Ahmed Boukmakh, a Pioneer in Planting the Seeds of Enlightened Education Noureddine Boutahar

Given the current attacks on teachers, and at this critical moment for education, I have chosen to pause and reflect on a cornerstone of Moroccan heritage that has stood the test of time: the iconic Iqra’ schoolbook series, crafted by the esteemed educator Ahmed Boukmakh. I will begin by offering a glimpse into the historical backdrop of this remarkable series—one that weathered the tides of commercial textbook publishing—and then share brief summaries of a few of its enduring tales, along with the timeless moral lessons they impart.

Although many of today’s younger generations may not recognize his name, Ahmed Boukmakh remains a familiar figure to most Moroccans who attended public school in the early years following independence or during the 1970s. His journey led him from the worlds of theatre to the primary school classroom. There, he made lasting contributions, having laid some of the foundational stones of Morocco’s post-independence educational system.

Ahmed Boukmakh was born in Tangier in the 1920s, during the tumultuous period of the Rif War. His mother passed away when he was just eight years old—a tragedy that marked a difficult childhood. From a young age, he worked in his father’s store, which sold both groceries and consumer goods on one side, and books and novels on the other. It was in that unique space, balanced between labor and literature, that Boukmakh’s character was forged.

At the age of eighteen, he became an active member of the Shoura wa Listiqlal (Consultation and Independence) Party. His political involvement had unfortunate consequences: his father was later imprisoned in Rabat after colonial authorities found pro-independence banners in the family’s store. During that difficult time, young Ahmed found himself the de facto head of the household, tasked with caring for his younger siblings and managing the store.

His creative spark was lit even before the Iqra’ series, as he began writing plays in the 1940s. These early works are still referenced in the literary collections of the renowned scholar Abdullah Gannoun, who was Boukmakh’s mentor, teacher, and spiritual guide. Boukmakh’s plays, often performed at the historic Cervantes Theatre in Tangier—a beacon of translated works by Shakespeare and Molière—sought to instill patriotism and civic values in the youth and theatregoers.

After one of his friends was abducted, and as political tensions plagued the party he had joined, Boukmakh eventually chose to withdraw from political activism. His marriage around the same time gave him reason and space to focus on a new mission: writing and publishing educational books. With the invaluable guidance of the eminent Abdullah Gannoun, he embarked on a creative journey that culminated in the legendary Iqra’ series, skillfully weaving together narratives adapted or translated from the works of great international novelists from both East and West.

The idea was born out of a desire to provide Arabic-language textbooks that could be easily taught in primary school classrooms. At that time, nearly all available educational materials were in French—the language of the colonialist. The first edition of Iqra’, printed in 1954, became one of the earliest foundational texts for the primary education system in Tangier—and later across Morocco.

The Iqra’ series comprised five textbooks designed to be taught over five academic years. Upon completing the final volume, students would earn the highly regarded Shahada—a "Certificate Diploma" that often brought honor to families and even access to civil service jobs. Boukmakh later expanded the collection to include Fus’ha (Classical Arabic) in five volumes, as well as Arriyadiat (Mathematics) and Al-Qiraa Liljami’ (Reading for All), a literacy education series. These books combined captivating stories with vivid illustrations and images to stimulate student curiosity and strengthen their visual memory. He collaborated with leading Moroccan artists such as painter Ahmed Chabaa and caricaturist Ahmed Chentouf.

Boukmakh's writing was defined by short, impactful sentences and a concise style. This directness made his schoolbooks perfect for young learners. He knew that to speak to a child’s mind, you don’t knock on the door—you slip in through the window. His language was simple but never shallow. With a few well-chosen words, he managed to light up young imaginations while slipping in a moral or two when no one was looking.

Although his textbooks were gradually phased out in the early 1980s and replaced with newer materials, editions of Iqra’ continued to be reprinted until 2013—and perhaps even today—for use in literacy programs.

We owe a great deal to the stories from these books—stories that students from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s still remember as though they learned them just yesterday. Boukmakh’s work helped shape what many now nostalgically call the "golden generation" of Moroccan education. The writings of the late teacher Ahmed Boukmakh emerged at a significant turning point in Morocco’s history: the transition from colonial rule to national independence. His texts consistently promoted values of citizenship, patriotism, respect, and ethical living. His stories were both moving and timeless.

Who among us doesn’t remember the cumulative tale of Uklat Albatatis (A Potato Dish)? It's a shining example of how the author understood the value of this storytelling form—a genre built on repetition that not only makes understanding and memorization easier, but also sharpens memory and encourages children to anticipate what comes next. Echoing classics like This Is the House That Jack Built and The Gingerbread Man, the rhythm of Boukmakh’s cumulative tales makes young readers or listeners feel clever and confident, as if they’re reading the storyteller’s mind.

Who among us can forget Hikmat Bustani (The Gardener’s Wisdom)—the tale of the elderly man, eighty years old, still planting date palms beneath the fiery sun? When the king, astonished, asked him, “Do you expect to eat from their fruits?” the gardener responded with the quiet conviction of a man committed to sustainability: “Others planted, and we ate; now we plant, so others may eat.”

Is there a more profound metaphor for generational honesty and responsibility? Have we ever truly stopped to think with such long-sightedness? To safeguard our nation’s treasures—its fertile land, its abundant seas, its vast and infinite skies—not just for today, but for generations to come? To sow trees in the earth, fish in the waters, and dreams in the heavens—dreams powered by science, technology, and innovation?

And who could forget Allah Yarana (God Is Watching Us)—the story of the thief who, under the cloak of night, climbs into a vineyard with his young son to steal grapes? “If you see anyone,” the father warns, “whistle, so I can hide.” As he begins picking the fruit, the boy lets out a piercing whistle. Alarmed, the man jumps down, only to find no one in sight. “Why did you whistle?” he demands. “Did someone see me?” The boy answers, simply and succinctly: “Yes—God, who sees everything.” A heavy quiet descends upon the father, then repentance.

A story as clear as a whistle, sounding through time—a reminder, then and now, to those entrusted with public duty: serve with integrity. Do not loot the nation’s coffers; do not squirrel away fortunes in local and faraway banks. For even in the depths of our withdrawal, God sees all.

