Saharan Jews and the Fate of French Algeria

SARAH ABREVAYA STEIN is professor of history and the Maurice Amado Chair in Sephardic Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles. She is the author of Plumes: Ostrich Feathers, Jews, and a Lost World of Global Commerce and Making Jews Modern: The Yiddish and Ladino Press in the Russian and Ottoman Empires, and coeditor of A Jewish Voice from Ottoman Salonica: The Ladino Memoir of Sa’adi Besalel a-Levi and Sephardi Lives: A Documentary History, 1700–1950.

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2014 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. Published 2014.

Printed in the United States of America

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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-12360-8 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-12374-5 (paper)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-12388-2 (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226123882.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stein, Sarah Abrevaya, author.

Saharan Jews and the fate of French Algeria / Sarah Abrevaya Stein.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-226-12360-8 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-226-12374-5 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-226-12388-2 (e-book)

1. Jews—Algeria—History.   2. Mzab (Algeria)—History.   3. France—Colonies—Africa.   I. Title.

DS135.A3S74 2014

305.892'406509—dc23

2013031365

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48–1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Saharan Jews and the Fate of French Algeria

SARAH ABREVAYA STEIN

The University of Chicago Press

Chicago and London

In memory of Hans Anthony Zimmerman (1984–2012), gentle soul, dexterous mind, brave inhabitant of an unjust body.

Contents

Note on Translation and Transliteration

Prologue: The Lost Archive

Introduction: Inventing Indigeneity

1. Anthropology and the Ghost of the Colonial Past

2. Jews Northern and Southern: The French Annexation of the Mzab and the Boundaries of Colonial Law

3. Governing Typologies: From the Conquest of the Mzab to the Touggourt/Dreyfus Affair

4. Contested Access: Conscription, Public Health, and Education from the Fin de Siècle through the Interwar Period

5. Saharan Battlegrounds: From the Vichy Regime to a Postwar World

6. Oil, the Algerian War of Independence, and Competing Stories of Departure

Conclusion: Colonial Shadows

Epilogue: Dark Matter

Acknowledgments

Abbreviations of Archival and Library Collections

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Note on Translation and Transliteration

In North Africa, as elsewhere, Jews, like Muslims, were known by their first name and the name of their father (e.g., Meriem bent Lalou) and did not bear a patronymic—until the state dictated otherwise. In 1961, France required southern Algerian Jews who wished to acquire French nationality to assume a patronymic and fix the spelling of their name, at which point, as we shall see, the choice and spelling of names became politicized for the individuals involved. Earlier archival sources transliterate southern Algerian names into French variously, sometimes spelling a person’s name in multiple forms in the course of a single document. Upon these names I have imposed standardization through transliteration, while tending to remain faithful to the sources. In the interest of maintaining constancy with my source material, I employ colonial-era place names, offering contemporary names or spelling in brackets at first usage (e.g., Géryville [El Bayadh]). Transliterations from Arabic hew to the guidelines of the International Journal of Middle East Studies, without diacritics. Transliterations from Hebrew and Yiddish employ the relevant Library of Congress system, also without diacritics.

All translations are my own unless otherwise mentioned.

Prologue: The Lost Archive

In December 1961, amidst the bloody dénouement of the Algerian war of independence (1954–1962), Algeria’s governor-general directed assistant district commissioner of Ghardaïa Jean Moriaz to create, retroactively, a civil register for the Jews of the Mzab, a valley of five fortified oasis cities in the north of the Algerian Sahara, six hundred kilometers south of Algiers.¹ The register would document the births and deaths of all living Jews born in the Mzab, enabling them—according to a law of June 1961—to acquire French citizenship and join the flow of roughly 140,000 northern Algerian Jews, one million pieds-noirs [Algerians of European descent], and a hundred thousand harkis [Muslim Algerians who had fought on the side of the French during the Algerian war of independence] fleeing a soon-to-be sovereign Algeria for France. This register was designed to undo eighty years of legal precedent by which the Jews of the Algerian Sahara were denied the rights and privileges granted northern Algerian Jews.

