Hammamet, Saturday, June 27, 2015 (afternoon) Dedicated to my dear friend Jacqueline Fochtman, née Chaltiel (d. 2017) After a few hours spent reading, writing, and ruminating in my room, I decided to go back to the lobby. It was more spacious, and I could order another qahwa. As soon as I passed by the reception, the phone rang. It was Neïla. She wanted to know if I was comfortable. I assured her that everyone was friendly and that the staff was looking after me. And no, I was not going to leave the hotel that day. I had just sat down to open my messages, when hotel owner Mr. Sahbi M’barek came by. Highly educated, open-minded, mild, and generous, he represented the finest of Tunisian culture. Although most tourists had cancelled their reservations, he did not fire any of his staff. Instead, everybody was to focus on maintenance and general cleaning. Mr. Sahbi, as everyone calls him, was a native of Nabeul and naturally intrigued by my story. I mentioned that my father had opened two hotels in Sousse and one in Nefta before becoming executive director of a Belgian company that oversaw four hotels in Nabeul. Mr. Sahbi knew right away the company and the names of the hotels. Hearing that I was working on a project on Tunisian philosopher, historian, and sociologist Ibn Khaldoun (d. 1406) and that I was going to partner with colleagues at the University of Tunis, Mr. Sahbi recommended that I also visit the IBLA library in the capital. It was specializing on Arabic and other north-African languages, literature, history, and archaeology. The acronym stands for Institut des Belles-Lettres Arabes, an educational institution founded on the margins of the medina (old city) in Tunis by the Pères Blancs (called ‘White Fathers’ because of the color of their robes). When I inquired whether this Catholic order still operated in Tunisia, the hotel owner said ‘But of course!’ He himself had received his education at one of their schools. Realizing how knowledgeable he was in cultural matters, I then asked Mr. Sahbi about a tradition in his own city. ‘What about Sidi Ma‘awiyya? Are people still visiting the shrine and donating food to the poor on Thursdays?’ For all he knew that tradition was well and alive. He smiled when I said that I planned to perform the pilgrimage on the following Thursday. Then Mr. Sahbi asked me if I knew about the annual Jewish pilgrimage that takes place in Nabeul. The pilgrimage to the Ghriba synagogue on the island of Djerba always receives international attention. According to local tradition, the synagogue there still holds a stone that is said to have been brought from Jerusalem’s second temple in 586 B.C., which makes it Africa’s oldest Jewish community. But a Jewish holy site in Nabeul? That was news to me. Mr. Sahbi told me the story of Yacouv Slama who used to be the Chief Rabbi in Tunis and had died while visiting his daughter in Nabeul in the 18th c. His humble tomb was already a pilgrimage site until Rabbi Slama appeared in a dream to a Mardochée (Mordekai) Karila in the 1930s asking that a shrine be raised above his tomb. Karila complied, and the site developed into a more significant pilgrimage destination to which both Jews and Muslims used to flock hoping for an intercession and a blessing, called brakha in Hebrew and baraka in Arabic. Two sister-languages, one word. Mr. Sahbi went on and on talking about the achievements of Tunisian Jews in and out of the country. André Barouch had fought for independence from France alongside Habib Bourguiba, the country’s first and most-respected president, and joined his cabinet as minister of housing and urban development to help modernize Tunisia in 1956. The previous Chief Rabbi of France Joseph Sitruk (b. 1944) was a Tunisian, and Tunisian Jews were making major contributions to Jewish scholarship in Israel. I watched Mr. Sahbi as he was joyfully sharing with me all he knew about Tunisian Jews. It was as if he was referring to dear relatives. I asked him how many Jews were left in Nabeul. Apparently, on the eve of Tunisian independence over a thousand Jews lived there. They became less and less mostly after the Six-Day War (1967) and The Ramadan or Yom Kippur War (1973). Today, only four families with all together 20-25 members remain. Mr. Sahbi even knew the names of the Jewish families who had once lived in his native city. He enumerated them with great ease: Chiche (pronounced Shish), Cohen, Guez, Haddad, Hayyoun, Karila, Koscas, Mamou, Parient, Perez, Seror, Slama, and Uzan. The Jews of Nabeul did not live in separate quarters and were not confined to specific professions. Their synagogue was built near the Grand Mosque. Jewish and Muslim families visited each other, and mothers in the two communities were known to babysit each other’s children. Mr. Sahbi mentioned how his own mother once had an emergency and left him as an infant with her