The patronym Piha belongs to that category of Jewish names whose very concision resists immediate interpretation. Short, dense, lacking the referential transparency found in toponymic names (Toledano, Sevilla) or professional ones (Sofer, Hazan), it ranks among the Sephardic and Italian patronyms whose etymology remains debated. Its first authoritative scholarly attestation appears in the work of Samuele Schaerf, I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia (Florence, 1925), which identifies it as a name borne by a Jewish family of Italy. This mention, brief but authoritative, constitutes the documentary anchor from which any reconstruction must cautiously proceed.
To reconstruct the history of a lineage named Piha requires holding together two distinct orders of reality: on one hand the archive — communal registers, onomastic catalogues, rabbinic records — and on the other hand Memory, that stream of transmitted narratives which, as Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi has shown, constitutes the proper mode through which the Jewish people long inhabited its past. The historian must distinguish collective memory, which selects and sacralizes, from critical History, which questions and contextualizes [Yerushalmi, 1984]. The present work strives to uphold this distinction: it signals, chapter by chapter, the epistemic status of each assertion. Where the archive speaks, we write History; where tradition alone transmits, we write Memory; where the two meet, we name the intersection.
The geographical horizon of the name — Italy according to Schaerf, but also, as we shall see, the Mediterranean shores of the Sephardic world — invites us to situate the Piha lineage within the great circulation of Jewish families expelled from Spain in 1492 and redeployed from Livourne to Tunis, from Tlemcen to Salonique. It is this framework, more than a linear genealogy impossible to establish, that this book sets out to unfold.
The documentary foundation of the Piha family rests on the authority of Samuele Schaerf, whose 1925 work, I cognomi degli ebrei d'Italia, remains the reference catalogue for Italian Jewish onomastics. Schaerf lists Piha among the surnames attested on Italian soil, placing the lineage among the Jewish families of the peninsula [Schaerf, 1925]. This inclusion in a reference catalogue confers upon the name a solid documentary standing: this is not a late reconstruction, but an attestation gathered by a methodical philologist from within the Italian communal fabric of the early twentieth century.
The etymology of the name, however, belongs to the realm of the probable rather than the established. Several avenues coexist. One hypothesis connects Piha to a Semitic root — the Arabic or Hebrew peh (the mouth), from which a descriptive surname might derive, much like so many Mediterranean family names born from a nickname. Another avenue, common for brief Sephardic names, sees in it a contracted or Hispanicised form of an older name, transformed through Italian, Iberian, and North African transcriptions. The very spelling — Piha, Pia, Pihha depending on the records — bears witness to this orthographic plasticity characteristic of Jewish names circulating between languages and alphabets.
This graphic instability is not a documentary weakness: it is the very mark of diasporic mobility. As Robert Bonfil observed in his study of Jewish life in Renaissance Italy, Italian Jewish communities were crossroads where Jews of diverse origins encountered one another — indigenous italkim, Ashkenazim from the North, and Sephardim who arrived following the Iberian expulsions — each bringing their names, their rites, and their transcriptions. Jewish society in Renaissance Italy was plural, shaped by the coexistence of distinct traditions within a shared urban space [Bonfil, 1994]. A name like Piha, attested in Italy yet probably of Sephardic descent, illustrates precisely this stratification.
A methodological limit must be acknowledged here: in the absence of an etymological account commanding universal agreement, we refrain from asserting a single origin. The name is established as an Italian Jewish surname; its original meaning remains conjectural.
Since it is in Italy that the name Piha is documented, the history of Italian Jewish communities provides the first intelligible framework for the lineage. This history is ancient and continuous: present since Roman Antiquity, Italian Jewry experienced a remarkable intellectual and economic flourishing during the Renaissance, before the confinements of the ghettos instituted in the sixteenth century.
Bonfil has shown that the condition of Italian Jews during the Renaissance was paradoxical: at once integrated into the surrounding cultural dynamics and maintained in a juridical and religious otherness. Jews participated in humanist culture while preserving the structures of their own communal and religious life [Bonfil, 1994]. A family such as the Piha, if it belonged to this world, would have moved between the synagogue, commerce, and, for the more learned, the study of texts and manuscript production.
