| Author: | Efraim Kilshtock |
| Date: | Nov 5, 1993 |
| Start Page: | 16 |
| Section: | Features |
| Text Word Count: | 2073 |
A North African Jewish community and an emissary sent by Habad have influenced each other over the last 33 years.
On the eve of the Sabbath Tora portion Noah, Rabbi Nissan Pinson, dressed in his Hassidic garb, and I walked to synagogue and spoke in Hebrew, which would be perfectly natural except that it happened in Tunis.
I was going to the Tunisian capital on assignment and needed to plan how I would manage observing Shabbat and kashrut while there. I found out that the Habad movement had an emissary there, but I needed to find out how to get in touch with him. Did any run-of-the-mill Lubavitcher hassid even know of the existence of such a person? But my efforts succeeded in obtaining Pinson's telephone number.
I was warned, however, not to phone him from Israel.
On my arrival, my first call was to the Pinson family. His wife, Rahel, answered. I identified myself and said where I had come from. There was a moment of silence. Then came a rain of questions: "How did you get here? Where did you find our phone number? Are you sure you came here on an Israeli passport?"
I answered the rebbitzen's questions, but she still sounded apprehensive. She said the rabbi was in the synagogue where I could meet him, or else come to their home after evening prayers, but she preferred my meeting him at the synagogue.
I found the door to the synagogue closed. Two policemen standing outside tried to explain to me in a mixture of Arabic, French, English and sign language that I could not enter just then. I replied that I knew prayers were in progress, but they stood firm. At that point, a Jew appeared and directed me to the rear, smaller entrance.
I found 15 worshippers seated and taking in the sermon/lesson of Pinson on the Tora portion of the week. Upon my entry, all eyes were turned onto me - a young man with the knitted kippa - and after the service they crowded around me to find out who I was.
They made no effort to hide their amazement when I told them I had come from Israel using an Israeli passport.
I approached Pinson, who confirmed that his wife had told him of my call. As we walked to his home, he said I should not mention to anyone I had come from Israel. "It's not so good to say that."
Rebbitzen Rahel was waiting to see the visitor from Israel. She served refreshments, including drinks from bottles labeled Stock; people in the know realize that the contents are kosher, even with the "Made in Israel" markings removed.
Tunisian Jews predominantly live in two communities: about 1,000 in Tunis and another 1,000 on the island of Djerba, according to the chief rabbi, Haim Madar. The Jews are largely merchants and, unlike other communities in remote places, the Tunis community has a healthy mix of age groups. There are even families with children. Educating them has been the primary mission of the Pinsons.
The Pinson family arrived in Tunis in time for Pessah some 33 years ago. They had spent the previous eight years as emissaries of Lubavitcher Rebbe Menahem Mendel Schneerson in Morocco. On reaching Tunis, they set up a school, located a site and had it operating by the beginning of the school year.
At first it was only for girls, but a year later a residential yeshiva was established for about 40 boys.
In the afternoons and during summer vacations, religious studies were available for Jewish pupils attending government schools.
I visited the school, now on Palestine Street, with 80 boys and girls enrolled. They mainly study religious subjects, but the secular curriculum complies with government regulations. Classes begin at 8 a.m. with prayers and then Bible study; Hebrew is taught using the Bible. Children begin at kindergarten age and go all the way through high school.
Three of the pupils, who had been at the synagogue the evening before, recognized me as the man from Israel. I immediately became the focus of attention for all the pupils, regardless of age, who were playing in the compound during recess.
When they returned to their classrooms, the rebbitzen gave a lesson to the girls on the weekly Tora portion.
Both she and the rabbi teach religious subjects at the school and complain of not being able to keep up with the pace. "We need another couple of emissaries here to share the burden," Rahel says.
The Pinsons' tenure in Tunisia has had its ups and downs, bright spots and darkness. When their daughter's wedding took place in France, they were denied an exit permit by the authorities.
They have never visited Israel. Rabbi Pinson said he asked the Rebbe for permission to visit Israel, but he replied: "I promise you we shall go to Eretz Yisrael together with the Messiah." Pinson was so important to the Jewish community that the Rebbe refused his request, fearing that an Israeli stamp in the emissary's passport could prevent him from reentering the country.
Besides being a teacher, Pinson is the only mohel (ritual circumciser) in Tunis. Once, while visiting the Rebbe in Brooklyn, he was urgently summoned back to Tunis to perform a brit mila. He used to be the community's ritual slaughterer; now he just slaughters chickens for his family.
The community has seen a lot, particularly since Tunisia won independence in 1957. That year, the rabbinical court was abolished; in 1958, the community council was dissolved, and the Jewish quarter in Tunis was bulldozed under the guise of slum clearance.
What's more, the old cemetery in the center of the city was expropriated. Tunis Jews said they were given no choice, and they were never given compensation. A public park and a major street took its place. The authorities did, however, take great care in moving the graves to the newer Burjil Jewish cemetery outside of the town. All of the graves were moved but one, local Jews say - that of Rabbi Masoud al-Alfasi, an 18th-century chief rabbi of Tunis, kabbalist and author.
