Reverie and Memory Through Copper Currency of the 19th Century
When I discovered coins in Morocco marked with a hexagram, I sensed a tremor of History. For an instant, I thought the Jews of the mellah had minted their own money. I imagined a first sign of emancipation, a discreet sovereignty, engraved in copper and passed from hand to hand. I even dreamed that while Herzl, in Vienna, was sketching modern Zionism, a star was already shining on the kingdom’s coins—as if two impulses, one political, the other symbolic, were answering each other across distance.
It was a vision of fragile beauty, like a dream: that of a dispersed people who, in the signs of the world, seek the reflections of their freedom.
The idea was beautiful, but I know imagination cannot substitute for History.
Coins marked with a universal symbol
These coins, known in Arabic as fulūs, were struck in the 19th century under the reigns of Sultans Sidi Mohammed IV and Moulay al-Hasan I. The hexagram they bear was not a political manifesto, but an ancient symbol shared across traditions and cultures.
In Judaism, it is the Magen David, the Shield of David, spiritual and identitarian heart of a people—even if it was only at the end of the 19th century, with Zionism, that it truly became the emblem of modern Judaism.
In medieval Christianity, it illuminates stained glass and manuscripts as a figure of divine harmony.
In Islam, it is the Seal of Solomon (khatam Sulaymān), a sign of wisdom and protection linked to the prophet-king inspired by the biblical Solomon.
From David to Solomon, from one faith to another, the star changed its name but not its light. Engraved on a Moroccan coin, the hexagram could appear as a shared language, a bridge between heritages, a pathway stretched between memories.
The Jews of Morocco, between rootedness and exile
Close your eyes, imagine.
It is the 19th century, in the bustling alleys of the mellahs. Workshops hum, copper resounds under the hammers, voices mingle in the markets. Some Jews serve as advisors to the sultans; others are Tujjār as-Sultān, merchants under royal patronage, opening the kingdom to world trade. Their role shows the trust placed in them, and how vital their presence was to the country’s prosperity.
Let us go further back.
It is 1492. Spain expels its Jews. Families embark in haste, carrying nothing but their prayers and their courage. Morocco becomes their refuge. They join the communities of Fez, Marrakesh, Essaouira—settled in the region since Antiquity. Their Iberian heritage blends with local traditions. From this encounter was born a Jewish culture among the richest of the Muslim world.
The emotion of return
Today, these old coins stir a special emotion. In a museum, at an antique dealer, or in the hand of a collector, a Jew returning to Morocco in search of his ancestors may recognize there the star of his community.
This small piece of copper, darkened by time, has become more than an object: witness, messenger, an invisible hand extended from the past.
Thus is born a moving resonance: walking through restored mellahs, visiting preserved synagogues, and discovering that even in the kingdom’s currency, Jewish memory left its mark.
From copper to wood: a transmission
This heritage has not vanished. It lives in Sephardic songs, restored synagogues, pilgrimages, and museums. History continues to weave bridges across generations.
It is no coincidence that the Tikkun Boxes are crafted in Morocco. In this land where the hexagram was once struck into copper, artisans now carve memory into wood.
And today, this ancient thread meets the contemporary moment. The singular bond between Morocco and its Jews—forged in welcome and endurance—finds a new echo in the relationship linking Morocco and Israel: a shared memory that is not only diplomatic, but also affective, cultural, and spiritual.
From metal to wood, from one palm to another, the same gesture endures: to transmit, to honor, to keep alive the flame of memory.
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