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.
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.
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.
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 one form or another, we must keep the smoke rising.
