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.