Before writing about Africa, I should start with why the stories of the Jewish journeys across that continent  matters to me. I have a number of personal connections to journeys of freedom and faith that run through Africa. One of my dear friends’ father was directly involved in efforts that helped rescue thousands of Ethiopian Jews. Another close friend’s relative played a meaningful role in challenging and ultimately helping dismantle South Africa’s apartheid regime. My partner Joan’s family carries the legend of the Magic Carpet itself, rooted in Morocco and the Abuhazera tradition, offering not only rescue, but healing and continuity for Sephardic Jews across generations. These are not abstract histories to me. They are relationships. And it is through those relationships that Africa became, for me, not a place on a map, but a living chapter in the Jewish story.

People often ask about the Jewish connection to Africa, or the Israeli connection to Morocco, as if these were recent developments or strategic alliances. In truth, they are ancient relationships woven through exile and return, protection and peril, memory and miracle. They begin with a Torah command that predates borders and diplomacy: Lech lecha me’artzecha: go forth from your land, from what is familiar, before knowing where the journey will end (Genesis 12:1). In the Torah, movement comes before certainty.

In my family, Africa is not an abstraction. It is carried in story. The “Magic Carpet” is not only folklore, but also the name given to an Israeli rescue mission.I It is also the family legend of the Abuhazera dynasty of Morocco, associated with Rabbi Yaakov Abuhatzeira in the nineteenth century. Passed quietly across generations, it was never about spectacle. It was a lived interpretation of Lech Lecha: ascent without guarantees, obedience before clarity, and trust enacted through motion.

Africa itself stood has long stood on the side of that kind of courage. In 1777, just one year after the American Declaration of Independence, Morocco became the first country to recognize the United States. Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah made that decision with the counsel of his Jewish advisor, Samuel Sumbel. This move had risks to trade and diplomacy, defying the British Empire at a moment when convenience argued otherwise. It was an act that echoed a Torah mandate that appears again and again in Jewish history: lo ta’amod al dam re’echa—do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor (Leviticus 19:16). History was moving, and Morocco chose not to remain still.

That same Torah spirit later animated Israel’s rescue missions across Africa. In late 1984 and early 1985, during Operation Moses, Ethiopian Jews made a perilous journey on foot from Ethiopia into Sudan. From there, in a covert series of flights, roughly 7,000 to 8,000 people were quietly brought to Israel. Their rescue was framed not by politics, but by prophecy. Jeremiah’s words: “I will bring them from the ends of the earth” (Jeremiah 31:8) ceased to be metaphor. Jews who had preserved their faith for centuries in isolation were suddenly free to practice it openly.

Seven years in May 1991, as Ethiopia descended into chaos, Israel launched Operation Solomon. In just thirty-six hours, thirty-five aircraft airlifted 14,325 Ethiopian Jews from Addis Ababa to Israel. One El Al 747 set a world aviation record by carrying well over 1,000 people—commonly cited at 1,088. With two babies reportedly born mid-flight, more souls arrived than departed. Rescue, quite literally, produced new life. My friend Charles’s father, Gene Ribakoff—who would have turned one hundred in 2026—was personally involved in that effort, a reminder that history often turns not only on governments, but on individuals who step forward when action becomes urgent.

I remember meeting members of the Ethiopian Jewish community in Haifa years later. Their stories of determination and earned distinction were profound. They carried Judaism not as theory, but as inheritance. Their traditions were biblical in origin, yet unfamiliar to many who assumed they already understood what Jewish life looked like. Like Abraham before them, they had gone forth without certainty. Like Jeremiah’s prophetic promise, they had been gathered from afar. They had come home not to be sheltered, but to serve. To stand in uniform, to contribute, and to assume responsibility for a future they had crossed continents to reach.

Before that journey came another. In 1949 and 1950, nearly fifty thousand Jews were airlifted from Yemen to Israel in what became known as Operation Magic Carpet. The Torah had promised, “I carried you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me” (Exodus 19:4). For Yemenite Jews, that verse ceased to be poetry. The Jewish story in this region has never respected clean borders. Africa, Arabia, and Israel are overlapping verses in a single narrative of return.

