Morocco is not something I discovered — it is where I was born, where I learned to pray, where I first heard the melodies that still live inside me. Every alley of the Mellah, every hillside tomb, every market filled with spice and sound — this land is written into who I am.

When I founded our shul in Brooklyn — the first and only Moroccan synagogue in the borough — my purpose was the same as it is on every trip I lead: to make sure that this heritage does not quietly disappear. That our children and grandchildren know what their great-grandparents built, and feel proud of where they come from.

I have been honored to receive the knighthood of King Hassan, recognized for a lifetime of work bridging the Moroccan Jewish community across continents. But what I treasure most is simpler: walking into a synagogue in Marrakech with someone who has never been, and watching their face as they realize — we were here. We were beloved here. We still are.

I know the families. I know the language — Arabic and the old Moroccan dialect that opens doors no guidebook can. I know which tzaddik's hillula falls when, which gatekeeper to ask for, which alley leads to the courtyard most tourists never see. Morocco has no secrets from me. Come, and let me share every one of them with you.