Remembering Yamna Naaziz and the Soulful Art of Thamawayth. Noureddine Boutahar

I remember it not just as a dream, but like a song carried on the wind. I was just a child, too small to hold a memory steady, let alone guide a mule. Yet there I sat, in front of my aunt Yattou on our sorrel molly mule named Gazella, trotting from my parents’ nomadic camp toward my grandparents’ permanent home. Once the tent disappeared behind the hill, my aunt broke into song—not just any song, but Thamawayth. Her voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the trail, weaving stories of longing, sorrow, hope, and love. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was my first brush with the heartbeat of the Middle Atlas—and the unforgettable voice of Yamna Naaziz, the woman at the heart of this article. 

Thamawayth is a unique form of Amazigh poetry, traditionally performed solo. It’s often sung by a lone traveler crossing forests or a shepherd among his flock—a melody born of solitude and carried by the breeze. According to Amazigh linguist Mohamed Chafik, the word itself derives from the idea of companionship: a presence that keeps one company as one journeys through mountains and valleys. More than just music, Thamawayth is the soul’s voice, echoing into the silence. As one Quora user aptly put it, "Folk songs are important because they are a cultural phenomenon that reflects the values, dreams, and struggles of a people." That is precisely what Thamawayth embodies: it is the cry of a culture, shaped by time, hardship, and hope.

Structurally, it floats between poetry and prose—usually three to five lines, free from rhyme but rich in melody and vocal ornamentation. While both men and women perform it, it’s the female voice—with its emotive depth and tonal richness—that often leaves a deeper mark. In the Amazigh world, Thamawayth is no passing fancy. It accompanies harvests, sheep-shearing, village celebrations, punctuates a singing night, and preludes the galloping pageantry of Tbourida horsemen. When performed before an audience, it ends in a swell of applause, uproarious cheers, trilling ululations, and the beat of drums. Even animals seem to respond—I’ve seen horses nod, step, and rear as though the song/poem stirred something deep within. They say music soothes the savage beast; in this case, it awakens its soul.

Yamna Naaziz, later known as Yamna Tafersit, was born in 1930 in the countryside near Khénifra. She began singing at fifteen, around 1945, and never looked back. Her voice was a rare gift: it carried sorrow and joy in the same breath and seemed to pour feeling straight into form. Raised in the grandeur of the Middle Atlas—where even the stones seem to hum—she didn’t just sing Thamawayth; she became it.

Unlike today’s stars who rise under bright spotlights, Tafersit’s talent bloomed in fields, valleys, mountains, and meadows. While village girls gathered firewood and fodder or toiled in the fields, Yamna sang to them—lightening their burdens with each verse. She never sought fame; it came to her. She was a companion in labor, a balm for the weary, and a voice for the voiceless. As Hank Williams once said, "Folk songs express the dreams and prayers and hopes of the working people." And that’s exactly what Thamawayth has done for generations of Amazigh women and men—it has carried their burdens and dreams through the echo of every mountain pass.

The story behind Tafersit’s name is the stuff of legend. According to scholar Abdelmalek Hamzaoui in Treasures of the Middle Atlas, Yamna’s original family name was Ifersten. Her grandfather, Moha Ouhammo, was a man of great strength. One night, he was ambushed by six or seven thieves aiming to steal his livestock. But instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and chased them all off single-handedly—no bloodshed, just sheer courage. The next morning, the tribe was abuzz: “Moha devoured the thieves!” they said—not literally, of course, but in admiration of his bravery. In Amazigh, they said Ifersten Moha, and over time, the name became Afersi. After his death, his son—Yamna’s father—was called Aziz Afarssi. When Yamna registered for her administrative documents in 1968, she feminized the name and became Tafersit.

Yamna Naaziz was a contemporary of Amazigh music legends like Hammou El Yazid, Moha Oumouzzoun, El Ghazi Bennacer, Abchar El Bachir, and Mimoun Outouhan, with whom she sang the timeless epic, Awa Thaamithi Awa Thanghithi (“My Sight You Stole, My Life You Claimed”), and the Ahidous maestro Lhouceine Achibane. She also sparred in poetic duels with masters like Hmad Nmynah and Ichou Hassan. Tafersit didn’t merely drift with tradition—she carved its course.

Yamna’s voice was unmistakable, unforgettable. It carved its own generous space in the world of Thamawayth, somewhere between the velvety softness of Aicha Tagzafet—known for her duets with Hammou El Yazid—and the commanding strength of Hadda Ouakki, whose iconic performances with Bennacer Oukhoya need no introduction. Yamna’s voice also danced with the playful lilt of Itto Mouloud, famous for her songs with Lahcen Aâchouch, and echoed the vast, heartfelt tones of Fatima Tawsidant, who sang alongside Mohamed Rouicha and Mohamed Maghni. Among these luminaries, Yamna’s voice shone like a full moon in a cloudless sky—neither overshadowed nor imitative, but radiant with its own light and legend.

Before phones and loudspeakers, Thamawayth often served as a secret language—an artful way to convey veiled love messages or warn of impending danger, all wrapped in metaphor and melody. One striking example comes from the first piece recorded by Tafersit at RTM (Moroccan Radio and Television) in 1966, which opened with these powerful lines:

زايْذْ كْعذيل إوْحْذاذي نشْ أوانْ يِوينْ أبْريذْ كّولّا يْمعيذانْ نقّانْش

“Fill your horse with more fodder, you who prepare for travel! Your enemies have sworn to destroy you!