Jewish neighbor without thinking twice about it. They were all Tunisians and, as native Hawai‘ians would put it, children of the land. Just as I thought we had exhausted the subject, Ms. Sabeh Mezhoud, the hotel’s assistant manager joined us. She enthusiastically added that there was a Tunisian synagogue in Israel that was a source of great pride and a testament to north-Africa’s ancient legacy. I wasn’t sure what she meant until I got on the internet. In no time I found out that there was, indeed, a 4-storey synagogue built by a Tunisian Jew and holocaust survivor in Acre that was covered in and out by mosaics including the ceilings and the steps. The mosaics illustrate the entire Jewish history with its major figures, texts, artifacts, rituals and maps as well as all of God’s creation. Like an encyclopedia made of millions of tiny stones. Not surprisingly, it took 54 years to complete. After I commented on the presence of figurative art in a synagogue, Ms. Mezhoud said 'What do you expect, it was designed by a Tunisian.' I guess that said it all. Tunisians, whether Muslims or Jews, have a mind of their own. When I went to sleep at the end of that day, I felt I had been on a journey without ever having left my hotel. Some useful websites: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/18/ghriba-synagogue_n_5348350.html http://livingandwritinginisrael.blogspot.com/2011/08/devotedly-decorated-synagogue-in-acre.html http://www.harissa.com/D_celebres/celebres.htm (This site lists accomplished Tunisian Jews, whether they are in or out of the country. I haven’t seen any other Muslim country maintain such a list.)
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Hammamet, Sunday, June 28, 2015 I had finished breakfast and was ready to go back to my room, when the waiter came rushing. The cook had asked him the evening before to inquire what I would like for dinner. What a joy! I went for all my favorites. Brick à l’œuf (an egg cracked into phyllo dough and then fried), mechouia slata (grilled and finely chopped peppers, eggplants, and tomatoes), and couscous with lamb. Seeing the waiter’s polite hesitation, I realized there was something wrong with my order. Right, one shouldn’t eat lamb or any red meat during Ramadan, since it is reserved for Eid al-Adha, a major celebration after the end of the fasting period. I knew I could have insisted but told the waiter that chicken or fish was fine. My order was received with an illuminated face and a large smile. One hour later, I passed by the reception with a traditional ‘bi-slama’ (lit. ‘with peace,’ used in Tunisia as good-bye). The receptionist hailed ‘Can I help you?’ I answered that I was going to Tunis to visit the Bardo Museum. The receptionist then run after me and insisted to travel with me the few kilometers to Bir Bou Rekba where I could catch a louage. I actually wanted to go by train but could tell that I was not going to succeed. My self-appointed guardian didn’t say it but I could tell he felt that a train was a more likely terror target. I wasn’t sure that shared taxis were such a great idea either. Their drivers were notorious for their speeding and frequent accidents. But then, I had never been in a louage. Why not try it? Maybe they are better than their reputation. When we arrived in Bir Bou Rekba, a louage heading for Tunis was waiting with exactly one free seat. As Muslims say ‘It was maktub’ (lit. It was written), i.e., it was meant to be. The cars used for shared taxis are mostly station wagon Peugeots with two rows of rear seats. I sat in the last row between a mother who was holding an infant on her lap and a middle-aged gentleman who didn’t seem to fit with the rest of the passengers. It turned out he was a bank auditor who was on his way to Tunis to pick up his car from a garage. It didn’t take long until we began a lively conversation about his eldest daughter and her up-coming trip to the U.S. She had received a Thomas Jefferson scholarship and was going to stay a full year at an American Catholic university. All as a sudden, the car stopped. Everybody went for their ID cards. We had approached a check point. When the back door opened, I saw a Tunisian police officer. I tended my passport to him but he waived with his hand indicating that it wasn’t necessary. I appreciated the kindness but did think that he should have checked my identification document. Couldn’t I too be a terrorist? When we arrived in Tunis, I gave the proud father my business card with my University of Hawai‘i information. I also told him the name of my hotel in Hammamet, so that his daughter could meet me before her departure to the U.S., if she thought I could be useful to her. The father then insisted to walk me to the tramway that would take me to the Bardo. Once I got off the tramway, I noticed how hot it had become. Not surprisingly, hardly anyone was out