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.

The Whistle Cricket: A Forgotten Marvel of Morocco’s Natural Heritage Noureddine Boutahar

During my frequent journeys to Boukashmir—my ancestral village tucked near the famed bottling town of Oulmes in the heart of the Middle Atlas Mountains—I’m often met with an unexpected yet familiar sight that pulls me straight into the embrace of childhood memory. As I near the edge of the forest, I instinctively slow down, anticipating the appearance of a large, spiny insect calmly making its way across the road—unhurried, yet with quiet intent. I never miss the chance to snap a few photos, once again captivated by its strange elegance and enduring presence.

This “curious insect,” to borrow a phrase from Carl Linnaeus, is Eugaster spinulosa—a species endemic to North Africa’s arid and semi-arid zones, especially Morocco, and to a lesser extent, Algeria and Tunisia. Despite its formidable size and striking appearance, it remains a largely obscure figure in both public imagination and scientific literature. Few researchers have studied it; most references are footnotes in dusty monographs. Yet this bush-cricket, colloquially known in English as the "whistle cricket," is a remarkable creature with a story worth telling.

Belonging to the Tettigoniidae family, Eugaster spinulosa is flightless and cannot jump. Instead, it navigates the world on sturdy legs, relying on a suite of defenses rather than speed. Its spiny, horned thorax and smooth, barrel-like abdomen give it an intimidating appearance, though it is entirely harmless to humans. Its coloration ranges widely—some specimens are jet-black with crimson-tipped spines, while others wear a checkered tapestry of earthy browns and beiges. Only the males possess small, hidden elytra for sound production. When threatened, the insect doesn’t bite or flee—it reflexively “bleeds” from its joints, a vivid crimson fluid that startles predators and evokes awe in onlookers.

What makes the whistle cricket even more captivating is its place in Amazigh folk culture. In some regions, we Amazigh call it bougrir; in others, wagnim—names whose linguistic roots are now lost to time. One of the few well-documented uses of this insect is practical and poetic: herdsmen would dry its body, remove its legs, and turn it into a whistle—hence the name "whistle cricket." Scientists have also noted an oddity in its reproductive life: after mating, the male becomes infertile for ten days—a peculiar quirk that only deepens its mystery. Local beliefs, passed down through generations, claim that the reflexive bleeding has medicinal value, treating certain skin conditions.

Despite its ecological and cultural significance, this ground-dwelling, herbivorous insect lacks a widely recognized common name in either English or French. It is usually referred to by its Latin name, though in Arabic sources it may appear as الجرادة الشوكية (thorny locust) or الصرصور الجبلي (mountain cockroach)—labels that fail to capture its uniqueness and charm.

To me, this insect is more than a natural curiosity. Each time I meet one on the road to or from Boukashmir, I instinctively veer aside, giving it safe passage. My reasons are simple, yet deeply felt. First, because every creature deserves its place under the sun. Second, because it is stitched into the fabric of my rural childhood, when our elders used its blood to treat skin fungi. And third, because it has become alarmingly rare—perhaps a victim of worsening droughts or the vanishing flora it depends on for food and shelter.

In an age when we are increasingly detached from the land and its lesser-known inhabitants, this humble cricket offers a quiet reminder. Small though it is, it carries within it a forgotten thread of Morocco’s natural and cultural tapestry. Insects like the whistle cricket are not mere oddities—they are silent witnesses to our changing world and living archives of indigenous knowledge. Its story deserves not only to be told—but to be remembered.

The Begging Industry: Morocco’s Hidden Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

Wherever you go in Morocco, it's hard to take more than a few steps without encountering outstretched hands, tearful pleas, or heart-wrenching tales of sorrow. What was once a rare and pitiable sight has become a daily intrusion. Begging has mushroomed into a full-blown social menace—one that drains public sympathy, erodes communal values, fuels deceit, and chips away at the nation’s collective conscience.

Let’s not mince words: while some beggars are truly in need, far too many are exploiting both the system and our goodwill. Walk through any city, and you’ll find children at intersections, elderly women huddled outside mosques, and young men weaving through traffic with desperate faces and dramatic stories. But scratch beneath the surface, and the reality is often more calculated than tragic.

Most disturbing is the growing exploitation of children in this sordid trade. These kids aren’t merely poor; many are pawns in the hands of adults who should be protecting them. Organized rings operate with alarming efficiency, placing children in high-traffic areas to elicit sympathy and loosen wallets. It’s not just immoral—it’s criminal. While Moroccan law prohibits such exploitation, enforcement remains weak and inconsistent.