This haunting verse wasn’t born in a vacuum. Its roots reach back to the time of the French occupation of Moroccan lands. As the story goes, a woman spotted a young man preparing his horse for a journey. Aware that enemies lay in ambush, planning to kill him, she didn’t shout a warning—she sang one. With danger in the air and spies possibly nearby, she used poetry as a shield, sending him this cryptic message wrapped in metaphor and melody. In a time when every word could cost a life, her voice became his lifeline—a subtle warning hidden in plain sight.

Yamna Naaziz’s poetry spanned the full spectrum—from the depths of personal sorrow to the heights of national pride. Yet the piece that every Amazigh, young and old, carries in their heart is a love story woven in legend, and it goes like this:

أذْروخْ أوا روياخْ كاخْ ثينْ اجظاظْ  أياسْمونْ قّاري يعقوب أرْش قّارخْ 

“You weep, and I weep—like two stranded birds. Darling, call me Jacob, and I’ll call you [Isaac].”

A line of aching simplicity, full of longing and love. Its roots lie in a legend many Amazigh children grew up hearing—often around a glowing fire, wrapped in ahandirs (Amazigh handwoven blankets), their grandmothers’ voices weaving memory into myth. Though the three popular versions of the legend differ slightly in detail, their core meaning and theme remain the same across them all.

My own grandmother, may she rest in peace, told it often. She said that long ago, a virtuous woman in the tribe sent two young boys—Jacob and Isaac—to deliver food to a pregnant woman with cravings. But, as children often do, they were overtaken by curiosity and hunger. They tampered with the food—tasting it, playing with it—until it was spoiled. When the woman found out, her reaction was swift and fierce. Not only had they ruined the food, but they had betrayed a trust. In her anger, she cursed them: May God turn them into two birds, perched forever on the same tree—each calling out to the other, yet never able to see or hear one another again. And so it came to pass. The heavens heard, and the boys were transformed—left to chirp and cry endlessly, close in distance, yet forever out of reach.

Tragically, Yamna Naaziz’s final years were marked by hardship. Despite her enormous contribution to Amazigh heritage, she passed away in 2006, in illness and poverty, in a modest home in Khénifra. No fanfare, no state honors. And yet, though her body departed quietly, her voice still lingers—echoing through valleys, drifting on radio waves, etched in old recordings, and stitched into memory. A voice like hers doesn’t go silent—it haunts the wind.

For me, Thamawayth is more than a genre—it’s a refuge. I don’t just listen to it; I sing it. Whenever I hike the mountains of my hometown, Boukashmir, and find myself in a vast, open space—a canvas of wind, solitude, and memory—I let my voice roam. And when I am truly alone, I return to these favorites:

أوا شْمِذِرُورانْ أثِيزي نو، أوا گبدّلّ إغْصان إخاثارّ سْوِ دّايْمْزّين!

I wish I could bring back my youth! I wish I could trade these old bones for young ones!

أوسيخْشْ أ لْمْري ذا وْرْ ياذاسْ عقّيلْخْ إيْخْفْ إينوْ أورْ ثْنوگيزْ ألّيگالْ ساوالخْ

I held the mirror, but I didn’t remember myself, nor did I recognize my reflection until I spoke.

ثْنّا يِثْگيظْ أوخا تيتْگّا بوتسْمّارث إ لْقالْب إسْمخازّا باظاظْ إغْصانِينو

What love has done to me—even a hammer couldn’t do to a sugar cube; love has crushed my bones.

أوا زيخْ ثايْتشّين أيْدّايْ سّالاْيْن غدْ أيْدّا يْسْظارّ إوْرگازْ ألْمْسّي نْسْ

It is the woman who elevates or diminishes a man's status and his home.

أدّا يْناوْظْ عاري أثوگا خْسْ أشمانّيخْ إكْسْ لْقْنْظْ إِ وُولِنو أوا يْغّوذا أوراعا نْمْ

When I climb the mountain and see the greenery, despair leaves my heart because of the beauty I behold.

إوا يا يوذْماوْن زيلّينْ، أموديسْنوفا وْرْتْمْثاثم أتقّيميم أوما دّويْث أتافْظ

To you, good faces, I wish you hadn't died, even if it meant the end of all existence.

أجّانْخ أنْسّارا ثيميزار ثْنّا وْري يْعْجيبن رْحْلْخ، أناوْظ ثيدّا وْرْسّينْخ.

Let me roam the world. Should a place displease me, I'll depart, seeking lands yet unknown.

أثا حوذْرْ أ طّْيّارَا أوشيدْ أفرْ أذامْ نارو ثابْراتْ أوِيتْ إِيواينْحوبّا غرْ يْخامْن

Bend down, airplane, and give me your wing, so I can give you a letter to take to my beloved’s tent.

أوا عْدّان ميدنْ زيلّين وْرِيد إسْ قْلّان، إوا ماني شا يْعْزّن غورِي أذيگ أمْ ثاسانْو

Many good people exist; they aren’t hard to find. But where are those as cherished as my own heart?

أثاظْفي نْدّونيث أموريد إِ لْموث أ لْحْرّ لِّيخْرا وْرْذا دّيتْعاياذْ وْنّا ثِيوْيْ

How sweet life would be if not for death! Oh, the bitterness of death—for whoever it takes never returns.

Sadly, it’s a crying shame that thousands of Thamawayth poems—rich in beauty, metaphor, imagery, and subtle encryption—have been lost to the sands of time. Not from neglect, but simply because they were never written down. This loss flows from the deeply oral nature of Amazigh culture—or perhaps from the fact that it was kept that way by force or fate. Every time an Amazigh poet, man or woman, passes away, it’s as if a priceless book has been turned to ash—its pages never read, its wisdom gone forever.

