The name Jarach is among those surnames that, by themselves, narrate the mobility of Mediterranean Judaism. Recorded by Samuele Schaerf in his foundational catalogue I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia (Florence, 1925), it figures among the Jewish family names attested in the Italian peninsula, and more particularly in circles shaped by the circulation between Tyrrhenian Italy, North Africa, and the Levantine basin [Schaerf, 1925]. The very form of the word guides the inquiry: the Semitic root y-r-ḥ, found in the Hebrew yareaḥ (the moon) and yeraḥ (the lunar month), suggests an onomastic origin rooted in the Arabic- or Judeo-Arabic-speaking world, where the term qamar and its equivalents designated the nocturnal star. Such a hypothesis, which remains conjectural in the absence of a founding document, situates the Jarach from the outset within the constellation of Sephardic and North African families who came to aggregate into the Italian communities.
The history of the Jarach cannot be understood without the grand framework in which it is inscribed: that of a composite Italian Judaism, where ancient italkim traditions, the Ashkenazi contribution, and above all the immense Sephardic and North African wave met — a wave that, following the Iberian expulsions and through the vicissitudes of commercial exchange, irrigated cities such as Livorno, Ancona, Venice, and later Milan. As Robert Bonfil has shown, Jewish life in the Italian Renaissance was one of paradoxical integration, simultaneously embedded in Christian society and fiercely attached to its own communal frameworks [Bonfil, 1994]. It is within this fertile tension that families such as the Jarach found their place.
This Great Book sets out to reconstitute, with honesty, what the archive permits us to establish and what tradition alone transmits. Following the teaching of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, it carefully distinguishes Memory — that living transmission of the group — from History — that critical reconstruction of the past [Yerushalmi, 1984]. The two, here, answer each other.
The surname Jarach — also encountered under the spellings Jarack, Yarach or Jarrach depending on the languages of registration — belongs to the category of Jewish names derived from the lexicon of nature and time. The root y-r-ḥ, common to both Hebrew and Arabic, refers to the lunar cycle that governs the Hebrew calendar, the deep structure of Jewish liturgical life. This linguistic kinship illuminates the close proximity, in the Séfarade and North African world, between the culture of the Hebrew book and the Arabic language of daily use.
Schaerf, in his 1925 census, lists Jarach among Italian Jewish surnames without fixing a single geographical origin, which is consistent with the very nature of these names carried by mobile families [Schaerf, 1925]. The transmission of a name with Arabic resonance within Italian Jewry is a precious indicator: it points toward the communities of the Nazione — those Portuguese and Levantine Jewish merchants established in Livourne — and toward the migratory flows coming from the Maghreb. Lionel Lévy has masterfully described this « Portuguese Jewish Nation » which, from Livourne, wove a network reaching as far as Tunis and beyond, circulating men, capital and surnames [Lévy, 1999].
It is necessary here to mark the epistemic limit: no source consulted allows us to establish with certainty the exact original homeland of the name Jarach. Family tradition, where it survives, evokes at times a lineage from Livourne, at others a North African root — two hypotheses which, far from excluding one another, mutually confirm each other within the framework of the Mediterranean Séfarade network described by Lévy [Lévy, 1996]. The name, in sum, is itself an archive: it carries the Memory of a moon common to all Jewish calendars.
To understand the soil from which Italian Jewish families bearing Arabized surnames emerged, one must pause on Livorno. A free port established by the Medici, the city became, from the late sixteenth century onward, the great sanctuary of a prosperous Jewish community endowed with exceptional privileges granted by the Livornine. Lionel Lévy has shown how this community, the freest in Italy, constituted itself as a veritable "nation," a bridge between Christian Europe, the Ottoman Empire, and North Africa [Lévy, 1996].
From Livorno, Jewish families spread toward Tunis, Algiers, Oran, Tlemcen, and Sidi Bel Abbès, giving rise to those communities historians call Grana (as opposed to the indigenous Twansa). Eliahou-Éric Botbol, tracing the destiny of the Jewish community of Tlemcen, and the Archives rabbiniques de Sidi Bel Abbès document this presence of a Judaism that was at once Italian in its culture and Maghrebi in its soil [Botbol, 2000] [Archives de Sidi Bel Abbès]. It is within this back-and-forth that names such as Jarach circulated, losing and reclaiming Italian nationality in turn according to the vicissitudes of consular protections.
This circulation was not solely geographical: it was cultural and spiritual. The Judaism of these communities perpetuated a scholarship inherited from the Iberian Middle Ages, whose extraordinary philosophical vitality Colette Sirat reconstructed from manuscripts [Sirat, 1983]. The families of the Nazione, merchants yet learned, circulated books as much as merchandise, and it was through this double commerce that the identity of a people dispersed yet united by the text was perpetuated.
The nineteenth century in Italy marked a decisive turning point for Jewish families. The unification of the peninsula (1861) and civic emancipation opened the doors of full citizenship, university, the military, and the liberal professions to Jews. It is in this context that the surname Jarach appears in public documentation, notably in Milan, the economic capital of the young kingdom, where many Jewish families settled after coming from the South, from Livorno, and from abroad.