According to local legend, non-Jewish workmen were preparing to remove the grave when they heard a threatening voice warning them not to disturb its remains. Frightened, they left the grave and, instead, a mausoleum was built around it on what has become prime real estate downtown.
The keys to the mausoleum are kept by the Jewish community. I visited with the son of Chief Rabbi Madar. Fourteen-year-old Rafael lives in Djerba, and his father commutes between the two communities. He said it was the first time he'd been to the mausoleum.
One grave at the Burjil cemetery - that of the 19th-century kabbalist Hai Tayyib - has a special power over Tunisians. The headstone has been blackened over the years by candles placed before it by Jews, but Moslems, who recognize the rabbi's greatness, have also been known to worship there.
Generally, the condition of graves at the Burjil cemetery, whether those originally there or those moved from the old graveyard, has been deteriorating as the sandy ground beneath them settles and shifts. But help is on the way: a $150,000 contribution has been made from the president himself, Gen. Zine el-Abidine Ben Ali, according to the chief rabbi, who also noted that the president has sought to protect the Jews.
Rahel and Nissan Pinson were born in Russia and went through years of suffering. Rahel's father was a mohel and secret teacher of Tora, but was caught by the authorities and whisked away to imprisonment when Rahel was a little child; his fate was never known. Rahel grew up with her mother and two sisters in very difficult conditions, but they never stopped preaching Tora and Judaism.
Reb Nissan studied in an "underground" Lubavitch yeshiva with three other young men who together hired a teacher. When their studies were completed, they set up a Lubavitch yeshiva in Samarkand, together with Rabbi Mendel Futterfass, now the mashpia (mentor or spiritual counselor) at the yeshiva in Kfar Habad. They later fled the Soviet Union after World War II to Germany. There, too, they established a yeshiva and two years later moved to France, where they obtained immigration visas to the US. From there, on orders of the Rebbe, Pinson set out for Morocco in 1952.
In Tunis, the family lives in a small, well-kept, tastefully-furnished apartment in the center of town. The visage of the Rebbe looks down at us from his portrait in every corner.
About two hours before the Sabbath, as I chatted with the Pinsons, there was a phone call from Nice, France, with a request from a woman for the rabbi to look into the condition of her elderly father who lives in Tunis, and to examine the possibility of moving him to a home for the aged.
The rebbitzen lights the Sabbath candles, mentioning the special occasion of Rosh Hodesh, the start of a new Jewish month, and the visit of a guest from Israel. We then all proceed to the synagogue at the Habad school.
On the Sabbath, there are five congregations throughout town, in addition to that in the 500-seat Great Synagogue. Actually, services are only held in the Great Synagogue, a modern structure, for holidays; otherwise, services are held in a small room at the rear because the turnout is low.
In the street, I could not help but notice the glances of passersby at the Jewish man in strange garb. But this Eastern European is not out of place in the community, certainly not after 33 years of service. He follows the customs of Tunisian Jews. Sephardi prayer books are used by the Habad school minyan.
Rahel even prepares Tunisian-style couscous for Sabbath meals, highlighting the family's full integration in local customs.
At the school, the rabbi surprised me by asking if I wanted to use the mikve (ritual bath) before the Sabbath. I asked where it was. In response, he opened a door behind the restroom to reveal a fully equipped Habad-style mikve.
The condition of the ritual baths in Tunis and Djerba had deteriorated over the years, and the local rabbis had decided to renovate them. They have indeed been repaired in recent years, some being completely rebuilt.
At the moment, two mikvaot are in regular use in Tunis, one at the Great Synagogue and the other hidden at the Habad school. It was the first time the rabbi had revealed the mikve to somebody from outside the community.
The Jews' caution is a relic from more difficult times: In the late 1950s the authorities destroyed their homes and their cemetery; in 1967 Moslems burned down the matza factory and the former Great Synagogue, and destroyed Tora scrolls.
The Friday evening service was attended by some 20 men, some accompanied by small children. Their prayers and the atmosphere reminded me of that in any Jerusalem neighborhood synagogue.
After the service, worshippers again crowded around me, all proudly proclaiming they had relatives in Israel, some mentioning towns and some citing exact addresses.
The Pinson family invited me to Friday night dinner, wonderfully prepared by the rebbitzen despite all the local problems in maintaining kashrut. The hallot were homebaked; there was no beef, but chicken was served. Other kosher products are sometimes brought by their grown children who occasionally visit from France.
During the week, the main meals are usually of fish.
At the Sabbath table, the Pinsons sang Habad melodies, and the rebbitzen asked whether I had any requests. I asked: "Can we have 'Mashiah?' " But they had never heard the song, popularized by Hassidic singer Mordechai Ben-David, a song which, in Israeli minds, is so closely associated with the Lubavitch movement. So I taught it to them. The rebbitzen suggested teaching it to the local children, and the rabbi immediately agreed.
When I took my leave on Saturday night, it was hard for us to part. I left a little souvenir, a picture of the priestly blessing being bestowed at the Western Wall. They asked me what it was. The innocent question shocked me into silence for a moment. Then I understood how far away from us the Pinson family is, and at the same time how great are their deeds.
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