A Journey into the Heart of Thaanasarth Noureddine Boutahar

 There are moments in life that rise from the fog of memory like smoke from a slow fire. For me, the ritual of Thaanasarth—an ancient Amazigh celebration observed each year on July 7—is one such moment. The scent of burning harmel (rue), the bleating of goats, the sharp commands of my grandfather summoning us children to gather—all remain etched in my senses like an ancestral song echoing through time.

This was more than a ritual; it was a way of life, a spiritual and agricultural anchor that tied us to the land, to one another, and to a heritage older than memory. As Marcus Garvey once said, “A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” Thaanasarth was just that—roots stretching deep into the soil of tradition, memory, and meaning.

Growing up in the Moroccan Amazigh countryside in the 1970s, I remember waking to the crackle of fire and the sight of smoke curling into the sky. My grandfather, alongside my father, uncle, the shepherd, and our fieldworker, would gather around a large bonfire. They were preparing for Thaanasarth in Tamazight, or Laansra in Arabic—a celebration that marked not only the height of summer but the very heartbeat of rural life.

The celebration coincided with one of the most critical agricultural periods in Morocco and North Africa. Farmers called this time Smaim—the dog days of summer, when the sun blazed fiercest and the stakes were highest. During this sweltering stretch, the fate of crops, fruit, and livestock often hung in the balance.

The rituals of Thaanasarth were as varied as the Moroccan landscape itself. In our village, and across much of rural Morocco, people would burn harmel, green oleander, and sprigs from most local herbs and trees to produce thick, aromatic smoke. This smoke was then wafted beneath the branches of fig, pomegranate, grape, and other fruit trees. It was believed to protect the fruit from premature drop, pests, and blight. But more than a remedy, the smoke was a blessing—a plea to nature’s uncertain hand for abundance and continuity.

And the smoke wasn’t reserved for trees alone. It enveloped homes, courtyards, animals, and people alike. Livestock were led through its clouds in a purification ritual meant to ward off nasal parasites afflicting goats, sheep, and cows. Some even believed it could prevent miscarriages among animals, reinforcing the sacred aura of the practice.

While modern science may raise an eyebrow at the mystical claims of Thaanasarth, it doesn’t entirely dismiss them. Research shows that harmel seeds contain harmine and harmaline—alkaloids with antibacterial, anti-parasitic, and mild psychoactive properties. These compounds can affect dopamine levels in the brain, perhaps explaining the sense of calm and clarity often reported by those inhaling the smoke.

But the villagers didn’t need scientific approval. Their faith was rooted in generational wisdom. They trusted what their hands had done and what their hearts had always known. Even if some rituals now seem quaint or superstitious, they carried symbolic weight—meaning that can’t be measured, only felt. As W. Somerset Maugham wisely put it, “Tradition is a guide, not a jailer.” Thaanasarth was never about rigid obedience—it was about navigating the rhythms of life with reverence and belonging.

Across Morocco, Thaanasarth takes on many forms. In the oases of the southeast, it is known as Asaansar, where smoke is used to fumigate trees and fields. Nomadic tribes lead their herds through the smoke in acts of ritual cleansing. In Figuig, the celebration becomes a water festival called El Graba, with children joyfully dousing one another before girls leap over fires to dry off—an act symbolizing rebirth. As someone once said, “The greatness of a culture can be found in its festivals, in its celebratory details.” And Thaanasarth is nothing if not a mosaic of such details—each gesture, plant, and chant a thread in a larger cultural fabric.

In other regions, families prepare traditional dishes like Bisara, Abadir, Marchouch, and Tharfist. Children are playfully tapped with smoldering harmel branches, and homes are ritually blessed by the smoke. In the Rif and Jbala, young people leap over bonfires in a gesture echoing ancient rites of purification and renewal. In some Amazigh areas of Algeria, the finest sheep are dusted with ash, marking them as emblems of abundance and prosperity.

During the Islamic Andalusian period, religious scholars condemned Laansra as an innovation bordering on heresy. Fatwas were issued to suppress it, encouraging alternatives such as the celebration of the Prophet’s birth (Mawlid). Yet the people stood their ground. As with many deeply rooted traditions, attempts at erasure only deepened their cultural hold.

Some historians argue that these practices reflect Christian, Jewish, or Latin influences. But to say the Amazigh merely borrowed such rituals misses the forest for the trees. It’s just as plausible—perhaps even more so—that these faiths absorbed older, indigenous traditions. After all, the Amazigh were lighting sacred fires and honoring the earth’s rhythms long before monotheistic religions or Mediterranean contact ever reached them.

In local Amazigh dialects, not observing Thaanasarth carries social consequences. To say someone ur iansir is to label them unbalanced, undisciplined—even morally suspect. The celebration was more than seasonal—it was a test of belonging. In this way, fire became more than heat or light; it became the glue that held the community together.

Interestingly, fire was not the only element in play. Water held equal importance in many regional versions of Thaanasarth, symbolizing joy and renewal. Smoke represented protection; fire, purification; water, blessing. Together, they formed a triad of natural forces reflecting a worldview where nature and spirit were deeply intertwined.

And yet, for all its depth and beauty, Thaanasarth is slowly fading. Urbanization, rising religious conservatism, and cultural amnesia have pushed it to the margins. Today, it lingers mostly in isolated villages and the fading memories of elders.

Still, it remains a vivid window into how rural Moroccans once viewed and interacted with the world. Thaanasarth was never just about fruit, herds, or fire. It was about gratitude—gratitude for what the land gave and trust that life’s cycle would go on. It was, in essence, a symbolic handshake between humans and the earth.

In an age when we lean on screens, sensors, and spreadsheets to understand the world, the wisdom of Thaanasarth offers something elemental: a communal, sensory, and intuitive bond with nature. Perhaps it’s time we stopped brushing aside such traditions as mere folklore and started seeing them as archives of ecological, spiritual, and cultural intelligence.

