Every year, Rabbi Aaron Peretz climbs into a Spanish Civil Guard patrol vehicle and spends several hours driving along the 12-kilometer steel fence separating the Spanish city of Melilla from Morocco.
To most people, the barrier is one of Europe’s best-known frontiers, built to prevent illegal migration into the European Union. Reinforced with cameras and anti-climb devices, it has become a symbol of Europe’s struggle to control its southern border.
For Peretz, however, the annual inspection has nothing to do with immigration.
“Few people know this,” he says with a smile after leaving Melilla’s kollel (institute for full-time Torah study), accompanied by several of his children. “The security fence also serves as the city’s eruv [halachic boundary allowing Jews to carry on Shabbat]. We don’t need to build one. Every year we simply check that the enclosure remains intact.”
It is a uniquely Melilla story: Infrastructure built for security has also become part of Jewish religious life.
Only days before our conversation, another fence – 400 kilometers away in the neighboring Spanish city of Ceuta – became the focus of international attention after tens of thousands of Moroccan nationals broke into Spanish territory in the largest border crisis Spain has faced in decades.
The images shocked Europe and prompted Madrid to deploy additional security forces. But for residents of Ceuta and Melilla, the events represented something deeper than another migration emergency. They revived long-standing fears about the vulnerability of Spain’s only two cities on the African continent.
Walking through Melilla’s compact center, it is easy to forget how strategically exposed it is. Catholic churches, mosques, a Hindu temple, and synagogues stand within a few streets of one another, reflecting more than a century of multicultural coexistence.
Melilla remains one of Spain’s most vibrant Jewish centers outside Madrid and Barcelona
Among them rises the elegant Or Zaruah Synagogue, completed in 1925 in the Neo-Mudéjar style by Enrique Nieto, one of Antoni Gaudí’s best-known disciples. It remains one of the architectural jewels of the city and an active center of Jewish life.
Melilla’s modern Jewish community flourished after the Hispano-Moroccan War of 1859-1860, when Jews from northern Morocco settled in the expanding Spanish port. By World War II, the city was home to nearly 7,000 Jews and 26 synagogues – more than the combined number of churches and mosques at the time. Although today the community numbers around 1,000 people, it remains one of Spain’s most vibrant Jewish centers outside Madrid and Barcelona.
Its history is also linked to one of the most painful episodes of Moroccan Jewry.
According to the Mem Guimel Cultural Association, the Egoz – the clandestine vessel that carried Moroccan Jews toward Israel – departed first from Melilla before sailing to Al Hoceima to collect emigrants. The boat sank on the night of January 10-11, 1961, killing 44 people, including 43 Jews seeking to reach Israel. Today, Mem Guimel preserves their memory.
For much of the outside world, Ceuta and Melilla appear in the headlines only when dramatic images show migrants climbing fences or swimming around breakwaters.
Ceuta and Melilla remain integral parts of Spain and the EU despite Morocco’s sovereignty claims
In reality, they are integral parts of Spain and the European Union, even as Morocco continues to dispute their sovereignty. Melilla has belonged to Spain since 1497, while Ceuta’s ties date back to a few decades afterward. Madrid argues that both cities became Spanish centuries before modern Morocco gained independence in 1956.
For decades, thousands of Moroccan workers crossed the frontier every day, and cross-border trade sustained much of the local economy. That balance has gradually eroded as Morocco developed its own infrastructure and tightened commercial restrictions, leaving many residents convinced that Rabat has sought to increase pressure on Madrid.
That fragile balance was shattered last week.
Unlike previous attempts to storm the fences – usually involving migrants from sub-Saharan Africa – the overwhelming majority of those who entered Ceuta were Moroccan nationals. That single fact transformed the crisis.
For the Spanish government, it was primarily a migration emergency exploited by human trafficking networks. For many residents of Ceuta and Melilla, it looked like something very different.
“I don’t think this started on Thursday,” said IL, a young woman from Melilla whom we met near the border fence and who accused King Mohammed of promoting the invasion. Another local resident considered that “whoever organized this wanted to send a political message to Spain. Around here, very few people believe it simply happened on its own.”
Spain stops short of blaming Rabat despite Morocco’s apparent knowledge of Ceuta migration rush
Across both cities, taxi drivers, shopkeepers, business owners, and retired officials repeat the same suspicion: that such a massive movement of people could hardly have taken place without, at the very least, the knowledge of the Moroccan authorities.