With the passage of the Crémieux decree in 1870, the French state granted Jews in the northern departments of Algeria French citizenship forty years after the colonization of Algeria began. But in the military-ruled Southern Territories, which existed as an administrative entity from 1902 to 1957, Jews, like Muslims throughout Algeria, were categorized as indigènes [indigenous subjects] and were subject to local civil status laws, with their political rights radically curtailed.² These laws recognized the legitimacy of Qurʾanic, Berber, Mozabite, or Mosaic laws and institutions in matters pertaining to marriage, divorce, paternity, and inheritance, and assigned a qadi, a Muslim jurist or, in Algeria’s Southern Territories, a rabbi, authority to oversee related legal matters, including the maintenance of communal ledgers (see figure 1).

Fig. 1   A rabbi from Ghardaïa stands before his city, c. 1930. French military rule in the Southern Territories of Algeria assigned Ghardaïa’s rabbis the authority to conduct and register communal births, marriages, and divorces. Photograph by Marian O’Conner. © Royal Geographical Society (with IBG).

With the application of Mosaic personal status laws in Algeria’s Southern Territories, the several thousand Jews who lived in this region became, over eighty years of French colonial rule, the only Jews in Algeria, France, or North Africa to live for an extended period under military rule rather than civilian rule or protectorate status, simultaneously beholden to rabbinical law and military authority.³ This Jewish community was also the only Jewish community across the colonial world systematically constrained in its access to a culture of legal pluralism—that is, to a culture of multiple, decentralized legal orders.⁴ Jews in the Mzab, unlike Jews elsewhere in North Africa and the Middle East, had no opportunity to earn the protection of foreign powers, to acquire standing as foreign nationals or extraterritorial subjects, or to serve the colonial administration, as did Jews elsewhere in North Africa and the Middle East, even if they did have access both to Muslim and colonial courts for civil matters. When France granted southern Algerian Jews French citizenship with common civil status in June 1961, it was meant to undo these realities, but it could not undermine the historic trend of legal differentiation.

Charged with the task of retroactively assembling a civil registry of Mzabi Jews, Jean Moriaz sought the aid of a distinguished member of the Jewish community, Hayim Partouche. In Moriaz’s home, the pair conferred with the patriarchs of Ghardaïa’s extant Jewish households and consulted rabbinical registries dating to 1898, conducting their conversations in the dark of night so as to operate discreetly. Based upon these efforts, Moriaz and Partouche assembled a list of 2,437 names. The list was completed but a few months before the remaining, roughly one thousand Jews of Ghardaïa would be repatriated to France. Weeks later, Algeria was declared a sovereign nation.

Moriaz’s list and the rabbinical registries upon which it was based were deposited with the municipality of Ghardaïa. But the information these sources contained was never more crucial for the French state. Preoccupied with control over the future writing of the Algerian past, the French had articulated a determination to repatriate Algeria’s archives as well as its European citizens.⁵ Mzabi Jews had been declared French, but the production of paperwork attending their naturalization as citizens prone to common law had been hurried and partial. Without complete information, the state could not reward these newly minted French citizens with the legal status, rights, and official papers to which they had become entitled, and this, in turn, risked muddying the central binary of European/Muslim upon which a decolonizing France was coming to insist.

Alas the government found it was lacking the necessary paperwork. Jean Moriaz had abandoned his retroactive registry when he left southern Algeria: and, in the context of a newly independent Algeria, the retention of archival material by Ghardaïa’s municipality served as a complex gesture of independence. Despite repeated demands by the French, the municipality of Ghardaïa refused to relinquish either the documents or microfilmed copies of them. The French Ministry of Justice implored Moriaz to rewrite his register a third time, but his existing notes, carried to France, were found to be irremediably lacking. Faced with lacunae of documentation, French officials and Jews of southern Algerian origin would for years struggle at the legal interstices of colonial and postcolonial law.