We may no longer light the same fires or chant the same prayers, but the spirit of Thaanasarth—the call to honor the land, live with gratitude, and draw strength from community—remains as vital as ever. For when we lose traditions, we don’t just lose practices—we lose our compass. And that’s why, in whatever form it takes, we must safeguard our intangible cultural heritage—and keep the smoke rising.

Moroccan Tea: A Journey Through History and Identity Noureddine Boutahar

In my home, tea was never just a drink—it was a quiet ceremony, a moment of pause, a thread that wove people together. I remember my grandmother brewing it with reverence, the scent of mint filling the air long before the first glass was poured. In Morocco, there's a saying that

captures its essence perfectly: “There’s tea for peace, tea for sorrow, and tea that tells of empty pockets.” This bittersweet tonic is steeped not only in leaves but in memory, ritual, and emotion.

Writing about Moroccan tea is, for me, a return journey—back to childhood mornings, afternoons and evenings, family gatherings, hushed conversations, and laughter swirling like steam above a silver teapot. It’s a story kept alive, generation to generation, like an heirloom too precious to be lost. Its history is inseparable from our own, echoing the resilience, reinvention, and quiet pride that define the Moroccan spirit.

Tea first set foot on Moroccan soil in the early 18th century (1721), arriving from England after a long voyage along the silk routes of the East. At first, it was less a refreshment and more a medicament. The earliest documented Moroccan to taste its warmth was Zidan, son of the mighty Sultan Moulay Ismail. A Christian doctor, concerned by the prince’s harmful affection for wine, prescribed this Eastern elixir as a healing swap. In time, even the Sultan himself developed a taste for it, and tea began its slow, dignified seep into the royal household.

Under Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah, tea’s popularity spread like rapid wildfire on dry grass. It graced elite gatherings, appearing like a silent guest of honor among nobles, celebrities, and scholars. Yet for many years, it remained the privilege of the powerful—confined to palaces and the plush homes of high society. It wasn’t until the 1830s that tea began to trickle into the homes of merchants and townsfolk, then steadily reached rural Morocco. By the early 20th century, tea had woven itself into the fabric of daily life. Still, in remote regions, the ornate silver, porcelain, and crystal glass tools of tea-making remained markers of affluence, gleaming symbols of hospitality and grace.

Traditionally, it is the male connoisseur—often the head of the household—who helms the tea ceremony. The ritual unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance: rinsing, re-rinsing, brewing, then pouring the tea into a glass and back into the teapot—sometimes three times over. Each motion is deliberate, unhurried, and framed by spirited conversation, storytelling, jokes, and the sharing of news. The tea tray becomes a miniature stage for life itself.

This symbolism echoes in Nass El Ghiwane’s soul-stirring 1976 song Essiniya (The Tea Tray), where the humble tray becomes a metaphor for hardship, changing times, and the ache of nostalgia. The lyrics offer a plaintive “Ah, Tea Tray,” mourning those quiet, communal moments once shared around the warmth of a teapot—a sigh for the disappeared laughter, the absent guests, the missing sense of simplicity, and the vanished certainties of life.

Tea’s journey was not immune to political polarisation. During the colonial era, it became entangled in a web of fierce economic rivalries. Britain tightened its grip on Morocco’s tea trade, while France, Germany, and Belgium jostled for control over sugar imports. Trade tensions simmered, culminating in an 1885 agreement that left echoes in Moroccan popular culture. One Amazigh folk song from the time laments: “You get headaches from missing your tea? Then drink oleander now—Germany has denied you your tea.” These were years of scarcity, where sugar and tea were sometimes absent from the market. Families adapted. Herbs replaced tea leaves and honey and dates sweetened the brew. My grandmother often recalled these lean days with a mix of sorrow and disbelief, especially when facing today’s overstocked shelves.

Religious voices also weighed in. Certain religious figures warned against the growing affection for this foreign infusion viewing it as a troublesome luxury that drained purses or tainted the soul with hints of ritual impurity. Some jurists even took a harder line, likening the steaming amber liquid to wine—both in the elegance of its presentation and the ornate vessels in which it was served. They feared it might cloud the spirit, lead the faithful astray, or even gnaw at the body’s well-being. Sheikh Kettani of Zaouia Kettania, for instance, branded tea a colonial seduction and called for its boycott, viewing it as a sugar-coated threat. But once tea took root in Moroccan soil, the Rubicon was crossed. It became more than a drink—it became a symbol and a ritual of belonging.

Today, Moroccan tea is the fragrant greeting that graces every threshold. It is poured at births, engagements, weddings, Eid celebrations, and even funerals. It marks the ritual beginning and graceful conclusion of every gathering, flowing like a river that nourishes connection. Pouring it from a height, to create a delicate crown of foam, is both an aesthetic flourish and a gesture of generosity. Served with fragrant sweets—almond biscuits, sesame chebakia, or Kaab Ghzal—it turns a simple moment into a celebration.

Its preparation is nothing short of sacred—a ritual passed down like a whispered prayer. Green tea leaves, a rolling boil of water, sprigs of fresh mint, and generous spoonfuls of sugar are the essential quartets of this cherished brew. Yet, like the changing winds, the herbs may shift with the seasons and the drinker’s taste: wormwood, pennyroyal, thyme, sage, or the calming notes of verbena might take mint’s place. Old sayings capture these choices with a poet’s flair: “If there’s no wormwood in the tea, give it to the dog,” or “Tea without mint isn’t worth drinking at all.” Such phrases aren’t just words—they’re cultural commandments. For many, this tea is more than a drink; it’s a lifeline, a daily anchor in a world that spins too fast. My mother, like countless Moroccans, cannot imagine a day without it. Miss a cup, and the headache that follows bites harder than thirst in the desert.