The deception doesn't stop there. Public trust continues to erode as stories emerge—sporadically, but credibly—of beggars leading double lives: destitute by day, but returning to comfortable homes by night. Some own property, drive fancy cars, and stash money in bank accounts, pillows, or mattresses. These are not people on the brink—they are opportunists exploiting compassion, wolves in sheep’s clothing. For some, begging has become more profitable than honest work, with earnings surpassing those of teachers and civil servants.

I once spoke with a taxi driver in Khemisset who shared a story that left him—and later, me—stunned. He had seen a man he personally knew as a street beggar park a sleek 4WD on the outskirts of the city before heading into town to beg. It was a moment that truly gave me pause.

In today’s digital age, the hustle has moved online. Social media platforms are teeming with fabricated tales of misery: strangers pretending to be sick individuals, desperate mothers, or displaced families. Even worse are the influencers who openly ask their followers for money. In both cases, with a single click, well-meaning citizens donate—often unaware they are being duped. It’s emotional blackmail, pure and simple—and it works.

Let’s be clear: this epidemic mocks real poverty. It blurs the line between genuine need and theatrical manipulation. A person with a limp or a disabled hand? We’ve often encountered individuals pretending to be handicapped to deceive others. The “stranded traveler” who needs bus fare? He’s told that story to a dozen others just that morning. The beggar who asks for food, only to return it for cash? That’s a rehearsed con. The veiled girl claiming to care for her cancer-stricken mother and seven siblings? That tale has made the rounds across the country for years.

Meanwhile, the working poor—the ones who labor honestly—remain invisible. They struggle in silence while street performers in rags collect coins with a few well-timed sobs. It’s an insult to every Moroccan who chooses dignity over deceit.

My grandmother once told a story that still lingers in my mind. A young man from a noble family fell in love with a beggar’s daughter. The girl’s father agreed to the marriage—on one condition: the young man had to join him in begging for one week. The smitten youth agreed. But when the week ended, he refused to stop. The message was clear: once someone tastes the easy life, it’s hard to turn back. Despite his noble roots, he discovered that begging was both effortless and profitable. It’s a timeless cautionary tale about a very human weakness: the lure of the path of least resistance.

This shift in values is especially visible in the countryside—at least where I come from. In the '60s, '70s, and '80s, field workers and shepherds were plentiful. Today, many have abandoned their posts for what they see as an easier life in the city, sustained by handouts of bread, yogurt, and coins. Farmers now reduce their livestock or leave their fields fallow because finding laborers has become a near impossibility.

I remember an old man who once sold vegetables in Khemisset, hauling them in by donkey from a nearby village. People paid extra out of sympathy. Over time, he gave up the trade and turned to begging instead. I also knew three little girls who begged around town—closely watched by a lurking man, perhaps their guardian, perhaps a predator.

A friend shared another story: his acquaintance offered a beggar in Meknes a job on his farm, repeating the offer several times. Eventually, the beggar declined and confessed: he visited nearly 300 cafés daily and rarely left without collecting between one and ten dirhams—not to mention free food. He earned more than many doctors and teachers. This chilling reality shows just how profitable begging has become.

Let’s not ignore the cultural and religious context. Islam certainly encourages charity—but it also upholds values of self-reliance, dignity, and personal responsibility. Blindly giving to strangers in the street often feeds the beast, not need. As the old saying goes: “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach him to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.” True charity uplifts—it does not enable. Islam also places great emphasis on helping one’s relatives, strengthening familial bonds and ensuring assistance goes where it’s truly needed.

Morocco must draw a line in the sand. Our cities cannot continue to serve as open-air theaters of staged misery. Stricter enforcement of anti-begging laws is essential—especially to protect children from exploitation. But enforcement alone isn't enough. We need to channel compassion intelligently, directing support through transparent, accountable organizations that address real social needs.

Begging is more than an eyesore; it’s a corrosive force undermining public trust, social order, and moral responsibility. It's time to reject both guilt-driven giving and and turning a blind eye to the shameful phenomenon. True solidarity means making informed choices: saying “no” when appropriate, backing legitimate social programs, and holding both the state and civil society accountable for long-term solutions.

 

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.

 

Moroccan Souk: Childhood Joys and Haircut Woes Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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