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.

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 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.

 

The Cat Dies on the First Day Noureddine Boutahar

An idiom is a linguistic magician, conjuring figurative wonders that transcend the literal. Shaped by the environment of their origin, these idioms carry captivating stories within them.

My friend Driss Eladouany recently posted the Moroccan idiom "The cat dies on the first day" on his Facebook page. Intrigued, I delved into its layers of meaning, realizing its depth and cultural significance. This idiom weaves back to a tale from the Moroccan countryside, a story with myriad versions each echoing the same timeless message and meaning.

Now, allow me to encapsulate the essence of the story for you:           

In the heart of the Moroccan rural area, a young man's wedding night culminated in a vibrant celebration filled with joyous dances and delectable feasts. Post-wedding, the bride gracefully transitioned into her daily routine, which included the heartwarming task of preparing breakfast for her husband before he set out to toil in the fields. Amid the fragrance of freshly steeped tea and warm ‘Harcha’ bread, a cat emerged, its meows echoing through the room. The newlywed youth, seeking to assert his authority, shooed away the persistent feline. Yet, the cat remained undeterred, its presence a challenge to his newly established dominance. In a fit of anger, he struck the innocent creature with a fatal blow.

Later, when questioned about his actions, the young man explained that he sought to establish an example for his wife, a stark reminder of the obedience expected of her. His harsh punishment served as a clear warning against defiance.

The idiom 'The cat dies on the first day' finds its echo in various English equivalents, such as 'show your true colors from the outset,' 'start as you mean to go,' 'establish a strong start,' and 'commence with the end in mind.' Yet, delving into the origins, circumstances, and the rich tapestry of tradition and culture that birthed this idiom reveals a depth that sets it apart. These English counterparts, while close, may lose their true resonance without the awareness of the unique story, tradition, and cultural nuances that define 'The cat dies on the first day.' In understanding its roots, we unlock a richer appreciation for the wisdom encapsulated in this captivating expression.

Hence, the idiom "The cat dies on the first day" surfaces as a haunting testament to the oppressive patriarchal norms that once gripped Moroccan society. Rooted in a bygone era, the tale serves as a poignant reminder of the historical status of Moroccan women—a time when they were not just subjugated but also unfairly vilified and accused of various perceived wrongs.

Idioms, in general, serve as vibrant snapshots of the rich tapestry of a language, capturing the essence of a people's environment, life, history, and culture. Rooted in the very spirit and emotions of native speakers, these linguistic gems forge an intimate connection with the historical backdrop, economic dynamics, geographical nuances, and customs of a society. In essence, idioms are not just linguistic expressions; they are windows into the soul of a language, offering profound insights into the collective experience of a community.

The Moroccan idiom 'The cat dies on the first day' unravels a cautionary tale embedded in tradition, revealing enduring lessons of power dynamics and societal expectations. Through idioms, we catch a glimpse of timeless virtues that transcend language and time.