This love for tea has poured itself into proverbs and folk wisdom:

    1. Oh master, if you please, pour me a cup that is infused with mint meant to sooth with ease. (Amazigh song)

2.   A glass of mint tea is better than a rich man’s dinner.

3.   A full teapot of good tea is better than a barn full of grain.

4.   Good tea doesn’t need spring—it’s perfect on its own.

5.   Evening tea is better than roasted beef.

6.   Well-made tea is better than a whole roasted lamb.

Even in the age of electric teapots and fruit-flavored infusions, the soul of Moroccan tea remains untouched. While tools and tastes may evolve, the spirit of the ritual—hospitality, reflection, and shared warmth—holds firm. Yet beyond the shifting styles lies another layer of tradition, shaped not by fashion but by necessity. A refined sliver of society may still sip tea like aged poetry—savored leisurely after hearty meals or during intimate family gatherings—but they are but a drop in the teapot. For the broader public, “bread and tea” is no indulgence; it is a cornerstone—an everyday sustenance that anchors the day and keeps hunger at bay.

It’s also pertinent to mention that the Amazigh in Morocco have long believed in maximum sweetness when brewing tea—so much so that a common invitation might be phrased, "Will you join me for a cup of sugar?" rather than a cup of tea. This playful turn of phrase communicates volumes: the sweetness of the tea mirrored the warmth of the gathering, promising not just a drink, but a sweet and convivial moment shared. However, the mold has been broken. The tide is turning in modern Morocco, as people grow more health-conscious and increasingly aware that an excess of sugar sends blood glucose soaring, paving the way for diabetes and other ailments. As a result, many today—myself included—prefer to sip our tea as it is, plain without sugar, savoring its natural bitterness like a quiet truth once masked by sweetness.

Owing to its global significance, the United Nations has designated May 21st of each year as International Tea Day—an homage to the world’s most sipped beverage after water. More than just a brew, tea is a crucial source of income for millions of impoverished families across less developed nations and holds deep cultural significance in numerous societies, including Morocco. There, tea is more than leaves, water, and sugar—it is a mirror of the Moroccan spirit: resilient, rooted, and always ready to welcome a guest with a steaming glass and an open heart.

Public Property in Morocco: Between Legal Mandate and Selective Enforcement Noureddine Boutahar

Recently, Morocco has launched extensive campaigns to reclaim public property, targeting illegal construction and unauthorized occupation of sidewalks, streets, and urban spaces by  shops, street vendors, cafés, and various artisans. These efforts, which include the demolition of unlicensed structures and the removal of makeshift markets, have gained visible traction, particularly in anticipation of global events such as the Africa Cup of Nations 2025 and the FIFA World Cup 2030. But while these campaigns have sparked broad public approval, they also raise troubling questions about past inaction, selective enforcement, and the long-standing normalization of urban disorder.

It would be intellectually dishonest to oppose efforts aimed at restoring the integrity of Morocco’s public domain. Sidewalks that were once swallowed up by cafés, makeshift kiosks, and concrete barriers are finally being freed for pedestrian use. Randomly erected shanties and unauthorized extensions to homes and shops, many built without permits, are being torn down. This process is undeniably necessary and, one might argue, long overdue.

However, the critical question remains: why was such blatant encroachment on public property tolerated for so long by authorities and elected officials? For years, massive structures went up in broad daylight, while minor home improvements by ordinary citizens were met with swift punishment. The absence of early intervention is a glaring example of administrative leniency—or worse, complicity. And now, suddenly, with the pressure of upcoming global events, bulldozers are rolling in as though decades of negligence can be erased with a few months of action.

This shift raises the specter of opportunistic governance. The timing of the current campaigns—closely aligned with Morocco’s preparation for international sports events—suggests that what is now treated as a national priority was long viewed as an inconvenient truth, better left unaddressed for electoral or political expediency.

Perhaps most disheartening is the selective nature of enforcement. While some street vendors are chased away for blocking a few meters of sidewalk, large enterprises with steel or glass barricades occupying vast swathes of public space have long been overlooked. Such inconsistencies not only breed public resentment but also erode faith in the rule of law.

The essence of justice is equality before the law—yet the reality on the ground suggests otherwise. As the saying goes, “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” but in this case, certain geese appear to be more equal than others. Ordinary citizens face swift penalties for minor violations, while powerful figures or well-connected businesses seem to operate with impunity.

This double standard undermines the legitimacy of the campaign and casts a shadow over otherwise laudable efforts. The credibility of public initiatives rests not just on their outcomes, but on the fairness of their implementation. If transparency and equality are not guaranteed, then these campaigns risk becoming mere theatrics—a façade of order hiding the rot of favoritism.

A closer look at the institutional framework reveals a complex web of responsibility. According to Law 57.19, local councils hold the legal authority to regulate temporary occupation of public property. Yet, in practice, it is often the Ministry of Interior—through its local representatives such as pachas and caïds—that initiates action. This duality of power has led to inertia, finger-pointing, and missed opportunities.

There have been repeated instances where proactive municipal councils have seen their decisions undercut by passive local authorities—and vice versa. In other cases, both parties have turned a blind eye, either to avoid conflict or to protect vested interests. This dysfunction has turned what should be a shared governance model into a fragmented and ineffective approach.

Worse still, the administrative failure to enforce regulations over the years has allowed illegal behaviors to become normalized, and even aquired rights. The occupation of sidewalks by vendors, for instance, is no longer seen as a violation but as a fact of urban life. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” seems to be the motto. This normalization is more than a societal adaptation; it is a symptom of systemic breakdown.