Assarrar wa Namla (“The Cricket and the Ant”) is the kind of story that cannot fade into the mist of forgetfulness. In this parable, a carefree cricket fritters away the golden days of summer, strumming his tune and dancing in the sun, while the diligent ant toils from dawn to dusk, stockpiling grain for the lean months ahead. When winter's chill finally bites, the ant sits snug in her burrow with a full larder, while the cricket, cold and famished, comes knocking. But the ant, unmoved by his plight, reminds him that he sang through the harvest—so now, perhaps, he should dance to keep warm. The story delivers its lesson with a sting in the tail: that hard work and foresight are the keys to weathering life's inevitable storms.

And more and more stories of this kind—those that teach and enlighten without preaching—are urgently needed today. They etch values and morals into young minds, gently but firmly. As the old saying goes, “Youthful learning is etched in the mind like stone.” These stories do more than entertain; they shape character, cultivate empathy, and sow the seeds of wisdom early—and etch them deep within young hearts.

Today’s Iqra’ generation—once the rightful heirs of a golden age of learning—now looks with a lump in its throat at what so often passes for education. What was once a sumptuous banquet of stories, rich in meaning and morals, has dwindled into bland fare: lessons stripped of depth, starved of spirit. In days gone by, it was those stories—and the steady, watchful presence of conscientious parents—that shaped young minds. They raised us with the wisdom of old and guided us onto the straight and narrow from our earliest days. So much so that, at the mere sight of a teacher approaching from afar, we would instinctively snap to attention, stifle our laughter behind cupped hands, and freeze mid-play—as though time itself held its breath in their presence. Yes, we feared them—but not with dread. It was a reverent awe, the kind that made our hearts swell when a teacher gently patted our heads, whether in praise or quiet affection. It was both a crown and a blessing.

 

 

The Jewish Peddler Noureddine Boutahar

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, life in the countryside of Tizitine followed a steady rhythm, occasionally stirred by moments of excitement—weddings, festivals, weekly markets, and the much-anticipated visits of peddlers. Of all these, nothing thrilled me more than the arrival of the traveling merchants. I would plead, beg, and sometimes throw fits until my mother or grandmother relented, rewarding me with sweets, chewing gum, or a handful of trail mix—roasted chickpeas, raisins, and peanuts sold by these merchants.Yet, among all the visitors who passed through our village, none was more eagerly awaited than the Jewish peddler. He was more than just a wandering merchant; he was a bearer of wonder. With his arrival, the ordinary faded into the background, replaced by a world of small treasures—treats for the body and stories for the soul.

The Jewish peddler was a wandering merchant, traveling from village to village, house to house, selling an assortment of goods essential to daily life. Every month or so, he would set up shop near our home, thriving on bartering goods in exchange for money, silver jewelry—once abundant among Amazigh women—wool fleeces, and grains like wheat or barley. His wares were as varied as they were intriguing, ranging from soap and kitchen utensils to small tools for home repairs, agate bracelets, necklaces, and sewing necessities such as needles and thread. I never knew his real name; people simply referred to him as "the Jewish peddler" or "the leprous peddler," though in conversation, they addressed him as "A'attar," the Amazigh word for peddler. 

He was of medium height, likely in his late fourties or early fifties. My memories of his appearance remain vivid: he wore a handwoven Amazigh djellaba, frayed at the elbows, worn thin at the seat, and torn at the cuffs—proof that the road had been his constant companion. Beneath the djellaba, he wore a more refined gandoura, a long tunic. His head was always covered with a small cap, which I later learned was a kippah—a religious garment worn by Jews, not merely protection from the elements. On sunny days, the kippah was crowned with a Moroccan sombrero, meticulously woven from the leaves of the dwarf palm, its wide brim offering shade for both head and shoulders. His feet were encased in sturdy, lace-up brodequin boots, faded but still holding their own, much like their owner. 

Women were his primary customers, purchasing everything from small mirrors, agate jewelry, and trinkets to kohl, walnut bark miswak for brushing teeth, and small ceramic pots of rouge to color their lips and cheeks. Shopping with the peddler was not just an errand—it was an event, stretching over an hour as the women admired, tried on, and haggled for goods, their voices rising and falling in animated debate. Time seemed to slow to a crawl—there was no rush for either the ladies or the peddler. 

For us children, his visits were the highlight of the season. He always brought small gifts—sweets, trail mix, dates, or dried figs. Some called him "the leprous peddler" because of the visible scars from leprosy on his face and hands, but our parents drummed into us the importance of kindness and respect, reminding us that such names were hurtful and impolite. We never used them. Instead, we addressed him with warmth as ‘aammi,’ akin to ‘unkie,’ just as we called elderly women ‘aatti ’ or ‘khally,’ meaning auntie. 

The peddler traveled with a large, sturdy grey jack donkey, the kind bred with mares to produce mules. The donkey carried enormous panniers stuffed with goods, sometimes so full that the animal was almost swallowed up by its load. Yet, there was always space for the peddler himself, who rode side-saddle atop the beast, as though it were a throne from which he surveyed the world. 

He often spent the night near our home, drawn perhaps by the warmth and safety my family offered. He would pitch his tent a short distance from our house, stow his goods inside, and then lead his donkey to our well for water. Afterward, he tethered the animal with a thick iron stake and fed it hay from our stack. The Three Musketeers of the family—my brother Abdelmajid, my cousin Hamid, and I—would bicker over who got to bring him dinner, knowing full well that the lucky one would be rewarded with a small gift. More often than not, we all ended up going together, unable to resist the pull of adventure. 

The presence of the peddler added a spark of excitement to our nights. After he had eaten, we would linger, brimming with curiosity. Where had he traveled? What had he seen? What were the other children like in the places he had visited? Had he encountered wild animals, stray dogs, or thieves? Sometimes, he would humor us with tales of his journeys, though, truth be told, I preferred my grandmother’s—they had a way of weaving magic into the mundane. Still, his stories brought a welcome change to our otherwise predictable nights.

