Mimouna’s Blessings: A Call for Healing and Connection

Back when my parents were growing up in Morocco, the end of Passover wasn’t just a family affair—it was a neighborhood celebration. Kids would race from house to house—everyone did—greeting neighbors with cheerful cries of “terbah,” a blessing in Arabic meaning “may you win” or “may you be successful.”

Every home offered a spread: delicate crepes called mufleta drenched in honey and butter, cookies bursting with pistachios and walnuts and delicately scented with rosewater, sticky dates filled with marzipan, almond pastry cakes, and couscous steeped in butter, milk, and cinnamon. “You couldn’t leave without tasting something at every house,” they’d recall, remembering a Moroccan tradition that embodies the spirit of hospitality and the joy of the evening.

Growing up in Montreal, the tradition of Mimouna continued, though far from the sun-soaked streets of Morocco. In our home, it was more than just a celebration—it was a vibrant expression of identity, memory, and joy. While my Ashkenazy friends’ parents quietly packed away the Passover dishes, something entirely different was unfolding in our household. We were preparing for Mimouna.

My mother and her friends would gather in the kitchen, their laughter mixing with the scents of orange blossom and cinnamon. Dressed in colorful kaftans, they prepared the traditional sweets and dishes—moufleta sizzling in pans, marzipan shaped into delicate flowers, and dates stuffed with almonds and honey. The table would fill with abundance, each item a small nod to the hope and blessings that defined the night.

Music filled every corner of the house—sometimes the deep, soulful voice of Umm Kulthum, other times the upbeat charm of Enrico Macias. Our doors were always open, just like in Morocco. Friends and neighbors would come and go, sharing food, stories, and warm wishes of good fortune. We danced. We laughed. And when one house quieted down, we moved on to the next, keeping the spirit of Mimouna alive through the night.

The number five was everywhere—a nod to the Hamsa, a hand-shaped amulet symbolizing protection. There were five of everything: silver coins, dates, fava beans, and gold bracelets. Some years, even a live fish swam beside bowls of flour and pea pods—symbols of life, abundance, and renewal.

The roots of the name Mimouna are still debated. Some say it comes from Rabbi Maimon, the father of Maimonides. Others connect it to African spiritual traditions, including those of the Gnawa people. Others say the word comes from the Arabic term “mammon,” meaning “wealth,” symbolizing prosperity and success. But whatever its origin, Mimouna is fundamentally about community—about kindness, hospitality, and shared humanity.

But this year is different.

Since October 7, everything feels heavier. The grief, the fear, the deep sense of loss—it touches everything. This year’s Mimouna will feel the absence of those who are no longer with us. Tables will be set, but hearts will ache. As we fry mufleta, we’ll be thinking of the 59 hostages still in Gaza. We’ll remember the lives lost, the families torn apart, the mothers missing their children, and the children missing their parents.

The sweetness on our tables is a sharp contrast to the sorrow in the world. It’s a reminder that for many, freedom is still elusive.

This year, Mimouna feels less like a party and more like a prayer. A hope clung to tightly in a time of anguish. It’s a moment to hold onto tradition, not as an escape, but as a declaration: we are still here. We still believe in community, in better days.

Mimouna has never just been about food or music—it’s about memory. About choosing to celebrate life even when it’s hard. About inviting others in, even when our heart is full of sorrow. And maybe now, more than ever, it’s a call to act—with empathy, with purpose, with unity.

Let this year’s Mimouna stretch beyond one night. Let it be a step toward healing and deeper connection. May it bring not just sweets, but solace; not just ritual, but renewal. And may we always believe that one day, those missing at our tables will find their way back home.