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.

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.