By morning, he would usually be gone, slipping away before the world stirred. I have no memory of his departures, but we children would scour the spot where he had camped, hoping to unearth a forgotten relic—a hidden treasure or a lost trinket. Once, I struck gold, or so it felt—I stumbled upon a coin, a find that filled me with pride. I rushed to show my grandmother, though I never knew its true worth. She tucked it safely away until the peddler's next visit. When he returned, my honesty was rewarded with a small, wondrous prize—a packet of chewing gum, five individually wrapped sticks, each one a treasure in itself.

 

My Slingshot Hobby Noureddine Boutahar

Hunting with a slingshot was the bread and butter of boyhood in my generation—a rite of passage for young country boys. A catapult dangling from a boy’s neck was as common as shadows at sunrise—an unmistakable sign of youthful curiosity and untamed energy. These were days when our pastimes were stitched together by our own hands, simple yet rich, untouched by the buzz of electronics or the glare of screens.

The slingshot, or catapult, is a hand-powered projectile weapon with a Y-shaped frame and elastic bands attached to a pouch that held small stones. We bought the rubber bands at the weekly souk. There were two types to choose from: flat bands, often repurposed from tire inner tubes, and tubular bands, pricier but far more durable. We whittled the frames from orchard trees and fashioned the pouches from worn-out shoe leather. Soaking the leather in water softened it, making it pliable for crafting. To us, these slingshots were more than tools—they were the heartbeat of childhood adventure.

I recall with a warm ache the times I hunted alongside my elder brother. Back then, I was his “beater,” a sidekick descending the valley, flushing out game with shouts, thrown stones, or a stick dragged noisily through the underbrush. When the birds perched above him in the trees, he struck with the precision of a marksman, killing them instantly. My reward? The honor of carrying the game, strung proudly on my belt like trophies of war.

Eager to follow in my brother’s footsteps, I began crafting my own slingshots around the age of eight. I started carving frames and buying bands from the souk. Hunting became a shared adventure with my younger brother and cousins, each of us taking turns as hunter and beater in a fair and playful democracy. Wild pigeons (tourterelles) were our prized quarry, though we also hunted quails, larks, and sparrows. Quails, elusive and solitary, were a rare delight, while sparrows and larks filled the gaps when pickings were scarce.

The best part of the hunt came after: we would bring the game home, pluck the feathers, wash the birds, and roast them over open flames. Their meager meat, seasoned by fire and triumph, tasted divine to us. Our parents, however, teased us, calling it a child’s indulgence, and rarely joined us in savoring our spoils.

Through practice, my slingshot became a seamless extension of my arm. I could bring down a bird mid-flight with uncanny precision. But beyond hunting, my catapult proved versatile: it was my tool for knocking ripe figs from treetops, my guardian against stray dogs, and my weapon of choice against snakes, which I shot from a safe distance.

Yet, slingshot hunting was not without its dangers and harsh lessons, some etched deep into my memory. One summer, while stalking wild pigeons, I crept cautiously through a shrub for cover. My focus was so intense on my target that I failed to notice a hidden wasp nest until I was practically nose-to-nest with it. In a heartbeat, the wasps erupted like an angry volcano, their stingers raining down on my face. I flung my slingshot away and fled in a frenzy, swatting and shouting, but the persistent swarm chased me all the way home. For a week, my face was a swollen canvas of pain, soothed only by my grandmother’s poultices and prayers.

But the darkest memory of my slingshot came in the summer of 1974, a memory that still weighs heavy on my heart. I had been sent to retrieve our equids—mares, mules, and a prized jet-black colt my uncle was breaking in to replace an aging chestnut horse. That colt, a lively spirit, often strayed to mingle with the neighbor’s animals. On this particular evening, it stubbornly refused to return, despite my best efforts. Frustration surged through me like a tempest. In a moment of anger, I aimed my slingshot at its neck and let the stone fly.

The result was a tragedy I neither intended nor foresaw. The colt reared, shaking its head in pain, and to my horror, blood trickled from its left eye. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach as guilt flooded every fiber of my being. Desperate and panicked, I ran to the old well near our orchard and hurled my slingshot into its depths, wishing I could vanish along with it.

My family was puzzled by the colt’s injury, making numerous guesses and asking endless questions, but I hid the truth for a while, burdened with guilt. Although I bared my soul to my grandmother a couple of months later, seeking solace for my egregious mistake, the weight of having wounded the innocent creature remains an enduring ache in my heart. The colt’s recovery was slow; the stone had damaged the side of its left eye, leaving a scar that never faded. My family treated it with herbal remedies, but every time I saw the animal flinch in pain, I wished I could undo my reckless act. 

A year later, the colt was sold at a reduced price to a dignitary from a neighboring tribe who loved its breed. Though it was gone, the memory of that day has never left me. Even now, I lose sleep wondering why some lessons must come at such a high cost. I often pray the colt, in whatever realm it may now roam, has forgiven the reckless boy I once was.

Our Humble Abode in the 1960s Noureddine Boutahar

Our abode in the 1960s was a

humble yet enchanting haven, a harmonious blend of simplicity and ancient tradition. Our home was a rustic ensemble, comprising a sturdy stone room and two weathered reed and clay shacks, their walls etched with the silent stories of a life lived in harmony with nature. At the heart of this tranquil abode stood our majestic black Amazigh tent, a singular gem that cast a quiet dignity over the entire surrounding. Nearby, a smaller tent was staked for our shepherd, while two more, ready for our nomadic journeys, awaited the call of the seasons. As the rhythm of the land dictated, my father and uncle would head to the verdant pastures of the mountains, forever attuned to the intricate dance of nature's cycles.

This magnificient tent was not merely a shelter; it was a cherished sanctuary, meticulously cared for and revered. It was there that we welcomed guests, and it was there that family gathered for special occasions, such as the Eids (religious ceremonies). Unlike any other structure, the tent was crafted with unparalleled artistry from a blend of black and brown goat hair, every fiber woven with intention and care. Skilled women, including my mother and grandmother, meticulously wove the rectangular panels, while the men, on a designated day of communal effort, meticulously sewed these panels together. This special occasion was marked by the preparation of a sumptuous feast, a couple of roasted roosters or sheep, shared with neighbors who joined in the festivities and lent their hands to the task. The tent’s very presence inspired awe within our Amazigh community, symbolizing both the architectural wisdom of our ancestors and the profound bond our people shared with nature. Each thread told a story, a testament to the artistry of our people, passed down and refined over generations, weaving beauty and purpose into every detail.

