Remembering Yamna Naaziz and the Soulful Art of Thamawayth. Noureddine Boutahar

I remember it not just as a dream, but like a song carried on the wind. I was just a child, too small to hold a memory steady, let alone guide a mule. Yet there I sat, in front of my aunt Yattou on our sorrel molly mule named Gazella, trotting from my parents’ nomadic camp toward my grandparents’ permanent home. Once the tent disappeared behind the hill, my aunt broke into song—not just any song, but Thamawayth. Her voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the trail, weaving stories of longing, sorrow, hope, and love. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was my first brush with the heartbeat of the Middle Atlas—and the unforgettable voice of Yamna Naaziz, the woman at the heart of this article. 

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.

A Journey into the Heart of Thaanasarth Noureddine Boutahar

 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. As Marcus Garvey once said, “A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” Thaanasarth was just that—roots stretching deep into the soil of tradition, memory, and meaning.

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. As W. Somerset Maugham wisely put it, “Tradition is a guide, not a jailer.” Thaanasarth was never about rigid obedience—it was about navigating the rhythms of life with reverence and belonging.

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. As someone once said, “The greatness of a culture can be found in its festivals, in its celebratory details.” And Thaanasarth is nothing if not a mosaic of such details—each gesture, plant, and chant a thread in a larger cultural fabric.

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 whatever form it takes, we must safeguard our intangible cultural heritage—and keep the smoke rising.

Moroccan Tea: A Journey Through History and Identity Noureddine Boutahar

In my home, tea was never just a drink—it was a quiet ceremony, a moment of pause, a thread that wove people together. I remember my grandmother brewing it with reverence, the scent of mint filling the air long before the first glass was poured. In Morocco, there's a saying that

captures its essence perfectly: “There’s tea for peace, tea for sorrow, and tea that tells of empty pockets.” This bittersweet tonic is steeped not only in leaves but in memory, ritual, and emotion.

Writing about Moroccan tea is, for me, a return journey—back to childhood mornings, afternoons and evenings, family gatherings, hushed conversations, and laughter swirling like steam above a silver teapot. It’s a story kept alive, generation to generation, like an heirloom too precious to be lost. Its history is inseparable from our own, echoing the resilience, reinvention, and quiet pride that define the Moroccan spirit.

Tea first set foot on Moroccan soil in the early 18th century (1721), arriving from England after a long voyage along the silk routes of the East. At first, it was less a refreshment and more a medicament. The earliest documented Moroccan to taste its warmth was Zidan, son of the mighty Sultan Moulay Ismail. A Christian doctor, concerned by the prince’s harmful affection for wine, prescribed this Eastern elixir as a healing swap. In time, even the Sultan himself developed a taste for it, and tea began its slow, dignified seep into the royal household.

Under Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah, tea’s popularity spread like rapid wildfire on dry grass. It graced elite gatherings, appearing like a silent guest of honor among nobles, celebrities, and scholars. Yet for many years, it remained the privilege of the powerful—confined to palaces and the plush homes of high society. It wasn’t until the 1830s that tea began to trickle into the homes of merchants and townsfolk, then steadily reached rural Morocco. By the early 20th century, tea had woven itself into the fabric of daily life. Still, in remote regions, the ornate silver, porcelain, and crystal glass tools of tea-making remained markers of affluence, gleaming symbols of hospitality and grace.

Traditionally, it is the male connoisseur—often the head of the household—who helms the tea ceremony. The ritual unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance: rinsing, re-rinsing, brewing, then pouring the tea into a glass and back into the teapot—sometimes three times over. Each motion is deliberate, unhurried, and framed by spirited conversation, storytelling, jokes, and the sharing of news. The tea tray becomes a miniature stage for life itself.

This symbolism echoes in Nass El Ghiwane’s soul-stirring 1976 song Essiniya (The Tea Tray), where the humble tray becomes a metaphor for hardship, changing times, and the ache of nostalgia. The lyrics offer a plaintive “Ah, Tea Tray,” mourning those quiet, communal moments once shared around the warmth of a teapot—a sigh for the disappeared laughter, the absent guests, the missing sense of simplicity, and the vanished certainties of life.

