland after the Holocaust,” Bulletin of the GHI 46 (2010): 45–59: A. Mallet, “Negotiating, Contesting, and Constructing Jewish Space in Postwar Muranów” (Ph.D. diss., Concordia University, 2011); G. D. Rosenfeld and P. B. Jaskot, eds., Beyond Berlin: Twelve German Cities Confront the Nazi Past (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2008). 3. “In Ravaged Libya, Ghosts of a Jewish Past,” Al-Arabiya, June 19, 2011; “Libyan ‘Revolutionary Jew’ to restore synagogue,” October 2, 2011, http://www.cbsnews.com/news/libyan-revolutionary-jew-to-restoresynagogue/ (accessed November 30, 2015); “Hostile Crowd Forces Libyan Jew Out of Synagogue,” NPR news report, November 18, 2011, http://www.npr.org/2011/10/03/141014576/hostile-crowd-forces-libyanjew-out-of-synagogue (accessed November 30, 2015); “The New Libyan Battle: The Future of Tripoli’s Main synagogue,” NBC News, October 6, 2011, http://worldblog.nbcnews.com/_news/2011/10/06/8191764new-libyan-battle-the-future-of-tripolis-main-synagogue (accessed November 30, 2015). 4. Joel Zack, The Synagogues of Morocco: An Architectural and Preservation Survey, photographs by Isaiah Wyner (New York: Jewish Heritage Council, World Monuments Fund, 1993); see also Susan Gilson Miller, Mauro Bertagnin, and Attilio Petruccioli, “Inscribing Minority Space in the Islamic City: The Jewish Quarter of Fez (1438–1912),” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 60, no. 3 (September, 2001): 310–327; and Susan Gilson Miller, “The Mellah of Fez: Reflections on the Spatial Turn in Moroccan Jewish History,” in Jewish Topographies; Visions of Space, Traditions of Place, ed. A. Nocke, J. Brauch, and A. Lipphardt (London: Ashgate, 2008), 101–118. 5. For application of this theme to the Ottoman world, see Michelle Campos, Ottoman Brothers: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Early Twentieth-Century Palestine (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011); for North Africa, see author’s article “Moïse Nahon and the Invention of the Modern Maghribi Jew,” in French Mediterraneans, ed. P. Lorcin and T. Shepard (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2016), 293–319. 6. On this phenomenon in western and central Europe, see Carol H. Krinsky, Synagogues of Europe: Architecture, History, Meaning (New York: Dover, 1996). 7. Pierre Nora and Lawrence D. Kritzman, Realms of Memory: Rethinking the French Past, 3 vols., vol. 1 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 1–23, and especially 1. 8. Aomar Boum, Memories of Absence: How Muslims Remember Jews in Morocco (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2013), 63. 9. Ibid., 63–64. 10. Remi Stoquart, Réhabilitation des quartiers de Balat et de Fener (péninsule historique d’Istanbul): Diagnostic et propositions d’amènagement (Istanbul: UNESCO, 1998). Concern for the feelings of people living at tourist sites is not always the case. Abandoned houses in the Marrakech Jewish quarter, a rather squalid slum, are gradually being converted into upscale riads—“authentic” hotels for well-heeled tourists. State encouragement for these conversions is part of the overall scheme of renewal, with financing offered to foreign investors on very favorable terms, without concern for the interests of local inhabitants. See Joomi Lee, “Riad Fever: Heritage Tourism, Urban Renewal, and the Medina Property Boom in Old Cities of Morocco,” Review of Tourism Research 6, no. 4 (2008): 66–78. 11. Karen Leal, “The Balat District of Istanbul: Multiethnicity on the Golden Horn,” in The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City, ed. 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Chapter 11 Blasco Martînez, Asunción (1988), La Judería de Zaragoza en el siglo XIV. Zaragoza: Institución Ferdinand Católico. Cantera Burgos (1972), “La Sinagoga.” In Simposio”Toledo Judaico” (Toledo: Publicacciones del Centro Universitario de Toledo, Universidad Complutense), 8–27. Cohen, Mark R. (1994), Under Crescent and Cross: The Jews in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press). Gallardo Carrillo, Juan and José González Ballestero (2016), “El Urbanismo de la Judería Medieval de Lorca a la Luz de las Últimas Excavaciones (2004–2006),” Alberca: Revista de la Asociación de Amigos del Museum Arqueológico de Lorca 4: 129–152. Gerber, Jane S. (2012), “The World of Samuel Halevi: Testimony from the El Transíto Synagogue of Toledo.” In The Jews in Medieval Iberia 1100–1500, ed. Jonathan Ray. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 33–59. Gil, Moshe (1976), Documents of the Jewish Pious Foundations from the Cairo Geniza. Leiden: Brill. Goitein, S. D. (1964), “The Synagogue Building and Its Furnishings According to the Records of the Cairo Geniza.” Eretz-Israel 7: 169–72 (Hebrew), 81–97; English summary, 169–172. Gottheil, Richard (1927), “Tit-Bits from the Genizah.” In Jewish Studies in Memory of Israel Abrahams, ed. George Alexander Kohut, 149–165. New York: Press of the Jewish Institute of Religion. Iniesta Sanmartin, Ángel, et al., eds. (2009), Lorca: Luces de Sefarad. Murcia, Spain: Tres Fronteras. Lacave, José Luis (1992), Juderías y Sinagogas Españolas. Madrid: Mateu Cromo Artes Gráficas. Lambert, Phyllis, ed. (1994), Fortifications and the Synagogue: The Fortress of Babylon and the Ben Ezra Synagogue, Cairo. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson. Mann, Vivian B. (2010), “Jews and Altarpieces in Medieval Spain.” In Uneasy Communion: Jews, Christians, and the Altarpieces of Medieval Spain, 76–127. New York: Museum of Biblical Art and D. Giles Ltd. — (2005), “The Tik and the Qur’an Box.” In Art and Ceremony in Jewish Life: Essays in Jewish Art History. London: Pindar Press, 177–194. Mann, Vivian B., Thomas F. Glick, and Jerrilynn D. Dodds, eds. (1992), Convivencia: Jews, Muslims, and Christians in Medieval Spain. New York: George Braziller. Stillman, Yedida Kalfon (2000), Arab Dress: From the Dawn of Islam to Modern Times; A Short History. Ed. Norman A. Stillman. Leiden: Brill. — (1979), “New Data on Islamic Textiles from the Geniza.” Textile History 10, 184–195.

Chapter 12 Aharoni, Ada (2003), “The forced migration of Jews from Arab countries,” Peace Review 15, no. 1: 3–60. Bismuth-Jarrassé, Colette and Dominique Jarrassé (2010), Synagogues de Tunisie: Monuments d’une histoire et d’une identité. Paris: Editions Esthétiques du divers. Carpenter-Latiri, Dora (2012), “The Ghriba on the Island of Jerba or the Reinvention of a Shared Shrine as a Meronym for a Multicultural Tunisia.” In Sharing the Sacra: The Politics and Pragmatics of Inter-communal Relations around Holy Places, ed. Glenn Bowman, 118–138. New York: Berghahn Books. Cassuto David, ed. (1976), Ve Shachanti Be’tocham (Hebrew for: I may dwell among them). Jerusalem: Israeli Ministry of Education and Culture, The Government Publisher: 46 Clarahan, Mollie M. (2004), “Inspired Illumination: Sanctuary Lighting Must Do More than Simply Chase the Shadows Away.” Your Church 50: 42–44. Davidson, Nancy. “Where History and Myth Meet.” The New York Sun, August 27, 2007, http://www.nysun. com/travel/where-history-myth-meet/61323/. Accessed June 5, 2015. Davy, Marie-Madeleine (1976), Le thème de la lumière dans le judaïsme, le christianisme et l’islam. Vol. 4. Paris: Berg International. Deshen, Shlomo A. (2005), “Southern Tunisian Jewry in the Early Twentieth Century: Elements of French, Arab, and Jewish Culture.” Journal of North African Studies, no. 2: 183. RAMBI, EBSCOhost, http://dx.doi. org.lib-ezproxy.tamu.edu:2048/10.1080/13629380500252259. Accessed March 15, 2015. Deshen, Shlomo, and Walter P. Zenner, eds. (1996), Jews among Muslims: Communities in the Precolonial Middle East. Basingstoke: Macmillan Press. “Djerba Climate & Temperature,” http://www.djerba.climatemps.com/precipitation.php. Accessed February 10, 2015. Dov Shtienberg, Shalom (1993), The Format of the Second Jerusalem Temple (in Hebrew). Jerusalem: Vagshel. Fentress, Elizabeth, Ali Drine, and Renata Holod, eds. (2009), An Island through Time: Djerba Studies, vol. 1, The Punic and Roman Periods. Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Studies, 2009. Geva, Anat (2011), Frank Lloyd Wright’s Sacred Architecture: Faith, Form, and Building Technology. London: Routledge. — (1995), “The Interaction of Climate, Culture, and Building Type on Built Form: A Computer Simulation Study of Energy Performance of Historic Buildings.” Ph.D. diss., Texas A&M University.

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Chapter 13 Adv. Prem Doss Swami Doss Yehudi (1958), The Shingly Hebrews. Trivandrum, India: Sachethana. Bar Giora (1958), Source Material. Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press. Bernier, Ronald M. (1982), Temple Arts of Kerala: A South Indian Tradition. New Delhi: S. Chand & Company Ltd. Cherian, P. J. (n.d.), “Essays on the Cultural Formation of Kerala: Literature, Art, Architecture, Music, Theatre, and Cinema.” Unpublished. Cooper, Ilay and Dawson, Barry (1998), Traditional Buildings of India. London: Thames and Hudson. Daniel, Ruby and Barbara C. Johnson (1995), Ruby of Cochin: An Indian Jewish Woman Remembers. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society. de Breffny, Brian (1978), The Synagogue. New York: Macmillan. Elias, E. (1986), Indian Jewry. Haifa, Israel: Beit Eliahu v’Leah. Eliyahu-Oron, Orna (2004), Heichalot from the Synagogues of Cochin Jews in India. Jerusalem: Hebrew University. Gruber, Samuel D. (1999), Synagogues. New York: Metro Books. Kaploun, Uri, ed. (1973), The Synagogue. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society.