The Spanish government has stopped short of directly accusing Rabat of orchestrating the events.
Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez described the mass crossing as “a violation of Spain’s territorial integrity,” while Interior Minister Fernando Grande-Marlaska insisted that “Morocco poses no threat either to Ceuta or to the rest of Spain. It is an absolutely reliable partner, and our cooperation made it possible to reverse the situation within 24 hours.”
Those statements may reassure audiences in Madrid. On Spain’s African frontier, they inspire considerably less confidence.
Whether Morocco actively encouraged the crossing or simply failed to prevent it remains an open question. What is undeniable is that the crisis has fundamentally altered public perception. In Ceuta and Melilla, it is no longer viewed simply as another episode of irregular migration but increasingly as a geopolitical warning.
For many residents, that perception is shaped by history.
In November 1975, as Gen. Francisco Franco lay dying, Morocco launched the Green March, sending some 350,000 civilians into what was then Spanish Sahara. Spain, immersed in a delicate political transition, chose not to confront the marchers and withdrew within weeks.
Nearly half a century later, the memory remains vivid.
“If Morocco ever wanted to overwhelm Ceuta or Melilla, it wouldn’t need tanks,” said Manu Tapia, a retired resident of Melilla. “Last week showed that thousands of civilians could create a crisis without a single shot being fired. Remember the Green March!”
Whether that scenario is realistic is almost beside the point. The events demonstrated how quickly a migration crisis can become a political, diplomatic, and psychological one.
Spain’s membership in NATO and the European Union remains its ultimate security guarantee. Yet the first hours of the Ceuta crisis exposed the limits of responding to a mass civilian incursion. Local police and Civil Guard units were rapidly overwhelmed before military personnel arrived to reinforce surveillance and logistics. By then, the images had already spread around the world.
The humanitarian consequences were equally severe. Over 100 people drowned attempting to reach Spanish territory, while thousands spent nights sleeping in parks, beaches, and public spaces before many were gradually returned to Morocco. Others, particularly unaccompanied minors, entered lengthy legal procedures that make repatriation far more difficult.
The crisis has also reignited Spain’s domestic political debate, with opposition parties accusing Sánchez’s government of weakening border deterrence, while the government insists it acted within European law and preserved essential cooperation with Rabat.
Morocco has largely sidestepped the question of who organized – or allowed – the mass crossing into Ceuta. Officials have avoided directly addressing the allegations, suggesting instead that mafias trafficking with humans and social media helped fuel the events.
For many people in Spain’s African cities, that explanation has done little to dispel the uncertainty.
The greatest misconception about Ceuta and Melilla is that they are defined solely by the fence. They are not.
They are places where Europe and Africa meet not only geographically but culturally and spiritually. Church bells, the call to prayer, and Jewish services have coexisted here for generations. Spanish, Tamazight (a local Arabic dialect), and some Hebrew can all be heard in the same neighborhoods, reflecting a diversity rarely found elsewhere in Europe.
That coexistence has survived wars, diplomatic crises, economic downturns, and repeated migration emergencies. It remains one of the defining characteristics of both cities.
Jewish life in Melilla goes on
Although much smaller than they once were, the Jewish communities continue to occupy a distinctive place in that mosaic. Synagogues remain active, Melilla’s Jewish school continues educating new generations, and community organizations preserve a heritage that stretches back more than 150 years.
Life, despite everything, goes on.
Which brings the story back to Rabbi Aaron Peretz.
Sometime next year, he will once again climb into a Civil Guard vehicle to inspect Melilla’s eruv, just as he has done every year. The same steel fence that dominates headlines across Europe will once again be examined not as a political frontier but as the religious boundary that allows the city’s Jewish community to observe Shabbat.
For visitors, it is a striking paradox, but for Melilla’s Jews, it is simply part of everyday life.
Yet that same barrier has come to symbolize something far greater than a security installation. It embodies the complex reality of two Spanish cities that stand at the intersection of continents, religions, and competing national narratives.
Whether this summer’s unprecedented mass crossing proves to be an isolated episode or the beginning of a new phase in relations between Spain and Morocco remains impossible to know.
What is already clear is that it has altered the psychological landscape of Spain’s southern frontier and reopened questions about the future of Europe’s southern border.