Echoes of Neighborly Bonds Noureddine Boutahar

An Amazigh proverb wisely states, "Yuf

uzgar gar ajjar"—better a jujube hedge than a bad neighbor. Yet, my childhood neighbors were neither thorny shrubs nor bad apples. They were beacons of kindness, nurturing harmonious and peaceful lives. We didn't choose them; tradition and custom fostered respect, friendship, and mutual support. Our nearest neighbors lived two miles away, yet the rhythms of rural life and the demands of animal husbandry intertwined our lives. This created a rich tapestry of daily interaction. We shared a unique bond with our immediate neighbors, distinct from our good relations with the rest of the tribe: we had all emigrated to Tizitine, a land not our own.

To the north, like a lone willow tree on the horizon, stood the home of the Meknassi family—named for their patriarch, a man who carried the city of Meknes in his very name. Brought to the region by a European colonist to manage the farm where he lived, Meknassi was a reserved figure, his caution an invisible shield around his home. Few crossed his threshold, yet our family was a welcome exception. His wife and children would occasionally visit, bringing small gifts of henna, headscarves, traditional cakes, and other Moroccan treats. We reciprocated with flavorful meals from the Moroccan smorgasbord—traditional dishes like rfissa, marchouch, couscous, and, of course, the ever-present mint tea. We freely shared what we could with the Meknassi family and borrowed farming tools, kitchen utensils, and, at times, foodstuff without hesitation or fear of refusal. On Eid days, the Meknassi family joined us to break bread, sharing pastries as if we were not simply neighbors but petals of the same flower. Together, our families always weathered the storms of sorrow and reveled in the sunlight of joy, offering unwavering support to one another. Perhaps Meknassi’s reserve stemmed from his unfamiliarity with this new land, a fear of the unknown. Or perhaps it was our family’s reputation for hospitality and peacemaking that drew him to us, like a weary traveler finding solace in a shaded grove. When Ssi Abid Boubia bought the estate and the Meknassis had to leave, it was a heart-wrenching day; saying goodbye was a very tearful occasion for my family.

To the south lived the Said Boubia family, later bound to ours by marriage. Said Boubia, the family patriarch, had been brought to the area from Doukkala, near El Jadida, by his father, a traveling peddler. Embracing their new surroundings, they made this place their home and learnt Tamazight. Said who grew up here and married an Amazigh woman, spoke it so fluently that the little Arabic he knew was unmistakably tinged with the tones of Tamazight. He became my grandfather’s closest friend—a man with the heart of a troubadour and the soul of a nomad. Carefree and resilient, he approached life as a song to be sung, not a treasure to be hoarded. Though he was middle-class by countryside standards, he always referred to money as “lushekh n dunith”—earthly dross. Said and my grandfather met almost daily in the grazing pastures, their camaraderie as natural as the sunrise over the Tizitine hills. Together, they tended their livestock, frequented the souk, and attended celebrations, as inseparable as a well-worn pair of boots. Said’s unannounced visits were legendary—a blend of spontaneity and humor that gave him the charm of a modern-day minstrel. Their friendship was a deep, flowing river, nourishing both families with laughter and unwavering trust. When Said’s wife, Hadda, passed away, my grandmother stepped in as a surrogate mother to his children, who called her “Tchia” with the same affection as my father and uncle. We generously shared what we had with the Ait Said, as we called them, and borrowed farming tools and kitchen utensils from each other with confidence, knowing they would never be refused. This, coupled with Said’s son later marrying my elder sister, deepened the bond between our families, transforming simple neighborliness into something akin to kinship—a connection forged in shared joys and sorrows, shared pastures and celebrations, and a profound understanding of life’s rhythms.

To the west lay the grand estate of the Benaissa Boubia family, their wealth stretching as far as the Tizitine horizons. They were the region's prominent landowners, possessing vast herds and sprawling fields; their affluence radiated like the glow of a distant sun—warm yet seemingly unattainable. Benaissa Boubia’s father, a humble traveling peddler from Doukkala, had been the first of the Boubia family to settle there, later joined by other kin. Benaissa grew up in Tizitine, learnt Tamazight, married Amazigh women, and adopted it as his everyday language, eventually losing fluency in his mother tongue and its tonal qualities. Benaissa, also adept at buying and selling, honed his skills to become among the most influential and prosperous figures, perhaps even the most influential. Yet, despite their considerable wealth, they treated us with a disarming humility that bridged any social divide. Benaissa himself, a man of stature and influence, often sought the company, and especially the counsel, of my father and grandfather, valuing their honesty and wisdom as a guiding compass in his affairs. His life experiences and paternal upbringing instilled in him a discerning approach to companionship, as evidenced by his wisely chosen friends and carefully selected words when speaking. His four wives, who divided their lives  between the city and the countryside, found solace and guidance in the gentle wisdom of my grandmother, who had midwived most of their children. As a child, I cherished accompanying my grandmother to their estate, knowing I would be treated to the finest confections from Meknes. Our annual formal gathering to host them saw our table overflow with dishes fit for royalty: mechoui, couscous, and free-range chicken—offerings symbolizing respect, reciprocity, and the generous hospitality befitting their prestige. When they came, with a family as large as theirs, their journey became a spectacle: some scoot and squish to make room for each other in the blue Renault 16, its elegant sway through curves reminiscent of a ballet dancer’s poise, while the rest rode in the cab and truck bed of their Ford lorry, its relentless charge over rugged terrain evoking the raw power of a bull. We plowed Baba Issat’s (as we sometimes called him) land, grazed our livestock in his fields, and occasionally worked for him, yet there was never even the slightest hint of discord.