Tea’s journey was not immune to political polarisation. During the colonial era, it became entangled in a web of fierce economic rivalries. Britain tightened its grip on Morocco’s tea trade, while France, Germany, and Belgium jostled for control over sugar imports. Trade tensions simmered, culminating in an 1885 agreement that left echoes in Moroccan popular culture. One Amazigh folk song from the time laments: “You get headaches from missing your tea? Then drink oleander now—Germany has denied you your tea.” These were years of scarcity, where sugar and tea were sometimes absent from the market. Families adapted. Herbs replaced tea leaves and honey and dates sweetened the brew. My grandmother often recalled these lean days with a mix of sorrow and disbelief, especially when facing today’s overstocked shelves.

Religious voices also weighed in. Certain religious figures warned against the growing affection for this foreign infusion viewing it as a troublesome luxury that drained purses or tainted the soul with hints of ritual impurity. Some jurists even took a harder line, likening the steaming amber liquid to wine—both in the elegance of its presentation and the ornate vessels in which it was served. They feared it might cloud the spirit, lead the faithful astray, or even gnaw at the body’s well-being. Sheikh Kettani of Zaouia Kettania, for instance, branded tea a colonial seduction and called for its boycott, viewing it as a sugar-coated threat. But once tea took root in Moroccan soil, the Rubicon was crossed. It became more than a drink—it became a symbol and a ritual of belonging.

Today, Moroccan tea is the fragrant greeting that graces every threshold. It is poured at births, engagements, weddings, Eid celebrations, and even funerals. It marks the ritual beginning and graceful conclusion of every gathering, flowing like a river that nourishes connection. Pouring it from a height, to create a delicate crown of foam, is both an aesthetic flourish and a gesture of generosity. Served with fragrant sweets—almond biscuits, sesame chebakia, or Kaab Ghzal—it turns a simple moment into a celebration.

Its preparation is nothing short of sacred—a ritual passed down like a whispered prayer. Green tea leaves, a rolling boil of water, sprigs of fresh mint, and generous spoonfuls of sugar are the essential quartets of this cherished brew. Yet, like the changing winds, the herbs may shift with the seasons and the drinker’s taste: wormwood, pennyroyal, thyme, sage, or the calming notes of verbena might take mint’s place. Old sayings capture these choices with a poet’s flair: “If there’s no wormwood in the tea, give it to the dog,” or “Tea without mint isn’t worth drinking at all.” Such phrases aren’t just words—they’re cultural commandments. For many, this tea is more than a drink; it’s a lifeline, a daily anchor in a world that spins too fast. My mother, like countless Moroccans, cannot imagine a day without it. Miss a cup, and the headache that follows bites harder than thirst in the desert.

This love for tea has poured itself into proverbs and folk wisdom:

    1. Oh master, if you please, pour me a cup that is infused with mint meant to sooth with ease. (Amazigh song)

2.   A glass of mint tea is better than a rich man’s dinner.

3.   A full teapot of good tea is better than a barn full of grain.

4.   Good tea doesn’t need spring—it’s perfect on its own.

5.   Evening tea is better than roasted beef.

6.   Well-made tea is better than a whole roasted lamb.

Even in the age of electric teapots and fruit-flavored infusions, the soul of Moroccan tea remains untouched. While tools and tastes may evolve, the spirit of the ritual—hospitality, reflection, and shared warmth—holds firm. Yet beyond the shifting styles lies another layer of tradition, shaped not by fashion but by necessity. A refined sliver of society may still sip tea like aged poetry—savored leisurely after hearty meals or during intimate family gatherings—but they are but a drop in the teapot. For the broader public, “bread and tea” is no indulgence; it is a cornerstone—an everyday sustenance that anchors the day and keeps hunger at bay.

It’s also pertinent to mention that the Amazigh in Morocco have long believed in maximum sweetness when brewing tea—so much so that a common invitation might be phrased, "Will you join me for a cup of sugar?" rather than a cup of tea. This playful turn of phrase communicates volumes: the sweetness of the tea mirrored the warmth of the gathering, promising not just a drink, but a sweet and convivial moment shared. However, the mold has been broken. The tide is turning in modern Morocco, as people grow more health-conscious and increasingly aware that an excess of sugar sends blood glucose soaring, paving the way for diabetes and other ailments. As a result, many today—myself included—prefer to sip our tea as it is, plain without sugar, savoring its natural bitterness like a quiet truth once masked by sweetness.

Owing to its global significance, the United Nations has designated May 21st of each year as International Tea Day—an homage to the world’s most sipped beverage after water. More than just a brew, tea is a crucial source of income for millions of impoverished families across less developed nations and holds deep cultural significance in numerous societies, including Morocco. There, tea is more than leaves, water, and sugar—it is a mirror of the Moroccan spirit: resilient, rooted, and always ready to welcome a guest with a steaming glass and an open heart.