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Chapter 14 Amar, Ariella (1998), “Moroccan Synagogues—A Survey.” ARIEL—The Israel Review of Arts and Letters 106,  http://mfa.gov.il/MFA/MFA-Archive/1999/Pages/Moroccan%20Synagogues-%20A%20Survey.aspx. ­Ac­­cessed October 9, 2015. Bahloul, Joelle (1996) The Architecture of Memory: A Jewish–Muslim Household in Colonial Algeria 1937–1962. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Barrie, Thomas (1996), Spiritual Path, Sacred Place: Myth, Ritual, and Meaning in Architecture. Boston, MA: Shambhala. Barthel, Diane (1996), Historic Preservation: Collective Memory and Historical Identity. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Basso, Keith (1996), Wisdom Sits in Places. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Bastea, Eleni (2004), Memory and Architecture. Albuquerque, NM: University of New Mexico Press. Ben-Uri, Meir (1955), “Synagogues in the State of Israel” (in Hebrew). In Synagogues: Articles and Essays, 195–234. Jerusalem: Ministry of Religions. Boyer, Christine M. (1994), The City of Collective Memory. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Carmon, Omer (2012), “A First Glance into the Splendid Rabbi Meir Baal Haness Synagogue (in Hebrew)”. Erev Erev, August 2, 2012. Cassuto, David (July, 1998), “Jewish and Moslem Places of Worship—Mutual Influences.” Ministry of Foreign Affairs Archive, http://mfa.gov.il/MFA/MFA-Archive/1999/Pages. Accessed October 14, 2016. Cassuto, David (1994), “Synagogue Architecture in the Islamic Mediterranean Basin and Asia” (in Hebrew). Machanayim 11, http://daat.ac.il. Accessed September 12, 2015. Crowley, Nancy (2005), “The Influence of Local and ‘Imported’ Factors on the Design and Construction of the Spanish Missions in San Antonio, Texas.” MSc. thesis, Texas A&M University. Cubitt, Geoffrey (2007), History and Memory. Ed. Dell Upton. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Dubbelde, Dave (2006), “The Impact of Faith, Culture on the Built Form: The Case of Catholic Galveston, Texas in the Nineteenth Century.” Ph.D. diss., Texas A&M University. Elhanani, Aba (1998), The Struggle for Independence of Israeli Architecture in the Twentieth Century (in Hebrew). Jerusalem: Ministry of Defense. Elleh, Nnamdi (1996), African Architecture: Evolution and Transition. New York: McGraw-Hill. Folberg, Nei and Yom Tov Assis (1995), And I Shall Dwell among Them: Historic Synagogues of the World. New York: Aperture Foundation. Geva, Anat (1995), “The Interaction of Climate, Culture, and Building Type on Built Form: A Computer Simulation Study of Energy Performance of Historic Buildings.” Ph.D. diss., Texas A&M University. — (2002), “Lessons from the Past: The Interactive Effect of Climate and Culture on Nineteenth Century Vernacular Architecture in South Central Texas.” In ACSA (Association of Collegiate Schools of Architecture) Technology Conference Proceedings: Technology and Housing, 288–297. Geva, Anat and Jacob Morris (2010), “Empirical Analyses of Immigrants’ Churches across Locations: Historic Wendish Churches in Germany, Texas, and South Australia.” ARRIS—The Journal of South East Chapter of the Society of Architectural Historians 21: 38–60. Ghiuzeli, Haim F. The Central Synagogue in Aleppo, Syria, http://www.bh.org.il/the-central-synagogue-inaleppo-syria/. Accessed July 27, 2015. Gilzmer, Mechtild (2012), “The Memory of North African Jews in the Diaspora.” Quest: Issues in Contemporary Jewish History, no. 4.

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Chapter 15 Boum, Aomar (2013), Memories of Absence: How Muslims Remember Jews in Morocco. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Boum, Aomar and Oren Kosansky (2012), “The ‘Jewish Question’ in Postcolonial Moroccan Cinema.” International. Journal of Middle East Studies 44, no. 3: 421–442. Campos, Michelle (2011), Ottoman Brothers: Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Early Twentieth-Century Palestine. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2011. Colls, C. Sturdy (2012), “Holocaust Archaeology: Archaeological Approaches to Landscapes of Nazi Genocide and Persecution.” Journal of Conflict Archaeology 7, no. 2: 70–104. Krinsky, Carol H. (1996), Synagogues of Europe: Architecture, History, Meaning. New York: Dover. Leal, Karen (2010), “The Balat District of Istanbul: Multiethnicity on the Golden Horn.” In The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter in the Muslim Mediterranean City, ed. Susan Gilson Miller and Mauro Bertagnin, 174–210. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lee, Joomi (2008), “Riad Fever: Heritage Tourism, Urban Renewal, and the Medina Property Boom in Old Cities of Morocco.” Review of Tourism Research 6, no. 4: 66–78. Mallet, Audrey (2011), “Negotiating, Contesting, and Constructing Jewish Space in Postwar Muranów.” Ph.D diss., Concordia University.

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About the Contributors

Meltem Özkan Altınöz is an Associate Professor at Karabük University, Karabük, Turkey. She received her Bachelor’s degree from the Department of Art History at Ankara University, Turkey in 2001, and her Master’s degree from the Architectural History Program at the Middle East Technical University in Ankara, Turkey in 2006. She received her Ph.D. degree in 2013, her doctoral thesis being entitled, “Idiosyncratic Narratives: Mudéjar Architecture and its Historiography in Spain”. In 2014 and 2015, she served as a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she perused her research on difficulties of industrial heritage preservation and its effects on built environment. She has published extensively on historiography of Iberian architecture, Jewish architecture of the Ottoman Empire, and Industrial heritage sites in Turkey. Michelle Huntingford Craig is Lead Faculty in Art History at Cuesta College, San Luis Obispo, CA. She received her B.A. from the University of Connecticut, her M.A. in Art History from the University of Wisconsin–Madison in 2005, and a Ph.D. in Art History from UCLA in 2011. Her research focuses on Fez, Morocco, exploring how architecture and urban form were used as expressions of cultural and religious identity from the nineteenth century to the present time. She examines not only architecture but also the use of photography in the representation of place. Craig serves as a reviews editor for the International Journal of Islamic Architecture. Her work appears in Art Journal, Journal of African Historical Studies, African Arts, and the Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians. Arlene Dallalfar is Professor of Sociology and Women’s Studies at Lesley University in Cambridge, MA. Originally from Iran, she received her Ph.D. in Sociology from the University of California, Los Angeles. Her areas of specialization include visual sociology, immigration and diaspora studies, as well as globalization and gender inequality. Recent publications include: “Negotiated Allegiances: Contemporary Iranian Jewish Identities” in Contemporary Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East (2010); “Fragments of Home: Identity and Empowerment from the Margin,” in Crossing Borders, Making Homes: Stories of Resilient Women, edited by D. Llera, D. Cathcart, E. Roffman (2009); and “North America: Economics Informal Sector,” in the Encyclopedia of Women and Islamic Cultures (2006). Reuven Firestone is the Regenstein Professor of Medieval Judaism and Islam at Hebrew Union College, Los Angeles and Senior Fellow of the Center for Religion and Civic Culture at the University of Southern California. His books include Journeys in Holy Lands: The Abraham–Ishmael Legends in Islamic Exegesis; Jihad: The Origin of Holy War in Islam; Holy War in Judaism: the Fall and Rise of a Controversial Idea; Who are the Real Chosen People: The Meaning of “Chosenness” in Judaism, Christianity and Islam; and two introductory books, one on Islam for Jews, and the other on Judaism for Muslims. He received rabbinical ordination from Hebrew Union College and his Ph.D. in Arabic and Islamic Studies from New York University. He has served as Vice-President of the Association for Jewish Studies and President of the International Qur’anic Studies Association. Daniel Muñoz-Garrido is a post-doctoral researcher at the University of Granada, Spain. He received a Bachelor’s degree in History of Art, a Master’s degree in ‘Arabic and Hebrew Cultures: Past and Present’, and a Ph.D. with honours in 2014 from the University of Granada. His dissertation analyzes the architecture and decoration of four Castilian synagogues from the fourteenth and fifteenth

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centuries. Additionally, he pursued postgraduate studies in Israel (Tel Aviv University and BenGurion University in the Negev), and in Italy (Ca’ Foscari, Venice). In his postgraduate research, he has focused on Jewish art and architecture. He has published several articles and has presented at several international conferences in Italy, Israel, France, USA, and Spain. Anat Geva is Professor of Architecture at Texas A&M University where she teaches undergraduate and graduate architectural design, seminars in history of building technology, historic preservation, and the history and design of sacred architecture. She is also a registered architect in Israel and Associate Member of the AIA. She is the author of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Sacred Architecture: Faith, Form and Building Technology (Routledge, 2011), and many articles in these fields. She is a recipient of several awards and research grants including the prestigious James Marston Fitch National Award for innovative research in historic preservation. Dr. Geva has an extensive record of editorial work, establishing the Journal of Preservation, Research and Education (PER). She is a faculty fellow of Texas A&M University’s Center of Heritage Conservation, past president of Society of Southeast Chapter Society of Architectural Historians (SESAH), a member of Society of Architectural Historians Board of Directors (SAH), and a member of the Executive Committee of Architecture, Culture, and Spirituality (ACS) Forum. Mohammad Gharipour is Associate Professor at the School of Architecture and Planning at Morgan State University in Baltimore, Maryland. He obtained his Master’s degree in Architecture from the University of Tehran and his Ph.D. in Architecture and Landscape History from Georgia Institute of Technology. He has received several awards such as the Hamad Bin Khalifa Fellowship in Islamic Art, the Spiro Kostof Fellowship Award from the Society of Architectural Historians, and the National Endowment in Humanities Faculty Award. Professor Gharipour has authored and edited several books including the following: Bazaar in the Islamic City (2012), Persian Gardens and Pavilions: Reflections in Poetry, Arts and History (2013), Calligraphy and Architecture in the Muslim World (Edinburgh University Press, 2013), Sacred Precincts: The Religious Architecture of Non-Muslim Communities across the Islamic World (2014), and The City in the Muslim Word: Depictions by Western Travelers (2015), Historiography of Persian Architecture (2015), and Urban Landscapes of the Middle East (2015). Gharipour is the director and founding editor of the International Journal of Islamic Architecture. Ulrike-Christiane Lintz is a Ph.D. candidate in archeology at the University of Amsterdam. She worked on several projects in the Erasmus Program in cooperation with the Universities of London, Rome, Bari, Rotterdam, and Barcelona. As co-founder of the Online Archive (www.museo-on.com) she has been working as an international journalist, media representative of the European press, and registered member of the DVPJ (Deutscher Verband der Pressejournalisten) Federation Press. She has published extensively on art and architecture in Afghanistan. Her recent article, entitled “JudaeoPersian Tombstone Inscriptions from Djåm, Central Afghanistan,” was published by Cambridge Institutes Press, a subsidiary of the Association for Central Asian Civilizations & Silk Road Studies (ACANSRS). Vivian B. Mann is Director Emerita of the MA Program in Jewish Art at the Graduate School of the Jewish Theological Seminary and Curator Emerita of Judaica at The Jewish Museum. She received her Ph.D. from the Institute of Fine Arts, New York University. She is the author of numerous articles and books on medieval and Jewish art. Mann received a Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship, an NEA Fellowship, several NEH Fellowships and other awards. In 1996, she was a Fellow at the Institute for Advanced Studies, Hebrew University and in 1999 received the Jewish Cultural Achievement Award in Jewish Thought from the National Foundation for Jewish Culture. In 2009, she was elected to the American Academy of Jewish Research. Mann is a founding editor of Images: A Journal of Jewish Art and Visual Culture. Nesrine Mansour is a Ph.D. candidate in Architecture at Texas A&M University. Originally from Tunisia, she holds a Bachelor’s degree in Environmental Design with an emphasis on sustainability and climate. She has worked for few years on daylighting design with an emphasis on dynamic facades as well as participating in an Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) project investigating passive daylighting systems. For her Ph.D. she is studying the inter-relationship between religion, digital media, and architecture and the effect of virtual sacred architecture on the spiritual