This book is about the way in which the notion of legal difference comes to be invented and maintained. It considers how, over roughly eighty years of colonialism and decolonization in the Algerian Sahara, a community of Jews was imagined and configured (by the French state and military, by social scientists, by northern Algerian Jews, and by international Jewish philanthropies based in France, Israel, Britain, and the United States) as anachronistic, as indigenous, as subjects of Mosaic Personal Law, as a lost tribe, as a human isolate, as a swarm of synagogue bugs, as the only shtetl dwellers in a post-Holocaust world, as a cause célèbre, as French citizens, and as pieds-noirs. It explores how members of this community experienced and negotiated the categories imposed upon them, particularly in dialogue with the military regime that oversaw Algeria’s Southern Territories. In the pages that follow, I tell the story of a group of Jews whose difference from Jews elsewhere and from their non-Jewish neighbors was legislated into reality by the French military regime in southern Algeria and was subsequently mistaken for innate by generations of social scientists, whose writing in turn legitimated policy shifts that dictated the legal fate of Mzabi Jewry. The so-called indigeneity of Mzabi Jewry, which was essentially colonial and juridical in formulation, continued to haunt France, Mzabi Jewish émigrés, and scholarship on modern Jewry long after Algeria became a sovereign nation and France entered the postcolonial world.

Documents are ignored and sought, left behind and hoarded, rewritten and remembered, buried and plagiarized. Historians are famously obsessed with the documents they find: in writing this book, I have been equally motivated by documents that are missing. It is in fact these absent documents that left me weighing confounding questions. How did state-sanctioned rabbinical registries—which find few parallels in the modern world—come to exist in the Mzab Valley? Why should the Algerian war of independence so dramatically alter the status of a Jewish communal ledger, warranting the state-sponsored fabrication of a civil register? What might these elusive sources tell us about Saharan Jewry, about the veracity or fallacy of the difference that colonial law assigned the peoples of North Africa, or about the complex ways in which Jews in North Africa experienced decolonization? Finally, obsessively: could these missing sources be found?

These questions have traveled with me to some thirty libraries and archives in Algeria, France, Britain, Israel, Italy, and the United States, where I have focused primarily on French, English, and, to a lesser extent, Hebrew-language sources (surprisingly, my knowledge of Yiddish also came into play), seeking additional help with sources in Arabic and an oral narrative in Tumzabt [the dialect of Berber spoken in the Mzab]. The resulting voices have led me to weave the following story—less the history of a single, seemingly isolated community than a rumination on how legal difference is concocted, and on why its meaning and global relevance are perceived, variously, to shift with time.

INTRODUCTION

Inventing Indigeneity

Named a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1982, the Mzab Valley, located some six hundred kilometers south of Algiers, in the north of the Algerian Sahara, and in the northeast of the Great Western Erg [Grand Erg Occidental], consists of five fortified oasis cities (ksours)—Ghardaïa, Melika, El-Ateuf, Beni-Isguen, and Bou Noura—built by Ibadites (Sunnite Muslims of the Ibadite rite, or Al-Ibadiyah) in the tenth century (see map 1). Berberophone Ibadites dwelt in the valley since at least the eighth century, but their numbers were greatly augmented when greater numbers settled in the Mzab after fleeing persecution at the hands of an expansionist Fatimid dynasty.¹ The resulting five fortified towns were ordered according to strict architectural principles meant to ensure the protection of their inhabitants. Each was organized around concentric circles of streets that emanated outward from a mosque to ramparts surrounding the hilltop city; beyond each of the town’s boundaries was a summer citadel, a palm grove, a cemetery, and an additional mosque.² Still today the cities of the Mzab Valley remain recognizable for their sinuous white, pink, and red architecture—including distinctive pyramidal mosques constructed of gypsum, sand, and clay—and have attracted luminary architects since the nineteenth century, among them Le Corbusier. The architectural distinctiveness of the Mzab proved one reason the region earned UNESCO’s competitive appellation.³

