Grandma: The Towering Beacon of my Childhood Noureddine Boutahar

On the 8th of March, I was driven by an undeniable urge to pen down these cherished memories, a heartfelt tribute to my grandmother, a truly remarkable woman, whose influence shaped my character, instilling within me a profound sense of appreciation, respect, care and love for all women.

In the vast expanse of my childhood, Grandma was the towering beacon of my life. She wasn't just my guardian; she was my closest friend, teacher, and partner in navigating life's twists and turns. Her bedtime stories fueled a burning love for books as I journeyed through the landscape of growing up.

My childhood nights back in the late 1960s and early 1970s held a special enchantment that I eagerly looked forward to. My family gatherings over dinner with my siblings and cousins were about more than just the meal; they were an occasion for good-natured banter, playful teasing, and the occasional sibling rivalry. Nevertheless, the zenith of these evenings undeniably belonged to my grandmother's captivating stories. Her storytelling was nothing short of an art form, her narratives transcended mere tales; they were intricate voyages through time and the realms of imagination. With each story she spun, she effortlessly captured our complete attention. What truly set her apart was her gift for adorning her stories with unexpected twists and vivid details, rendering them all the more enthralling. On occasion, she would revisit the same story, but with a completely different tone, style, and voice, leaving us in rapt fascination with her storytelling versatility. These nights, brimming with laughter and wonder, were indelibly etched into our memories, weaving themselves into the rich fabric of our family's customs and togetherness.

There were nights when the cozy embrace of my grandmother's storytelling would lull me into a peaceful slumber even before the end of her captivating tales. Drifting into the realm of dreams mid-story was a common occurrence. However, the beauty of it all lay in my beloved grandmother's unwavering readiness to resume the narrative where she had left off on the following evening. She possessed a wellspring of patience and affection that she poured generously into her stories.

The nights my grandmother began her narratives became a ritual, a communal gathering around the story telling hearth where every eye was transfixed on her. In those moments, the world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving us immersed exclusively in the captivating universe she wove for us. The way she brought her tales to life, with that twinkle in her eye and the cadence of her voice, was nothing less than magical.

As the stories unfurled, time itself seemed to blur, and fatigue would occasionally catch up with us. One by one, in a gradual succession like falling dominos, the heads of my siblings, cousins, and myself would nod and eventually surrender to the sweet call of slumber. It was a testament to the power of her storytelling, its capacity to captivate our thoughts while guiding us with a gentle touch into the realm of dreams. This enabled us to bask in the warm familial unity until the dawn of a new day.

My grandmother was a remarkable storyteller who effectively acted as my first novels, especially since we had no books at home.

However, Nanna, as we used to call her, was not only a fable-teller but also a culinary magician who could whip up any delectable delight my heart desired. She would not only prepare savory dishes tailored to my whims and cravings, but she also had a fascinating talent to conjure up the most mouthwatering sweet treats. Being naturally tall and slender, she indulged me with her culinary delights, always insisting that I needed to eat heartily to become stronger.

Grandma’s love knew no bounds so much so that she was embraced and adored by the entire community. Her kind-hearted nature and the multitude of roles she fulfilled in our village endeared her to everyone. She donned the hats of an experienced midwife, a trusted advisor to women in their marital issues, a competent traditional healer offering herbal treatments for a variety of ailments to women and children. I always found joy in accompanying her in her house calls to neighbors or relatives because, as a guest, I was always treated to the most delectable pastries and the choicest roasted chicken piece, usually a chicken thigh.

In the days when I couldn't accompany my grandmother on these visits, there was a heartwarming tradition she held dear. She would often return home with a succulent piece of chicken enveloped in a slice of home-made bread soaked in the aromatic stew. She always wrapped the treat in a white piece of cloth she habitually carried with her for just such a purpose. My ritual was always to start with the juicy meat before relishing the soaked bread. What an exquisite treat it was, and what a cherished memory that remains etched in the treasure grooves of my heart.