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e­ xperience. Her investigation focuses on the correlation between light and sacred architecture in a virtual realm. Her multi-disciplinary research aims at bridging between sacred architecture, digital media, and psychology of religion, as well as an interest and background in building technology and environmental design. Susan Gilson Miller is a Professor of History at the University of California, Davis. She is a historian of modern North Africa and the Mediterranean, with a special interest in urban studies, minority studies, and most recently, in humanitarian relief and human rights. She holds a Ph.D. in Modern Middle Eastern and North African History from the University of Michigan. Her publications include The Architecture and Memory of the Minority Quarter of the Muslim Mediterranean City (2010), and Berbers and Others: Beyond Tribe and Nation in the Maghrib (2010). Her most recent book is A History of Modern Morocco: 1830–2000 (2013), a study of contemporary Moroccan history in its global context. Her current research project concerns rescue and humanitarian relief in western North Africa during World War II. Ann Shafer is an architect and art historian with a primary interest in architectural ornament and sacred space, especially in the pre-Islamic and Islamic cultures of the Middle East. She received her MA in Near Eastern Archaeology from the University of Chicago and her Ph.D. in the History of Art and Architecture from Harvard University. Dr. Shafer lived and worked in Cairo for a number of years, and has written on the intersection between ornamentation and contemporary ritual practices and design. Current projects include editing a volume on the canon of ancient Near Eastern visual culture, and a study of the contemporary artisanal architectural arts in Morocco. She is currently teaching at SUNY–FIT in New York. M. Mitchell Serels is a Professor of Liberal Arts at Berkeley College in New York. He earned his Ph.D. from New York University and has served as director of the Sephardic Community Programs and Sephardic Studies Program of Yeshiva University. He has also served on the editorial board of The American Sephardi, Journal of the American Society of Sephardic Studies. He is the author of eight books including The History of the Jews of Tangier in the Ninteenth and Twentieth Centuries (1991). He was knighted by the King of Spain, the first Sephardi rabbi so honored in five hundred years, and has also received a citation of honor from the King of Morocco. He is also the rabbi of the Magen David Sephardic Congregation of Scarsdale, New York, having been ordained by Yeshiva University. Jay A. Waronker, educated in architecture and architectural history at the University of Michigan, Harvard University, and Cornell University, is a practicing architect in Atlanta, Georgia and a faculty member of the Department of Architecture at Kennesaw State University, where he also served as its chair. After some years of practice with Robert A. M. Stern Architects in New York, he returned to Atlanta to establish his own office specializing in residential architecture. In addition to his academic and professional work in Atlanta, he has served as a visiting professor at a number of American and international universities. Recent ones include Hobart and William Smith Colleges in New York, the University of the Free State in South Africa, the University of Adelaide in Australia, and Vilnius Gediminas Technical University in Lithuania. Since the early 1990s, Waronker’s scholarship has focused on the study, documentation, and preservation of synagogues and Jewish architecture in India, Myanmar, and sub-Saharan Africa. He has most recently written on synagogue architecture in India and Myanmar for Cambridge World History of Religious Architecture (2017). Ethel Sara Wolper is Associate Professor of the History of Islam and the Middle East at the University of New Hampshire. Her research focuses on the medieval Islamic world, with an emphasis on the social history of Anatolian Sufism, shared sanctuaries, and the prayer places of the legendary Muslim prophet Khidr. She has published widely on Sufi architecture in Anatolia and the role of Khidr in the transformation of architectural spaces. She is the author of Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (2003). She is currently writing a monograph entitled Memorializing Ambiguity: Studies in Medieval Architecture and co-editing a book on saintly spheres and Islamic landscapes.

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Index

Abaie, Arash, 187 Al-Abbassi, Ali Bey (pseudonym), 161, 182n1 Abbasid rule, 22, 23, 32, 33, 35 ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani, shrine of (Mosul), 46 Abdul Hamid II (Sultan), 157 Abdulmecid I (Sultan), 13, 25 Aben Danan Synagogue (Fez), 88, 89 ritual bath (mikvah), 82 Aben (Ibn) Danan, Shlomo (Rabbi), 80 ablution space, 280–1; see also ritual baths (mikvah) Abraham Maimuni, 24 Abrishami Synagogue (Tehran), 185, 189, 194 carpets in, 192 carrying the Torah from the heikhal to the bimah, 191 ritual bath (mikvah), 193 Abulafia, Samuel Ha-Levi, 127–8, 214 Afghanistan Jewish community in, 51–4 synagogues in, 3 see also synagogues of Herat Aga Khan Historic Cities Programme (AKHCP), 61, 63, 65 Aga Khan Trust for Culture, 61 Agreement of Tangier, 164 Ahmadiya (Iraq), 34 Ahrida Synagogue (Istanbul), 222 Akka Synagogue (Morocco), 296 Alawite dynasty, 75, 76, 87, 89 Aleppo, Syria, 69, 274, 294 Alexandria, Egypt, 294 Algeria, 10, 271, 274 Alhambra Palace (Grenada), 128, 134–5, 142, 156 ceiling of the Hall of Comares, 134–5 Court of the Lions, 214 epigraphy in, 137 Fountain of the Lions, 137–8 Alliance Israélite Universelle (AIU), 25, 92n61, 148, 182 Almohads, 127, 128, 139 Anatolia, 24 al-Andalus see Andalusia Andalusia, 4, 153, 156–7 Andalusian Diaspora, 141 Andalusian style, 128 anticolonialism, 195; see also colonialism anti-Semitism, 26, 183n10; see also Jews, expulsion of; pogroms Al-Aqsa Mosque (Jerusalem), 211 Arab Spring, 18n69, 293

archaeological discoveries, 61, 113, 118–19, 123n65, 187, 212, 215 architect(s), 7, 13, 98, 113, 116, 150, 156, 194, 199–201 for the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 275, 277, 280, 291, 285, 287 architectural styles Andalusian, 128, 142 antique revivalism, 155 Art Deco, 294 Art Nouveau, 109, 110, 113, 156 Arts and Crafts movement, 156 Artukid, 44 Assyrian, 116 Belle Époque, 96 Egyptian revival, 112 Gothic, 144n27 Greek Renaissance, 155 Iranian, 200, 201; see also architecture, Persian Islamic, 1–2, 13, 54, 68, 76, 128, 157, 172, 187, 194, 204n51, 212, 216, 277, 279 Jewish, 1, 3, 14, 76, 127, 183n29 Keralan, 248–9, 256–63, 265 Moroccan-Moorish, 281 Mudéjar, 153, 156–7, 160n23, 182, 212 national architecture movement, 200–1 Neo-classical, 155 neo-Gothic, 155 North African, 277 Orientalist, 8 Ottoman, 145, 153, 155, 157 Pan-Andalusian, 153, 157, 159 Persian, 189, 200; see also architecture, Iranian Pharaonic, 112 Phoenician, 116 Portuguese colonial, 258–9 pseudo-Egyptian, 112 Qajar, 57 Roman, 153 Timurid, 54, 56 Visigoth, 153 architecture abandoned, 94 eclecticism in, 109 effect of industrialization in, 156 emotional, 94 in Herat, 51, 54–7, 63, 68 influence of immigrants on, 5, 128, 244, 250, 271–3, 275, 277, 281, 283, 289 monumental, 76 mosque, 277 palatial, 33, 132