Though the Mzab would remain majority Ibadite for some ten centuries, the valley was long home to other groups as well. Many of these people—non-Ibadite, Arabophone Muslims, Jews, members of the Chaamba (Shaʾanba) confederacy, Sudanese slaves and their descendants, Tuareg, Larba—passed through, settled in, or were forcibly brought to the Mzab because it was situated on historic trading routes that connected the valley intra- and extra-regionally, facilitating the exchange of goods within the Sahara, between the Sahara and the Tell [or Tell Atlas, the mountain range that stretches across Morocco and Algeria], and on an east-west trajectory, linking the Mzab to Morocco, Tunisia, and the eastern Sahara.⁴ Commercial flows between these areas relied on four trans-Saharan caravan routes, two of which converged at Ghardaïa, making this town a significant entrepôt.⁵ Dates and woven woolen products were the most important exports of the valley, with dates grown in a tenth-century palm garden (in the Tuwat it was known as al-Janna, in French, as the palmérie) situated a few short kilometers from the town center. This grove was irrigated by a centuries-old system that channeled rare floodwaters from the Oued Mzab, allocating it carefully through town and to the date palm gardens, storing the water, also, in deep wells near by.

Map 1   The Mzab Valley, c. 1883. Map by Bill Nelson.

Arabophone (and likely bilingual Berberophone) Jewish communities have lived in the Sahara since the medieval period.⁶ Concentrated in the northern portion of the Algerian Sahara, in eastern Libya, and in southeastern Morocco, Saharan Jewish communities were historically connected by commerce and culture, by migratory waves, and by the exchange of religious texts and practices—though, as we shall see, the incursion of colonial boundaries and law often served to divide them along novel lines. For centuries, Jewish merchants, peddlers, and religious emissaries traveled through the Sahara, utilizing trading routes that stretched both south to north and east to west and which served to connect Saharan oases with one another, with entrepôts in western, sub-Saharan, and eastern Africa, and with northern Mediterranean centers.⁷ Some of those Mzabi Jews who participated in trans-Saharan caravan commerce helped fill niches as artisans or conveyors of henna, ostrich eggs, and ostrich feathers. Others were engaged in cultural exchange, as was the chief rabbi of Ghardaïa, Haroun ben Khalfallah, who died of typhoid while traveling home by caravan in 1899.⁸ To call these Jews—or indeed, the region itself—Algerian before the period of French conquest is a misnomer yet very nearly unavoidable: such is the all but unshakable imprint that colonial (and, subsequently, national) boundaries place upon the historical imagination.⁹

Sources do not agree on whence, when, and why Jews arrived in southern Algeria, or to the town of Ghardaïa, where they came to be demographically concentrated.¹⁰ The most plausible theory is that the Jewish settlement of the Mzab dates to the fourteenth century, at which time a small number of Jewish families from the Tunisian island of Jerba were brought to Ghardaïa by its Ibadite leadership in order to serve as metal workers and jewelry makers. This community was supplemented in the fifteenth century by the immigration of Jews from Tuwat [Tamentit] after the outbreak of anti-Jewish sentiment and violence in that historically very Jewish center and was likely bolstered further by the arrival of Jews from Jerba, whose Ibadite community was linked to the Mzab through a network of satellite communities that stretched from Libya to Algeria.¹¹ Jews continued to be well represented in these professions into the twentieth century, though they also served as shop owners, tanners, wool carders, cobblers, and weapon repairers, as well as in various other artisanal capacities.¹² (In the late nineteenth century, a middle and upper class began to form in the community, including Jewish families that amassed considerable wealth.) The first generation of Mzabi Jews remained and proliferated, and the community was supplemented through various modest waves of immigration. As a result, the Jews of Ghardaïa were a socially heterogeneous, if compact, community, whose members could rightly point to various origins. By 1908 there were roughly twelve hundred Jewish residents in town, representing one-eighth of the total population. Additional, smaller pockets of Jews lived in neighboring Metlili and Guerrera. By 1949 the community had grown to just over sixteen hundred, while the percentage of Jews relative to the overall population had shrunk to one-fifteenth. Significantly, though Jews were a minority in these Sarahan localities, there was an unceasing Jewish presence in the Mzab Valley for some six centuries. Thus while it is narrowly true that in the aggregate, Saharan Jews moved from one place to another when patron-client relations changed and religious tolerance decreased such that Saharan Jews were not fixed to any Saharan space, in Ghardaïa specifically, as in the Mzab Valley more generally, the Jewish presence was unusually long lived and continuous (see figure 2).¹³