Rest in peace, Nanna. You were truly unparalleled, a cut above, the epitome of excellence. I'll cherish your memory in my heart for as long as I walk this earth.

Magpie Chase Noureddine Boutahar

 Growing up in the countryside granted me a wealth of blessings: a tranquil rhythm of life, the embrace of nature, invigorating air, an unwavering sense of freedom, and a community so closely woven it felt like an extended family. Despite the meager population density of those bygone days, familiarity thrived – a world where everyone knew everyone, where assistance, love, and support flowed freely. In this close-knit haven, the ethos was one of selfless sharing, a collective fortitude that weathered the storms of country life together.

Agriculture stood as the backbone of my rural homeland, where the majority of inhabitants were farmers, agriculturalists, and shepherds. As children, we were embraced by the collective care of our community, where each adult member shouldered the mantle of responsibility for our education and moral compass as if we were their own children.

My grandfather held a revered position as one of the most respected figures in our countryside. His
integrity, sagacity, and firm principles set him apart, earning him both admiration and, at times, instilling fear in those who veered off the right path. Unfazed by the prospect of parental reproach, he did not hesitate to discipline any mischievous village child. Boys and girls held both love and trepidation for him, recognizing that his corrections, admonitions, or critiques were always motivated by their best interests.

Amidst the ubiquitous fig trees that embellished our village, we cultivated a charming haven of our own – a petite vineyard and a flourishing vegetable garden. Brimming with tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, zucchini, gourds, calabashes, pumpkins, and a myriad of delights, it served as a vital source of sustenance for our household. Beyond our own needs, we generously shared the bounties with neighbors and cherished close relatives.

Yet, our lush haven faced a relentless foe, none other than the mischievous avian troupe comprising magpies, blackbirds, and sparrows. This winged menace posed a never-ending threat, especially to our precious tomatoes and grapes, a source of perpetual frustration for my farm aficionado grandfather.

One day, in a bid to safeguard our precious harvest, Grandfather, a genuinely popular green-fingered man, devised a plan reminiscent of Mao Zedong's "Smash Sparrows Campaign" from 1958 to 1962. Rallying the village youngsters, Grandpa issued a call to arms, urging them to embark on a mission to thwart the feathery invaders. Magpies, known for their early-morning raids on our tomatoes and grapes, found themselves facing an unexpected challenge from the resolute village youth. It was a scene remindful of ancient battles, but in this case, the prize was not just victory but also the safeguarding of our delectable fruits and vegetables.

Our humble garden transformed into a battlefield, where young defenders, armed with various slingshots, rocks, sticks, hardened mud clods, and enthusiasm, stood guard against the avian marauders. They chased them up and down the whole valley which harbored oleander, thorny blackberry trees, caprifigs (male fig trees), and occasional other bushes. Some children ran barefoot, some sprinted bare-chested, while a few managed to lose their shoes, or tear their old pants or shirts in the fervor of the chase. As the youngest among us, I found myself standing beside my grandfather, a towering and robust figure. With fervor, he encouraged and shouted at the magpie chasers, urging them to pick up the pace. Each young soul sought to please him by presenting him with a bird or two.

The clash between the innocent mischief of birds and the determined spirit of village kids unfolded like a whimsical tale of rural warfare. The warriors killed a few magpies, but the clever ones that managed to escape or hide never dared to revisit, leaving our trees and garden in peaceful serenity.

Ultimately, Grandfather's strategic move evolved into a legendary tale, echoing throughout the village as proof enough to the resilience and resourcefulness of a small community united against the caprices of nature. However, the question remains: was Grandpa correct or mistaken? I will never ascertain the answer. It stands as a million-dollar question, considering his frequent perception of nature as half friend, half enemy. Though he waged this relentless struggle against the feathered creatures encroaching on his precious crops, the ethos of eco-conservation coursed through grandfather’s veins.