The Architecture of Character Noureddine Boutahar

With the exception of my father, who taught himself to read and write, my family was illiterate. Yet, they were architects of character, raising a garden of children rich in values, etiquette, and empathy. In our rural home, my

education began long before I ever took a seat in a classroom. My parents, grandparents, uncle, aunts, and even the wider community served as my first teachers. They did not teach with books or blackboards but through life itself, imparting lessons learned from their own experiences. I learned by observing their harmonious lives, listening to their wise words, and emulating their virtuous actions.

Respect for elders was one of the keystones of my family’s unwritten curriculum. Elders were more than just elderly; they were living archives, custodians of not only family and village history but also our traditions, myths, and legends. To honor them was both an obligation and a privilege. In our home, grandparents were the sun around which we all revolved, their voices sought for guidance in matters as weighty as marriages or property disputes and as light as the proper way to welcome a guest. We kissed their hands or foreheads after every separation and upon returning from school as a sign of affection and respect. We never wavered in our willingness to help them find misplaced garments and always offered assistance in performing difficult chores and carrying heavy burdens. Among our Amazigh families, any elder man was an “unky,” and any elder woman was an “aunty.” Even elder siblings held a place of honor within the family.  Brothers were addressed as "Baba," and sisters as "Lalla" or "Mamma"—titles conveying reverence and respect, reflecting the belief that even "a single day's difference in age brought wisdom".  This same respect extended to teachers, who were considered akin to parents.  The saying "The one who teaches me even a single word is like a father to me forever" illustrates this deep appreciation. Teachers were seen as guides, leading students through the vast and wonderful world of knowledge, and were therefore held in the highest esteem. Ultimately, respect for the elderly—rooted in earned trust rather than blind submission—served as the mortar binding the bricks of society, enabling us to bridge the generational divide and foster stronger intergenerational connections.

Good manners were another keystone of the silent curriculum my family passed down. In our home, good manners were more than rules; they were an art form, a type of choreography for graceful coexistence. From an early age, I learned the subtle melody of courtesy: never to talk back, never to stare intently, to sit up straight out of respect and humility, and to speak only after careful thought, for words are arrows that cannot be taken back once released. Equally important, we were taught never to be bystanders, to act when witnessing wrongdoing, and to take responsibility where others might look away. Even at the table, we practiced restraint: eating sparingly in the presence of guests, feigning fullness out of pride and generosity—a lesson embodied in the saying, “Hunger in my stomach, pride in my heart.” When sharing food, the largest portion always went to the other person, a quiet testament to the deep-rooted altruism of our rural life. Gratitude, too, was a virtue rehearsed daily, as natural as breathing. A simple “thank you,” wrapped in a warm gaze and smile, my parents said, wove a shared joy between the giver and receiver. These good manners were instilled in us through words, example, and the ceaseless rhythm of sayings and idioms, repeated so often they became woven into the fabric of our being, second nature and instinctive mantras.

Hospitality was the shining gem of our family values, a flame that burned warmly in our home for strangers and friends alike. We seldom ate a meal without a guest at our table. Our door was always open, and visitors came from near and far, drawn not just by necessity but by the knowledge that they would be received as kin. Even beggars, peddlers, and passersby found food and shelter under our roof. My grandfather, ever mindful of this deep-seated tradition, would invite a neighbor for no other reason than to ensure the guest spot was never left vacant. Hospitality, as practiced in our family, was not mere obligation; it was a celebration of humanity itself. It reminds me of Louis de Jaucourt’s words in his Encyclopédie, where he characterized hospitality as “the virtue of a great soul that cares for the whole universe through the ties of humanity.”

Honesty, too, was a virtue etched deep into our souls in the bloom of childhood, remaining as unwavering as a mountain. My father’s creed, “I’d rather lose my head than my integrity,” was a beacon we were taught to follow. Integrity was not merely expected; it was demanded, reinforced through countless examples. I recall a stray calf that joined our herd and stayed so long it became sacred—a no-man’s animal, untouchable as though blessed by fate itself. My family exhausted every avenue to track down its rightful owner, even hiring a public crier at the souk to announce its presence in our cattle. When no legitimate claimant appeared, the calf lived out its days with us, untouched—a silent testament to our family’s unbending commitment to honesty.