Fig. 2   Jewish men, women, and children in the Jewish neighborhood of Ghardaïa. Stereoscopic photograph, c. 1900. The street is typical of the cities of the Mzab Valley, while the children’s and adults’ clothing and headgear would have helped to mark them as Jews. Courtesy of the Centre culturel et de documentation saharienne, Ghardaïa.

Difference, Normativity, and Narrative

Due to the strategic priorities of the French colonial regime and military, as well as to the asymmetric systems of rule erected over Algeria’s north and south, the small Jewish community of southern Algeria came to be deemed marginal to France, Algeria, and the mainstream of Algerian Jewry over eighty years of French military rule in the Sahara. Generations of anthropologists viewed this community as culturally calcified, unmoored from political context and time. Even northern Algerian Jews spoke of the thick wall that separated Mzabi Jewry from Jewish communities elsewhere.¹⁴ Today, to the extent to which Saharan Jews are remembered at all, they are presented as exotic outliers—a forgotten Jewish tribe. How does a historian insist upon the importance of a story that has been deemed tangential by so many for so long?

In this book, I argue that the perceived marginality of southern Algerian Jewry was not a historical given but, rather, a product of eighty years of French colonial law and military policy in the Sahara. I suggest, further, that though the Jewish population of the Algerian Sahara was always a small one, demographically dwarfed by the various coastal communities to which scholars have typically paid greater heed, their importance to the history of Algeria, of North Africa, of Jewish history, and of colonialism far exceeds what numbers might imply.¹⁵ A history of southern Algerian Jewry does not merely flesh out the story of colonial Algerian or North African Jewry, supplementing a historical record that has thus far been incomplete. More ambitiously, the case of Mzabi Jewry offers four important and intertwined lessons about Jews’ relationship to imperialism and decolonization in North Africa and the Middle East; the nature of colonial rule in Algeria; the importance of regionality as a dimension of colonial history; and, finally, the complexity of legal typologies in the colonial and postcolonial world.

It recently has been suggested that the naturalization of Algeria’s Jews as French citizens hewed to a logic that justified the exclusion of Muslims from the French body politic.¹⁶ This was certainly true for Algeria’s Jewish majority. And yet, for a minority of Algeria’s Jews, Jew and Muslim were not inverted legal categories, nor subject populations who were consistently kept at bay from one another. The first insight afforded by a history of Algeria’s southern Jewish population is that colonialism could dictate that certain Jews were viewed and treated, legally speaking, rather more like Muslims than Jews elsewhere, with the result that on a quotidian basis, they were more closely entangled with Muslims than with other Algerian Jews. This conclusion speaks to the hazards of approaching Jewish history as a discrete, homogenous, or natural field, and, conversely, points to the necessity of writing entangled histories of Algeria’s Jewish and Muslim residents.¹⁷

Though colonial law segmented southern Algerian Jewry off from northern Algerian Jewry, the Jews of the Mzab were not alone in the difference colonial jurisprudence ascribed to them. Indeed, the case of southern Algerian Jewry provides evidence of yet another variation of colonial rule that was produced as the French authorities sought—sometimes methodically, sometimes with frantic desperation—to achieve mastery over and control of their diverse subject populations in North Africa.¹⁸ This provides evidence of the technologies of rule that Ann Laura Stoler has labeled imperial formations—macropolities that thrive on the production of exceptions and their uneven and changing proliferation . . . scaled genres of rule that produce and count on different degrees of sovereignty and gradations of rights.¹⁹ In so far as it documents the unfolding of one such genre of rule in southern Algeria, this book should be perceived less as a story of Jewish exceptionalism than as further documentation of the creative (though hardly logical or humane) manner in which colonial authorities imposed power upon individuals and their communities.²⁰