On this last point, the work of Giulia Tamani on decorated Hebrew manuscripts from Italy recalls the extraordinary richness of book culture in the Italian communities. Illuminated Hebrew manuscripts produced in Italy bear witness to a high degree of artistic refinement and to an integration of Renaissance aesthetic models [Tamani, 2010]. Though no source allows us to attribute to a Piha the commission or copying of a specific manuscript, this context illuminates the cultural milieu within which Italian Jewish families, including the most modest, lived their relationship to the sacred written word.
Italian port cities, and Livorno above all, played a determining role in welcoming the Sephardim. Lionel Lévy has finely reconstructed the history of the "Portuguese Jewish Nation," of which Livorno was, from the end of the sixteenth century, one of the major poles. Livorno became, thanks to the privileges granted by the Medici, a prosperous refuge for Sephardic and Portuguese Jewish merchants from the Iberian Peninsula [Lévy, 1999]. It is in this Livornese crucible that a Sephardic Italian identity turned toward the Mediterranean was forged, and it is through this lens that one must no doubt understand the presence of a name like Piha on Italian soil: not as an isolated fact, but as a link in the reconstituted Iberian diaspora.
If the Italian archive fixes the name, the Sephardic tradition most likely illuminates its origin. The expulsion of 1492 scattered the Jews of Spain toward North Africa, the Ottoman Empire, Italy, and the United Provinces. Many Sephardic families bear brief, opaque names that survived these migrations in altered forms. That the name Piha appears both in Italy and, through family memory, in the North African sphere argues for a common Iberian origin redeployed along the routes of Mediterranean trade.
Lionel Lévy has masterfully described this network connecting Livourne to Tunis, to Amsterdam and beyond — a space where men, goods, capital, and patronyms all circulated. The Portuguese Nation constituted a trans-Mediterranean and transatlantic network linking Livourne, Amsterdam, and Tunis through dense family and commercial ties [Lévy, 1999]. Within this network, the same name could appear simultaneously in several ports, carried by branches of a single dispersed stock. The history of Livourne shows how a Sephardic community could radiate far beyond the city itself, dispersing its families across the entire Mediterranean basin [Lévy, 1996].
The Algerian sphere offers a particularly pertinent terrain. Eliahou-Éric Botbol, in his history of the Jewish community of Tlemcen, demonstrated the depth and antiquity of Judaism in western Algeria, where indigenous Jews and Sephardic newcomers intermingled. The Jewish community of Tlemcen, one of the oldest in North Africa, welcomed after 1492 an influx of Jews expelled from Spain who renewed its religious and intellectual life [Botbol, 2000]. The rabbinical archives of neighboring communities, such as those of Sidi Bel Abbès, preserve traces of these Sephardic families established in the region [Archives rabbiniques de Sidi Bel Abbès].
We call this section an "intersection" because tradition (which connects the name to the Sephardic North African world) and archive (which fixes it in Italy) speak to each other without contradiction: together they trace the outline of a dispersed Iberian family. The status remains "probable": no document links, by name, an Italian branch and an Algerian branch of the Piha to date. The hypothesis is coherent, plausible, but unproven.
What did the Piha do? In the absence of a dedicated family monograph, one can only answer by inferring from the general condition of Sephardic Jewish families of the Mediterranean — hence the "probable" status of this chapter. Commerce, maritime trade, craftsmanship, the rabbinate, and teaching constituted the customary poles of Jewish activity in these societies.
In Livorno and the Italian ports, the families of the Nation distinguished themselves through long-distance trade, brokerage, and finance, articulated around networks of coreligionist correspondents. The Livornese families built their prosperity on international commerce, credit, and a communal solidarity structured by the Nation [Lévy, 1996]. In North Africa, the fabric was different: alongside the great merchants, there subsisted a people of artisans, peddlers, and scholars. In Tlemcen, Jewish life was organized around synagogues, Talmudic schools, and a traditional craftsmanship transmitted from generation to generation [Botbol, 2000].
