It would be an exaggeration to say that without Morocco there would be no Judaism, as well as a stretch to say that without Jews there would be no Morocco. But both would look completely different than they do today were it not for a partnership that saw two peoples working together to reach heights that they may not have achieved on their own. And here in Marrakech, that is perhaps easier to see than anywhere else.
Marrakech is Morocco’s tourism hub, with sights – incredible sights – that beckon visitors. The incredible design of the Bahia Palace and Saadian Tombs, the beauty of the Marjorelle Garden, the imposing minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque, and the sensory overload of the Jemaa el-Fnaa square gather tourists in their thousands. And rightfully so. If any of these things interest you – and honestly, as a curious traveler, they probably all should – you should absolutely see them.
But just outside the gates of the Bahia Palace, and adjacent to the gates of the former Badi Royal Palace, sits a different Marrakech, one no less important to the history of this city and this country. This is the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter.
Today’s Mellah is mainly a low-income Arab neighborhood, one where damage from the city’s devastating 2023 earthquake is still in evidence everywhere, with many buildings in ruin, or at least very much in danger of being so. This is a neighborhood of narrow streets and alleys, of small shops and tiny cafes. As I walk through, a man on a motorcycle points down one especially narrow alleyway. “Synagogue this way,” he calls to me. Apparently that is the only reason a visitor like me would be in such a neighborhood. He is right, but I have a moment of sadness at that fact as I walk past Marrakech’s poor and their earthquake-cracked homes.
My destination is as the man guessed: the Slat al-Azama synagogue. The name is Arabic, meaning “those who ran away from Spain,” and that is where our story begins.
After the Romans destroyed the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 CE, the Jews of the Kingdom of Israel scattered throughout the Empire. Some ended up in Morocco, where evidence of Jewish ritual life actually dates back that far. After the Arab conquest of North Africa, Jews made up the primary religious minority in the region, as Christians left for European countries. When the Arabs conquered the Iberian Peninsula, Jews moved to what is now Spain and Portugal. Cordova, Toledo, and Seville would see huge (for the period) Jewish communities for centuries, with corresponding thriving on the Moroccan side of the empire. (Fes, especially, had a large community from the 11th to 13th centuries.)
By the middle of the 13th century, the Catholic reconquista of the Iberian Peninsula was in full swing. Jews from the reconquered cities like Toledo and Seville would leave for Cordova, or even cross over to Morocco. Morocco at the time was ruled by the Marinid dynasty, who had their capital in Marrakech after capturing the city in 1269. So Jews gathered here, enticed by the tolerance of the Marinid rulers.
The reconquista officially finished with the Spanish capture of Granada in 1492, and almost immediately following, Jews in Spain were ordered to either convert to Catholicism or leave. A subsequent decree in Portugal in 1496 meant all Jews on the Iberian Peninsula were forced out. Many followed here to Marrakech. (The 16th century establishing of the Inquisition to root out Jews who had converted but still practiced Judaism in secret led to a third wave of immigration to Morocco.)
These Jews were highly educated, and over the next several decades, a huge portion of Morocco’s merchant class (especially dealing in precious metals and gemstones) was made up of Jews, as well as a large percentage of doctors and scientists. The famed Jewish scholar Maimonides lived and taught in Fes after fleeing Cordova. The Moroccan rulers credited Jewish community members for their assistance in setting up trade networks, universities, and hospitals, even going so far as to ensure that Jews congregated in areas near to royal palaces. One of those areas is the Mellah of Marrakech, situated just outside of the Badi Palace, now a ruin, from which Morocco was governed for more than a century.
The Slat al-Azama synagogue was established in 1492, the year of the expulsion of Jews from Spain, hence the name. The physical building dates to the mid-16th century (the Mellah itself was created by decree in 1557, so it is likely around then), although its current form is from a 20th century restoration. It is one of two synagogues currently in use in the Mellah of Marrakech, the remnant of what was once nearly two dozen. A small 10 dirham (just over a dollar) ticket gains entry to the synagogue and its several room museum.
The building models a private Moroccan home, and probably originally was one, with a central interior courtyard providing light and air for the two floors of rooms around its sides. The sanctuary occupies one side of the ground floor (with the women’s section on a balcony accessible from the second story). Those familiar with the layout of synagogues will immediately notice one major difference here: chairs face each other, not the ark (where the Torahs are kept) or the lectern where the rabbi stands. To me, this is a nice touch, a feeling of community for what is now a small congregation, their experience made more to share with each other.
Photographs and artifacts line the walls and sit in display cases in some of the other rooms, telling the story of the community and of Jewish life in Morocco. It is a reminder that this community was one of the largest in the world as recently as the 1940s, a stark contrast to the events ravaging Jewish communities elsewhere at the time.
Jewish life in Morocco was a constant from Marinid times, through subsequent dynasties under the Saadians and the Alawites, who have ruled Morocco from 1631 to today. In Marrakech, that community reached a height of more than 40,000 by the 1930s. During World War Two, Morocco was a French protectorate (which lasted from 1912 to 1956), and the Vichy government in France asked Moroccan King Mohamed V how many Jews there were in his country, as they partnered with the Nazis to deport those in Vichy France even before being asked to do so. The king was said to have responded, “I don’t have Jews. I have Moroccan citizens.” Thus the Jewish community of Morocco was protected.
Even after the overwhelming majority of the Moroccan Jewish community left for Israel in the 1950s, Jewish sites continued to be protected. Just down the street from the Slat al-Azama synagogue is Marrakech’s Jewish cemetery, which has been in constant use from its inception in the 15th century to now. (It is possible that Jewish burials here even predate the official establishment of the cemetery.) It contains more than 20,000 graves, many of which are unmarked and have been whitewashed over for protection from the sun and sand, lending a unique feeling of purity and sacred holiness.
Notable rabbis have larger mausoleums, standing out among the community they served.
As with the synagogue, the Jewish cemetery of Marrakech is protected 24 hours a day by a guard, and maintained by money from entrance fees (another 10 dirhams for admission here) and from the Moroccan government itself.
In 2016, the current Moroccan king, Mohamed VI, grandson of King Mohamed V, allotted $20 million (yes, dollars) for restoration of the Mellah of Marrakech. Similar funds have been set up in Fes and other parts of Morocco, and a new Jewish museum is even opening in Fes in late 2025 or early 2026, celebrating the history of the Jews of Morocco and the contributions they made to the country. The timing of this is remarkable given that Morocco did not even have diplomatic relations with Israel until 2020.
Today, the Jewish community of Marrakech only numbers about 150. But they are here, and their numbers are bolstered by a large Jewish tourism segment, those who descend from the Jews who once lived here, as well as those who – like me – just want to honor those who did. (And let’s face it: with how many centuries Jews flourished here in Morocco, many of us probably have ancestors who were once here, even if they are too far back to trace.)
My visit ends with the purchase of a couple of items in the gift shop at Slat al-Azama. As I hand over some money for a copper mezuzah (to mark the doorways of a Jewish home) made here by the community, the man working here puts a shofar (a musical instrument made from a ram’s horn) to his lips, blowing the series of four different calls Jews use to mark the new year on Rosh Hashana. I am moved nearly to tears.
Yes, Jews would exist without Morocco, and Morocco would be here without the Jews. But neither of us would be the same. Without each other, without a partnership forged over centuries, one that even continues today, we would both be weaker. Together, we can celebrate what we have accomplished, here in Marrakech and across this incredible country.
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