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architecture (cont.) political influences on, 8 qala (fort) construction layout, 56 as sacred space, 189 surface symbolism in, 96 as symbol of power, 132, 133 urban, 51; see also synagogues of Herat see also climate and synagogue architecture and design; synagogues; individual mosques and synagogues by name ark see heikhal/hekhalot (holy ark) Ark of the Covenant, 34 aron or aron ha-kodesh (“holy ark”), 66; see also heikkhal/hekhalot (holy ark) Art Deco style, 294 Art Nouveau, 109, 110, 113, 156 Arts and Crafts movement, 156 Ashkenazi Jews, 4, 12, 145, 159 in the Ottoman Empire, 145, 146–9 Ashkenazi synagogues in Galata (Istanbul), 149 in Israel, 273, 290n12 in Istanbul, 155, 159 in Kerala, 263 Nissim Ashkenazi Synagogue, 116 in the United States, 202 see also Tofre Begadim Synagogue (Istanbul); Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue (Istanbul) ashlar, 44 Ashur see Mosul Assad Effendi, 13 Assmann, Jan, 94, 118 Association of Kerala Jews, 254 Attarbashi house (Herat), 57, 63, 68 section of, 58 Auday, Samuel, 163 Auday, Yahya, 163 Auday Synagogue (Tangier), 163 Averroes (Muhammad Ibn Rushd), 24 Axis Mundi, 56 Aydan, Makhlouf (Rabbi), 231 Babylon, synagogue in, 32 Babylonian captivity, 186 Babylonian Exile, 31, 272 Bag-e-Saba Synagogue (Tehran), 194 Baghdad Jewish community in, 22–3, 31, 32–4 map, 35 synagogues in, 31–3, 45–6 Bahir (Imam), shrine of, 40 Barcelona Haggadah, 218 Bar-Mitzvah ceremony, 59, 189, 280 Basha of Tangier, 163 Basun, Mayer Abdollah, 196 baths see communal baths; ritual baths (mikvah) Bar Mitzvah ceremony 59, 189, 280 Bat Mitzvah ceremony, 198–9, 204n42 Bayer, Francisco Pérez, 131 Beit Shean Synagogue, 210 Beit Hatfutsot, 231 Ben-Attar, Judah (Rabbi), monument to, 88 Bendrihem, Elias, 174, 178 Bendrihem, Raphael, 173–4, 178 Bendrihem Synagogue (Tangier), 4, 161, 162–3, 173–4, 182 exterior views, 179–80 heikhal (holy ark), 178, 179, 180

tevah, 174, 178 women’s gallery, 178 Benelbaz, David, 164 Ben Ezra Synagogue (Cairo), 94, 209, 216 decorated boards, 209–11 heikhal (holy ark), 209–210 reconstruction of neighborhood, 209 women’s balcony, 209 Benjamin of Tudela, 31, 32, 33, 36, 38, 45, 46 Benkirane, Abdelilah, 89, 293–7 Ben Maman of Meknes, 163 Ben Samson, Samuel, 33 Ben-Sasson, Menahem, 209 ben Yehiel, Asher, 217 Benzaquen, Norman, 172, 182 Berdugo, Serge, 89, 293 Bertagnin, Mauro, 11, 74 Berukhim, Barukh, 197 Bet Din of Tetuan, 163–4 Bet Ha-Knesset Dar El-Ma, 73 interior, 87 plan of, 87 Bevis Marks Synagogue (London), 222 Bezalel (builder of Jerusalem Temple), 135–6, 214 bimah (pulpit), 12, 64, 66, 189, 290n26 in the Abrishami Synagogue, 191, 192 in the Ben Ezra Synagogue, 210 in Djerba synagogues, 228 in the El-Ghriba Synagogue, 232–5 in the Ettefagh Synagogue, 196–7 in the Hakim Synagogue, 194 in Iranian synagogues, 191 in Kerala synagogues, 263 in the Mullah Samuel Synagogue, 68 in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, 67 in the Nahon Synagogue, 171 in North African synagogues, 274, 275 in the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 279, 283, 285, 287 in Sephardi synagogues, 246n61 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 100 in the Yusef Abad Synagogue, 199 Bnei Brith school, 148 Book of Zohar, 228 Boum, Aomar, 296 Boussidan, Mimon, 82 building materials concrete, 269n36, 273–4 granite, 259, 286 in Kerala, 258–9 kiln-fired bricks, 57, 63, 77 lime mortar, 77, 80 local, 11 solid brick, 80 stone, 77 stucco, 4, 214 sun-dried mud bricks, 57, 64 wood, 77 Bulgaria, 13 Cabbalism see kabbalism Cairo, 10 changing urban landscape in, 96–9 early synagogues in, 209–210 Ismailiya District, 97–8 Jewish community in, 23–4, 94, 97, 120 view of downtown with synagogue in center, 96 see also Ben Ezra Synagogue (Cairo); Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo)

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Cairo Genizah, 16n36, 22, 24, 209, 211 Cassuto, David, 32 Castile, 4, 17n57, 132 Jewish community in, 139, 142 Catholic Church, 128 Cattaui, Maurice Youssef, 98 cemeteries see Jewish cemeteries ceramic tiles, 77, 238 chamfered columns, 44 chandeliers Ben Ezra Synagogue, 211 Ettefagh Synagogue, 196 El-Ghriba Synagogue, 238 Kerala Synagogue, 263–5, 270n47 Nahon Synagogue, 170, 177, 178 Pessian (Hakim) Synagogue, 194 Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 102, 122n32 Shaar Rafael Synagogue, 161 Yusef Abad Synagogue, 199 charity boxes (Nahon Synagogue), 166 Chendamangalam Synagogue (Kerala), 255 ceiling and gallery level of the tevah, 265 exterior view, 256 restoration of, 255–6 tevah and heikhal, 260 Cheraman Juma Mosque (Methala, India), 249, 262, 270n49 Chipiez, Charles, 113, 116, 118 Chmielnicki, Bogdan, 147 Christ Among the Doctors (Spanish altarpiece), 207 Christians Armenian, 16n27 Assyrian, 32 in Castile, 132 Coptic, 209 as dhimmis, 16n36, 21, 25, 209 in Iraq, 26 under Muslim rule, 6, 7, 8, 209 relationship with Muslims, 13, 21–2, 25–6, 58, 209 Syriac, 38, 40 in Tangier, 163 churches Byzantine, 211 Church of the Holy Mother (Cairo), 209 Church of St. Barbara (Coptic), 209 destruction of, 210 Santa María La Blanca, 128, 153, 211–13, 281 Sant’ Apollinaire Nuovo (Ravenna), 209 see also Christians clerestory windows, 78, 80, 243, 275 climate and synagogue architecture and design in Djerba, 226, 238, 240–1, 243–4 in Eilat, Israel, 271–4, 277, 283, 291n40 in Herat, 57, 64 in Kerala, 249, 257, 259, 261, 267 in Syria, 13 coats of arms, 132, 134, 142 Cohen, David, 275 Cohen, Mark, 22 Cohen, Moses (Rabbi), 163–4 Cohen, Yamin (Rabbi), 174, 184n43 colonialism, 27, 97, 155, 297 European, 14, 25–6 colonization, 155 communal baths, 77 Constitution of Medina, 6 Convent of Las Dueñas (Cordoba), 214 Coptic Christians, 209

corame work, 222, 223 Cordoba Mosque, 128, 143n3, 156, 157, 281 Cordoba Synagogue 4, 127 Arabic inscription on honeycombed decoration panel, 140 entrance from Calle Judíos, 130 interior design, 129, 142 map, 129 modest architecture of, 128–9, 132–3, 142 ornamentation in, 128–9, 134–5, 137–40 representation of the gate of Jerusalem, 137, 138 repurposing as a monument, 143 Cornaro, G. J., 150 Cosmic Center, 56 Cosmic Cross, 56 Court of the Lions, Alhambra Palace, 214 courtyards, 13, 17n59, 34, 77, 86 in Djerba synagogues, 228 in El-Ghriba Synagogue, 232 in Herat, 57 Nahon Synagogue, 167 in the Nahum Synagogue, 42, 44 in North African synagogues, 274 of Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 279, 280 of the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 110 Crimean Tatars, 147 cross-ventilation, 282 crypto-Jews, 52 culture Andalusian, 142 Arab, 128 Judeo-Persian, 185 and religion, 199 see also identity; Jews; Muslims Cyrus the Great, 249 Czech Republic, 113 Daesh see ISIS Damascus, Jewish community in, 8 Damascus Affair, 26 Daniel Naby (prophet) mirror work inside tomb, 188 tomb/shrine of, 39, 40, 187–8 ziggurat, 188 Dar al-Bishri Synagogue, 294 Dar El-Ma synagogue, 73, 87 date-palm motifs, 113–19 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 117, 119, 120 Debada Synagogue (Fez), 73, 84, 89, 294 entrance to, 85 interior, 86 Declaration of the Rights of Man, 25 dentil-and-disk moulding, 110, 112 dhimmis in Afghanistan, 53 Christians as, 16n36, 21, 25 in Fez, 75–6, 84 in the Islamic world, 6–8, 15n10, 15n14, 15n18, 16n36, 53–4, 127, 207 Jews as, 8, 24–6, 84, 97, 127 rights of, 8, 10, 21 in Tangier, 161, 163, 164, 166, 181 see also jizya; Pact of ʿUmar Dhu’l Kifl, 36 exterior view, 36 interior, 40 minaret, 37 see also Ezekiel

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Diarna Project, 2 Diaspora synagogues, 219–22, 222, 271 dietary regulations, 199, 203n25 al-Din, Ayn (Imam), shrine of (Mosul), 40 al-Din, Nasir (Shah), 53 diurnal rotation, 57 Divine Axis, 56 Djerba, Tunisia, 4 Jewish community in 226–8 map showing location of El-Ghriba Synagogue, 229 similarities between synagogues and mosques, 244 as UNESCO World Heritage site, 232 see also El-Ghriba Synagogue Dome of the Rock, 128, 143n2 Dura-Europos Synagogue, 210 Egypt, 2, 4, 25; see also Cairo; Fatimid dynasty; Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo) Eidghah Mosque, 60 Eilat, Israel synagogue construction in, 271 urban setting of the synagogue in, 273, 276 see also Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue El-Ghriba Synagogue (Djerba), 4, 226 architecture and the climate, 226, 238, 240–1, 243–4 architecture of, 233 aerial view of complex, 230 ark lantern, 235 bimah, 232–5 cabinets and silver plate in the heikhal, 238 courtyard conversion, 232 entrance, 227 exterior finish, 236 heikhal (holy ark), 232–3, 235–7 as heritage site, 226 interior decor, 238 interior view, 240 landscaping and air conditioning unit, 242 location and cultural context, 228–33 plan, 232 procession of the Menara, 230 recess in which the heikhal is set, 239 reconstruction and restoration of, 231–2 security checkpoint at entrance, 231 separation wall between main prayer room and ark, 233 urban setting, panoramic view, 231 wedding rituals, 230 windows and shutters, 242 worshipers in the synagogue, 236 Eliyahu Hanavi Synagogue (Alexandria), 294 Elmakias, Moshe, 277 El Tránsito Synagogue (Toledo), 4, 127, 129, 153, 154, 214 compared to Jerusalem Temple, 213–14 decorative motifs, 128 drawing by Palomares, 131 exterior view, 131 heikhal, 135, 136 interior design, 142 interior view, 136, 215 map, 130 Nahon Synagogue modeled after, 161 ornamentation in, 134–7 repurposing of, 143 Torah niches, 214 women’s balcony, 214