 By nightfall, our cows—loyal companions on our agrarian journey—were tethered to rugged wooden stakes with thick ropes made from goat hair or from esparto (halfa) grass. For the sheep, goats, and occasional lambs, we fashioned rough-hewn shelters from tree branches, favoring the protective strength of jujube trees to shield them from the elements and lurking wolves. This rustic tapestry extended to our poultry, too, housed in simple sheds crafted from dry reeds and hay, creating warm, cozy nooks for chickens, turkeys, and guinea fowl. Yet some birds, especially the adventurous guinea fowl, often found refuge in the branches of nearby trees, serving as vigilant sentinels, ever ready to sound the alarm when strangers or wild creatures neared.

In our traditions of hospitality, livestock and poultry took on special roles, with each guest honored according to their place in a silent hierarchy. Family guests were offered succulent chicken, while turkey and buttery homemade bread from our own wheat fields were reserved for close friends. The rarest honor—a roasted sheep—was saved for the most distinguished visitors. Within this ecosystem, the poultry also served a practical role; they were managed by the women of our family. My grandmother, mother, and aunt raised chickens, selling eggs and fattened birds to earn modest sums. These earnings became small luxuries—occasional makeup or clothing, things they bought when their husbands could not, or chose not to. When a cherished guest arrived, my father or grandfather would buy the finest rooster from the women, turning it into a culinary gift for our visitors.

As for our broad beans, peas, oat, wheat, and barley, they were stored in granaries crafted with a blend of semi-modern and traditional designs, each element serving its purpose with distinct craftsmanship. Our semi-modern granary was a solid stone room with a cement floor, built to provide sturdier, more permanent storage. In contrast, the traditional granaries were a collection of large, circular containers made from interwoven reeds and clay, their interiors carefully paved with cow dung to improve insulation and preserve the grain's quality. I fondly recall three of these traditional granaries standing just behind our main stable, and I sometimes joined in to watch as my father, uncle, and a hired hand built them with remarkable dedication. I loved witnessing the happiness, camaraderie, and care they poured into their work—each step marked by a true pride in their craft and a shared sense of purpose.

This was “the land that made me me”, the soil from which I sprang. To some, it may have seemed like the middle of nowhere, but to me, it was the heart of everything. Others might see it as outdated, quaint, even old-fashioned, but to me, it was the best of times in the finest of places.

A Tribute to the Greatest Father Noureddine Boutahar

My father was a self-made man who lived a life of simplicity, contentment, and quiet dignity, passing away with the same peaceful grace that defined his days. He was less concerned with accumulating wealth than with shaping us—his children—into resilient, capable men and women. Born in Boukashmir, Oulmes, and raised in Boukashmir and Tizitine, he was respected and loved in both places for his honesty, integrity, and exemplary character.

The image of my father that lingers from the late 1960s is that of a strikingly handsome young man who took great care of his appearance. He always wore the best clothes he owned, styled in a classic way, especially for parties, and during his city visits. I remember how he would carry a fragrant small bar of soap in one of his flap pockets, and a white double-tooth comb, which he had brought back from France, in his breast pocket. My mischievous childhood led me to sometimes "borrow" the comb to fix my hair before putting it back. On special occasions, he would wear perfume—a rare habit among countrymen at the time—which he kept carefully stored in a wooden box alongside other treasured possessions.  

Physically, my father was a somewhat tall, athletic man with a medium build. He had straight, short-cropped blond hair, though it often appeared darker, as he always wore hats and bonnets to protect it from the elements. His forehead was prominent, his eyebrows well-defined and neatly groomed, with a strong jawline. His eyes radiated confidence, his nose was straight and proportional to his face, and his mouth held a neutral expression, complementing the overall dignified look of his portrait.

My father was widely respected for his honesty. I witnessed his deep honesty and piety firsthand when we worked together in the fields. He never allowed Zakat—the portion of wealth Muslims give to charity—to be stored in our granary. Instead, he set aside a special spot for the grains and olive oil meant for the poor. His integrity also earned him the trust of Benaissa Boubia, a wealthy farmer in Tizitine. When our family moved there in the mid-1940s, my father managed Benaissa Boubia’s tenant farming accounts for sometime. Benaissa Boubia provided land and livestock to less fortunate families, who worked the land in exchange for a share of the produce, and my father oversaw the arrangement with diligence.

In the mid-1960s, my father was reluctantly sent to France to work on farms. Though the contract was for just three months, the French farmer, impressed by his honesty and tireless work ethic, offered to extend it. My father declined, replying, 'When I left for France, I left behind a mother, a wife, and a sister-in-law milking 18 cows, and most of the milk is going to the dogs.'

My father's honesty was deeply rooted in his piety. He later told me he was among the first in our region to consistently observe his religious duties, such as praying on time, at a time when many of the local Amazigh were either flippant about or less familiar with these practices. He recounted a story from a wedding celebration when, as Dhuhr approached, he went to a nearby orchard to perform ablutions at a well and pray under the trees. A few women noticed him, puzzled, and soon gathered others to watch and giggle as they tried to figure out what the 'little boy' was doing.

As a father, he was progressive in his parenting style. At a time when physical punishment was the norm, my father never laid a hand on us. This leniency was criticized by my mother and grandfather, but he believed in a gentler approach to raising us, much like my grandmother. During family gatherings, he imparted timeless universal values of honesty, respect, modesty, altruism, and hard work upon us. 

Though born into an illiterate family, my father taught himself to read and write. After Morocco's independence, there was a national literacy campaign, and he was one of the few who took it seriously, learning both Arabic and French. He was also one of the first to own a radio, which he loved listening to, especially for news and Amazigh music and poetry known as Imalyazen. The radio’s influence on him was so strong that we were among the rare families to have pictures of Mohammed V and Gamal Abdel Nasser on the walls of our home.

