On the Tunisian island of Djerba, security concerns don't stop the Jewish community from celebrating the annual Ghriba festival.
'My son moved away to France, all of the young people did', the lady showing me around Tunis's huge Synagogue tells me.
'How would they find someone to marry here?'
Amid the enormous art deco building heavily guarded day and night, it was a reminder of how the Jewish population of Tunisia has seen its population shrink in the twentieth century.
We sat in a small antechamber where today's ceremonies are held; there are only a few hundred Jews left in Tunis; down from a national population of perhaps a hundred thousand at the time of the creation of Israel. Many have headed there, and to France.
I visit the Synagogue in the morning before heading down to the island of Djerba for the famed Jewish Ghriba pilgrimage.
Many secular Tunisians - critics of the Islamists now in power - attack the new government, saying it is bad news for the country's minorities, amongst them around 1,500 Jews. Extremist groups have come out of the shadows, calling for death to Jews in public. The government isn't tough enough, they say. Jewish leaders and government leaders alike are keen to stress good relations and the first-class status of Jewish Tunisians. Islamic extremists, too, are a small minority.
Most Jews - just under a thousand of the 1,500 odd in Tunisia - live on Djerba, a popular tourist destination near the border with Libya.
I'm not sure what to expect for the festival. What I know is that relics of civilisations past dot the island, a microcosm of Tunisia. Punics, Romans, Spaniards, Turks; everyone has fought for a piece of Djerba.
And standing the test of time, is the island's small Jewish population, numbering just under a thousand. They live peacefully with their Muslim Arab and Berber neighbours.
Last year's pilgrimage, popular with Jews from around the world, particularly French Jews with links to Tunisia - was cancelled due to security concerns following the revolution.
This year, it's back on. Israel has stepped into the fray by warning its citizens not to go. Security is tight; I'm reliably informed that secret police have checked me out at my hotel desk within an hour of me arriving. Army helicopters buzz over the island.
When I arrive at the synagogue, there are more police than Jewish people. There are also more journalists than Jewish people; notwithstanding a number of foreign Jewish journalists. Still, I've been in the country for six weeks, and never seen so many Western journalists. Is the story of Jews in Tunisia - despite being second only to Morocco in terms of population in majority Arab countries - too fascinating, too tragic not to cover?
Slowly, locals start to arrive. Amongst them, local Muslims keen to mingle with their neighbours. They're a minority, to be sure, but they're here along with a handful of Muslim staff working at the synagogue.
There's certainly no tragedy here. There's a synagogue which dates back 600 years before Christ (the easiest reference point for a Western journalist, I realise after leaving), and a community still using the same site. There's singing and dancing and dapper boys and pretty girls, and a very, very loud band.
Granted, it's not all cheers, music and laughter. The synagogue was bombed in the past - killing a number of German tourists - in 2002. And in 2012, the 'Salafist' word - the newly resurgent breed of ultra-conservative Muslims - is in the backs of people's minds, as it often is in Tunisia.
Privately, people say some of their Jewish friends have not turned up. There was talk of thousands of pilgrims. In reality, it's in the low hundreds. Many predicted foreigners don't show, too; Israel's security warning hasn't helped. Those that have come from Europe, though, stick out like sore thumbs in their attempts to sing the loudest Hebrew songs, and in some cases, drink the most Tunisian beer.
It's a fascinating day, but it's hard to work as a journalist at events like this; there are too many of us throwing questions at them.
I hang around with a new friend - remarkably, a Muslim converting to Judaism. The local Jewish guys are just as intrigued as me, and we drink some beers at the sides of the increasingly boisterous party. Some of the journalists with deadlines in Paris and Tunis head off.
The atmosphere loosens as the night grows older. How's life for Jews in Djerba since the revolution? I venture in French.
"Jews live with Tunisians without problem," one guy tells me. I'm struck by his answer, as I was in the morning. An Arab Muslim local had told me the same thing - Jews live with us Tunisians without a problem.
Dozens of Tunisian flags fly at the venue. A rousing rendition of the national anthem is sung at one point. But the Jews live with the Tunisians without a problem. Another guy tells me there are no problems at all between the Jews and the Arabs.
So do you speak Hebrew or Arabic at home? I ask another guy in the group. We learn Hebrew, but we speak Arabic at home, he says.
"Doesn't that make you Arabs, too?" I ask. Jewish, Tunisian, Arabs? No one quite answers the question. At the risk of taking the mood of the group too far from the good vibes of the night, I decide to leave it, and swig on my beer.