At the heart of this life, transmission. Rabbinical archives — ketoubot, divorce deeds, contracts, responsa — constitute the documentary skeleton of communal Memory. The Archives rabbiniques de Sidi Bel Abbès illustrate how these registers recorded marriages, filiations, and disputes, fixing for posterity names and alliances [Archives rabbiniques de Sidi Bel Abbès]. It is precisely in such collections that a nominative attestation of the Algerian Piha could one day emerge, transforming our probable hypothesis into established fact.
Transmission was not only juridical but spiritual. Jewish thought, as expounded by Armand Abécassis and Léon Askénazi, structures in depth the identity of these families. Jewish thought proceeds from a movement going from the desert to desire — that is, from an experience of lack toward an ethics of relation [Abécassis, 1987]. And Léon Askénazi recalled that thinking the Jewish tradition today requires articulating fidelity to the received heritage with the demand of a renewed intelligence [Askénazi, 1999]. It is within this horizon that families such as the Piha transmitted, from generation to generation, more than a material patrimony: a way of inhabiting the world.
Beyond facts, a lineage lives by the consciousness it has of itself. This chapter deliberately belongs to transmitted Memory rather than to the archive: it interrogates what it means, for a family like the Piha, to belong to the Jewish people across the long duration of exile.
Medieval Jewish philosophy, studied by Colette Sirat through manuscripts, shows how deeply the reflection on identity, exile, and redemption irrigated the culture of Sephardic communities. Jewish philosophy of the Middle Ages unfolds in manuscripts as a living tradition, where metaphysical speculation engages in constant dialogue with religious experience [Sirat, 1983]. Maurice-Ruben Hayoun, in his recent synthesis, extends this History by demonstrating the continuity of Jewish thought from Antiquity to modernity [Hayoun, 2023]. A family is not merely a succession of names: it is the custodian, even if unconsciously, of this intellectual heritage.
The question of Jewish identity in diaspora was posed with acuity by Isaiah Berlin, who analyzed the tension between belonging and emancipation, between particular fidelity and universality. Berlin describes the modern Jewish condition as a difficult oscillation between assimilation, the preservation of identity, and the quest for a fully recognized sense of belonging [Berlin, 1973]. The Piha, like so many families who passed through Italy, North Africa, and then, for many, France or Israel in the twentieth century, lived this oscillation.
Finally, Memory itself is the object of reflection. Yerushalmi showed that Judaism long preferred liturgical memory to critical History. For Yerushalmi, the commandment to remember — zakhor — structured the Jewish relationship to the past long before the emergence of a modern historiography [Yerushalmi, 1984]. This Great Book stands at the junction of the two: it honors transmitted Memory while submitting it to the examination of the archive. The "transmitted" status of this chapter fully assumes that what is said here belongs to received meaning, not to proven document.
At the close of this journey, what do we know of the Piha? One fact is solidly established: the name is attested as an Italian Jewish surname by Samuele Schaerf in his 1925 catalogue [Schaerf, 1925]. Around this anchor point, a coherent hypothesis takes shape: that of a family of probably Sephardic descent, redeployed after 1492 along the Mediterranean routes connecting Italy — most notably Livorno — to North Africa, of which Tlemcen and its region offer a plausible theatre.
This reconstruction remains, for the most part, in the realm of the probable. It rests on the general knowledge of Sephardic diasporic dynamics rather than on a chain of nominally linked records. The model of the Portuguese Nation, connecting Livorno, Amsterdam, and Tunis, offers the most pertinent framework for understanding the dispersal of such a family across the Mediterranean basin [Lévy, 1999]. The North African rabbinical archives, such as those of Sidi Bel Abbès, represent the repository where the attestations that would one day transform hypothesis into certainty might yet be found.
Epistemic honesty demands no less: this book does not invent a genealogy that no source sustains. It proposes a framework — Italian and Sephardic, Mediterranean and diasporic — within which the name Piha finds its intelligibility. As Léon Askénazi reminded us, fidelity to heritage does not preclude critical rigour [Askénazi, 1999]. It is in this spirit, at the crossroads of History and Memory, that this Great Book closes — open to the archival discoveries that will come, one day, to refine its pages.