Another important principle instilled in our family was the value of work. In our home, work was more than a duty; it was a reflection of our core values—excellence, integrity, and diligence. From the moment we could walk, we were given small tasks, and as we grew, our responsibilities expanded. This was because our parents recognized work as a source of purpose, self-respect, and growth—providing direction, fostering learning, and enabling meaningful contributions to society. As far back as I can remember, our hands were engaged in simple but essential tasks: sewing our own clothes, mending buttons, washing light garments, and tending to the cows, sheep, and goats. These humble beginnings prepared us for the more exhausting labor that awaited us in the fields, where we toiled from sunrise to sunset. The reward for our efforts was modest—a token payment, not for its monetary value but as quiet encouragement, teaching us the dignity of effort and the pride of self-reliance. My family insisted, like Martin Luther King Jr., that any job worth doing should be done so well that “the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.” This ethos of excellence became my compass, guiding me through life, even when others mocked my perfectionism as “too much” or “obsessive.” Yet, it also earned me the respect of those who understood the importance of striving for greatness.

Nowadays, these virtues—once our compass and anchor—often feel like burdens in a world where honesty is a bygone ideal and flattery the currency of the realm. The principles our traditional families instilled in us now clash with a society that values expediency over integrity. Those of us who cling to these old virtues are viewed as obstacles, relics of a bygone era. Yet, even as I struggle against the current, these values remain the marrow of my being—an inheritance more precious than rubies. They are the roots that ground me, even as the winds of change swirl around us.

 

Echoes of Neighborly Bonds Noureddine Boutahar

An Amazigh proverb wisely states, "Yuf

uzgar gar ajjar"—better a jujube hedge than a bad neighbor. Yet, my childhood neighbors were neither thorny shrubs nor bad apples. They were beacons of kindness, nurturing harmonious and peaceful lives. We didn't choose them; tradition and custom fostered respect, friendship, and mutual support. Our nearest neighbors lived two miles away, yet the rhythms of rural life and the demands of animal husbandry intertwined our lives. This created a rich tapestry of daily interaction. We shared a unique bond with our immediate neighbors, distinct from our good relations with the rest of the tribe: we had all emigrated to Tizitine, a land not our own.

To the north, like a lone willow tree on the horizon, stood the home of the Meknassi family—named for their patriarch, a man who carried the city of Meknes in his very name. Brought to the region by a European colonist to manage the farm where he lived, Meknassi was a reserved figure, his caution an invisible shield around his home. Few crossed his threshold, yet our family was a welcome exception. His wife and children would occasionally visit, bringing small gifts of henna, headscarves, traditional cakes, and other Moroccan treats. We reciprocated with flavorful meals from the Moroccan smorgasbord—traditional dishes like rfissa, marchouch, couscous, and, of course, the ever-present mint tea. We freely shared what we could with the Meknassi family and borrowed farming tools, kitchen utensils, and, at times, foodstuff without hesitation or fear of refusal. On Eid days, the Meknassi family joined us to break bread, sharing pastries as if we were not simply neighbors but petals of the same flower. Together, our families always weathered the storms of sorrow and reveled in the sunlight of joy, offering unwavering support to one another. Perhaps Meknassi’s reserve stemmed from his unfamiliarity with this new land, a fear of the unknown. Or perhaps it was our family’s reputation for hospitality and peacemaking that drew him to us, like a weary traveler finding solace in a shaded grove. When Ssi Abid Boubia bought the estate and the Meknassis had to leave, it was a heart-wrenching day; saying goodbye was a very tearful occasion for my family.

To the south lived the Said Boubia family, later bound to ours by marriage. Said Boubia, the family patriarch, had been brought to the area from Doukkala, near El Jadida, by his father, a traveling peddler. Embracing their new surroundings, they made this place their home and learnt Tamazight. Said who grew up here and married an Amazigh woman, spoke it so fluently that the little Arabic he knew was unmistakably tinged with the tones of Tamazight. He became my grandfather’s closest friend—a man with the heart of a troubadour and the soul of a nomad. Carefree and resilient, he approached life as a song to be sung, not a treasure to be hoarded. Though he was middle-class by countryside standards, he always referred to money as “lushekh n dunith”—earthly dross. Said and my grandfather met almost daily in the grazing pastures, their camaraderie as natural as the sunrise over the Tizitine hills. Together, they tended their livestock, frequented the souk, and attended celebrations, as inseparable as a well-worn pair of boots. Said’s unannounced visits were legendary—a blend of spontaneity and humor that gave him the charm of a modern-day minstrel. Their friendship was a deep, flowing river, nourishing both families with laughter and unwavering trust. When Said’s wife, Hadda, passed away, my grandmother stepped in as a surrogate mother to his children, who called her “Tchia” with the same affection as my father and uncle. We generously shared what we had with the Ait Said, as we called them, and borrowed farming tools and kitchen utensils from each other with confidence, knowing they would never be refused. This, coupled with Said’s son later marrying my elder sister, deepened the bond between our families, transforming simple neighborliness into something akin to kinship—a connection forged in shared joys and sorrows, shared pastures and celebrations, and a profound understanding of life’s rhythms.