My second, interrelated point pertains to the nature of French colonial rule in North Africa and the relationship between Jews and colonialism more generally. Much scholarship on Algerian Jewry has valorized Algerian Jews’ relationship to France, on the one hand, and imperialism as an institution, on the other: accepting, to various degrees, the French republican premise that an affiliation with France afforded rights and opportunities to Algerian Jewry—positing, even, that Algerian Jews were subject to a soft form of colonialism.²¹ The case of Mzabi Jewry indicates that Algerian Jews were not, as a group, favored by colonial rule. French military and colonial officials disaggregated Algeria’s Jewish population, creating a legal hierarchy within it, and situating some Jews (e.g., those from the south) on a par with Muslims, who were also labeled indigènes. What’s more, Algerian Jews did not always fall on the European or French (that is, broadly speaking, the advantaged) side of a French/indigènes, or, ultimately, European/Muslim binary. Indeed, some Algerian Jews officially remained indigènes late into the twentieth century—even if the French state reversed their legal status in the course of decolonization. This revelation has broad consequences. Attending to southern Algerian Jewish history presents an ideal opportunity to write colonialism and decolonization into Jewish history, working against the prevailing historiographic trend of viewing these crucial historical phenomena as irrelevant to modern Jewish lives.²²

The third point is that the case of southern Algerian Jewry forces us to return with fresh eyes to certain colonial typologies that have long since been discredited as analytically simplistic, including, notably, the ubiquitous binary of east-west. A North African Jew was among the first to illustrate this binary, using it to offer a lasting critique of colonialism. Writing in Paris as early as the 1950s, when his native Tunisia was still under French colonial rule, Albert Memmi drew upon his own history as a Jewish man coming of age in French Tunisia to articulate his feelings of being minoritarian, to meditate on various relationships of dominance generated by colonialism, and to explore the condition of being a Jew—a condition he termed judéité.²³ Memmi’s early writings offered crucial concepts and terminology that would come to characterize colonial and postcolonial studies over the ensuing decades, decades in which (thanks especially to Edward Said’s 1979 masterpiece, Orientalism) the east-west binary was granted an almost iconic stature.²⁴

In recent decades, a tremendous wealth of scholarship has muddied the binary of east-west (and with it the associated binary of colony/metropole), such that further critique of these dyads could scarcely seem to warrant attention. It is nonetheless striking that for southern Algerian Jews, the crucial legal duality was not east-west but south-north. This was not a reproduction (or a mere pivoting) of the east-west binary that was traditionally thought to delineate Orient from Occident, for the differences between southern Jews and northern Jews that were legislated into reality in Algeria did not reproduce dichotomies that existed elsewhere in the colonial world, or, for that matter, other regions under French control (notably, Tunisia or Morocco). From the perspective of Jewish history, the division of Algeria into two regional, administrative, and legal zones created new sets of legal binaries and parallels that lacked contemporary peer or model. What is required of the current scholarship is to restore regionality as a genuine feature of colonial North African and of Jewish histories.

To be sure, various lines of regional differentiation crosscut Algerian Jewry. The Jews of eastern Algeria—especially of Constantine and the communities that bordered it—were more traditional than the communities of Algiers and Oran to the west, for these western cities had absorbed various waves of Jewish immigration and hence were more fluid in nature. Northern Algerian Jewry as a whole, meanwhile, was itself divided along a north-south axis, with certain Jewish communities that could be deemed southern by cultural or topographical metrics falling on the northern side of the administrative border that divided the departments of Algeria from the Southern Territories. In its internal complexity, Algerian Jewry was akin to Maghribi Jewry writ large. In Morocco and Tunisia, where Jews were also characterized as indigenous under French protectorate rule, rural Jewish communities in the Atlas Mountains and Sahara (in the Moroccan case) and in Jerba and adjoining satellite communities (in the Tunisian) diverged in crucial respects from urban coastal communities to the north and northwest (respectively).²⁵ This litany of intra-regional difference could easily be extended and nuanced, but the essential point remains. To speak of the legal division between northern and southern Jews in Algeria is not to privilege one regional demarcation above others, but, rather, to draw attention to the dizzying multiplicity that belied tidy colonial classification, and that continues to defy neat historical categorization.