environmental conditions see climate and synagogue architecture and design epigraphy, 134, 144n26 Esther-Mordechai tomb, 187 eternal lamps, 178, 287 ethnography, 4, 185, 289 Ettefagh School (Tehran), 196, 197, 198, 204n40 Ceremonial Hall, 197 students at a Bat-Mitzvah ceremony, 198 Ettefagh Synagogue (Tehran), 185, 189, 194–5, 196 bimah, 196–7 restoration of, 196–7 windows and filtered light, 190 Ettehad Synagogue (Tehran), 194 Etz Hayim Synagogue (Temple Hanan; Cairo), 116 Exilarch, 32, 33 Exodus from Egypt, 94 Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes (Paris 1925), 156 Exposition Universelle (Paris 1889), 156 Ezekiel shrine of (Iraq), 3, 34, 36–40 tomb of, 46 vision of (Third Temple), 116 see also Synagogue of Ezekiel Ezra the Scribe, shrine of (Iraq), 34, 36 Fakhrabad Synagogue (Tehran), 194 Farhud massacre, 195 Al Fassiyine Synagogue (Fez), 73, 76, 78, 88–9, 296 aisles and tevah, 78–9, 81 clerestory windows, 78–9 heikhal, 78 ownership of, 84 restoration of, 88–9, 293–4 size, decoration and features of, 78–9 skylight, 78–9 stucco wall decoration, 79 women’s gallery, 78, 80 Fathi (Shaykh), shrine of (Mosul), 40 Fatimid dynasty, 24, 97, 207–12 fatwas, 9, 10, 23 Feast of the Tabernacles, 209 Felton, Anton, 191 Ferrara Bible, 220 Fez mellah, 3, 74, 74–6, 293 divisions within, 84 foundations and orientation, 74–6 map, 75 in the nineteenth century, 76–8 performance of sacred space in, 87–8 reconstruction of, 76 synagogues in, 78, 87–8 tourists in, 295–6 see also Bet Ha-Knesset Dar El-Ma; Al-Debada Synagogue; al-Fassiyine Synagogue; Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Danan Synagogue First Temple see Jerusalem Temple(s) Fischel, Walter J., 34 Fish Market Synagogue (Lviv, Ukraine), 113 floor coverings, 191–3, 217; see also prayer rugs flooring, 80 flooring materials, 259 foodways, 204n46 and Jewish identity, 199, 201 Fortress of Babylon (Cairo), 208–9, 216 plan of, 208 Franz Joseph I (emperor), 150 freedom of religion, 6, 7, 9

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Galata, map (houses of worship), 150 gatehouses, of Kerala synagogues, 250, 254, 256, 262–3 ‘Gate of Heaven’ see Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo) genocide, 147, 159; see also Holocaust Gerbi, David, 293–4 Ghanimah, Yusuf Rizk, 32 Gharipour, Mohammad, 61, 189, 191 Ghriba Synagogue see El Ghriba Synagogue (Djerba) Gisha Synagogue (Tehran), 194 globalization, 14 Goldsmith School, 148 Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (Hazrat Belal Mosque), 59, 60, 61, 63–4 Gottheil, Richard, 10 granite, 259, 286 Great Exhibition (London 1951), 156 Great Mosque of Aleppo (Syria), 274 Great Mosque of Cordoba see Cordoba Mosque Great Mosque of Kairouan, 238 Great Open Synagogue of Aleppo (Syria), 274 Great Synagogue (Fez), 90n13 Great Synagogue of Baghdad, 34, 46, 48n36 renovation of, 32–3 Great Synagogue of Mosul, 34 Greek Orthodox Church, 147 Gutmann, Joseph, 139

in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, 66, 67, 69 in the Nahon Synagogue, 169, 172, 173, 174, 182 at the Nahum Synagogue, 42, 43 in North African synagogues, 275, 290n26 in the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 286 in the Rabbi Shlomo Ibn (Aben) Danan Synagogue, 73–4, 80–1 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo), 99–102, 104, 105, 106, 109, 114, 122n37 heraldry, 132, 134, 142 Herat 1977 survey of, 56 architectural design of, 69 Attarbashi house, 57, 58, 63, 68 Commercial Center (Chahar Suq), 51, 54, 55 Jewish bathhouse, 59 Jewish quarter, 55, 58–60 map, 55 Old City, 54, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61 Qandahar Gate, 55 Religious Center, 51, 54, 55 Royal Center, 51, 54, 55 view from northwest, 52 see also synagogues of Herat heritage sites, 12, 14, 40, 187, 232, 293, 297 Herz, Max, 98 hierophany of the four, 56 historic preservation, 73, 93n69, 297 Holocaust, 14, 94, 293 holy ark see heikhal/hekhalot (holy ark) honeycomb vaulting, 38 horseshoe arches, 145, 150, 153, 155, 156, 157 Hunwick, John O., 10 Hygiene Commission (Tangier), 161–2, 164

Hadash Synagogue (Tehran) see Hakim Synagogue (Tehran) Haji Muhammad Akbar Bath, 59 al-Hakim (Caliph), 24, 209 Hakim Synagogue (Tehran), 185, 189, 194 Sabbath services, 195 Halevi, Mose, 151 Ha-Levi, Samuel/Shmuel (Nasi), 129, 132, 134, 147 Hammam-e Yahudiha, 59 Hammat Tiberias Synagogue, 210 Al-Harawi, 36, 45 Harav Oursharga, tomb of (Yazd, Iran), 187 Hariva School (Herat), 62, 63, 64 Hassarfaty, Abner (Rabbi), 77 Hazrat Belal Mosque, 61, 63–4; see also Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (Hazrat Belal Mosque) heikhal/hekhalot (holy ark) in the Abrishami Synagogue, 191 in the Bendrihem Synagogue, 178, 179, 180 from Ben Ezra Synagogue, 210–11 in the Chendamangalam Synagogue, 260 in the Cordoba Synagogue, 129 in the Debada Synagogue, 84 in Djerba synagogues, 228 in El-Ghriba Synagogue, 232–3, 235–7, 243 in the El Tránsito Synagogue, 135, 136 in the al-Fassiyine Synagogue, 78 in Fez, 78 general references to, 12, 32, 33, 34, 65, 189, 191, 270n45 in Kerala synagogues, 249, 257, 259, 260, 263, 267, 269n42 in the Mullah Garji Synagogue, 62, 66 in the Mullah Samuel Synagogue, 66

Ibadi Muslims, 244 Iberian peninsula exodus of Jews from, 219–20 influence of, 159 Islamic presence in, 153 see also Andalusia; Spain ibn Adret, Solomon, 217 Ibn Danan Synagogue (Fez) see Rabbi Shlomo Ibn (Aben) Danan Synagogue Ibn Daud, Abraham, 141, 142 ibn Ezra, Moses (Abu Harun), 141 Ibn Ezra, Yehuda ha-Nasi, 141–2 Ibn Jubayr, 39, 44, 45 Ibn Verga, Salomon, 142 iconography, 12, 96, 106, 109, 124n71 identity cultural, 12, 142, 145, 244, 283 ethnic, 199 expression of, 272–4 immigrant, 271 Iranian-Jewish, 186–7, 204n40 Jewish, 112, 145, 148, 199, 201 Middle Eastern Jewish, 193 personal, 11 religious, 70, 185, 294 of Sephardic Jews, 223 see also culture; Jews idolatry, 263 Ikhtiyar al-din Fortress and Citadel (Herat), 51, 54 map, 55 immigrants, influence of on synagogue architecture, 5, 128, 244, 250, 271–3, 275, 277, 281, 283, 289 imperialism, 14, 249 incense-burning, 265

Friday Mosque (Herat), 51, 52, 54, 56, 57, 60, 92n51 friezes at the facade of the Synagogue of Cordoba, 131–2 in prayer room of El Tránsito Synagogue, 141 in Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 111–12, 114

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India, 4, 13, 248; see also Kerala Indian Department of Archaeology, 256 internationalization, 164, 182 Iran holy shrines in, 187–9 Iraqi Jews in, 196–7 synagogues and mosques in, 189, 191, 200–2 see also Isfahan, Iran Iranian Jewish Committee, 187, 197 Iranian Jews, 4, 16n46, 22, 18n69, 52–3, 58, 194–5, 202 in Diaspora, 202historical and social context, 185–7 role of women, 193 Iraq, 2, 3, 26 2003 invasion of, 40 Iranian Jews in, 199 Jews of, 26, 32, 46, 185, 194 synagogues in, 31–3, 45–6 Iraqi-Jewish Committee of Tehran, 197 Isfahan, Iran, 5, 12, 61, 69, 185, 186, 187, 189, 200 ISIS, 13, 18n69, 46 Islam radicalization of, 13 Shia, 36, 38, 46, 52 see also mosques; Muslims Islamic art, 4, 128, 134; see also ornamentation Islamic Law of Nations, 61 Islamic Revolution (1979), 185, 186, 197 Ismail, Khedive, 97, 294 isolationism, 74 Israel, 14, 26, 54, 97, 195 civic and political ideology in, 289 design guidelines for synagogue construction, 272 immigrants from the Maghreb, 271 synagogue design in, 5, 271–4 see also Eilat, Israel; Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue Israeli uniformity policy, 273 Istanbul, 4, 12, 296–7 Ashkenazi Jewish community in, 145, 146–9 see also Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue Italian Synagogue (Kal de los Frankos), 155 al-Janabi, Tariq, 38 Jerusalem gate, 137, 138 Jerusalem Temple(s), 135, 214, 226, 283, 285, 286 comparisons to, 224n32 design of, 65, 236, 257, 262, 267, 271, 272, 274, 277, 279, 283, 285–7 destruction of, 9, 11, 19, 36, 226, 231, 236, 244, 250, 272–3, 289n2, 290n17 First Temple of Solomon, 135, 226, 229, 272, 274–5, 279–80, 283, 287 rebuilding of, 224n32 replicas of, 17n52, 65, 116 Second Temple of Jerusalem, 17n53, 36, 272–5, 279–80, 283, 285–7, 290n2 and the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 110–14 substitutes for, 17n52, 219 Third Temple of Jerusalem, 116, 272 Jewish bathhouse (Herat), 59 Jewish cemeteries, 12, 13, 16n36, 18n66, 55, 75–6, 88–9, 256, 280, 295, 297 Jewish communities the Afghan fortified town, 54–7 in Afghanistan, 51–4 in Andalusia, 127 and anti-Semitism, 26