in the streets. After about 500m, I saw an armed policeman with a bullet proof vest stand before an iron gate. I knew I had reached the Museum. I discovered a very modern building, not at all the way I remembered it. Getting on the premises of the Bardo felt like entering a U.S. embassy abroad. There was armed security right at the entrance but also behind walls and trees. An asphalted street opened up behind the iron gate interrupted by a number of road blocks to prevent any vehicle from getting through. And when you enter the museum building you have to place your belongings on an x-ray machine before walking through a metal detector. Once I passed security, I found myself before a gigantic “Triumph of Neptune” showing the god of the sea surrounded by dozens and dozens of nereids. Its length was such that the museum needed to open up a space in the ceiling so that the mosaic could continue up the wall to the second floor. That was just the beginning. After getting my ticket, I went straight to the 2nd floor where I knew the finest mosaics of the Roman Empire were on show. The Bardo is so rich in mosaics that it can afford to place the ones with mere floral or geometric designs on the floor. I’m not aware of any other museum where visitors walk on ancient mosaics. The most famous stone paintings at the Bardo are the ones showing Virgil and Ulysses. They are not only of great artistic value but also a powerful statement of the patrons who once commissioned them. Virgil’s Aeneis recounts the story of the Trojan hero who founded Rome – after a stop-over in Carthage where he romanced Queen Dido. And the scene showing Ulysses tied to the mast of his ship also relates to Tunisian land, since the island of the Sirens, from whose seductive songs he needed to protect himself, was presumably Djerba. The Roman and Romanized families of ancient North Africa clearly capitalized on the Greco-Roman heritage that was connected to their soil. Among the marble heads of Roman emperors at the Bardo one finds a rare depiction of Gordian I who reigned for only 36 days together with his son Gordian II in 238 A.D. It was the ancestors of today’s Tunisians who proclaimed him emperor on African soil after Maximinus Thrax killed Alexander Severus. He was followed by his grandson Gordian III (238-244) and finally by Philipp the Arab (244-249). As I was thinking about the commotion it would create if an Arab (or anyone believed to be of Arab extraction) were to rule over Western territories today, a very courteous Tunisian man in his 50s approached me with a stretched out hand. ‘Madame, thank you for coming. You give us courage!’ He was accompanied by his teen-aged son whom he was proudly explaining the ancient history of Tunisia. I shook his hand deeply moved, especially when I realized what this man was actually saying. Going to the Bardo today isn’t just a matter of self-education for Tunisians. It is making a much more profound statement about embracing one’s tradition with all its periods, pre-Islamic and Islamic ones, understanding that one should not only have a religious identity but also a cultural and historic awareness of the many more threads that make the modern Tunisian fabric. Sadly, on that day that fine Tunisian and his son were the only other visitors of the museum. I suppose the day I chose for my tour was too close to the shooting in Sousse, and many citizens in the capital were getting ready for a show of solidarity with the attacked tourists. For the record, plenty of Tunisians rallied in front of the Bardo the day after the March attack shouting ‘Kullna Bardo!’ (We are all Bardo). As I entered a new hall, I spotted holes in the walls. I turned to one of the guards who instantly understood what I was going to ask. He told me that the curator had decided to keep the bullet holes from the attack on March 18 as a reminder of a dramatic historic moment that could have wiped out Tunisia’s ancient legacy. A remarkable decision, indeed. It felt eerie to walk the same itinerary as the attacker, especially since no one else was around. The next holes I saw were visible on the bottom of a glass display case and then another display case. I was wondering for a moment what the attackers’ true target was. The tourists or the artifacts? One could always answer: both. However, once I stood before a bronze showing Hercules in a rather obscene position and compared his intact display case with the smashed glass cover of neighboring young Dionysius (his left thigh was also damaged), I felt the bullets were aimed at people and only coincidentally hit the bronze figures. If the statement the attackers were trying to make was against figurative art (because it stands against Islam’s prohibition of images), outrageous Hercules would have been a much more obvious target than the boyish looking Dionysius. And anyway, who shows up at a scene