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
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.
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