To the west lay the grand estate of the Benaissa Boubia family, their wealth stretching as far as the Tizitine horizons. They were the region's prominent landowners, possessing vast herds and sprawling fields; their affluence radiated like the glow of a distant sun—warm yet seemingly unattainable. Benaissa Boubia’s father, a humble traveling peddler from Doukkala, had been the first of the Boubia family to settle there, later joined by other kin. Benaissa grew up in Tizitine, learnt Tamazight, married Amazigh women, and adopted it as his everyday language, eventually losing fluency in his mother tongue and its tonal qualities. Benaissa, also adept at buying and selling, honed his skills to become among the most influential and prosperous figures, perhaps even the most influential. Yet, despite their considerable wealth, they treated us with a disarming humility that bridged any social divide. Benaissa himself, a man of stature and influence, often sought the company, and especially the counsel, of my father and grandfather, valuing their honesty and wisdom as a guiding compass in his affairs. His life experiences and paternal upbringing instilled in him a discerning approach to companionship, as evidenced by his wisely chosen friends and carefully selected words when speaking. His four wives, who divided their lives  between the city and the countryside, found solace and guidance in the gentle wisdom of my grandmother, who had midwived most of their children. As a child, I cherished accompanying my grandmother to their estate, knowing I would be treated to the finest confections from Meknes. Our annual formal gathering to host them saw our table overflow with dishes fit for royalty: mechoui, couscous, and free-range chicken—offerings symbolizing respect, reciprocity, and the generous hospitality befitting their prestige. When they came, with a family as large as theirs, their journey became a spectacle: some scoot and squish to make room for each other in the blue Renault 16, its elegant sway through curves reminiscent of a ballet dancer’s poise, while the rest rode in the cab and truck bed of their Ford lorry, its relentless charge over rugged terrain evoking the raw power of a bull. We plowed Baba Issat’s (as we sometimes called him) land, grazed our livestock in his fields, and occasionally worked for him, yet there was never even the slightest hint of discord.

Finally, to the east, like modest wildflowers gracing the edge of a meadow, stood the humble home of Boujemaa Agra, and his two brothers. Like our own family, they had been displaced from their ancestral lands, forced to toil for colonial settlers and affluent families. Their possessions were few—a small plot of marginal land, a handful of goats dotting the dry landscape, and a pair of sturdy donkeys—yet their hearts overflowed with kindness and generosity. Uncle Boujemaa, the head of the family, brought moments of pure joy with his visits, awaited with the same eager anticipation as the first drops of spring rain on parched earth. A natural with children, he invariably carried a small stash of sweets, delighting any child he encountered on his way to work, the souk, or while running errands. His wife and children occasionally visited when she missed our company and chats, their visits filled with shared meals, laughter, and the comforting aromas of traditional dishes such as rfissa, marchouch, and other traditional 'women' dishes. I still picture Aunt Hmama arriving astride a massive donkey, the youngest child in front and the older one behind—a living embodiment of the Amazigh saying "There's always room for one more," sometimes accompanied by her sister-in-law, Aunt Rukia, on foot. Each Monday, upon returning from the souk, Uncle Boujemaa transformed into a veritable Pied Piper, scattering trail mix and sweets along the dusty road to his home. This weekly ritual endeared him not only to the neighborhood children but to those of the entire tribe. In gratitude, we would kiss his hand, a small but sincere token of our appreciation for the warmth he brought into our lives. Having Uncle Boujemaa as a neighbor was a constant comfort, like resting against a soft cotton pillow—a reliable presence always there to ease life's burdens. His black Wellington boots, worn almost year-round, spoke of his practical nature and readiness to assist; my family knew they could always count on him when they needed help.