One of the most visible and contentious aspects of urban disorder is the explosion of informal vendors—known colloquially as farrasha. Since the Arab Spring of 2011, their numbers have surged across Moroccan cities, peaking during religious holidays and especially during the holy month of Ramadan, and on Fridays around mosques.

While the informal economy offers a lifeline for thousands, it also deprives the state treasury of billions of dirhames of taxes. Even worse, it disrupts daily life in profound ways. Residents complain of noise, waste accumulation, and the complete hijacking of sidewalks. Shoppers navigate mazes of handcarts and shouting vendors. The situation has even escalated into legal disputes, with some formal business owners considering lawsuits against municipalities for failing to protect their livelihoods from unfair competition.

The government did try to intervene by creating “model markets” to house these vendors in organized spaces. Yet many beneficiaries rent out their spaces and return to the streets, where they can earn more without paying taxes. This is a classic example of a policy that fails not because of bad intentions, but due to lack of enforcement. When rules exist but are not applied, chaos fills the vacuum.

Cleaning up the streets and demolishing illegal structures may offer immediate aesthetic and functional benefits, but they do not address the deeper structural issues. How will local governments ensure that public spaces remain respected after the dust settles? Will new urban policies be crafted to balance economic necessity with legal obligations? Will there be real consequences for officials who fail to act?

Moreover, Morocco must resist the temptation to treat this moment as a one-off. The reclaiming of public property must not become another “hit-and-run” campaign—visible during international spotlight years and forgotten the next. Citizens have seen this movie before: authorities act under pressure, only to retreat once the pressure fades. It is a cycle as predictable as the tide, and just as relentless.

The battle to reclaim Morocco’s public spaces is as symbolic as it is practical. It signals a choice between order and chaos, equity and privilege, legality and complacency. But to win this battle, Morocco needs more than bulldozers and camera-friendly demolitions. It needs consistent, transparent governance rooted in the rule of law.

Let us not forget the idiom, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” The current momentum must be seized to institutionalize practices that have been ignored for decades. Selective enforcement must give way to systematic reform. Policies must be designed not for headlines, but for the people who walk the streets every day—the elderly woman navigating a crowded sidewalk, the child playing in front of their home, the shopkeeper struggling to stay afloat amid unfair competition.

The streets and sidewalks belong to all. It is time Morocco ensures that this is not just a legal fact, but a lived reality.

 

The Whistle Cricket: A Forgotten Marvel of Morocco’s Natural Heritage Noureddine Boutahar

During my frequent journeys to Boukashmir—my ancestral village tucked near the famed bottling town of Oulmes in the heart of the Middle Atlas Mountains—I’m often met with an unexpected yet familiar sight that pulls me straight into the embrace of childhood memory. As I near the edge of the forest, I instinctively slow down, anticipating the appearance of a large, spiny insect calmly making its way across the road—unhurried, yet with quiet intent. I never miss the chance to snap a few photos, once again captivated by its strange elegance and enduring presence.

This “curious insect,” to borrow a phrase from Carl Linnaeus, is Eugaster spinulosa—a species endemic to North Africa’s arid and semi-arid zones, especially Morocco, and to a lesser extent, Algeria and Tunisia. Despite its formidable size and striking appearance, it remains a largely obscure figure in both public imagination and scientific literature. Few researchers have studied it; most references are footnotes in dusty monographs. Yet this bush-cricket, colloquially known in English as the "whistle cricket," is a remarkable creature with a story worth telling.

Belonging to the Tettigoniidae family, Eugaster spinulosa is flightless and cannot jump. Instead, it navigates the world on sturdy legs, relying on a suite of defenses rather than speed. Its spiny, horned thorax and smooth, barrel-like abdomen give it an intimidating appearance, though it is entirely harmless to humans. Its coloration ranges widely—some specimens are jet-black with crimson-tipped spines, while others wear a checkered tapestry of earthy browns and beiges. Only the males possess small, hidden elytra for sound production. When threatened, the insect doesn’t bite or flee—it reflexively “bleeds” from its joints, a vivid crimson fluid that startles predators and evokes awe in onlookers.

What makes the whistle cricket even more captivating is its place in Amazigh folk culture. In some regions, we Amazigh call it bougrir; in others, wagnim—names whose linguistic roots are now lost to time. One of the few well-documented uses of this insect is practical and poetic: herdsmen would dry its body, remove its legs, and turn it into a whistle—hence the name "whistle cricket." Scientists have also noted an oddity in its reproductive life: after mating, the male becomes infertile for ten days—a peculiar quirk that only deepens its mystery. Local beliefs, passed down through generations, claim that the reflexive bleeding has medicinal value, treating certain skin conditions.

Despite its ecological and cultural significance, this ground-dwelling, herbivorous insect lacks a widely recognized common name in either English or French. It is usually referred to by its Latin name, though in Arabic sources it may appear as الجرادة الشوكية (thorny locust) or الصرصور الجبلي (mountain cockroach)—labels that fail to capture its uniqueness and charm.

To me, this insect is more than a natural curiosity. Each time I meet one on the road to or from Boukashmir, I instinctively veer aside, giving it safe passage. My reasons are simple, yet deeply felt. First, because every creature deserves its place under the sun. Second, because it is stitched into the fabric of my rural childhood, when our elders used its blood to treat skin fungi. And third, because it has become alarmingly rare—perhaps a victim of worsening droughts or the vanishing flora it depends on for food and shelter.