Finally, to the east, like modest wildflowers gracing the edge of a meadow, stood the humble home of Boujemaa Agra, and his two brothers. Like our own family, they had been displaced from their ancestral lands, forced to toil for colonial settlers and affluent families. Their possessions were few—a small plot of marginal land, a handful of goats dotting the dry landscape, and a pair of sturdy donkeys—yet their hearts overflowed with kindness and generosity. Uncle Boujemaa, the head of the family, brought moments of pure joy with his visits, awaited with the same eager anticipation as the first drops of spring rain on parched earth. A natural with children, he invariably carried a small stash of sweets, delighting any child he encountered on his way to work, the souk, or while running errands. His wife and children occasionally visited when she missed our company and chats, their visits filled with shared meals, laughter, and the comforting aromas of traditional dishes such as rfissa, marchouch, and other traditional 'women' dishes. I still picture Aunt Hmama arriving astride a massive donkey, the youngest child in front and the older one behind—a living embodiment of the Amazigh saying "There's always room for one more," sometimes accompanied by her sister-in-law, Aunt Rukia, on foot. Each Monday, upon returning from the souk, Uncle Boujemaa transformed into a veritable Pied Piper, scattering trail mix and sweets along the dusty road to his home. This weekly ritual endeared him not only to the neighborhood children but to those of the entire tribe. In gratitude, we would kiss his hand, a small but sincere token of our appreciation for the warmth he brought into our lives. Having Uncle Boujemaa as a neighbor was a constant comfort, like resting against a soft cotton pillow—a reliable presence always there to ease life's burdens. His black Wellington boots, worn almost year-round, spoke of his practical nature and readiness to assist; my family knew they could always count on him when they needed help.

As the Chinese proverb wisely states, “A good neighbor is a found treasure,” this rings especially true in today’s fast-paced urban jungles. The once-vibrant tapestry of neighborly relationships has unraveled, its threads frayed by the relentless pace of modern life. Busy schedules, anonymity, and barriers of detachment have replaced the warmth of shared meals and the comfort of familiar faces. In earlier times, a knock at the door or the arrival of a visitor brought joy that enlivened the entire household. It signified more than mere company—it carried the promise of shared moments, a lovingly prepared dish, and the warmth of genuine connection. Today, however, such visits often provoke feelings of displeasure, irritation, or even frustration. Why have these bonds of neighborly goodwill and connection faded into distant memories, seemingly beyond revival? Perhaps it is because the soil of modern cities, unlike the rich, welcoming earth of the countryside, struggles to cultivate the roots of authentic human connection. Or perhaps it is because modern society has yet to grasp a timeless truth: that life's inherent difficulties and perils are best navigated not in isolation, but in community.

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.

A Tribute to the Greatest Father Noureddine Boutahar

My father was a self-made man who lived a life of simplicity, contentment, and quiet dignity, passing away with the same peaceful grace that defined his days. He was less concerned with accumulating wealth than with shaping us—his children—into resilient, capable men and women. Born in Boukashmir, Oulmes, and raised in Boukashmir and Tizitine, he was respected and loved in both places for his honesty, integrity, and exemplary character.

The image of my father that lingers from the late 1960s is that of a strikingly handsome young man who took great care of his appearance. He always wore the best clothes he owned, styled in a classic way, especially for parties, and during his city visits. I remember how he would carry a fragrant small bar of soap in one of his flap pockets, and a white double-tooth comb, which he had brought back from France, in his breast pocket. My mischievous childhood led me to sometimes "borrow" the comb to fix my hair before putting it back. On special occasions, he would wear perfume—a rare habit among countrymen at the time—which he kept carefully stored in a wooden box alongside other treasured possessions.  

Physically, my father was a somewhat tall, athletic man with a medium build. He had straight, short-cropped blond hair, though it often appeared darker, as he always wore hats and bonnets to protect it from the elements. His forehead was prominent, his eyebrows well-defined and neatly groomed, with a strong jawline. His eyes radiated confidence, his nose was straight and proportional to his face, and his mouth held a neutral expression, complementing the overall dignified look of his portrait.