As the Chinese proverb wisely states, “A good neighbor is a found treasure,” this rings especially true in today’s fast-paced urban jungles. The once-vibrant tapestry of neighborly relationships has unraveled, its threads frayed by the relentless pace of modern life. Busy schedules, anonymity, and barriers of detachment have replaced the warmth of shared meals and the comfort of familiar faces. In earlier times, a knock at the door or the arrival of a visitor brought joy that enlivened the entire household. It signified more than mere company—it carried the promise of shared moments, a lovingly prepared dish, and the warmth of genuine connection. Today, however, such visits often provoke feelings of displeasure, irritation, or even frustration. Why have these bonds of neighborly goodwill and connection faded into distant memories, seemingly beyond revival? Perhaps it is because the soil of modern cities, unlike the rich, welcoming earth of the countryside, struggles to cultivate the roots of authentic human connection. Or perhaps it is because modern society has yet to grasp a timeless truth: that life's inherent difficulties and perils are best navigated not in isolation, but in community.

My Circumcision Noureddine Boutahar

Circumcision, the ancient ritual of removing the foreskin, is common to Judaism, Islam, and some Christian groups. Often performed on infants, it’s a symbol of faith, purity, and sometimes health. In Morocco, circumcision is referred to as t’hara, meaning purification, and is celebrated by families with parties that range from simple to grand, depending on means and custom.

In my case, as part of a large family of siblings and cousins, the circumcision was a group event, shared with my younger brother Abdelmajid and our cousin Hamid, who was the youngest. I was the eldest, almost six, and many details remain etched in my memory as if it all happened yesterday. I never understood why my family had waited so long to circumcize me, though there is no fixed age for it in Islam.

Our celebration took place on a summer day in the sixties. My family pitched a series of popular Amazigh black tents for the guests: separate ones for men, women, and young men. In each, the best carpets were spread, tables set, and tea essentials readied a couple of days in advance. Tea, at these gatherings, was more than a drink; it was the lifeblood of Amazigh hospitality, served continuously throughout the day. It was more than just beverage; it was the essence that wove gatherings together, nurturing camaraderie and breathing life into conversations at these assemblies.

The night before, our hands and feet were covered in henna—a ritual preparation for the day ahead. My grandmother had dried and ground the plant from Zagora into a fine powder days before. Close relatives, mostly women, sang and danced to the bendir’s beat as they applied the paste, continuing late into the night. The young girls wore delicate henna patterns as well, which I later learned symbolized blessings for future marriages.

The following day, family and neighbors, young and old, arrived in their finest traditional attire. The women wore ornate kaftans and elegant takchitas—two-layered kaftans with one simple layer beneath a more decorative outer layer—paired with impressive, mostly silver jewelry. The men donned light jellabas suited to the summer heat or mismatched suits. They all arrived on foot, on horses, mules, or donkeys, each decorated with handwoven hanbel rugs. Some rugs were striped, while others featured intricate patterns and sequins that shimmered in the sunlight like gem pendents. 

That red-letter day was a swirl of songs, dances, and the booming sounds of fantasia horsemanship. Inside the two largest adjoining tents, the men chatted, teased, and commented on the fantasia, an awe-inspiring display of skilled horsemanship traditionally performed for family milestones like circumcisions, weddings, and other festive occasions. Meanwhile, the women sang and danced tirelessly to the rhythms of bendirs and the strains of a violin skillfully played by a young boy who had crafted it himself from a tin jerrycan that once held pesticides.

I enjoyed the atmosphere but sensed something unusual in the air. First, we three were hennayed and dressed up in a way that felt extravagant, like bridegooms. Second, I overheard snippets of conversation hinting that we were the reason for all this attention. Finally, when ahjjam, the barber and a circumcision expert, arrived, my suspicions were almost confirmed. This barber, a family friend from Jirry near Meknes, was a polymath—part barber, part healer, skilled in hijama (cupping), circumcision, and cautery. He traveled on a prized palomino mule, saddled like a horse, with a white mane that made it stand out. His presence cemented my growing anxiety, keeping me on high alert.

When lunch began, the fantasia and dancing paused, and guests settled for the feast: roasted lamb méchoui -- the timeless centerpiece of such rural celebrations-- followed by lamb tajine, and finally couscous with free-range chicken. For dessert, trays of watermelon and black and yellow grapes were served, all quickly devoured. Afterward, the true purpose of the gathering became clear. As talk turned to "the kids" and our names were mentioned here and there, someone called my name. I darted from the tent and ran as fast as I could, but my uncle, swift as an eagle, soon caught me by the scruff of my neck, hoisted me into the air, my legs flailing as I struggled to escape.