In an age when we are increasingly detached from the land and its lesser-known inhabitants, this humble cricket offers a quiet reminder. Small though it is, it carries within it a forgotten thread of Morocco’s natural and cultural tapestry. Insects like the whistle cricket are not mere oddities—they are silent witnesses to our changing world and living archives of indigenous knowledge. Its story deserves not only to be told—but to be remembered.

The Begging Industry: Morocco’s Hidden Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

Wherever you go in Morocco, it's hard to take more than a few steps without encountering outstretched hands, tearful pleas, or heart-wrenching tales of sorrow. What was once a rare and pitiable sight has become a daily intrusion. Begging has mushroomed into a full-blown social menace—one that drains public sympathy, erodes communal values, fuels deceit, and chips away at the nation’s collective conscience.

Let’s not mince words: while some beggars are truly in need, far too many are exploiting both the system and our goodwill. Walk through any city, and you’ll find children at intersections, elderly women huddled outside mosques, and young men weaving through traffic with desperate faces and dramatic stories. But scratch beneath the surface, and the reality is often more calculated than tragic.

Most disturbing is the growing exploitation of children in this sordid trade. These kids aren’t merely poor; many are pawns in the hands of adults who should be protecting them. Organized rings operate with alarming efficiency, placing children in high-traffic areas to elicit sympathy and loosen wallets. It’s not just immoral—it’s criminal. While Moroccan law prohibits such exploitation, enforcement remains weak and inconsistent.

The deception doesn't stop there. Public trust continues to erode as stories emerge—sporadically, but credibly—of beggars leading double lives: destitute by day, but returning to comfortable homes by night. Some own property, drive fancy cars, and stash money in bank accounts, pillows, or mattresses. These are not people on the brink—they are opportunists exploiting compassion, wolves in sheep’s clothing. For some, begging has become more profitable than honest work, with earnings surpassing those of teachers and civil servants.

I once spoke with a taxi driver in Khemisset who shared a story that left him—and later, me—stunned. He had seen a man he personally knew as a street beggar park a sleek 4WD on the outskirts of the city before heading into town to beg. It was a moment that truly gave me pause.

In today’s digital age, the hustle has moved online. Social media platforms are teeming with fabricated tales of misery: strangers pretending to be sick individuals, desperate mothers, or displaced families. Even worse are the influencers who openly ask their followers for money. In both cases, with a single click, well-meaning citizens donate—often unaware they are being duped. It’s emotional blackmail, pure and simple—and it works.

Let’s be clear: this epidemic mocks real poverty. It blurs the line between genuine need and theatrical manipulation. A person with a limp or a disabled hand? We’ve often encountered individuals pretending to be handicapped to deceive others. The “stranded traveler” who needs bus fare? He’s told that story to a dozen others just that morning. The beggar who asks for food, only to return it for cash? That’s a rehearsed con. The veiled girl claiming to care for her cancer-stricken mother and seven siblings? That tale has made the rounds across the country for years.

Meanwhile, the working poor—the ones who labor honestly—remain invisible. They struggle in silence while street performers in rags collect coins with a few well-timed sobs. It’s an insult to every Moroccan who chooses dignity over deceit.

My grandmother once told a story that still lingers in my mind. A young man from a noble family fell in love with a beggar’s daughter. The girl’s father agreed to the marriage—on one condition: the young man had to join him in begging for one week. The smitten youth agreed. But when the week ended, he refused to stop. The message was clear: once someone tastes the easy life, it’s hard to turn back. Despite his noble roots, he discovered that begging was both effortless and profitable. It’s a timeless cautionary tale about a very human weakness: the lure of the path of least resistance.

This shift in values is especially visible in the countryside—at least where I come from. In the '60s, '70s, and '80s, field workers and shepherds were plentiful. Today, many have abandoned their posts for what they see as an easier life in the city, sustained by handouts of bread, yogurt, and coins. Farmers now reduce their livestock or leave their fields fallow because finding laborers has become a near impossibility.

I remember an old man who once sold vegetables in Khemisset, hauling them in by donkey from a nearby village. People paid extra out of sympathy. Over time, he gave up the trade and turned to begging instead. I also knew three little girls who begged around town—closely watched by a lurking man, perhaps their guardian, perhaps a predator.

A friend shared another story: his acquaintance offered a beggar in Meknes a job on his farm, repeating the offer several times. Eventually, the beggar declined and confessed: he visited nearly 300 cafés daily and rarely left without collecting between one and ten dirhams—not to mention free food. He earned more than many doctors and teachers. This chilling reality shows just how profitable begging has become.

Let’s not ignore the cultural and religious context. Islam certainly encourages charity—but it also upholds values of self-reliance, dignity, and personal responsibility. Blindly giving to strangers in the street often feeds the beast, not need. As the old saying goes: “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach him to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.” True charity uplifts—it does not enable. Islam also places great emphasis on helping one’s relatives, strengthening familial bonds and ensuring assistance goes where it’s truly needed.

Morocco must draw a line in the sand. Our cities cannot continue to serve as open-air theaters of staged misery. Stricter enforcement of anti-begging laws is essential—especially to protect children from exploitation. But enforcement alone isn't enough. We need to channel compassion intelligently, directing support through transparent, accountable organizations that address real social needs.

Begging is more than an eyesore; it’s a corrosive force undermining public trust, social order, and moral responsibility. It's time to reject both guilt-driven giving and and turning a blind eye to the shameful phenomenon. True solidarity means making informed choices: saying “no” when appropriate, backing legitimate social programs, and holding both the state and civil society accountable for long-term solutions.