One of my father's endearing qualities was his ability to listen attentively and speak eloquently. When you spoke to him, he listened with genuine interest, and when he spoke, he captured the full attention of his audience. He enjoyed recounting stories and events in vivid detail, but he did so in a way that never bored his listeners. In his later years, during my fortnightly visits, we would sit together as he shared tales from his past, rich with subtle details. Unfortunately, some ill-intentioned people would exploit this in social gatherings, asking him to recount stories or events while they devoured the shared food.

My father was also known for his pithy remarks, which revealed much about his character—his sharp wit, intelligence, directness, and unwavering confidence. One particular incident from an electoral campaign comes to mind. A candidate had come to seek his support, delivering a speech filled with vague promises and empty words. Unimpressed, my father waited for him to finish, then dryly responded, 'You know, I could probably finish my Asr prayers and go earn your university degree.' His retort, both cutting and clever, perfectly captured his no-nonsense approach to life.

Another quality that distinguished my father was his boundless generosity. A passionate hunter, he was among the rare few in those days to own a prized 16-gauge shotgun—a symbol of status and skill. I vividly recall the day he sold one of our finest cows just to acquire that coveted weapon, an act that spoke of his deep love for the hunt.  As hunting necessitates the finest canine companions, my father always kept the very best. He often kept some of the most renowned hunting Sloughi greyhounds and German shorthaired pointers. Once, a delegation of dignified horsemen from the illustrious Imahzan tribe, came all the way from Khenifra and asked to barter one of my father’s famous Sloughi greyhounds, renowned across the region for its agility and prowess. They came bearing a substantial offer—an entire herd of sheep and goats in exchange for the prized dog. After being treated to a lavish meal of Mechoui, Couscous, and mint green tea, my father did what only he could. In a grand gesture of his legendary generosity, he refused their offer. Instead, he gifted them the Sloughi outright. That moment, like many others, etched itself into my mind as a testament to his noble spirit—one who gave not for gain, but for the sheer joy of giving.

Unfortunately, two factors contributed to my father’s declining health. The first was the tragic death of my younger brother, Abdelmajid, his  son and closest companion, in a devastating car accident. The second was his growing sense of isolation. As rheumatoid arthritis in his knee took its toll, he ventured out less frequently, which was particularly difficult for a man who had always been so social and outgoing. A fate that weighed heavily on his spirit. It was only on special occasions, when we brought him to family gatherings, that he had the opportunity to reconnect. However, in his final days, he declined most invitations, attending only the funerals of close family members, including the insistence on being present for the funeral of his granddaughter, Bouchra Boubia. He passed away just a few months later, on December 5, 2023.

Rest in peace, dear father. You will always be remembered as a loving father and a guiding light. Your legacy will continue to inspire me and my children every day, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons you shared and the boundless love you gave. You lived your life with honor and dignity, cherishing your family, your principles and your country. I hope now, in the peace of the hereafter, you no longer feel the pain of rheumatism that troubled you in your final days.

A Childhood Lesson in Courage and Fear Noureddine Boutahar

My family lived a semi-nomadic life. During the winter months, my parents and uncle would pack up their tents and move higher into the mountains and forests in search of better grazing lands for our cows, sheep, and goats. I, however, stayed behind with my grandparents in the house on the plateau. I was deeply attached to them, and being close to the school I attended kept me there.

I would visit my biological parents occasionally, either with my grandmother or grandfather. I clearly remember one such visit during my fourth-grade spring holiday. My grandmother and I made the trip to see them. That day, we enjoyed a hearty lunch—my mother had prepared Moroccan Rfissa with one of her finest roosters, followed by sweet mint tea. After a long, pleasant conversation between my mother and grandmother, the sun began to set behind the hills. My grandmother decided it was time to head back. As she prepared to leave, I asked to stay for a couple of days. She rarely denied me anything, so, after a moment of hesitation, she mounted her mule and rode away, leaving me behind.

The following day, boredom set in. I missed my grandmother's warmth, her cooking, and her ever-present comfort. I yearned for my world where I used to roam and immerse in carefree play and unbridled joy. I soon asked to be taken home—home to me meant my grandparents' house. But everyone was busy with livestock, chores, and other tasks, so I decided to make the journey alone, on foot.

That afternoon, as the shadows of the hills began to stretch across the mountains, I set off on the ten-mile trek. My mother trailed behind me, warning of the dangers of traveling so late, but I paid her no mind. I quickened my pace, determined to prove I could make the journey on my own.

Halfway through, as darkness fell, regret crept in. The trees and bushes around me transformed into ominous shapes—wolves, stray dogs, witches, jinn. Every shadow seemed alive. I stopped often, listening for any sign of danger, straining to convince myself that what I saw were just inanimate objects. But fear gripped me tighter as I continued. One shadow—a bush or rock, I never knew which—convinced my imagination it was a wolf lurking nearby. On either side of the road were fields of tall wheat, ripe and thick. Desperate, I decided to veer into the field on my left, hoping to lose the imagined beast in the dense crop.

The wheat stalks brushed against my shoulders, and though I was tall for my age, the field seemed to swallow me whole. Worse yet, it had recently rained, and the ground was still wet. I ran through the field, my clothes getting drenched, my legs heavy with fatigue. After a while, I stopped, exhausted and scared. I listened carefully for any sound—a wolf’s footsteps, a growl, anything. But there was nothing except the eerie silence of the night. Only then did I realize I was lost, surrounded by endless wheat, with no sense of direction. Tears welled up in my eyes, and soon I was sobbing uncontrollably.

In my despair, I forced myself to think of a solution. It occurred to me that if I could reach the top of a nearby hill, I might see the lights of a house and find my way. I climbed, my heart heavy with fear, and from the summit, I saw a faint light in the distance, nearly three miles away. It gave me hope, and I headed toward it, walking, running, and stopping occasionally to catch my breath. My tears flowed silently as dark thoughts filled my mind.