Africa also produced moral leadership shaped by the same ethical imperatives. In South Africa, my dear friend great aunt, Helen Suzman, served in Parliament from 1953 to 1989, often as a solitary voice against apartheid. A Jewish woman challenging a system built on silence and cruelty, she lived the Torah commandment lo ta’amod al dam re’echa: do not stand idly by while your fellow’s blood is shed. When told her questions embarrassed her country, she replied that it was not the questions, but the answers that were shameful. She visited Nelson Mandela week after week during his long imprisonment, not because it was safe, but because moral responsibility rarely is.

Morocco occupies a singular place in this Torah-shaped story. During World War II, in 1942, the Vichy regime demanded lists of Jews living under Moroccan rule.  King Mohammed V responded simply: there are no Jews here, only Moroccans. His refusal to participate in persecution was an act of pikuach nefesh: the protection of life above all else. For his resistance, he was later exiled by French authorities from 1953 to 1955. When he returned, the Moroccan people celebrated his reinstatement not as a political victory, but as a moral restoration.

In the decades that followed, Morocco’s Jewish population declined dramatically. Critics accused the monarchy of having “lost” its Jews. The King’s response: “I have gained global ambassadors” echoed a deeper truth of Jewish history: exile does not erase connection. To this day, Moroccan Jews return regularly, not as tourists, but as grateful descendants. I felt this most viscerally at a recent family wedding in Marrakech, when under the chuppah the rabbi and the bride’s father publicly thanked the King for allowing Jews to practice Judaism freely, without fear.

These bonds did not end with memory. They continue, quietly, in modern partnerships across Africa’s shores. What appears strategic today often rests on moral foundations laid long ago by those who answered the Torah’s call before knowing where it would lead.

The Jewish journey through Africa is not a footnote. It is a through-line written in Genesis, echoed by the Prophets, and lived across centuries: Lech Lecha—move before you know. “I will bring them from the ends of the earth.” Do not stand idly by.

The magic carpet it turns out, was never about flying. It was about Torah made real. About trusting the command to go and discovering, only in motion, that home was already waiting.

I always wanted to fly. On my first trip to Morocco, I did.

We traveled there in November 2025, and from the moment we landed I sensed this was not simply another journey but an arrival into something older and more enduring. I had come eager to see the homeland of my life partner, Joan and to truly understand what it means to carry Moroccan Jewish memory as something lived.

On our third morning, we rose before dawn for a hot-air balloon ride outside Marrakech. I was quietly anxious. Flying has always carried a tension for me, balanced between longing and fear. Yet the moment the balloon lifted, the fear dissolved. There was no jolt, no struggle, no sense of conquest. Only an almost imperceptible separation from the earth.

What surprised me most was the silence. We were floating, not forcing. Moving, but never pushing.

Before takeoff, the attendant placed a tray of coffee and French pastries on a narrow board atop the basket. The cups were filled to the rim. I remember thinking this must be a trick, surely it would spill once we were airborne. But as we rose, nothing moved. Not the tray, not the cups, and not even the surface of the coffee.

Suspended in the air, everything remained exactly as it had been on the ground.

Only later did I understand why. A balloon does not fight the wind; it joins it. There is no opposing force, no friction between intention and direction. Cars turn against resistance. Roller coasters thrill us by compressing gravity and speed into conflict. The balloon simply travels with what already exists. When it rises or descends, it does so vertically, cleanly, and effortlessly—guided only by heat and release. One direction at a time. There is no torque nor struggle.

The physics felt like theology.

The Torah opens not with effort, but with hovering: “And the spirit of God hovered over the waters” (Genesis 1:2). Before creation takes form, there is movement without force, presence without collision. Later, when the Israelites cross the Sea of Reeds, they do not engineer an escape. They step forward and the water responds. The miracle is not domination of nature, but alignment with it.

Faith in Torah is rarely about certainty. It is about bitachon: trust. Not blind belief, but the courage to move without insisting on control. Trust that the moment will hold. Trust that the ground will appear. Trust that release, rather than resistance, can be a form of strength.

The balloon ride only works because of community: the pilot above, the attendant beside you, and an unseen team on the ground reading the wind, tracking the balloon, and preparing the landing. No one flies alone even when it feels solitary.

