The new English translation of French author Joann Sfar’s graphic novel, The Rabbi’s Cat, is more than a portrait of a time when Jews and Arabs were on better terms, though it is also that. The novel follows Rabbi Abraham, his daughter, Zlabya, and their cat, Majrum, through the streets of French Algeria and Paris of the 1930’s. And as one of Sfar’s characters points out, Algerian Jewish identity at the time was far more complicated that the bare-bones question of Jew vs. Arab.
In addition to its political importance, The Rabbi’s Cat has all the elements of a perfect fairy tale: love, disapproving families, a voyage, and—oh yes—a much beloved cat that acquires the ability to speak after devouring the garrulous family parrot. Even so, these qualities don’t stop Sfar from creating a tale all his own, with a deliciously flawed hero, Majrum. Indeed, the reader is dropped into an increasingly messy plot whose layers have the feel of a real, bustling culture. Sfar does away with exoticism and instead invites readers to explore a world of contradictions, surprises, and confusion through gorgeous, whimsical illustrations and sharp dialogue.
With his new linguistic skills, Majrum launches into Jewish Intellectual mode and starts butting heads with his master’s master, referred to as the “rabbi’s rabbi.” The high point of the cat’s philosophical mastery may be when he fleetingly convinces the befuddled Rabbi that he himself is G-d and has come to exact judgment on Abraham’s unfounded dismissal of a cat Bar Mitzvah!
But Majrum’s voice isn’t the only one winding through the warm, colorful pages of The Rabbi’s Cat. While the author, a French citizen of Ukranian-Algerian origins, claims that he “selfishly” writes for his own pleasure, he is evidently fueled by deep political convictions as well. In an interview with Michiko Clark of Random House, Sfar described how “most Arab kids see themselves as Palestinians and most Jews think they are Israeli.” He wants to “remind them that all of their ancestors come from the Maghreb, and none of them comes from Palestine.” As evinced by the strands of Hebrew, Arabic, Ladino, and French winding through the novel, Sfar wants “Jewish people to remember that less than 50 years ago, they spoke Arabic. Maybe it helps Arab people to realize that we share many common traditions.”
In his clever and engaging story of identities transformed, Sfar manages to make at least two minority voices heard: those of cats and those of Algerian Jews. Though Rabbi Abraham tries to convince his feline friend that “among Jews there are no symbols and no allegories,” the lives they lead prove otherwise. Like Majrum, Sfar lurks craftily in the background of his story, observing the complexities of his family’s culture. Man’s best friend may be the dog, but the Jews’ best friends have always been committed skeptics like Majrum who help us negotiate our shifting places within worlds of Jewish contradictions and identities.