Withdrawing our focus yet further, the case of Mzabi Jewry offers evidence of the dizzying forms of legal pluralism so ubiquitous to the modern world.²⁶ Jews in Algeria’s south were not privy to the breadth of extraterritorial relationships upon which Jews in Tunisia, Morocco, or northern Algeria had so long depended, though they could, as we shall see, engage in legal forum shopping by having their civil cases adjudicated in both Muslim courts and courts of the state.²⁷ The fungible categories, institutions, and legal system that France imposed on Algeria’s Southern Territories were internally hybrid: a motley mix of jurisprudence inherited from the Ottoman period, of legal norms that were put in place in northern Algeria in the immediate aftermath of conquest (but which were not necessarily long retained in that region), of Jewish law (at least in so far as colonial and military officials understood it), of the Algerian Muslim juridical system (itself far from singular), and of French legal codes that guided the treatment of Jews in Algeria’s north. No one of these systems provided strict legal precedent for the governor-general of Algeria and French military commands in Ghardaïa as they shaped a legal superstructure for Mzabi Jewry. Instead, these intersecting legal models were impressionistic sources of inspiration that could be strategically borrowed from, tinkered with, or ignored as the authorities and their legal counsel saw fit.

In one sense, this system allowed Mzabi Jews less pushback than it afforded Muslims. As Allan Christelow has demonstrated, the French colonial state’s creation and oversight of Muslim law courts in Algeria created a class of qadis who were beholden to the regime—and who also, paradoxically, served to legitimize Islam as a source of anticolonial resistance.²⁸ No such parallel existed for Jewish leadership in Algeria’s Southern Territories. They were was too small in number, weak in authority, and bereft of peer group to mimic Algeria’s qadis. At the same time, as early as the immediate aftermath of the extension of French rule to the Mzab, and for the ensuing eight decades of the colonial period, individual Mzabi Jews and groups of them found ways to test the elasticity and limits of the laws imposed upon them, especially through the submission of countless petitions and appeals to the authorities. As they jockeyed with French functionaries—who themselves were often bewildered by a confusing and imprecise legal and administrative landscape—these Jews proved that colonial law and classifications were neither abstractions nor distant administrative realities. These were things one lived with, evaded, was pinioned by, and challenged. These were things that were often misunderstood and constantly changing. Most importantly of all, these were things that found expression in concrete, everyday aspects of life: influencing where one lived, shopped, and worked; where one’s children were educated and treated in cases of medical emergency; whether one could travel to a neighboring town, to another part of Algeria, or abroad; who could oversee one’s marriage or divorce; how one could express one’s political voice. Colonial laws and classification were tangible and lived, the stuff of cultural as much as administrative history.

Lloyd Cabot Briggs and Norina Lami Guède [née Maria Esterina Giovanni], authors of an influential 1963 ethnography on the Jews of Ghardaïa, believed that this population had, by the late 1950s and early 1960s, gradually become extremely inbred both physically and intellectually, and had developed in consequence eccentric characteristics as is usual in very old communities that are both socially and biologically isolated and numerically very small and stable. They saw this population as about as neat and tidy a human isolate as one could hope to find in the entire world.²⁹ This book paints a radically different picture. It presents a history of southern Algerian Jewries that courses with the central dramas, tensions, and events of the twentieth century, and it suggests that certain global historical phenomena (such as the power imbalances imposed by colonial rule, the First or Second World Wars, the Algerian war of independence, or the epoch of decolonization) can be understood anew once they are read through the lens of the Algerian Sahara and its Jews.

Organizationally, this book assumes a form evocative of what Madeleine L’Engle—writing, not entirely coincidentally, in 1962—called a wrinkle in time, a way of allowing for travel through space without having to go the long way around.³⁰ By this I mean that this book begins and ends with a single moment in June 1962 but in the interim embarks upon a historical journey, a kind of