Despite my resistance, ahjjam had his ways. In mere moments, it was over, and I was in my grandmother’s arms, sobbing my heart out.  My two companions followed suit, their cries mingling with mine as a circle of women surrounded us, their ululations and songs filling the air to muffle our sobs. Their songs included verses like biast aya hajjam (“Cut it, barber!”) and asi afous nek zik (“Lift your hands and leave!”).

After the ordeal, the gift-giving began. Families placed their offerings on tisguit—woven palm trays carried atop the heads of dancing women—and aghanim (reed) notched along their length, and decorated with hanging paper money, and capped with mint bouquets. In addition to circumcision songs, chants of praise filled the air, celebrating our family ties and the importance of gift-giving, with verses in Amazigh and occasionally heavily accented Arabic.

For several days, I was pampered indoors, my every whim indulged by my grandmother. Yet, I was kept clad only in a loose daraia tunic, forbidden from wearing undergarments. Despite this cosseting, I craved the fresh air and freedom outdoors. Within two weeks, I was back to my usual leisure pursuits—running, climbing trees, and riding animals. However, the experience left a lasting impression. Decades later, when my son underwent circumcision, I found myself crying downstairs, a surge of sympathy for my parents washing over me.

May our parents rest in peace. We seldom grasp the depth of their quiet endurance until we find ourselves walking their path with our own children, feeling the weight of their sacrifices and love in ways we never could before. Children, it seems, are born to decipher what our parents left unsaid.

 

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.

High School Years Noureddine Boutahar

After completing junior school at Mohamed Ben Abdellah in the vibrant heart of Meknes, I transitioned to Abderrahman Ben Zidan High School, my heart aflame with ambition and a yearning to explore untapped potential. The new school, nestled in Sidi Baba neighborhood and slightly removed from the urban center, marked a chapter in my education that fortified my confidence, sharpened my resilience, deepened my understanding of life, and sparked a bourgeoning interest in global politics.

Abderrahman Ben Zidan High School was a fresh canvas—everything gleamed with newness, from the pristine facilities to the fresh faces of teachers and schoolmates. The sports yard, much like those at most high schools of the era, was outfitted with nearly all the essentials for gymnastics, ball games, and athletic pursuits. There was a schoolboard for boarders, and it was the first time I had seen one, though I was not a boarder myself. It was newly furnished and impeccably clean. Around midday, the aroma of food wafted out, intensifying our hunger and making us envy the boarders. The students, a blend of late teens and early twenty-somethings, brought a unique dynamic. Morocco, at that time, embraced a relaxed approach to age; some pursued their baccalaureate (12th grade) well into their mid-twenties. Although I was of the conventional age for my grade, my height lent me an unwarranted air of maturity, shielding me the brunt of older students' relentless teasing.

The teachers at my new school were a complete revelation, kinder and less authoritarian than those stern educators of my junior school days. I began to form bonds with them, particularly my English teachers. Miss Mahjouba, my tenth grade teacher, stood out—a paragon of modern pedagogy and the epitome of an authoritative educator, embodying the balance of firmness and fairness. Her sweetness and kindness made her more than just an educator; she became a cherished mentor in my high school odyssey.

My high school, situated nearly six miles from home, demanded a daily commute. To save my limited funds for the occasional indulgence in cinema and newspapers, I often chose to walk. On days when time was scarce, fatigue overwhelming, or the sky's tears drenched the earth, I would reluctantly board the bus.

In my earlier days, I sometimes joined my schoolmates in the rebellious act of fare dodging. This fleeting defiance, however, soon gave way to a guilty conscience, and I abandoned the practice. My fare-evading peers, ever the jesters, would wave and laugh as their bus whisked them away, leaving me to return their playful gestures with a wave of my own, never once regretting my choice to walk the honest path.

Our school was, regrettably, not graced with many girls. In our class, there was but one: Fatima. An Amazigh originally from Souss in the south of Morocco, she was a figure of universal respect, honesty, and camaraderie. To us, she was a sister in every sense. Fatima was somewhat short and slightly plump, with a round face accentuated by a high, pointed nose and drooping lips. Fatima's light brown hair, often parted on one side and swept to the opposite, lent her a sleek and classic elegance. Occasionally, she would gather her hair into a ponytail, a style I particularly admired on her; a simple yet striking style that accentuated her features. Her character, however, shone brightly—intelligent, deeply kind, and remarkably sober. Fatima, like most girls of that era, donned skirts and mini-skirts, a fashion statement of the time. Yet, there were times when she chose to wear bell-bottom dress pants, a style that gained popularity in the 1970s, distinguished by their wide, flared bottoms. The gradual adoption of scarves and headdresses among women did not begin until the 1980s, during my university years, although such fashion choices remained uncommon then. Years later, long after I had left Meknes, I heard from classmates that Fatima had married. Tragically, she succumbed to an illness that eluded treatment. May she rest in peace, forever remembered with fondness.