Italian emancipation was, as Robert Bonfil emphasized for earlier centuries, the culmination of a long dialectic of integration: the Jews of Italy had never ceased to belong to the urban fabric, and modernity merely gave juridical consecration to a cultural integration that was already ancient [Bonfil, 1994]. The Jarach, like other families, took part in this ascent: a presence in trade, in nascent industry, and soon in the communal institutions of Milan.
This generation lived through a tension that Isaiah Berlin analyzed with great acuity: that of modern Jewish identity, torn between the aspiration toward patriotic assimilation and fidelity to an irreducible singularity [Berlin, 1973]. Passionate Italians and faithful Jews, the members of these families embodied this dual attachment that characterized Italian Judaism until the tragedies of the twentieth century.
Public history preserves the trace of several Jarach in Italy during the first half of the twentieth century. Cesare Jarach (1885–1918) was an Italian economist and statistician, devoted to the study of the economic and social conditions of his time, whose work belongs to the flourishing of the Italian social sciences on the eve of the First World War. His premature death, during the influenza epidemic that struck Europe at the close of the conflict, cut short a promising body of work. His trajectory illustrates the entry of Italian Jews into the intellectual and scholarly life of the nation [Schaerf, 1925].
Federico Jarach (1874–1951) was, for his part, a prominent figure in the economic and communal life of Milan. An industrialist and businessman, he held responsibilities within Milan's economic institutions and served as a leader of the city's Jewish community. His path bears witness to the leading role played by certain Jewish families in the industrial development of Lombardy. Like so many others, his life was brutally overshadowed by the fascist racial laws of 1938, which struck the entirety of Italian Jewry.
These figures, whose names are attested by public sources, give the surname Jarach a historical substance: it is no longer merely a name in a catalogue, but men woven into the social, economic, and intellectual fabric of modern Italy. Their Memory belongs to that Jewish ethos of responsibility and transmission that Armand Abécassis and Léon Askénazi placed at the heart of the ethics of Judaism [Abécassis, 1987] [Askénazi, 1999].
The year 1938 marked a dramatic rupture for Italian Judaism. The leggi razziali of the fascist regime excluded Jews from schools, professions, public administration, and the military, abruptly shattering the pact of integration sealed by emancipation. Milanese Jewish families — among them the Jarach — were stripped of their rights, and many were forced into exile or driven into hiding after the German occupation of 1943.
This catastrophe, which culminated in deportations to the extermination camps, struck the entire peninsula. The Memory of those dark years remains an obligation, in the full sense that Yerushalmi gives to zakhor, that commandment of Memory which has structured Jewish identity since its origins [Yerushalmi, 1984]. To remember Italian Jewish families, their achievements as well as their suffering, belongs to this duty.
For the families who survived, the postwar period was a time of reconstruction: the reconstitution of communities, the return of exiles, and the slow healing of a wound upon which contemporary Jewish thought has never ceased to meditate. Maurice-Ruben Hayoun has recalled how profoundly Jewish philosophy, from Maimonides to modern thinkers, provides resources for thinking through trial and continuity [Hayoun, 2023]. The name Jarach, having traversed this century of fire, bears its mark.
Beyond the documented figures, the Jarach lineage partakes of a larger history: that of a People of the Book. The Sephardic and Italian communities from which these families originated were guardians of a rich manuscript culture. Giulia Tamani studied these manoscritti ebraici decorati produced in Italy, witnesses to an art of the book in which Hebrew calligraphy embraced the aesthetics of the Renaissance [Tamani, 2010]. In these workshops, the sacred and the beautiful were joined together.
Family transmission, in Judaism, is not merely biological: it is above all the transmission of a text, a Torah received and passed on from generation to generation. Léon Askénazi placed this transmission at the heart of his thought, insisting on the indissoluble bond between the spoken word and the written word [Askénazi, 1999]. A family such as the Jarach, whether of merchants or scholars, belonged to this chain in which each generation receives in order to give in turn.
Here, Memory and History converge. Where the archive falls silent, tradition continues to speak; where the document is lacking, the name itself, with its lunar root, bears witness to a belonging. To confront these two registers, as Yerushalmi invites us to do, is to honor both the rigor of the historian and the faithfulness of the son [Yerushalmi, 1984].
At the close of this journey, the Jarach lineage emerges as a tenuous yet revealing thread in the great tapestry of Mediterranean Judaism. Recorded by Schaerf among the Jewish surnames of Italy [Schaerf, 1925], bearing a Semitic root evoking the moon and the calendar, this name condenses within itself the circulations between Livourne, the Maghreb, and northern Italy. From the Portuguese Nazione of Livourne described by Lionel Lévy [Lévy, 1999] to the industrial salons of modern Milan, by way of the Grana communities of Algeria, the Jarach embody that fertile mobility which made the wealth of Sephardic and Italian Judaism.
The documented figures — Cesare the economist, Federico the industrialist and community leader — give the name its historical substance, while the ordeal of the racial laws and the Shoah recalls its tragic fragility. What History establishes, Memory extends, faithful to the commandment of zakhor [Yerushalmi, 1984]. This Great Book has not sought to exhaust a genealogy that the sources do not permit us to reconstruct in detail; it has wished, more modestly, to restore the truthful framework within which a family lived, hoped, and transmitted. It is in this that it honours, through the written word, the share of moonlight that this name carries.
