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.

 

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.

 

Breaking the Chains of Hypocrisy Noureddine Boutahar

As if Lady Colin Campbell were speaking on my behalf when she said, 'I'm not two-faced; I'm honest, and I tell it the way it is. I'm not good at hypocrisy, pretending to be someone I'm not.' Back in my younger days, my dear old grandma, may her soul rest in peace, used to tell me that I had seriously "thick lips." Of course, she wasn't referring to my pout! What she meant was that I was as straightforward and blunt as they come. Grandma's sage advice was, "Be more like camels, darling. They've got soft tongues, perfect for munching on those prickly weeds without a fuss!”

 Fast forward to my adult years, and boy, did I face a conundrum dealing with the sheep mentality posse—the folks who march to the beat of situations and circumstances, spinning a web of lies and hypocrisy as they go. I found it tough because my honesty and no-nonsense attitude were rare like a diamond in a field of pebbles. People expected me to dish out lies as if I were a counterfeit artist forging illusions on the canvas of conversation, just to go with the social flow.

 Oh, the struggle was real! I suffered because I refused to partake in what I call social hypocrisy. They wanted me to flash a grin at people I couldn't stand, all in the name of social decorum, as if my feelings were supposed to take a backseat to theirs. I was expected to bend the truth, sprinkle fairy dust over unpleasant realities, and perform the delicate dance of social hypocrisy. However, I couldn't bring myself to play the game.

 Then, as I ventured further into the wider world, I stumbled upon the stark reality that hypocrisy is the cherished policy du jour. I crossed paths with folks who championed family values but were caught red-handed cheating on their spouses. I met religious leaders who preached about honesty but were later exposed for spinning tall tales. I encountered people who wore a friendly facade when things were smooth, but showed their true colors in times of adversity. And don't get me started on those who claimed to be against discrimination but then spewed out racist and sexist remarks like confetti.

 I was told that we're all hypocrites at times, that our actions needn’t always line up with our beliefs. I was told about the existence of "white lies," and it left me feeling a bit bewildered. It struck me as curious that people would assign colors to lies in an attempt to rationalize them. Translation? Be an angel in the daylight and a mischief-maker when no one's watching. Spread kindness and compassion during the day, and let loose your satanic side when night falls. What kind of society are we brewing here?

 Allow me to shed a bit more light on the matter: there's a clear distinction between the art of courtesy and the murky waters of hypocrisy. While courtesy is all about embodying politeness, respect, and good manners, hypocrisy takes a detour into the realm of deceit, lies, and dishonesty. Picture it like this: courtesy is the VIP section of genuine behavior, while hypocrisy is the uninvited guest crashing the party with a bag full of duplicity. Simply put, doing the right thing without the right intentions is a one-way ticket to the land of the hypocrites.

 A moment of silence for Mr. Ourrach, my primary school teacher, may he rest in peace. He left an indelible mark on my mind with his lesson from the famous and cherished Iqraa textbook: "Wherever you go, be mindful of your actions, for the eyes of God are always upon you." Oh, my, what a textbook! It brimmed with captivating tales of morals and values, weaving a mosaic of wisdom that resonated with the very essence of life. It wasn't just a book; it was a treasury of timeless lessons that sparked the imagination and guided the soul.