As I neared the house, dogs began barking furiously. But their barking was familiar. These were our dogs—two Aidis, a retriever, a beagle, and two greyhounds. They would have attacked any stranger, but I called their names quickly and fearfully before it was too late —Swiss, Jdia, Hallouf, Boby, Bully, Ghannam. Their barks turned into friendly whimpers as they recognized me, wagging their tails and jumping up to greet me.

Our field worker came out of his hut, alerted by the dogs. He shined his torch on me, trying to make sense of who I was. His surprise was clear. He murmured something under his breath, clearly in sympathy, as he guided me into the house. When I finally stepped into the house, my grandmother’s reaction was one of shock and concern. I was soaked, trembling, and utterly exhausted. She embraced me, soothing my tears, but my sobs only grew stronger in her arms.

While she changed my clothes, she scolded me for embarking on such a dangerous journey alone and was equally upset that my mother had allowed it. My grandfather, the tough yet emotional man, joined in, his voice filled with the "what-ifs" that could have turned the situation worse. My grandmother sat me by the furnace to warm up while she prepared a meal. Soon, there was a teapot on the table, alongside fresh homemade bread, pure honey, olive oil, and butter from our cows. As I ate, she asked me endless questions about the ordeal.

Though that night was one of the worst experiences of my childhood, it became a lesson I carried with me. As Nietzsche said, "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger." The challenges I faced in life, no matter how daunting, helped shape the person I became.

 

My Origines Noureddine Boutahar

I was born in the early 1960s, in the tranquil Moroccan countryside of Tizitine, tucked within the Khemisset region. Though Tizitine was my birthplace, my family’s origins lie in Boukashmire, near Oulmes. In the mid-1940s, they were forced to leave Boukashmire at the request of local dignitaries. The reason for their departure was a family tragedy: my father was preparing to avenge his cousin, who had been killed by a young man after being discovered in a relationship with the man’s wife. To prevent the situation from escalating into further violence, the elders stepped in, urging my grandfather to relocate his family—his wife, two sons, and two daughters—until tempers cooled.

Seeking refuge, my grandfather found safety and a warm reception in Tizitine, more than twenty miles away, where the Boubia family took them in. What began as an act of protection grew into a lasting bond, as the two families became not only friends but eventually in-laws, intertwined by both circumstance and kinship, and the rest was history.

It was here, in Tizitine, that I was born, in a peaceful landscape, where boundless fields offered limitless freedom, and the pure joy of untouched nature filled every moment. It was here that I grew up in a vibrant agricultural family—a clan of about twenty—where each member played a role, like instruments in a grand familial orchestra. Our ensemble included my parents, grandparents, my uncle and his wife, my cousins, an aunt, a shepherd, a fieldworker, and even an abandoned child who found warmth and solace in our home. But it wasn’t just my family who shaped me—an entire proverbial village, in the truest sense, helped mold my character, values, and understanding of the world.

Our childhood home was a whirlwind of activity, filled with the joyful noise and play of siblings and cousins all under one roof. Though our days were filled with responsibilities, they were interwoven with moments of pure delight. As shepherds, we tended to sheep, goats, and cows—the lifeblood of rural existence. Skilled equestrians, we rode horses, mules, or donkeys bareback, often bridleless—sometimes to tame them, other times to lead them to the water, but more often for the sheer thrill of it. Yet, we were not all work and no play; like birds finding pockets of time to soar, we reveled in cherished traditional games—hide and seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and impromptu wrestling matches. These games not only nurtured our bodies but subtly schooled us in life’s lessons: discipline, perseverance, teamwork, and respect for others and all their differences.

Ours was a family that wandered with the seasons, semi-nomadic in nature. My parents and uncle would often pack up our tents, moving where the pastures were lush, especially in winter when the forests and mountains offered better grazing for our livestock. But I, tied to my grandparents and later to the school nearby, stayed behind in the family’s main house on the plateau, under the watchful eyes of my grandmother and grandfather. It was there, in their loving care, that I received not only an education but an inheritance of tradition and wisdom. They poured into me the values of our ancestors, and, more than anything, their life stories and lessons shaped my understanding of the world.

Living with my grandparents meant early exposure to the voices of the old and the wise—villagers who visited our home and whose perspectives filled my young mind. From them, I learned the subtle dance between right and wrong, the importance of empathy, emotional intelligence, and the art of respectful communication. In the quiet hours spent listening, I was handed a treasure trove of insights: how to shoulder responsibility, how to be accountable, how to respect diversity and navigate the intricate web of social relations.

My grandmother, with her boundless compassion, loved every child as if they were her own, and every woman as if she were family. This kindness radiated outward, making her a beloved figure throughout the countryside, earning her the love and respect of all, who affectionately called her Chia, a tender diminutive of her true name, Chrifa. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, embodied a zest for life. He lived with a carefree spirit, often unbothered by the material struggles that might come with tomorrow. I still remember him telling our neighbor, Said Boubia, “Come by from time to time so Chrifa (my grandmother) can roast one of her chickens for us.” He thrived on companionship and abhorred dining alone, always inviting others to share a meal.

The countryside granted me countless blessings, especially in terms of lifestyle and helped me gain a toehold in simplicity, a profound connection to nature, and personal growth. Enveloped in the embrace of trees, animals, and pure air, my soul found peace, and my heart, harmony. The strong community bonds, where neighbors were more like extended family, wove a social fabric that urban life often lacks. In this setting, our family grew even closer, working together in the fields, gathering for community events, or simply enjoying the outdoor beauty that surrounded us.

Moreover, rural life endowed me with invaluable practical skills—gardening, animal care, even riding horses—skills that nurtured my independence and sharpened my problem-solving abilities. The unhurried pace of life, coupled with the vastness of the landscape, naturally sparked creativity and imagination in us children. In a world largely free from the technological distractions of the time, though few existed, I was drawn to hands-on, inventive play, further enriching my childhood journey.

No words capture the essence of the time quite like those of Charles Dickens, who famously wrote: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

His words resonate deeply with the contradictions of that era—an era of profound progress and equal confusion, where hope and despair danced hand in hand, shaping the collective consciousness of those decades. Yet, as children, we remained blissfully aware only of its brighter, more hopeful side.