That sense of trust deepened for me because of Joan.

Joan is a direct descendant of Baba Sali, Rabbi Yisrael Abuhatzeira (1889–1984), the revered Moroccan-Israeli rabbi whose name still evokes awe and affection among Jews and Muslims alike. For many generations in Morocco, the Abuhatzeira family carried an older teaching, passed quietly across generations, in the form of a story often called the legend of the “Magic Carpet”.

Family tradition traces the origin of the Abuhatzeira name to a story told across generations, most often associated with Rabbi Yaakov Abuhatzeira (1806–1880). According to the legend, when he sought to journey from Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel) toward Morocco without money, passage, or protection, he did not pray for resources or intervention. Instead, he prayed for trust. He was then carried across the sea on a ḥaṣera (a simple woven mat or carpet) an image that later gave rise to the family name Abuhatzeira. In both Hebrew and Arabic, “father” is rendered as אַבָּא (Abba) in Hebrew and أبا (Abā) in Arabic, reflecting a shared Semitic root. The name is often understood as “the father of the mat.” Whether read literally or symbolically, the teaching is the same: the journey was sustained not by means, but by faith.

This story was never meant to be read as fantasy. It functioned as teaching. The “magic carpet” was not an object of power, but a posture of faith: movement made possible not by force, but by alignment; not by control, but by surrender. Jewish tradition calls this bitachon: the courage to move forward without demanding certainty, and to trust that when resistance is released, the way may carry you.

Like Abraham’s Lech Lecha, the story is not about arrival, but about the courage to move before the destination is revealed.

Sitting in that balloon over Morocco, watching my coffee remain perfectly still, sipping without a spill; I understood something quietly profound. I had not learned to fly because I conquered fear. I learned to fly because I stopped resisting movement. Because I trusted the current. Because I trusted Joan. Because I allowed myself, perhaps for the first time, to be carried.

As we entered a new year, I found myself thinking less about what was lost and more about what endured. Wonder endured. Trust endured. The possibility that life can still lift us gently, if we stop bracing for impact.

Faith, I learned, is the courage to move before the path is revealed.

Balloon meets the wind
Nothing pushed, nothing resisted
The sky carries us

“Leap, and the net will appear.”

—-My teacher Cat

Joan and Andy enjoying coffee and croissants among the clouds without spilling

“I am from a family of healers,” Joan once said. I heard her, but I did not listen.

It ultimately took a trip to Morocco for me to truly understand her words. There, stories I had long treated as legend revealed themselves as teachings, beginning with what is often called the story of the “Magic Carpet”.

The story of the “Magic Carpet” is usually told as fantasy, a magical device used to make miraculous escapes.. But within Moroccan Jewish tradition, it was never about magic at all. It was about trust.

The Abuhatzeira family occupies a singular place in Moroccan Jewish history, not because of power or position, but because of posture. Across generations, its leading figures embodied a way of moving through the world shaped by humility, restraint, and faith lived quietly rather than proclaimed.

At the center of this lineage stands Rabbi Israel Abuhatzeira, known as Baba Sali (1889–1984). Born in Rissani in Morocco’s Tafilalet region and later settling in Israel, Baba Sali became one of the most revered Sephardic spiritual figures of the modern era. Jews and Muslims alike sought his counsel, blessings, and prayers; often waiting days for only a few moments in his presence.

What distinguished Baba Sali was not spectacle. He lived ascetically and avoided public display. His influence did not come from institutional authority, public teaching, or mystical performance. It came from moral gravity. Faith, in his life, was not something to demonstrate, but something to inhabit. Even as stories of healing followed him, he consistently redirected attention away from miracles and toward responsibility, humility, and trust in Hashem.

That same inheritance found a different enduring expression in his brother, Rabbi Yitzhak Abuhatzeira, known as Baba Haki (1895–1970). Where Baba Sali embodied faith through silence and restraint, Baba Haki expressed devotion through voice, text, and song. A master of piyutim, he carried the family’s spiritual posture into communal prayer and liturgy. His legacy lives in melodies still sung and words still recited. Faith transmitted through disciplined repetition and shared memory.

