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.
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