My father was widely respected for his honesty. I witnessed his deep honesty and piety firsthand when we worked together in the fields. He never allowed Zakat—the portion of wealth Muslims give to charity—to be stored in our granary. Instead, he set aside a special spot for the grains and olive oil meant for the poor. His integrity also earned him the trust of Benaissa Boubia, a wealthy farmer in Tizitine. When our family moved there in the mid-1940s, my father managed Benaissa Boubia’s tenant farming accounts for sometime. Benaissa Boubia provided land and livestock to less fortunate families, who worked the land in exchange for a share of the produce, and my father oversaw the arrangement with diligence.

In the mid-1960s, my father was reluctantly sent to France to work on farms. Though the contract was for just three months, the French farmer, impressed by his honesty and tireless work ethic, offered to extend it. My father declined, replying, 'When I left for France, I left behind a mother, a wife, and a sister-in-law milking 18 cows, and most of the milk is going to the dogs.'

My father's honesty was deeply rooted in his piety. He later told me he was among the first in our region to consistently observe his religious duties, such as praying on time, at a time when many of the local Amazigh were either flippant about or less familiar with these practices. He recounted a story from a wedding celebration when, as Dhuhr approached, he went to a nearby orchard to perform ablutions at a well and pray under the trees. A few women noticed him, puzzled, and soon gathered others to watch and giggle as they tried to figure out what the 'little boy' was doing.

As a father, he was progressive in his parenting style. At a time when physical punishment was the norm, my father never laid a hand on us. This leniency was criticized by my mother and grandfather, but he believed in a gentler approach to raising us, much like my grandmother. During family gatherings, he imparted timeless universal values of honesty, respect, modesty, altruism, and hard work upon us. 

Though born into an illiterate family, my father taught himself to read and write. After Morocco's independence, there was a national literacy campaign, and he was one of the few who took it seriously, learning both Arabic and French. He was also one of the first to own a radio, which he loved listening to, especially for news and Amazigh music and poetry known as Imalyazen. The radio’s influence on him was so strong that we were among the rare families to have pictures of Mohammed V and Gamal Abdel Nasser on the walls of our home.

One of my father's endearing qualities was his ability to listen attentively and speak eloquently. When you spoke to him, he listened with genuine interest, and when he spoke, he captured the full attention of his audience. He enjoyed recounting stories and events in vivid detail, but he did so in a way that never bored his listeners. In his later years, during my fortnightly visits, we would sit together as he shared tales from his past, rich with subtle details. Unfortunately, some ill-intentioned people would exploit this in social gatherings, asking him to recount stories or events while they devoured the shared food.

My father was also known for his pithy remarks, which revealed much about his character—his sharp wit, intelligence, directness, and unwavering confidence. One particular incident from an electoral campaign comes to mind. A candidate had come to seek his support, delivering a speech filled with vague promises and empty words. Unimpressed, my father waited for him to finish, then dryly responded, 'You know, I could probably finish my Asr prayers and go earn your university degree.' His retort, both cutting and clever, perfectly captured his no-nonsense approach to life.

Another quality that distinguished my father was his boundless generosity. A passionate hunter, he was among the rare few in those days to own a prized 16-gauge shotgun—a symbol of status and skill. I vividly recall the day he sold one of our finest cows just to acquire that coveted weapon, an act that spoke of his deep love for the hunt.  As hunting necessitates the finest canine companions, my father always kept the very best. He often kept some of the most renowned hunting Sloughi greyhounds and German shorthaired pointers. Once, a delegation of dignified horsemen from the illustrious Imahzan tribe, came all the way from Khenifra and asked to barter one of my father’s famous Sloughi greyhounds, renowned across the region for its agility and prowess. They came bearing a substantial offer—an entire herd of sheep and goats in exchange for the prized dog. After being treated to a lavish meal of Mechoui, Couscous, and mint green tea, my father did what only he could. In a grand gesture of his legendary generosity, he refused their offer. Instead, he gifted them the Sloughi outright. That moment, like many others, etched itself into my mind as a testament to his noble spirit—one who gave not for gain, but for the sheer joy of giving.

Unfortunately, two factors contributed to my father’s declining health. The first was the tragic death of my younger brother, Abdelmajid, his  son and closest companion, in a devastating car accident. The second was his growing sense of isolation. As rheumatoid arthritis in his knee took its toll, he ventured out less frequently, which was particularly difficult for a man who had always been so social and outgoing. A fate that weighed heavily on his spirit. It was only on special occasions, when we brought him to family gatherings, that he had the opportunity to reconnect. However, in his final days, he declined most invitations, attending only the funerals of close family members, including the insistence on being present for the funeral of his granddaughter, Bouchra Boubia. He passed away just a few months later, on December 5, 2023.

Rest in peace, dear father. You will always be remembered as a loving father and a guiding light. Your legacy will continue to inspire me and my children every day, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons you shared and the boundless love you gave. You lived your life with honor and dignity, cherishing your family, your principles and your country. I hope now, in the peace of the hereafter, you no longer feel the pain of rheumatism that troubled you in your final days.