The Last Shofar-Maker of Morocco
Introduction to the Shofar Service of Rosh HaShanah 5783
There are many names for the holiday we celebrate today. Perhaps the most obvious is Yom Teruah, the day of the sounding of the shofar. In honor of this I’ve brought along a favorite shofar of mine, which comes from Morocco in this shofar box and brings with it a story.
Some years ago, I was on a rabbinic trip to Morocco. In those days, Israel had no formal relationship with Morocco. It was only about two years ago, in fact, that changed. Our mission then was to meet with members of the Jewish community and officials of the Moroccan government—they had and have a king—seeking to improve its relationship with Israel. I don’t know how much impact we really had, but we did connect to some of the amazing Jewish history of that remarkable community.
Our rabbinical group traveled from Casablanca to Rabat to Fez to Marrakesh, visiting the remnants of what was once a huge and vital Jewish community. We saw Maimonides’ house in the mellah of Fez, met with a variety of Moroccan officials in Rabat, attended Shabbat services, had dinner with the Jewish advisor to the king, visited the French-speaking Alliance Jewish day school, went to the Casablanca Jewish Center—a high-rise club, really—and ate a lot of couscous.
Every Jewish place of importance I have visited I have always tried to bring back something unique to that Jewish community, as a way of connecting to the heritage of our far-flung coreligionists everywhere in the world.
Our guide on this rabbis’ trip was named Moshe, and he was a Moroccan Jew. When we began the mission, I asked him if there was a uniquely Moroccan Jewish ritual object that I could find to purchase; perhaps a Moroccan shofar?
Yes, of course, he said. He knew exactly where I could get it. A very special shofar, only in Morocco.
The trip was about 10 days, and each day I would ask Moshe—is today the day we will get that Moroccan shofar? And each day, he would say, “Soon, soon—the next city we will get it.”
The trip was marvelous, but by the time we had come to the last days I still did not have my Moroccan shofar. We were arriving in Marrakesh, the remarkable city with its ancient, crenellated ramparts still intact. Again, I asked Moshe—would I get my shofar today?
No, he said, tomorrow—the final day of the journey. We were flying out the next night.
I noodged him: when exactly?
Well, machar, he said meet me tomorrow afternoon at 1pm at a specific spice store in the old city of Marrakesh.
Finally, all set, or so I thought. The next afternoon a rabbinic friend and I walked through the great square in Marrakesh, the Jemaa el-Fnaa and found the large spice store, which doubled as a kind of pharmacy. Moshe introduced us to the proprietor and then, well, disappeared. That was the first problem, since the proprietor spoke Arabic and French and I spoke English, Hebrew and some Spanish. I mimed blowing a shofar, and the man pointed to an ancient, bedraggled looking ram’s horn on a high shelf. The horn was cracked through and clearly not anything anyone could blow. I was disappointed and managed to convey the idea to him that we would be interested in other shofars—did he have any?
The guy motioned yes, and led my friend and I out of the back of the spice store to a little alley. There, seated on a Motobecane scooter, was a portly Arab man. He to spoke only Arabic and a little French. The owner of the spice store motioned for me to get on the back of the scooter. I looked at my friend, a rabbi of considerable girth himself; clearly, I was the only candidate to fit onto that scooter.
By now I was a little uncomfortable with the whole scenario. But I really wanted to get that Moroccan shofar. And so onto the back of the scooter I climbed.
We immediately took off, driving at breakneck speed through the rough stone streets and dirt alleys of the Old City of Marrakesh, dodging chickens and donkeys and pedestrians and metal rods jutting out from the walls. Gradually the streets became narrower and narrower, dirtier, and darker. I could see the headline: “Rabbi disappears on trip to Morocco. No trace is found… and no shofar, either.”
Finally, we navigated the narrowest of the alleys and came to a stop at a doorway covered by a curtain.
I hopped off the scooter and pulled open the curtain—and there on the ground in a tiny, grimy workshop, were three men making shofars and shofar boxes. It was, apparently, the last shofar maker in Morocco.
Without any shared language but the workshop foreman’s small calculator I negotiated to buy 20 of the shofars and all the completed shofar boxes they had to sell. I had never seen a shofar box made out of horn before—or any shofar box, for that matter. But I was sure the other rabbis would rush to purchase these, too. I managed to convey the name of our hotel and a time to meet, said Salaam, and went back on the Motobecane scooter for another harrowing death ride through the back alleys of the old city of Marrakesh.
The shofar-maker was as good as his word; he showed up at our hotel that evening, not long before we all had to leave the country. And the rabbis descended on him to purchase the shofarot and the shofar boxes like the locusts did in that plague in Egypt. I kept this box, and this unique Moroccan-style shofar, as a remembrance of that amazing place and experience.
You see, on this holiday of Rosh HaShanah Jews all over the world—really, all over the world—will blow shofarot and connect not only to God and to teshuvah, but also to each other, everywhere on this planet. Because on this holy day we are all one, all connected, from Marrakesh to Israel Tucson. On this Yom Teruah we are truly all one. Our melodies may be different. Our locations may be different. But we are all connected by the shofar and the religion and peoplehood we share.
May you enjoy a festival of true Teshuvah, of growth and hope and joy. And may the call of this shofar, of every shofar, bring you closer to our people of Israel.