Among the events I experienced for the first time in high school was Le Père Cent, a cherished tradition in certain Moroccan schools, echoing those in France—a reflection of the enduring influence of the French colonial education system. This celebration unfolds precisely one hundred days before the baccalaureate exam. On this day, senior students typically don elegant attire—suits, dresses, or various costumes—celebrating the milestone that marks the countdown to their final exams.

Le Père Cent traditionally signifies the commencement of rigorous revision for the culmination of secondary education. It is also an occasion for the principal to extend heartfelt wishes of success to the students. Though customs associated with this event vary from school to school, a common thread is the customary photo session. These photos capture the essence of this significant day in the students' final high school year, preserving it forever in their memories.

Another event that marked my passage through that school was the April 1979 teacher strikes, reminiscent of those I had witnessed in junior school earlier. However, this time, I was older and more mature, and I felt the gravity of the situation more keenly, especially with the arrest of some of my teachers. My departure from the city of Meknes that same year left me with a gnawing uncertainty about their ultimate fate.

Despite my young age, the nation's political climate was a constant undercurrent in my consciousness. Financial constraints limited my newspaper consumption, but I managed to occasionally purchase Al Muharrir, the official mouthpiece of the UNFP (Union Nationale des Forces Populaires). The paper's readership among my Moroccan teachers piqued my interest. However, it was the assassination of Omar Ben Jelloun, the editor of Al Muharrir and a prominent figure within the party, by alleged members of Chabiba Islamia that ignited a fervent desire to better understand the political landscape. I became a regular, albeit silent, observer at a newsstand in the Medina, where a kind-hearted proprietor allowed me to peruse the paper without purchase. His selfless act, a simple gesture of human kindness, left a perpetual mark. As Augustus De Morgan wisely observed, “There are special people in our lives who never leave us… even after they are gone.”

The tumultuous decade of the 1970s, particularly its latter half, fostered in me a profound understanding of world politics. These years, marked by a cascade of pivotal events, kindled my passion for reading as a means to grasp the complexities of the global stage.  The teachers' strikes, the Green March of 1975, Richard Nixon's resignation in the wake of the Watergate scandal in 1974, the end of the Vietnam War, Thatcher's ascent to power, the Iranian Revolution, the Shah's exile in Morocco, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan were just a few of the seismic shifts that shaped the era. While black-and-white mainstream television offered a glimpse into these events, newspapers, magazines, and books provided the depth and context necessary to fully grasp their implications. Immersed in this whirlwind of change, I cultivated a lifelong passion for reading and the relentless pursuit of knowledge to satiate my unyielding, thirsting curiosity.

Though I endeavored to focus on my studies, driven by a genuine love for learning, I grappled with the instability of housing which disrupted my academic pursuits. Initially, I found refuge with Oumi Fatna, a family acquaintance, but as the old lady grew frail and unable to manage the demands of hosting a schoolboy, she urged my family to find another arrangement. I then moved in with an aunt who had recently migrated with her husband to the city, seeking work to sustain themselves. The childless couple’s urban experience proved challenging, and they soon returned to their rural life.

The following year, my sister and her young family joined us in the city, as her husband sought employment as a driver. While I cherished their company, I sensed my presence was a burden to my sister, and I wished for her to feel unencumbered by my responsibilities. That same year, my brother secured a position as a gendarme in Rabat. In desperate plea for stability, I penned a long letter to him, detailing my predicament and inquiring whether I could move to the capital to continue my studies. His reply was swift and positive, marking the beginning of my new chapter in the capital.

My high school years in the late 1970s were a crucible that forged my personality and identity, a transformative period bridging the gap between childhood and young adulthood. I faced myriad challenges that instilled within me a nascent wisdom, a deeper understanding of the world, and a sense of emerging interests and passions. As Clifton Fadiman eloquently put it, “By the end of high school, I was not, of course, an educated man, but I knew how to try to become one.”