in Babylon, 32–4 in Baghdad, 22–3, 31, 32–4 in Cairo, 23–4, 94, 97, 120 in Castile, 139, 142 in Damascus, 8 in Djerba, 226–8 in Fez, 73–8 in Herat, 51–4, 58–60 in Iran, 4, 16n46, 52, 185–7, 189 in Iraq, 26, 32, 33–4, 46, 185, 194 Iraqi-Iranian, 194–6 in Istanbul, 145, 296 in Kerala, 248–50, 267 in Libya, 293 in Morocco, 73, 75, 76–7, 293; see also Fez mellah in Mosul, 31, 33–4 under Muslim rule, 20–5 in Spain, 16n36, 22, 23, 139, 153, 156, 207–9, 212, 216–19, 222–3 in Tangier, 161–5, 174, 181 in Tehran, 189 in Turkey, 97 see also Jewish quarters Jewish Diaspora Andalusian, 141 Jewish Babylonian, 31, 32, 44, 46, 272 Maghrebi, 271–2 Museum of (Tel Aviv), 231 in the Muslim world, 59, 69, 186, 202 Sephardi, 207, 218, 219–20, 222–3 Spanish, 139, 141 synagogues of, 2, 273–4, 289 in Tunisia, 226 Jewish heritage, preservation of, 12, 14, 40, 187, 232, 293, 297 Jewish Heritage Tourism, 88–9, 295 Jewish icons, 12 Jewish Museum of Tangier, 161 Jewish museums, 88 Jewish prophets, tombs of, 3, 34 Jewish quarters abandonment and destruction of, 14 in Baghdad, 45–6, 48n36, 49–50n81 in Cairo, 94, 97–98 conditions in, 73, 296 in Herat, 55, 58–61 in Islamic cities, 16n36, 31, 33, 45–6, 47n6, 52–3, 295 in Istanbul, 296 in Morocco, 3–4, 18n66, 293, 295 in Mosul, 33, 45, 49–50n81 in Spain, 216, 219, 274 synagogues in, 12–13 in Tangier, 163, 166, 181, 295 in Tehran, 53, 186–187 in Tripoli, 294 see also Fez mellah; Jewish communities Jewish religious sites, preservation of, 293–7 Jewry laws, 22, 90n12 Jews Arabian, 19–20 in the Christian world, 22 cultural and historical diversity of, 2–3 early interaction with Muslims, 20–2 emigration of, 2, 73, 90n2, 195, 256, 268 European, 97 Exodus from Egypt, 94 expulsion of, 53, 74–6, 142, 145, 146–7, 209, 212, 219, 222

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forced conversion of, 52 “Golden Age” of relations with Muslims, 22–4 Greek, 145, 148 immigration of, 14, 26, 161, 147 interaction with other cultures, 8–9 in Medina, 6, 20–1 under Muslim rule, 2, 6–10, 18n68, 46, 209 in the Ottoman Empire, 159 persecution of, 24 Persian, 4, 185 relations with Muslims, 8–10, 24–6, 227–8 and the rise of nationalism, 26–7 segregation of, 9, 11, 16n36, 77 social stratification among, 148 of the Spanish Diaspora, 139, 141 Turkish, 97 see also Ashkenazi Jews; dhimmis; Iranian Jews; Jewish communities; Sephardic Jews jihad, 13 jizya (poll tax), 7, 10, 15n14, 15n18, 15n21, 21, 75, 163 Jonah daughter of, 39 shrine of, 3, 39 Joshua, shrine of (Baghdad), 34 Judeo-Islamic traditions, 187 Judeo-Persian religious traditions, 202 kabbalism, 92n53, 147, 228, 243 Kadavumbagam Synagogue (Kerala), 250, 254 exterior view, 252 interior view, 253 Kairouan, Great Mosque of, 238 al-Kasim, Yahya Abu (Imam), shrine of (Mosul), 40 Kaufmann Haggadah (Budapest), 219 Kerala (India) architectural traditions of, 248–9, 257–8 mosques in, 249, 258, 267 religious diversity in, 249 vernacular traditions in, 266 see also Kerala synagogues Keralan style, 258–63, 267 Kerala synagogues, 5 aesthetics of the interiors, 263, 265 bimah in, 263 construction of, 259–50 heikhal (holy ark), 259, 263 layout of, 259–62 medieval, 248 restoration and repurposing of, 268 tevah in, 249, 257, 260, 263, 265, 267–8, 270n48 women’s galleries in, 267, 270n48 Khan, Amanullah (King), 54 Khan, Mohammad Gul, 54 kharaj (land tax), 7, 15n14 Khirbet Samara Synagogue, 210 Khomeini, Ayatollah, 186 Knis Navi Yehezqel synagogue (Ahmadiya), 34 Kochangadi Synagogue, 250, 268n12 Kogman-Appel, Katrin, 128 Kook, Abraham Isaac, 191 Kravtsov, Sergey, 94, 113 Krinsky, Carol, 112 Kurdistan, 34, 49n72 Lacave, José Luis, 207–8 land tax (kharaj), 7, 15n14 Lavie, Najia, 196, 204n40

leather work, 222, 223 Lefebvre, Henri, 94 Levy, Avigdor, 147 Lewis, Bernard, 8 Libya, 1, 293 light fixtures, 211, 286–7; see also chandeliers; oil lamps Logasi, Eyal, 275, 277 Lorca Synagogue, 214, 216 Maalouf, Amin, 186 Madrasa of Köprülü Mehmed Pasha (Istanbul), 158 Madras Bou Iniana (Fez), 214 Magen Abraham synagogue (Beirut), 294 Maghrebi immigrants, 271 Mali, 1 Maimonides Synagogue (Cairo), 116 Makabi, Mansur, 194 Mala Synagogue, 256 gallery level tevah, 267 Malik, 10 Marcus, David (Rabbi), 145, 148 Marinid dynasty, 74–5, 90n11 Marinid wall, 88 Martínez, Asunción Blasco, 208 martyrs, relics of, 88 Masjid al-Nabi Yunis, 39; see also Jonah Masjid-i Jame (Friday Mosque; Herat), 51, 52, 54, 56, 57, 60, 92n51 Masud ben Harush Synagogue (Casablanca), 280 Matasek, Eduard, 98, 99 Mawdudi, Sayyid Abul A’la, 10 medieval patronage, 127 Medina Agreement, 20 Mehab, Isaac, 212, 213 Mehab Synagogue (Cordoba), 212, 214 interior view, 213 Meir ‘Einayim Synagogue (Maadi), 116 memory, 295 collective, 271–3, 274, 275, 283, 289 individual, 289 Menahem Daniel, tomb of, 39 Menashri, David, 195 Menom, A. Sreedhara, 261 Meyerowitz, Jeremy (Rabbi), 44 mezuzot, 77 micrography, 139 migration, rural to urban, 89; see also immigrants mikvah see ritual baths (mikvaot) Miller, Susan Gilson, 11, 74 minaret of Dhu’l Kifl, 36–7 minority populations, 36–8 minority space, 11, 18n66 Mirza, Murad (Sultan), 52 modernization, 4, 145, 148 in Tangier, 163–4 Mohammed VI (king of Morocco), 293, 297 Moheb, Isaac, 127, 129, 132–3 Moroccan Jews, 75 Morocco, 3–4, 161, 271, 274, 277, 280, 287, 289, 297 synagogues in, 73, 91n27 see also Fez mellah; Tangier mosaics, 200, 210, 217, 281 Moses Maimonides, 23, 24 Moshe Dar’i Synagogue (Cairo), 113, 116 mosques abandonment of, 13 Al-Aqsa (Jerusalem), 211 architecture of, 153, 156, 277

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mosques (cont.) Cheraman Juma Mosque, 262, 270n49 churches repurposed as, 24 construction of, 16n27 Cordoba Mosque, 128, 143n3, 156, 157, 281 courtyard design, 187, 275, 291n38 destruction of, 18n67 in Fez, 76, 78, 90n11, 92n51 Friday Mosque, 51, 52, 54, 56, 57, 60 Great Mosque of Kairouan, 238 Hazrat Belal Mosque, 61, 63 in Herat, 56, 59–61 influence of climate on construction of, 274–5, 282 in Iran, 36, 38–9, 189, 200 in Israel, 277, 279 in Kerala, 248, 249, 258, 259, 262, 263, 265, 267, 268, 268n4 mihrab, 78 in North Africa, 275, 277, 279–82, 291n38 orientation toward Mecca, 64 protection of, 21 Qarawiyyin Mosque, 73, 88, 92n51 repurposing of as synagogues, 13 repurposing of synagogues as, 38, 46, 63, 64, 68 ritual washing at, 281 similarity of design with synagogues, 5 in Tangier 162, 172, 187 Tinmal mosque (Morocco), 212 Mosseri, Vita, 113, 118 Mosul biblical shrines in, 38–40 interfaith worship in, 38–40 synagogues in, 31, 33–4, 45–6 Mubarak, Ali, 97 Mudéjar style, 156–7, 160n23, 169, 172, 182, 212, 214 Muhammad ‘Ali dynasty, 97 Muhammad (prophet), in Medina, 6, 20 Muhammad VI (king of Morocco), 89 Mullah Garji or Mullah Ashur Synagogue, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66 Mullah Samuel or Shamawel Synagogue, 59, 60, 62, 64 Mullah Yoav Synagogue (Kanisa Yoha or Ya Aw Synagogue), 59, 60, 61, 63–5 Holy Ark and pulpit, 67 interior view, 69 restored frescoes, 67 roof repairs to, 66 section and floor plan, 65 Al-Muqaddasi, 38 muqarnas (honeycomb vaulting), 38 Museo Sefardi, 143 Museum of the Diaspora (Tel Aviv), 231 Muslims in Afghanistan, 51–3, 55, 58–9, 61, 66, 69 in Cairo, 207 dietary laws, 199 on Djerba, 4–5, 226, 228–30, 238 education of, 61, 76, 148, 197 expulsion of, 13 Ibadi, 244 in Iraq, 31–2, 34–6, 38–9, 45–6 in Kerala, 5, 248–9, 258, 268 Moroccan, 73, 76–8, 84, 86, 88, 92n51 North African, 274, 280 participation in synagogue construction, 78, 82, 86 relationships with Christians, 13, 21–2, 25–6, 58

