Peculiar Beggars Noureddine Boutahar

In my childhood, our country home was frequently visited by people of every stripe, but some were so memorable they etched themselves into my memory like indelible tattoos. Of all these visitors, four figures remain vivid in the gallery of my memory, each defined by unique traits, by the light they shed and the shadows they left behind. They were vagrants in a peculiar twilight—neither beggars nor kin, neither saints nor sinners—hovering in the ambiguous space between need and familiarity, often veiled in an air of sanctity.

The first was Moulay Thami, a Fkih—a traditional Islamic scholar revered for his memorization of the Quran and his role as a teacher. This particular Fkih, with his singular demeanor, stood apart for the musicality of his recitations, which bore a striking resemblance to the crooning of popular singers. A self-proclaimed Sharif, claiming descent from the Prophet Mohammed, he hailed from the tribe of Ait Yadin, north of Khemisset. These twin credentials—his scholarship and lineage—he wore like a shield of invincibility, granting him entry to every home and the audacity to negotiate the alms he believed were his due. He loaded butter, wool, grains, and olive oil onto the large and robust panniers of his mule. This brown beast, large and strong, docile and obedient, reminiscent of George Washington’s Ruth mule, bore his loot to the souk, where charity transformed into coin. Regardless of the weather, he invariably wore two djellabas, the lighter beneath the heavier. A loosely wound turban perpetually crowned his head, and with each step, his yellow babouches revealed cracked heels that grazed the ground. During his stays, which lasted a day or two, Moulay Thami punctuated our meals with Quranic recitations and prayers. Yet, with us children, his piety dissolved into a kind of Miss Trunchbull’s misopedia and tyranny. His voice, sharp as a coachman’s whip, demanded silence when we shouted, cried, or sang, and his threats—cutting off ears and other outlandish punishments—hung over us like a sword of Damocles.

The second was a kif (cannabis) smoker, a man marked by frailty and serene detachment. He drifted into our lives like a puff of smoke from his sebssi (a narrow, clay-bowled pipe), which seemed like an extension of his being. Originating in Meknes and claiming Sharif lineage, his visits were brief, no more than a single day and night, yet they lingered in the air like his cannabis scent. The last image I retain of him is of a man with a scrawny physique and a protuberant Adam's apple, wearing a military jacket worn over a dingy shirt, its collar frayed and uneven. His pants, bleached of color by wear, and his military lace-up boots, scuffed at the toes, had also begun to lose their color. He was a man of few bites but fervent smoke, like a mystic at prayer. We, the children, watched him with the fascination reserved for the strange and forbidden, peering from behind covers as he carved his kif with precision, filling his pipe as though performing a sacred rite. Quiet and untroubled, he rarely spoke, offering only monosyllabic answers to my father’s questions about his family. To us children, he was a curious enigma, embodying the indifference of a sunbathing cat, utterly oblivious to the world around him. Sharif Boul’issi—or "the cannabis addict Sharif," as we called him—preferred cash only, likely because he made his rounds on foot, carrying his addiction tools in his worn bag. Yet even as a child, I struggled to reconcile the idea of a pothead with the baraka—the divine blessing—we were told he carried.

The third visitor was a real freeloader of disconcerting cunning—a man who came not out of necessity, but out of ingrained habit, like a migratory bird returning to its field of plenty. Twice a year, he appeared: once in spring for butter and wool, and again in summer for grains. Each visit, he commandeered one of our mules to haul his "spoils" from neighboring families, leaving us shorthanded during busy seasons. We not only provided the mount but also served as the storehouse for his "loot." In time, he would ask my father or uncle to sell these goods at the souk so he could return home with cash in hand. This man, pale and overweight, hailed from Ouazzane, where he worked as a tailor and imam, leading prayers at one of the town's mosques. His hands and feet—soft, hairy, and as pale as unworked dough—betrayed a life untouched by the grueling labor that had left ours weathered and calloused. In contrast to the babouches favored by most men of his generation, he invariably wore highly polished shoes and pristine white Ouazzani djellabas. He stayed for a dozen scattered days, his presence an unwelcome burden we endured with clenched teeth and bowed heads. Refusing him was unthinkable; to deny a holy man, even one so dubious, was to risk invoking dreadful curses—or so we believed. Our hospitality, though reluctant, was deeply rooted in tradition and fear, a reflection of the unyielding power such superstitions held over our lives.