A Tribute to my Childhood Friends Noureddine Boutahar

 When I left the tranquil embrace of the countryside for the frenetic rhythm of Meknes to continue my education after primary school, I found myself adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and daunting challenges. Yet, in that tumultuous new world, I forged a few profoundly genuine friendships that became my sanctuary during those days of initiation to city life and transition from the countryside. These friends were more than mere companions; they were kindred spirits who understood my essence and stood steadfastly by my side. Our shared tastes in movies, books, and hobbies intertwined seamlessly, allowing us to navigate the labyrinth of adolescence together, sharing countless laughs, tears, and adventures. Through thick and thin, their loyalty never wavered. We attended school together, played together, visited the cinema, frequented the library, and ventured forth wandering through the city’s streets, savoring the sights and the company. 

One of my dearest friends was Slimane. He was not conventionally handsome, yet his medium height, round face, hooded eyes, and snub nose exuded a unique charm. His blond, straight hair was perpetually cropped short, a common precaution against lice in those days. Slimane was a quiet soul, his true nature revealed only after the patience of long friendship. He shunned crowds and the spotlight, preferring the solace of obscurity. I was often struck by an ineffable sadness in Slimane, a depth that hinted at untold stories. Slimane hailed from a destitute Amazigh family with more than six children, grandparents, and an aunt all living in a small, old house in the impoverished neighborhood of Sidi Baba. He wore the same clothes almost every day, including a green military jacket gifted by a relative, which became an inseparable part of his identity. His pants, worn and faded, bore testament to their better days. His rough, low-heeled shoes, repeatedly cobbled, had long since lost their original color. Despite his humble appearance, Slimane possessed a heart of gold and our friendship was like no other. He was the kind of friend who stood by you resolutely, never deceiving or betraying. His maturity belied his young age, and his quiet strength was a balm to the soul. Regrettably, he never completed junior school, sacrificing his education to work and support his family. He left both the school and the city, and sadly, our paths never crossed again.

Then there was Driss. He was nearly as tall as I was, with a strong build and an awareness of his appealing, well-developed physique. Driss did not engage in sports outside of school, his strength honed through hard labor in the countryside during school holidays when he toiled in the fields to earn a few coins to buy school books and clothes at the flea market, much like many of us did at the time. Like me, Driss was of Amazigh origin, though he came from Mejjat, an Amazigh tribe that lay to the east of Meknes. He lived alone in a room he rented, perched atop a two-story building in the heart of the old Medina. His curly hair was often cut short, and his weather-beaten, muscular frame added to his allure as a burly figure. Driss was easygoing and talkative, always finding topics to discuss, yet he was also a good listener, persuaded by logical arguments. Though not proficient in languages, he excelled in math and physics, compensating for his linguistic limitations. When Driss and I were together, our classmates dubbed us Bud & Terence, after Terence Hill and Bud Spencer, the Italian actors and heroes of our youth, famous for their action-comedy and Spaghetti Western films, with one being the clever half and the other the strong but clumsy one. After junior school, Driss and I began to lose touch as we attended different high schools. Troubled by a tempestuous relationship, Driss did not complete his education; instead, he enlisted in the army. He pursued a military career, and I later heard he became a pilot.

Ahmed was another dear friend, a true Meknassi, who resided in the heart of the old city. He came from a modest family and was raised by his mother and grandparents after his father's untimely death. Ahmed's dark brown skin, tall and thin frame, curly hair often shaved, sharp nose, and long face marked his appearance. He was the shyest of all my friends, his timid nature earning him few friends at school, while concealing a heart full of empathy and compassion. Yet, his sensitivity and perceptiveness required careful handling to avoid causing him pain, inadvertently or otherwise. Like most of us, Ahmed had a limited wardrobe and often wore the same outfit throughout the school year, removing it only on weekends to wash. Ahmed did not continue beyond high school and soon joined the police, where he made a career. When I met him many years later, he had retired and was living a peaceful life with his wife and two children. He remained the kind-hearted, humble, and honest person he had always been.

El Ghazi, my second Meknassi friend, lived in the average neighborhood of Sebata. He was physically almost similar to Driss: brown-skinned, of medium height, and round-faced, possessing a moderate attractiveness. However, El Ghazi was carefree, impulsive, and impatient, always eager to prove himself. Unlike most of us, he let his curly hair grow long, earning him the nickname "Jimi Hendrix," after the iconic rock guitarist. El Ghazi was a sports enthusiast, and our shared passion led to our effortless friendship. We often persuaded our sports teachers to let us join other classes during free periods. El Ghazi and I attended the same high school after junior school, spending a couple of years studying hard and indulging in our favorite sports. In high school, due to our exceptional prowess in sports, we were entrusted with teaching other students rope climbing, handball, volleyball, and more. We took pride in this role, even though El Ghazi had a tendency to show off, especially in front of girls. In contrast, I was more serious and more committed. However, when I moved to Rabat in september of 1979, I lost contact with EL Ghazi. Without cell phones and lacking his home address, I could not keep in touch. I miss him today, as much as I miss all the friends whose paths diverged from mine after junior and high school.

Mouh was a true Amazigh, effortlessly weaving his ancestral tongue into our conversations. He called me Azaii, a nod to my Zayan roots, the proud inhabitants of the Middle Atlas Mountains, including my hometown, Oulmes. I called him "The Bohemian" because of his attire, lifestyle, and worldview. Mouh resided with his family in Borj Mashquq, a modest neighborhood in Meknes. His father, a diligent manual laborer, toiled tirelessly to provide for his family of almost ten. Mouh stood at medium height, his long face framed by brown eyes and hair that was a canvas of constant change—sometimes shaved close, sometimes cropped neatly, and at other times flowing long over his shoulders. He was a talkative, somewhat gullible, and open-hearted soul. What I admired most about him was his unyielding honesty; he never lied or made empty promises, always speaking his mind, regardless of the potential sting. Mouh’s ill-fitting clothes suggested they had been handed down from an older brother, father, or relative. However, it was his white plastic jelly sandals, repeatedly heat-welded, that set him apart. Our shared passion for soccer, with him playing barefoot, was a highlight of our friendship. However, my fondest memories were of our autumn weekend escapades to the vineyards of Meknes. We would scour the vine-laden fields around the city, gathering grapes overlooked by the harvesters. Laden with bunches of various hues and ripeness, we would return home, distributing our bounty to friends and neighbors, who in turn, rewarded our generosity with homemade cakes. Mouh joined the army before finishing high school, and I was delighted when he was stationed in Rabat for a couple of years, allowing us to reconnect. As a soldier, he and I, now a university student, would often meet for coffee and reminisce about our shared days in Meknes. Unfortunately, once he left Rabat, he disappeared from my life, and I never heard from him again.