relationships with Jews, 4, 6–11, 14, 21–7, 45–6, 58, 73, 76–8, 185–6, 228–30, 296–7; see also dhimmis Shia, 34, 36, 38, 46, 52 in Spain, 142 in Tangier, 161, 163–4 in Tehran, 185–7, 202 Turkish, 296 Nadir, Mohammed (Shah), 54 Nahon, Isaac, 164 Nahon, Moses, 161, 164, 166 Nahon Synagogue (Tangier), 4, 161, 162–3, 164, 166–73, 182 chandelier, 170, 177 courtyard, 167 entrance, 168 heikhal (holy ark), 169, 172, 173, 174 interior showing colored glass above the doors, 171 pulpit (bimah), 171 renovation of, 172 repurposing as museum, 172–3, 182 tevah, 169, 170, 172 Torah finials, 175–6 wall and ceiling with Mudéjar work, 169 women’s gallery, 169, 172 Nahum, Haim (Rabbi), 148 Nahum of Elkosh (Al-Qosh), 40–4 shrine of, 3, 34, 39, 49n67 tomb of, 49n62 Nahum Synagogue, 40–4 Ark in, 43 care of, 48n31 courtyard, 44 dome of, 45 influence of El Tránsito synagogue, 161 view facing south from courtyard entrance, 42 view facing west showing women’s section, 42 view from courtyard, 41 view of, 41 women’s gallery, 40, 42 Najimi, Abdul W., 54 Nasrid art/style, 128, 134, 143 nationalism Arab, 26 Jewish, 26–7 pan-Arab, 195 National Palace (Granada), 128 National Transitional Council (NTC), 293 Nehardea synagogue (Babylon), 32 Neva Shalom Synagogue (Istanbul), 155, 294 Neve Shalom Synagogue (Cairo), 116 New Orthodox Synagogue (Slovakia), 113 Niedermayer, Oskar von, 54 Ninawa (Nineveh) see Mosul Nissim Ashkenazi Synagogue (Cairo), 116 Nora, Pierre, 295 North Africa, 4, 11, 226; see also Algeria; Djerba; Morocco; Tunisia North African synagogues, 274–5, 271, 287 ground plan, 274 heikhal (holy ark), 275 three-bay plan, 283 Nur-Mahmud, Hakim Nehoray, 53 oil lamps, 263, 265 Or Hodes-New Light Synagogue (Istanbul), 149, 155 orientalism, 4, 145, 153, 155, 159 in the Ottoman Empire, 155–8

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Orientalism theory, 155 ornamentation Andalusian, 128, 142 Art Nouveau, 109, 110, 113, 156 carved boards, 210–12 ceramic tile, 77, 238 chamfered columns, 44 in Debada Synagogue, 84 in the El Tránsito Synagogue, 134–7, 142–3 in Fez, 78 geometric designs, 68 in Hebrew manuscripts, 139 heraldry, 132, 134, 142 muqarnas (honeycomb vaulting), 38 in Iberian synagogues, 128 mirror work, 188 mosaics, 200, 209, 281 mosaic tiles, 80 by Muslim artisans, 73 plaster, 77 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 94, 96, 100–2, 104–5, 106, 107, 109 stucco, 68, 77, 79, 80, 84, 128, 139, 214, 216 stucco frieze, 86 in the Synagogue of Cordoba, 142–3 tile, 199–200, 209 tooled and painted leather hangings, 222 see also date-palm motifs; iconography; pomegranate motifs; Tree of Life Ottoman Empire, 4, 25, 145, 220 Ashkenazi Jewish communities in, 146–9 Jews in, 159 Pact of ʿUmar, 6, 9, 10, 15n18, 16n31, 24, 207 Pahad Yithak Synagogue (Cairo), 116 Pahlavi dynasty (Iran), 186 paint color, 77 painted stucco decoration, 68 Pakistan, 2 Palermo, 13 Palestine, 13, 27 Pan-Andalusian style, 145, 153, 155, 157, 159 in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, 158 Paradesi Synagogue, 250, 268n3 exterior view, 251 interior view, 264 use of granite in, 259 Parur (Paravur) Synagogue, 254–5 exterior view, 255 gatehouse, 262 interior view, 266 Pedro I (king of Spain), 132 pendentives, 44 Pentecost (Sukkot), 38, 44, 68, 72n75, 123n60, 228, 245n25, 280, 291n51 People of the Book, 6, 21, 127 Perrot, Georges, 113, 118 Persia, tax system in, 7 Persian culture, 4; see also Judeo-Persian religious traditions Pessian Synagogue, 194; see also Hakim synagogue (Tehran) Petachia of Ratisbon (Rabbi), 38 Petruccioli, Attilio, 74 Pharaonic art, 122n29 Philo of Alexandria, 118 pilgrimage circles, 34 pilgrimages to El-Ghriba, 228–9, 236

in Iran, 187 to Jewish shrines, 202 pogroms, 52, 147, 219 Polak, Jakob Eduard, 53 Poland, partitioning of, 147 poll tax (jizya), 7, 10, 15n14, 15n18, 15n21, 21, 75, 163 polytheism, 6, 20, 21 pomegranate motifs, 113–14 Portugal, 13 Portuguese colonial style, 258–9 prayer rugs, 217, 222 prayers, public, 77–8 Presentation of Jesus in the Temple (Retable of San Salvador), 219, 221 prophets: shrines of 38–40; tombs of, 3, 34 Pumbedita Talmudic academy, 22 Qaddafi, Muammar, 293 Qajar style, 57 qala (fort) construction layout, 56 Qandahar Gate (Herat), 55 Qarawiyyine mosque, 73, 88 Al-Qattan, Najwa, 8 Quincentennial Foundation Jewish Museum of Turkey, 155 Qur’an, 6, 9, 20, 21 requirements regarding prayer, 56 sciences of, 23 Rabban, Hormidz, 40 Rabban, Joseph, 250 Rabbi Haim Capusi Synagogue (Cairo), 116 Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue (Eilat, Israel), 271, 275 ablutions area, 283 architect’s sketch of entrance to the ark, 284 bimah, 279, 283, 285, 287 blue domes, 282 courtyard, 279, 280 decorative elements, 279 drawings of north and south elevations, 282 exterior design, 279–83 exterior view, 276, 285 heikhal (holy ark), 286 interior design, 283–9 plan, 281 traditional lamps imported from Morocco, 278 view from the pulpit (bimah), 287 women’s gallery, 283, 286 Rabbi Shlomo Ibn (Aben) Danan Synagogue (Fez), 73, 297 close-up of mikvah, 83 close-up of tevah, 82 floor plan and elevation, 83 heikhal (holy ark), 73–4, 80–1 interior view, tevah, heikhal, and women’s gallery, 81 ownership of, 82, 84 Rafaat, Samir, 112 Rah-e Danesh Synagogue (Tehran), 194 Ray, Jonathan, 139 religious freedom, 6, 7, 9, 295 retablos (altarpieces), 218–19, 221 ritual baths (mikvah), 22, 59, 71n50, 77, 80, 83 in the Aben Danan Synagogue, 82, 83 in the Abrishami Synagogue, 192, 193 in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, 65, 68 in the Yusefabad Synagogue, 199

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Romaniots (Greek Jews), 145, 148 romanticism, 156 roofing materials, 259 Rouh-e Shad Synagogue (Tehran), 194 Sa’adid dynasty, 75, 93n65 Sabar, Ariel, 194 sacred space, performance of, 87–8 Safavid Empire, 16n27 Said, Edward, 155 saints relics of, 93n66 veneration of, 93n64 see also pilgrimages; shrine synagogues Salat al-Kabiri (Baghdad), 32 Salem, A. B., 259 Samizay, Rafi, 56 Santa María la Blanca (Toledo), 128, 153, 212, 281 interior view, 213 Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo (Ravenna), 210 Sarah (sister of Nahum), 40, 49n71 Sarajevo Haggadah, 218 Sasanian Persians, 22 Sassoon, David, 33 Schechter, Solomon, 210 Schneidertemple-Edirneli Synagogue (Istanbul), 149; see also Tofre Begadim Synagogue (Istanbul) sciences, in the Muslim world, 23 Scuola Spagnola (Venice), 222 Sedighpour, Rafael, 189, 191 Sephardic Jews, 2, 13, 75, 97, 142, 145, 159, 161 along the Mediterranean coast, 4 in the Ottoman Empire, 148 Sephardi Diaspora, 207, 219–22, 223 Sephardi synagogues, in Cairo, 97 El–Ghriba, 235 in Eilat, Israel, 271, 273, 274, 279, 283, 287 general references to, 4, 17n62, 65, 72n70, 118, 246n61, 290n6 in India, 13 in Iran, 202 in Istanbul, 148, 149, 153, 155, 158 in the Sephardi diaspora, 207–9, 212, 218, 219–23 in Tangier, 161, 178 in Turkey, 13 Serah (daughter of Asher), shrine of, 187 Sered, Susan, 198–9 Seth, shrine/tomb of, 39–40 Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo), 4, 94, 120, 294 ark crest, 103ark platform, 100–1, 103 ark with tree-shaped lamp, 115 dentil-and-disk moulding, 112 door handles (date-palm motif), 119 entrance, 117 facade, 94–5 gilded frieze, 108 heikhal (holy ark), 99–102, 104, 105, 106, 109, 114, 122n37 interior and heikhal wall, 101 interior (ground floor plan), 99–100 as Jerusalem Temple, 110–14 mezzanine, 108 ornamentation in, 104–5, 106, 107, 109, 110–14 outline superimposed on cadastral map, 99 ritual stations, 100 stained-glass windows, 108 tevah platform, 102

use of dentil-and-disk moulding in, 110 windows in, 100, 105–6, 108, 111–12 women’s gallery, 99–100, 104 Shaar Rafael synagogue, 161, 178; see also Bendrihem synagogue (Tangier) Shari‘a courts, 8 Shaykh Abdal, shrine of, 40 Shearith Yosef synagogue (Tangier), 169 shell squinches, 44 Shlomo Aben Danan Synagogue, 80, 89 Shoshani, Amir, 194 Shrine of Abdullah al-Walid, 55 shrines of Bahir (Imam) 40 in Iran, 187 in Mosul, 38–40 shrine synagogues, 31 in Baghdad, 35–6 in Iraq, 34–5 of Shaykh Ishaq Gaion, 36 of Sufi sheikh ʿAbd al-Qadir Jilani, 36 Shriqui, David, 169 Shriqui, Joseph, 169 Shriqui, Moses, 169 Shulkhan Arukh, 11, 285 Sibony, Ami, 172, 182 Sicily, 13 Sidi Fathloun Mosque, 244 Silva House (Toledo), 133 single residences, multi-family occupation of, 77 siqlatun, 210 Sirkeci Train Station (Istanbul), 157–8 Sister of the Golden Haggadah, 219, 220, 224n39 skylight, 78–9 Slat Alfassiyine synagogue see Al-Fassiyine Synagogue (Fez) Slimane, Moulay, 76 Slovakia, 113 Soayed, Samuel, 275 Soomekh, Saba, 187, 199 Sophronios (patriarch of Jerusalem), 7 Spain, 4, 13 expulsion of Jews from, 75, 155, 163, 164, 172, 181, 209, 219–20, 222–3, 274, 296 Jewish communities in, 16n36, 22, 23, 139, 153, 156, 207–9, 212, 216–19, 222–3 see also Alhambra Palace; Andalusia; Castile; Granada; Iberian Peninsula Spanish synagogues decoration of, 211–16 furnishing of, 216–19 squinches, 44 stained-glass windows, 106, 108, 172, 194, 235, 286–8 State of Israel see Israel St. Barbara, Coptic church of, 208 Stillman, Yedida, 210 al-Subki, 10 Suket Shalom Synagogue (Tehran), 199 sukkah, 209 Suleiman the Magnificent, 147 summer synagogues, 34 sunnah, 6, 9 Sura Talmudic academy, 22 synagogue art decorated boards, 209–11 decorative stucco, 67, 79 frescoes, 67 friezes, 106, 109, 141 haggadot, 217–20

