Juifs d'Amazonie (Iquitos)

The arrival of Jews in Iquitos is part of a broader migratory movement that originated in the cities of northern Morocco — Tanger, Tétouan, Rabat, Fès. In the mid-nineteenth century, young Sephardic men, often unmarried, left these communities to seek their fortunes in the new markets of the New World. The convergence between their emigration and the economic explosion of Amazonian rubber constitutes the founding event of the community. The history of Amazonian Jews begins with the rubber boom of 1880, when Moroccan Sephardim arrived in Iquitos by way of Manaus, in Brazil.

The route taken is significant: these migrants did not arrive directly in Iquitos, but passed through the great Brazilian port of Manaus, another rubber capital, before traveling upriver. The trade in "white gold" — the latex extracted from wild rubber trees — required intermediaries capable of linking Amazonian collection zones to European export houses. Sephardic merchants, multilingual and embedded in transatlantic commercial networks, found a natural place for themselves as brokers (regatones) and exporters.

The scholarly reference work on this subject is the book by Ariel Segal, Jews of the Amazon: Self-Exile in Earthly Paradise [Segal, Jews of the Amazon, Jewish Publication Society, 1999], which remains the most comprehensive historical and anthropological study of this population. Segal documents the formation of this merchant diaspora and its gradual anchoring in the society of Iquitos. The presence of a genuine communal institution is attested as early as the beginning of the twentieth century: Victor Israel founded the city's Jewish society in 1911.

Far from remaining marginal, many of these immigrants and their descendants rose to prominent social positions within the Amazonian city. The integration of Jewish families into the civic life of Iquitos is solidly documented by the names that punctuate local history. Among the famous Jewish Iquiteños are Victor Israel, who founded the city's Jewish society in 1911, Saloman Joseph Dreyfus, mayor from 1952 to 1956, and Dora Toledano Godier, elected Miss Pérou in 1963.

These trajectories illustrate the success of a mercantile elite that became urban notability: from the community founder to the municipal magistrate, by way of public life figures. The surnames — Israel, Dreyfus, Toledano, Bensimon, Edery, Pinto, Cohen, Levy — have become durably inscribed in the social fabric of Iquitos and the entire Loreto region, bearing witness to the deep rootedness of these families.

However, this integration had a decisive reverse effect on religious continuity. The vast majority of immigrants being single men, unions were formed with local women, most often Catholic. Over the generations, the transmission of Jewish law — which follows matrilinearity — was interrupted, while practice was reduced to a few domestic rites and the memory of an ancestry. It is this particularity, according to Ariel Segal, that places the community on the frontier of normative Jewish identity and that underlies all the complexity of its subsequent history [Segal, Jews of the Amazon, 1999].

If oral memory has eroded, one material witness has survived: the Jewish cemetery of Iquitos, which constitutes one of the most precious documentary sources for reconstructing the composition of the community. Listed by the International Jewish Cemetery Project (a program of the international commission for Jewish cemeteries), this site preserves the graves of Séfarade pioneers and their descendants [International Jewish Cemetery Project — JewishGen, Iquitos, Peru].

The epitaphs, sometimes written in Hebrew, sometimes in Spanish or French, both confirm and nuance family memory: they establish Moroccan origins, dates of arrival and death, and matrimonial alliances. The cemetery thus functions as an archive in stone where tradition passed down by families finds its verification — or its correction — in the funerary document. It materially attests to the continuous presence of a population identifying itself as Jewish, even when regular religious practice had ceased. As such, it represents a privileged meeting point between Memory and History.

The preservation of this heritage became, from the end of the twentieth century onward, a major identity issue for descendants engaged in the communal renewal, the cemetery serving as tangible proof of the legitimacy of their Jewish ancestry.

During the 20th century, following the collapse of the rubber boom — brought on by competition from rubber plantations in Southeast Asia — the Jewish community of Iquitos declined. The synagogue closed, rituals became rare, and Jewish identity seemed to dissolve into the surrounding Catholicism. Yet in many families, an awareness of Jewish origins persisted, passed down as a diffuse inheritance.