Lastly, there was Ssi Mohammed. Living in the same neighborhood, we formed a bond despite never being classmates. He had left school early while still in 5^th grade to support his family, as his father's income was insufficient for their large family. Ssi Mohammed was strong but noticeably short, and while he could have been considered handsome, he paid little attention to his appearance, not even combing his hair. Despite his shyness and preference for solitude, he was good-natured, and his laughter, when it came, was heartfelt and genuine. We often met on weekends to watch movies, with Egyptian films being his favorite due to his limited understanding of French. Ssi Mohammed was the only friend who invited me to his home from time to time in Borj Mashquq, one of the poorest neighborhoods of Meknes then. His mother would make mint tea for us and cook Harsha, which we slathered with olive oil and pure honey from their countryside home in Zerhoun. Unfortunately, I started losing contact with Ssi Mohammed after I left Meknes. I visited him a couple of times after the baccalaureate, which I got in Rabat, but university life soon consumed my time and energy and left little room for anything else like reconnecting with childhood friends.

These were my childhood friends, each holding a cherished place in my heart. Their comfort and encouragement were my anchors during the formative years of my life and the critical times when I was thrust into an unfamiliar place, devoid of family and knowledge of local customs. They were the true friends who supported and guided me, listened with empathy, and transformed even the simplest moments into something extraordinary. As someone once said, “Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.”

Grandma is the Best 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.

Living with my grandparents who had lived to a ripe old age was an opportunity for me to glean wisdom from their rich life experiences. Nanna and Dadda, as I called them, served as my educators, my guides, my guardians, my refuge, my source of solace, and so much more. They offered me a wellspring of knowledge, wisdom, and life lessons. They instilled in me the deep-rooted values of integrity, humility, and the power of unconditional love.

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.

Moroccan Souk: Childhood Joys and Haircut Woes Noureddine Boutahar

 As a Moroccan Gen Xer, the Souk (open-air marketplace) held a special place in my childhood, serving as a vibrant hub where the spirit of our community thrived. It was a space where adults sought their necessities, while I sought out enjoyment. Each week, this open-air market came to life, with vendors proudly displaying their diverse array of goods and services under canvas white tents, transforming a designated space into a bustling spectacle.

In this vibrant gathering, our country folks unveiled their treasures with flair – wheat, barley, peas and broad beans neatly packed in sacks and panniers, enticing buyers with the bounty of their harvest. Meanwhile, the Souk's lively tapestry expanded to include a menagerie of livestock: sheep, goats, donkeys, and mules, all contributing to the bustling energy of the market.

The Souk, a meticulously orchestrated symphony of commerce, showcased impeccable organization. Each section had its designated space, contributing to a harmonious flow. A corner was exclusively reserved for the vibrant hues of fresh vegetables and fruits, while another boasted the earthy tones of grains and cereals. There existed a dedicated space for blacksmiths and farriers, and another for artisans crafting donkey panniers. Further along, a designated spot catered to skilled haircutters, and a lively locale housed the butchers. Beyond the bustling market, a fence stood where farmers securely stowed their pack and draft animals—the unsung heroes and sole modes of transportation in those bygone days—all under the vigilant gaze of a watchful guard, earning a few coins in return.

Accompanying my grandmother, I made occasional visits to the Souk, often timed with the reluctant need for a haircut. Though the idea of trimming my fair, straight hair wasn't appealing, it was the sole reason I was permitted to join this bustling spectacle. My parents, wary of hygiene concerns, frowned upon letting my hair grow too long, deeming it a breeding ground for unwelcome guests like lice, which were very common in those days.

Yet, amidst the haircuts and clippings, what I cherished most about the Souk were the breakfasts at the charming tented cafes. There, we indulged in hearty meals – mint tea sweetened generously, scrambled eggs drizzled with olive oil and tomatoes, hot whole-wheat flour bread, and the pièce de résistance, Sfenj, traditional Moroccan yeasted donuts, airy and soft on the inside and crisp on the outside. Its aroma wafted through the entire Souk, a scent that lingers in my memories.

Another highlight was encountering relatives amidst the vibrant chaos. Amidst greetings, teasing, and expressions of familial affection, a small piece of money would change hands. This ‘windfall’ became my ticket to delight, spent on candies and chewing gum, turning the Souk into a playground for my sweet tooth.

The haircut sessions, conducted by a family friend doubling as the barber, were less enjoyable. His tools were weathered, and makeshift solutions were common. The absence of chairs meant that we had to sit on the ground, on old sacks, or on the donkey packs of other customers, patiently waiting for our turn. Despite my requests for a longer haircut, my parents insisted on a short crop, leaving me dissatisfied and occasionally frustrated. While everyone complimented my hair, a sentiment I also shared, my heart leaned towards the enchantment of long strands. The transformation to a shorter haircut rendered me completely different and less handsome, and subjected me to teasing from my peers.

Exhausted from the day's adventures, having had my fill of playtime and satisfied my sweet cravings, I would often doze off on the way home on muleback. To prevent any mishaps, either my grandmother or my father would place me in front of them on the mule, ensuring a safe journey back, where dreams of the lively Souk lingered until the next visit.

There is a Moroccan proverb that goes, "Those who benefit from the Souk applaud its merits." I stand among those who have reaped the Souk’s rewards, albeit not in material or economic terms. Instead, my gains were intangible, catering to the needs of a young child seeking fun as well as exploration, experimentation, and transformation. In the bustling marketplace, I discovered not only goods but a realm of experiences that shaped my journey of growth, offering the currency of curiosity, joy, and the ever-changing fabric of life.