Having survived the Spanish Inquisition of 1492, my family settled in Libya, an Arab country in northern Africa.
The small Jewish community of Tripoli, where my family lived, numbered 6,000 and was often targeted for violence and harassment by the Arab population. Since Israel became a sovereign state in 1948, Tripoli’s Jewish community was further deprived of its Jewish schools, social and cultural events. The Jewish community practiced religious rituals in a somewhat clandestine manner.
When I was about 9 or 10 years old, I remember coming home from school. Walking a few blocks from school to my home was no easy task, especially on Friday afternoons. Friday is the Muslim Sabbath and services at the mosque would end at the same time as school let out. Often, depending from the political climate, prayers in the mosque would turn into anti-Semitic rallies full of fervor and hatred.
“The Jews are killing our brothers in Palestine,” you could hear people shout as they left the mosque, making a fist in the air. When I left school on Fridays, fear would grip my stomach. In an attempt not to arouse suspicion, I walked under porticos, close to the open shops, in the event I should run into a group of zealots. Holding tight to my school bag, I would turn to see if anyone might be following me before I would walk into the narrow cobblestone streets leading to my house.
Still, Friday was my favorite day because I loved Shabbat rituals in my home. As I ran up the stairs, the pungent smell of hot olive oil would invade my nostrils.
Nonna, my grandmother, would be frying the mafrum, the traditional dish served on Friday nights with a fluffy couscous.
To make the mafrum, eggplants and potatoes were sliced and slit to form a pocket to be stuffed with an aromatic mixture of ground meat, cinnamon, cilantro and other herbs. My mother rolled the stuffed vegetables in flour and eggs and handed them to Nonna to fry in steaming hot oil.
Tantalizing smells of hot pepper, cumin and orange flower water invaded our home on Shabbat. Hunger would sweep over me. I would uncover the pots bubbling on the stove. “Don’t poke at the food,” my vigilant mother would quickly remind me. The previously fried eggplants, potatoes and vegetables would be slowly simmering in a savory broth of tomato sauce. The eggplants would take on a velvety texture after cooking for several hours.
I would pinch at the freshly baked bread, shaped into large crispy rings rolled in sesame seeds. The bread was covered with a hand-embroidered and freshly ironed white napkin. I would gently sneak my hand under the napkin and pinch a piece of bread.
Lifting the morsel to my mouth, I would bring it to my nostrils to smell it one last time before savoring it with gusto. “It’s a sin to eat the bread before the blessing,” Nonna would emphasize. Now I know why my grandma would say that. The bread was so good, it would be wiped out well before the Shabbat meal.
I helped my mother set the table. A white linen tablecloth and my mother’s wedding china were taken out for the occasion. Grandpa’s silver filigree wine goblet crowned the setting.
The Persian carpets that had been aired on the ledge of the balcony now laid on the washed tile floor. The house was ready. It was time for us to bathe.
As Shabbat was approaching, I remember my mother’s last attempt to rush my brothers and sister out of our bathroom. “Yella, yella” (Arabic for “let’s go”), she would say to my brother in a loud hurried voice.
My mother would grab my brother by the arm while he attempted to pull down the towel I wrapped around my naked body. Nonna, a short and stocky woman, was braiding her hair and pinning it on the crest of her head, covering it with a blue scarf. Nonna, who was Orthodox, always kept her head covered as a sign of reverence. Moving slowly, wiping the sweat off her forehead, Nonna took the bucket of hot water off the stove and passed it to my mother, who was washing up.
Mother was always the last one to get ready at the urging of my Orthodox grandpa, Nonno. “Woman,” he would say in a gentle voice, “the sun is setting. Shabbat is upon us. Have you no fear of God?”
My mother would quickly tie up her long, jet black hair in a small bun that contrasted beautifully with her white skin. It was only when my mother would untie her apron that Nonno would raise his ceremonial silver goblet and recite the Shabbat blessings over the wine and bread.
As my mother lit the candles to usher in the Shabbat, the flickering brightness of the flame gave me a glimmer of hope in the darkness of the hostile environment in which we lived. As a little girl, I always felt Shabbat threw a safety net around my soul. This feeling of security gave me a measure of freedom.