The lineage reaches further back to Rabbi Yaakov Abuhatzeira, the Avir Yaakov (1806–1880), one of the great kabbalists of North Africa. Revered for his scholarship and spiritual depth, Rabbi Yaakov passed away in 1880 while traveling toward the Land of Israel and is buried in Damanhur, Egypt. His writings continue to be studied not as artifacts, but as living guides.

Family tradition traces the origin of the Abuhatzeira name to a story told across generations, most often associated with Rabbi Yaakov Abuhatzeira . According to the legend, when he sought to journey from Eretz Yisrael (the Land of Israel)toward Morocco without money, passage, or protection, he did not pray for resources or intervention. He prayed for trust. The story recounts that he was carried across the sea on a ḥaṣera (a simple woven mat or carpet) an image that later gave rise to the family name Abuhatzeira. In both Hebrew and Arabic, “father” is rendered as אַבָּא (Abba) in Hebrew and أبا (Abā) in Arabic, reflecting a shared Semitic root. The name is often understood as “the father of the mat.” Whether read literally or symbolically, the teaching is the same: the journey was sustained not by means, but by faith.

The story of the “Magic Carpet” was never meant to be read as fantasy. It functioned as teaching. The “magic carpet” was not an object of power, but a posture of faith: movement made possible not by force, but by alignment; not by control, but by surrender. Jewish tradition calls this bitachon: the courage to move forward without demanding certainty and to trust that when resistance is released the way may carry you.

Like Abraham’s Lech Lecha, the story is not about arrival, but about the courage to move before the path is revealed.

Long before the “Magic Carpet” image entered popular culture, the carpet represented something quieter and more demanding: the willingness to step forward without guarantees, and the belief that when effort gives way to alignment the world itself may begin to carry you.

In the end, faith was never about flying. It was about learning how to move in alignment—without force, without spectacle, and without spilling what matters most.

Faith, in this lineage, is the courage to move before the path is revealed.

Magic carpet lifts
Faith carried through generations
Legacy in trust

The Abuhatzeira family

I woke up inside a rain cloud.
It was a surprise to discover the sun below.

On my birthday, I woke with anticipation for my tennis lesson. After two years of surgery and physical therapy, I was finally able to play again. To return not just to a game I love, but to a body I was learning to trust again.

We live on the 25th floor. When I looked out the window that morning, all I could see were clouds; thick, gray, and low. No ground, no horizon,  just rain and mist. It felt definitive. I texted my tennis teacher to cancel. He replied quickly: the courts were dry, playable, and touched by a sliver of sunlight.

When I arrived, he was right. The court was bright, the ground was dry, and the sun was out. I found myself wondering how nature could hold such different truths at the same moment in places in such proximity.

In Hebrew, teva means nature. Phonetically, it is also the word used for the Ark of Noah and the basket that carried Moses. In both cases, human beings are placed into nature not as masters, but as passengers carried forward by forces they do not control. Both moments mark beginnings. Both require trust in Hashem and surrender to time and elements.

Like Noah waiting in the ark as the Flood waters receded, I came to see that clarity often appears before we can reach it.

Judaism, I realized, is a tradition anchored far more in time than in place. As Abraham Joshua Heschel writes in The Sabbath, Shabbat is a sanctuary in time independent of geography. Nearly all Jewish holidays are rooted in the calendar, not the landscape. Our faith is portable because it is tethered to when, not where.

There are rare exceptions. The Western Wall in Jerusalem grounds us in a specific place. Sukkot grounds us in a prescribed structure; only fully observed within the fragile walls of a sukkah. But even there, the lesson is impermanence, exposure to the elements, and trust.

Nature, I began to understand, is where time and place meet. It is Hashem’s interface between the two. Weather can unite distant places or divide adjacent ones. Clouds can obscure while sunlight waits just above. What we experience depends not only on where we stand, but on when, and on whether we are willing to move.

That morning, I learned something simple and lasting. Sometimes you wake inside the cloud. Sometimes the light is already there, waiting beneath it. Wisdom is learning when to descend.

Inside the cloud
Light was never gone at all
Only out of sight