 

We, the In-Between Generation of the 60s, 70s, and 80s Noureddine Boutahar

Almost everyone born somewhere between the echoes of the sixties and the dawn of the eighties, back when the world felt a little rougher around the edges, belonged to a different breed. Born in the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s, we are the “in-between generation”—a unique segment of society. Born into simplicity, nurtured in modesty, and thrust, almost unprepared, into the maelstrom of technology and modernity, our lives bridge the analog and digital eras. Our experiences reflect the beauty of tradition and the challenges of transition, caught between the warmth of the past and the chill of the present.

In our formative years, life unfolded at a gentler pace, and moments held profound significance. Childhood wasn't measured by screen time or social media validation but by scraped knees, dusty playgrounds, and storytelling beneath a canopy of stars. Ours is the generation that stood at the cusp of a profound transformation, witnessing life as we knew it undergo a sea change. This pivotal experience wove a rich, intricate tapestry of memories, experiences and ideas within us, —a perspective so nuanced that even Picasso’s brush or Dalí’s surreal vision could scarcely capture its unique essence.

We walked miles to school under the scorching summer sun or through the biting cold of winter rain, with minimal protection from the elements. Education was rigorous: exams covered entire textbooks, not fragmented summaries. There were no private tutors, no motivational speeches, no multiple-choice tests to soften the challenge—just raw grit, honest effort, and the ingrained belief that hard work paves its own way. We respected our teachers, often viewing them as guiding lights. A mere glimpse of a teacher on the street was enough to instill in us a sense of humility. Our guiding principle was straightforward: "He who seeks greatness burns the midnight oil." Today, a different sentiment seems to hold sway among young people: "Cheat to succeed; integrity is a losing game."

In those days, entertainment was homegrown. We crafted our own toys from whatever scraps and simple materials we could scavenge around the house, breathing life into sticks, cloth, iron wire, and string. Barefoot and carefree, we ruled the dusty alleyways, playing open-air games like tag, hide-and-seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and blind man's bluff, our laughter echoing through the village or neighborhood like birdsong at a spring dawn. Yet, never once did a foul word escape our lips; a far cry from the vocabulary that fills the air these days! We clambered up trees like little monkeys, often tearing our clothes and leaving bits of ourselves behind—scratched and splintered, but undaunted. With the devil-may-care attitude of youth, we swam in ponds teeming with leeches and water snakes, and drank from creeks and streams that today would make a health worrywart faint. Yet, against all odds, we grew hardy and strong, as if we were tempered by nature’s own forge.

We grew up under wide skies in tattered clothes, understanding that a torn shirt and battered shoes weren't a source of shame but a testament to experience. We scraped knees without a parent hovering like a helicopter at every stumble. If we got hurt, there was no mad dash to the hospital—just a pat on the back, a whispered “You’ll be fine,” and a little dirt rubbed into the wound like some ancient magic cure. Tears were for the weak; we were told to suck it up and carry on. And yet, look at us. We thrived.

Back then, values like respect, gratitude, modesty, and humility were not merely taught—they were stitched into the very fabric of daily life. They were poured into us from an early age, like water into the roots of a young tree, by parents, relatives, and neighbors who shared a common vision of what a child should become. Schoolteachers, too, were given a free rein to shape our character with a firm but guiding hand. Between parents and teachers there existed a simple, ironclad understanding: "Spare the rod and spoil the child."

But then, the world underwent a seismic shift; the familiar landmarks vanished.

The digital floodgates burst open, and the world we knew began to crumble like a house of cards. Unprepared, we had to adapt or be swept away. Radios and gramophones yielded to televisions and cassette players and, subsequently, to computers, dumb phones, and then smartphones. The transformation wasn't gradual; it was abrupt, dramatic, merciless and all-encompassing. We transitioned from using address books and landlines to instant messaging and cloud storage, from the tactile ritual of rewinding cassettes to the immediate gratification of streaming services, from the deliberate act of writing longhand letters to the swift tap of emojis. Everything became more convenient and faster—yet also more devoid of substance.

This generational upheaval wasn’t solely about gadgets; it was a profound psychological and emotional adjustment. We bore the considerable weight of adapting without guidance—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes painfully, but always with resilience. We had no digital natives to mentor us through this new terrain. We simply had to survive—to adapt, to keep pace, to comprehend—without the luxury of choice in a world increasingly defined by "live or perish."

Now, we exist in a state of duality. Our hearts divided between the simplicity of the past and the conveniences of the present. One part of our hearts resonates with the quiet moments, the genuine human connections, and the tangible joys of the the past. The other part beats with a sense of resignation in the digital present, where relationships are often virtual, conversations are reduced to fleeting emojis, and serene silence has been drowned out by incessant noise.

Despite these profound changes, much of our core remains intact. Though our hair may have silvered and our reflections may seem unfamiliar, we remain anchored to the values of the past. We still carry the quiet dignity of well-worn clothes, the deep pride of hard-earned success, and the understated elegance of inner strength. The world may have transformed, but we still stand—not as relics of a bygone era, but as living witnesses to a time of genuine meaning.

To our generation—the generation of patience, endurance, and profound transformation—respect is rightly due. We were not handed a ready-made identity, yet we forged one. We witnessed the world bend, break, and rebuild itself—and yet, we persevered. We braved the stormy landscape of the era, weathering religious and political turmoils with a resilience forged by necessity. We walked a tightrope through those turbulent years—sometimes coming through unscathed, other times just by the skin of our teeth.

So, let the younger generations scoff at our nostalgia. Let them label us “the old school.” We wear that designation like a badge of honor because we are the bridge—connecting two distinct worlds, fluent in two languages of experience, feeling the weight of both eras. We are the quiet resilience in a clamorous world, the living memory in a digital haze.

We are the X-generation, to borrow Douglas Coupland’s term, carrying the memories of our origins but never forgetting how far we have journeyed —and that, dear readers, is the unwavering beacon that poit us home.