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Iberian typology in, 4 painted walls and ceilings, 62, 67, 68, 107, 169 see also ornamentation Synagogue at Bet Alpha (Israel), 217 Synagogue in Hradec Králové (Czech Republic), 113 Synagogue of Cordoba see Cordoba Synagogue Synagogue of Ezekiel, 3, 34, 36–8 interior, 40 plan of, 39 restoration of, 49n55 see also Ezekiel Synagogue of Nahum see Nahum Synagogue Synagogue of Samuel Ha-Levi Abulafia see El Tránsito synagogue Synagogue of the Megorashim, 90n13 Synagogue of the Toshavim, 90n13 synagogues abandoned, 2, 14, 294, 295 and the community, 78–84 confiscation of, 9 construction of, 9, 10–11 cultural and social context of, 3 design and ornamentation of, 3, 4, 10, 11–13, 210 destruction of, 2, 3, 9, 10, 11, 14, 210 diverse functions of, 22 in domestic settings, 12, 84–7, 194 great, 31 as heritage sites, 12, 14 historiographical considerations in the study of, 13–14 Maghrebi, 4 main components of, 12 maintenance of, 9 medieval, 14, 34, 207, 215–16 mosques repurposed as, 13 multiple uses for, 11–12 in Muslim societies, 10–11 neglect of, 11 as places of convergence and coexistence, 45–6 preservation of, 295 private, 31, 92n47 proscription against building, 61 protection of, 21 repurposing as churches, 127, 153, 212 repurposing as mosques, 38, 46, 61 repurposing as schools, 61, 62, 63 repurposing/conversion of, 155, 294 restoration and repair of, 5, 9, 10, 40, 44, 61, 88–9, 99, 293, 295, 296 schools affiliated with, 189, 194 similarities to Christian churches, 21–2 similarities to mosques, 5 as tourist destinations, 94 see also Ashkenazi synagogues; Diaspora synagogues; Kerala synagogues; shrine synagogues; individual synagogues by name Synagogue Scene, Kaufmann Haggadah (Budapest), 219 Synagogue Scene, Sarajevo Haggadah (Bosnia), 218 Synagogue Scene, Sister of the Golden Haggadah (British Library, London), 219, 220 Synagogues of Herat architectural composition of, 61 decorative elements, 68 Gol or Gulaki Synagogue (Hazrat Belal Mosque), 59, 60, 61, 63, 64 holy sanctuary in, 65–8 Mullah Garji or Mullah Ashur Synagogue, 59, 60, 61, 62, 66

Mullah Samuel or Shamawel Synagogue (Hariva School), 59, 60, 62, 64 Mullah Yoav Synagogue (Kanisa Yoha or Ya Aw Synagogue), 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 69 original architectural structure of, 69 separate room for Torah study, 68 wall niches in, 66 Syria, 7, 13, 26; see also Aleppo Syriac Christianity, 38, 40 Tajikstan, 1, 2 Taleqani, Mohammad, 10 Taliban, 13, 18n67, 18n69 al-Tanasi, 10 Tangier charity boxes dedicated to communal funds, 166 internationalization of, 178 Jewish community in, 161–5, 174, 181 location of synagogues in, 181 map, ca. 1900, 162 modernization and internationalization of, 164 real estate development in, 164 Taragan, Hana, 94, 112 Tehran, 4, 185, 187, 189–93 Tehran Jewish Committee, 187 Tekkumbagam Synagogue (Kerala), 252 exterior view, 261 interior view, 254 Temple Ismailiya, 97; see also Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo) tevah in the Aben Danan Synagogue, 80–4 in the Babylonian synagogue, 32–3 in the Bendrihem Synagogue, 174, 178 in the Ben Ezra Synagogue, 210 in the Chendamangalam Synagogue, 260 in the Cordoba Synagogue, 139 in the Debada Synagogue, 84 in Diaspora synagogues, 222 in the Al-Fassiyine Synagogue, 78–9, 81, 294 in Fez synagogues, 78 general reference to, 12, 13, 17n59, 65, 219, 222 in the Kaufmann Haggadah, 219 in Kerala synagogues, 249, 257, 260, 263, 265, 267–8, 270n48 in the Mullah Samuel Synagogue, 64 in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, 67 in the Nahon Synagogue, 169–72 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 102, 104, 109 in the Yanbol Synagogue, 297 textiles, used for decoration, 209–210, 216–17, 222 tikim, 210–211, 214 tile flooring, 80 tile mosaics, 200, 217, 281 tile ornamentation, 238 Time magazine, “What It Means to Be Jewish,” 146 Tinmal Mosque (Morocco), 212 Tofre Begadim Synagogue (Istanbul), 12, 148–9 exterior view, 149 repurposing as art gallery, 155 Toledano, Abraham (Rabbi), 163 Toledano, Albert, 173 Toledano brothers (Tangier), 163, 166, 173 Tomb of Daniel Naby, 39, 40, 187, 188 Tomb of Moulay Idriss, 88 Tombs of the Sages, 39 Torah ark see heikhal/hekhalot (holy ark) Torah curtains, 210–11, 222

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Torah finials, 217, 218, 225n41 Torah scrolls, 33, 65 Torah shrine, 12, 210 Treaty of Capitulation of Jerusalem, 15n18 Tree of Life, 116, 118, 124n71 Tunisia, 4, 25, 226, 271, 274, 280 French colonization of, 228, 232 influence of climate on architecture, 238, 240–1, 243 Jewish population in 244n10 Ottoman colonization of, 227, 231 see also Djerba Turkey, 13, 296–7 Tzarfati, Isaac, 147 Ukraine, 113 Ulmer, Rivka, 94 ʿUmar ibn ʿAbd al-ʿAziz, 7 ʿUmar ibn al-Khattab (Caliph), 7 UNESCO World Heritage Center, 14, 73, 88 UNESCO World Heritage sites, 232 uniformity policy, 272–4 urbanism, 89 urban renewal, 296 Uvays (Sultan), shrine of, 40 Uzbekistan, 1, 2 vaulted ribbing, 44 vaulting, honeycomb, 38 vaults, 44 al-Walid, Abdullah, shrine of (Herat), 55 Ward, Seth, 9 Wattasid dynasty, 75 Watt, Montgomery, 6 wedding practices, 230 Weissbach, Lee Shai, 189, 200–1 westernization, 4, 145, 155, 159 windows in the Aben Danan Synagogue, 80 in the Baghdad Synagogue, 34 in the Bendrihem Synagogue, 174 clerestory, 78, 80, 243, 275 in the Debada Synagogue, 84 in the El-Ghriba Synagogue, 228, 233, 235, 241–3 in the El Transíto Synagogue, 132, 136, 214 in the Ettefagh Synagogue, 196 in the Fez mellah, 77 gothic, 157 in Herat, 63 in Kerala synagogues, 263 in the Mullah Yoav Synagogue, 64 in the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 280, 282, 286 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue, 100, 105–6, 108, 111–12 in the shrine of Daniel, 38

skylights, 78 stained-glass, 106, 108, 172, 194, 235, 286–8 in synagogues, 190–1 in the Temple of Jerusalem, 113 in the Yusef Abad Synagogue, 199 women participation in synagogue worship, 193 role of, 199, 201, 204n46, 204n49 venerated as saints, 93n64 women’s gallery, 64, 78, 80–1, 189 in the Bendrihem Synagogue, 178 in the Ben Ezra Synagogue, 210 in the El Tránsito Synagogue, 214 in the Al-Fassiyine Synagogue, 80 in Kerala synagogues, 267, 270n48 in the Mehab Synagogue, 214 in the Nahon Synagogue, 169, 172 in the Nahum Synagogue, 40, 42 in the Rabbi Meir Baal-Haness Synagogue, 283, 286 in the Sha’ar Hashamayim Synagogue (Cairo), 99–100, 104 in the Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue, 152 World Monuments Fund, 88 World Sephardi Association, 99 xenophobia, 92n51 Yanbol Synagogue (Istanbul), 296 al-Yazid, Moulay, 76 Yehezqel, Hakim (Hakim Haqnazar), 53 Yehuda, Zvi, 36, 38, 40, 42 Yemen, 1, 2, 16n37 Yüksek Kaldırım Ashkenazi Synagogue (Istanbul), 4, 145, 147–55 dome, 152 exterior view with horseshoe arch, 150 interior views, 151 opening ceremony, 150–1, 153 women’s gallery, 152 Yusef Abad Synagogue (Tehran), 185, 189, 199–201, 294 bimah, 199 exterior appearance, 199 Hebrew inscription, 201 interior and ornamentation, 199–200 Yusian, Ebrahim, 199 Zack, Joel, 78 Zaynab, Sitti, shrine of (Mosul), 40 Zekharia, tomb of (Hamadan), 187 Zevi, Shabbetai, 296 ziggurat of Daniel Naby, 188 Zionism, 16n46, 26–7, 148, 159, 195, 297 Ziyara (ziyarat), 34, 46, 187 Zohar (Book of Splendor), 228 Zulfaris Synagogue (Istanbul), 155

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