The turning point came in the late 1980s and 1990s, when a movement of rediscovery and identity reaffirmation organized itself around a few determined figures. In the absence of a resident rabbi, the community gathered for services in a domestic setting: the Iquitos community has no rabbi and meets for worship in the Abramovitz house. This "synagogue-home" became the center of the reawakening religious life.

The transmission itself bore the marks of the long interruption. A Torah scroll was given to them, along with its wooden ark, by a wealthy New York couple in 2009, even though no one in Iquitos was able to speak or read Hebrew fluently. This episode encapsulates the paradoxical situation of the renewal: a religious pride left intact, yet deprived of mastery of the traditional liturgical tools, which had to be rebuilt from the outside, with the help of international support.

Because Jewishness had been transmitted primarily through the paternal lineage, the renewed community came up against the question of religious status: in the eyes of halakha, many of its members were not Jewish. The solution adopted was that of formal conversions, sometimes collective, conducted under the authority of rabbinical courts brought in from abroad. These ceremonies took place in Iquitos itself and also drew candidates from other Amazonian cities. It was in this way that two sisters from Pucallpa converted to Judaism in Iquitos in 2011.

These conversions opened the way to official recognition by the Israeli authorities, an indispensable condition for emigration. The Israeli Ministry of the Interior has recognized Iquitos as a Jewish community and its members as eligible for aliyah, but this came only after a long battle. This recognition was, however, neither immediate nor complete, as the Israeli administration drew a distinction between communities that were "recognized" at the time of conversion and those that were not. The Ministry of the Interior argued that the community of Pucallpa was not a "recognized" community at the time of the conversion and therefore refused to recognize its members, even though the conversion had been performed in Iquitos.

These disputes were brought before the Israeli courts. The Legal Aid Center for olim, a project of the Israeli Reform Movement, petitioned the Supreme Court to have the case of the two sisters from Pucallpa heard. These legal entanglements illustrate the persistent difficulty of gaining recognition for a Jewish identity reconstituted after a long eclipse.

The crowning achievement of the renewal was emigration to Israel, to the point of gradually emptying the community of its youngest members. "The great majority of Iquiteños have gone to live in Israel," and nearly all the young people wish to leave, professional and social advancement being very limited in the region. The motivation for aliyah thus combines religious aspiration with the search for opportunity, in a context where Amazonian isolation restricts prospects.

The olim from Iquitos have concentrated in a specific location within Israeli territory, forming a recognizable settlement nucleus. The majority of Iquitos olim live in Ramla, where the mayor was pleased to receive them; they benefited from social and employment programs designed to facilitate their integration.

The pace of this emigration has not, however, remained constant. According to the director of the Rabbinical Assembly in Israel, the pace of aliyah has slowed to little more than a trickle, owing to all manner of administrative pretexts. The demographic foundation of this eligibility rests on the persistence of ancestry: residents become aware that they are the third generation descended from a Jewish grandfather or grandmother, and therefore eligible for aliyah. Thus the circle opened in the time of rubber closes once more: the descendants of the Moroccan merchants of 1880 return, more than a century later, to the Mediterranean Middle East from which their ancestors had departed.

The history of the Jews of Iquitos traces a looping trajectory: departing from Sephardic Morocco toward Amazonia during the rubber era, deeply acculturated through intermarriage, nearly erased as a religious community, then reborn at the end of the twentieth century only to emigrate at last to Israel. This diaspora illustrates in exemplary fashion the plasticity of Jewish identity and the force of genealogical Memory, capable of surviving several generations of ritual interruption.

Three lessons emerge. First, the structuring role of economics: it was the rubber trade that gave birth to the community, and its collapse that condemned it to decline. Second, the centrality of the matrilineal question, which transformed the religious revival into a journey of conversion and legal recognition. Finally, the transnational dimension of a History that ends neither in Tanger nor in Iquitos, but in Ramla, in the Israeli suburb where a notable portion of this community has reconstituted itself. Between the Memory transmitted by families and the archive — gravestones, registers, scholarly works — the history of the Jews of Amazonia remains a living subject, still in the process of being written.