with a loaded gun is primarily intent on taking lives. After the attack at the Bardo, some commentators felt there may be another or an additional reading of the brutal act. They thus pointed out that the shooting took place precisely while the Tunisian parliament next door was debating a new terrorism law. The attack may therefore well have been planned to also mock the deputies’ efforts. Tunisia's parliament as seen from a window at the Bardo I continued my tour admiring the ancient artifacts as much as the Tunisian royal palace in which they were housed (the entrance of which was hidden by the modern annex). The Bardo Museum goes back to 1888 when Grand Vizier and modernist Khayr al-Din confiscated private collections of ancient artifacts so that they could become available to all Tunisians. It was also Khayr al-Din who thought of adding Islamic exhibits and turning the Bardo into the home of the entire Tunisian heritage. In one of my photographs one can see an intricate Andalusian-styled wooden ceiling from which hangs an elegant Venetian glass chandelier, and an ancient mosaic featuring a large Roman property on the wall below. When I took the picture, my focus was on the ceiling. I wished I had noticed that the ancient stone painting was also showing in the frame. I would have made an effort to include all of it. Nevertheless, I believe that, however imperfect, the picture is in itself a mosaic capturing how much Tunisians are comfortable with the many layers of their culture. Some snobs might think it of merely eclectic interest but from a Tunisian perspective it’s all harmoniously tied together like the colors that make a kaleidoscopic image. The pride that is associated with the diverse styles and artifacts of the Bardo Museum is best expressed in the words of U.S. based Tunisian artist Emna Zghal ‘All of them ours, found in our own soil.’ The Bardo is the historic memory of North Africa and the mirror that reflects the faces of all its peoples. My mind was filling quickly with the shapes of bronze figures found in a shipwreck near Mahdia, mosaic images of female centaurs, north-African lions, charioteers, high ranking ladies and their reflections in mirrors, and, of course, plenty more nereids. I realized after two hours that I couldn’t take in much more but I didn’t know how to resist the temptation of at least passing through the Punic, Byzantine, Jewish, and Islamic rooms on the 1st floor. Each space was a unique treasure trove. An entire Christian basilica was reconstructed on the museum’s premises. It exuded peace and calm and made me stand for a moment becoming oblivious to it being an exhibit in a museum. And again mosaics were everywhere. They covered floors and magnificent baptisteries, blanketed raised tombs, and rendered the features of the deceased. A special hall was also dedicated to Jewish artifacts found in Tunisia. In the beginning of the 20th c. a synagogue from the late Roman period was excavated in Hammam Lif (ancient Naro) uncovering the remains of a once highly Romanized and prosperous Jewish community. As was to be expected, rich mosaics ornated that synagogue. To my surprise, I found out that 21 mosaic panels that must have been the pride of the Naro-synagogue ended up at the Brooklyn Museum thus connecting two very fines institutions, both dedicated to the preservation of art and historic memory. .
By the time I returned to the hotel, it had already become late. I was in the lobby uploading my pictures on my laptop, when the fine bank auditor I had traveled with in the morning walked in with a slender young woman. Monsieur B., as I shall call him to protect his privacy and that of his family, had come with his eldest daughter to invite me for dinner to their home. As much as I appreciated the spontaneous gesture, I felt too tired that evening. And, let’s not forget, I also didn’t want to disappoint the hotel’s Chef who had prepared all my favorites. We agreed they would come to pick me up the next day. Some useful websites: For additional information on the Bardo and more photographs see the museum’s excellent site: http://www.bardomuseum.tn/ For one of the many images of the rally in support of the Bardo Museum http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/mar/19/tunisians-streets-denounce-bardo-museum-attack-war-terror. For Emna Zghal’s article “My Bardo Museum,” May 4, 2015 see: http://www.warscapes.com/opinion/my-bardo-museum. For the mosaics excavated from an ancient Tunisian synagogue and now in Brooklyn see https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/tree_of_paradise/. Originally posted on September 28, 2015. I am happy to interrupt my regular blog to appreciate the Tunisian recipients of the 2015 Peace Nobel Prize! (More about this story in my next post).
Originally posted on October 10, 2015. |
AuthorDr. Tamara Albertini ArchivesCategories |