And then there was A’mi Assem, the one visitor who brought light rather than darkness. A short, podgy old man with a face wrinkled and weathered like ancient wood, he traveled from an unknown tribe each summer, arriving astride a modest brown donkey. Due to the oppressive summer heat, the man often chose a lightweight, loose-fitting darraiya tunic. Though clean, the fabric showed the wear of many seasons. Beneath it, a modest, well-maintained but clearly not new shirt occasionally peeked through. The darraiya's short hem revealed the tapered ends of his Kandrissi pants, which covered only part of his slender, hairless calves, lending him a quiet fragility. His worn, colorless babouches bore the imprint of his overlapping big and index toes. If the other visitors were storms, he was a soft breeze, moving with a quietude that belied his years. A’mi Assem could sit cross-legged like a Buddha statue for hours, his stillness so profound it became a parable for restless children like us. He carried in his pocket a small handful of decorticated fava beans, a humble remedy for his heartburn, which he chewed slowly, methodically, as though savoring the rhythm of life itself. Unlike the other beggars, he accepted our family’s offerings with grace—a smile, a murmured “Allah yakhlef” (may God repay your kindness), and a prayer of gratitude that seemed to fill the house with a rare warmth. As kids, he was our favorite, a storyteller who spun tales as rich as the delicate threads of tapestry. His jokes, though simple, made us laugh heartily, and if they didn’t, his tickling hands ensured we would. A’mi Assem was a man who gave as much as he took, leaving behind a trail of joy and cherished memories.

Each of these visitors came with the assurance they would not leave empty-handed or empty-bellied. Some were truly needy, deserving the charity they received; others were opportunists cloaked in the guise of sanctity. Regardless, my family’s generosity never faltered. They lived by the Amazigh proverb “ig lkhir th’toot”, equivalent to the English “do good and forget it.” They cast their bread upon the waters with no thought of its return, believing instead in the quiet power of kindness. For them, charity was not a transaction but a seed of faith planted and watered with the hope that even the most hardened hearts might someday blossom. 

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.

My Horseback Adventure. Noureddine Boutahar

I spent my childhood in the enchanting countryside, surrounded by donkeys, mules, and horses. My proficiency in riding was such that I earned the privilege of training these magnificent animals. However, not every tale from those days unfolded smoothly, as the following incident illustrates.

Growing up in a bustling household with my parents, grandparents, and skilled horseman uncle, equestrian performances, known as Tbourida, were a regular feature during celebrations like weddings, festivals, and competitions. Our stable housed a variety of splendid horse breeds, born from our mares and expertly trained at home, primarily by my uncle, who had a profound love for these majestic creatures.

One day, we welcomed a striking black Barb pony into our midst. My uncle, seizing the opportunity, showcased the pony's debut at a fantasia performance during a neighbor's wedding, marking the beginning of its training journey. After a day of spirited galloping, my uncle entrusted me with the task of riding the tired and calm pony back home. I succeeded, proud of handling an untrained pony, and expressed my eagerness to gentle it the next day.

The night preceding the anticipated event was sleepless, fueled by thoughts of proving my maturity to everyone. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, my uncle saddled the horse, attached the spurs, and hoisted me onto its back. These horses, known for their fiery nature and sensitivity under the saddle, responded to the slightest cues.

Upon mounting, I felt the pony's shudders but hesitated to convey my unease. A few steps later, I unintentionally jabbed the excited animal with my spurs, triggering a rapid gallop that almost threw me off. My uncle's calls to pull the bridle were futile, and I found myself in a fast, uncontrollable ride.

Fearing the worst – a potential fall into a well or abyss, or a collision with the looming fig trees – panic set in. I attempted to redirect the horse up the mountain but it refused to heed my pulling. Left with no other choice, I made a split-second decision. I leaned to the left, removed my feet from the stirrups, and leaped to the ground.

Upon regaining consciousness, pain coursed through my entire body. Bruised, swollen, and cut, I spent the next fortnight under my grandmother's care. Her expertise in healing involved massages, warm washcloths, and various herbal concoctions.

Despite the setback, I wholeheartedly agree with Rolf Kopfle's sentiment: “There are many wonderful places in the world, but one of my favorite places is on the back of my horse.' This rings true, for as the legendary American cowboy and actor Roy Rogers wisely said, 'If you tumble off a horse, the only way forward is to rise again. I'm no quitter.' Life's mishaps are but fleeting moments. So we need to embrace the lessons they bring, rise resiliently, and ride forward with a renewed determination to savor the journey ahead.