The Jewish Peddler Noureddine Boutahar

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, life in the countryside of Tizitine followed a steady rhythm, occasionally stirred by moments of excitement—weddings, festivals, weekly markets, and the much-anticipated visits of peddlers. Of all these, nothing thrilled me more than the arrival of the traveling merchants. I would plead, beg, and sometimes throw fits until my mother or grandmother relented, rewarding me with sweets, chewing gum, or a handful of trail mix—roasted chickpeas, raisins, and peanuts sold by these merchants.Yet, among all the visitors who passed through our village, none was more eagerly awaited than the Jewish peddler. He was more than just a wandering merchant; he was a bearer of wonder. With his arrival, the ordinary faded into the background, replaced by a world of small treasures—treats for the body and stories for the soul.

The Jewish peddler was a wandering merchant, traveling from village to village, house to house, selling an assortment of goods essential to daily life. Every month or so, he would set up shop near our home, thriving on bartering goods in exchange for money, silver jewelry—once abundant among Amazigh women—wool fleeces, and grains like wheat or barley. His wares were as varied as they were intriguing, ranging from soap and kitchen utensils to small tools for home repairs, agate bracelets, necklaces, and sewing necessities such as needles and thread. I never knew his real name; people simply referred to him as "the Jewish peddler" or "the leprous peddler," though in conversation, they addressed him as "A'attar," the Amazigh word for peddler. 

He was of medium height, likely in his late fourties or early fifties. My memories of his appearance remain vivid: he wore a handwoven Amazigh djellaba, frayed at the elbows, worn thin at the seat, and torn at the cuffs—proof that the road had been his constant companion. Beneath the djellaba, he wore a more refined gandoura, a long tunic. His head was always covered with a small cap, which I later learned was a kippah—a religious garment worn by Jews, not merely protection from the elements. On sunny days, the kippah was crowned with a Moroccan sombrero, meticulously woven from the leaves of the dwarf palm, its wide brim offering shade for both head and shoulders. His feet were encased in sturdy, lace-up brodequin boots, faded but still holding their own, much like their owner. 

Women were his primary customers, purchasing everything from small mirrors, agate jewelry, and trinkets to kohl, walnut bark miswak for brushing teeth, and small ceramic pots of rouge to color their lips and cheeks. Shopping with the peddler was not just an errand—it was an event, stretching over an hour as the women admired, tried on, and haggled for goods, their voices rising and falling in animated debate. Time seemed to slow to a crawl—there was no rush for either the ladies or the peddler. 

For us children, his visits were the highlight of the season. He always brought small gifts—sweets, trail mix, dates, or dried figs. Some called him "the leprous peddler" because of the visible scars from leprosy on his face and hands, but our parents drummed into us the importance of kindness and respect, reminding us that such names were hurtful and impolite. We never used them. Instead, we addressed him with warmth as ‘aammi,’ akin to ‘unkie,’ just as we called elderly women ‘aatti ’ or ‘khally,’ meaning auntie. 

The peddler traveled with a large, sturdy grey jack donkey, the kind bred with mares to produce mules. The donkey carried enormous panniers stuffed with goods, sometimes so full that the animal was almost swallowed up by its load. Yet, there was always space for the peddler himself, who rode side-saddle atop the beast, as though it were a throne from which he surveyed the world. 

He often spent the night near our home, drawn perhaps by the warmth and safety my family offered. He would pitch his tent a short distance from our house, stow his goods inside, and then lead his donkey to our well for water. Afterward, he tethered the animal with a thick iron stake and fed it hay from our stack. The Three Musketeers of the family—my brother Abdelmajid, my cousin Hamid, and I—would bicker over who got to bring him dinner, knowing full well that the lucky one would be rewarded with a small gift. More often than not, we all ended up going together, unable to resist the pull of adventure. 

The presence of the peddler added a spark of excitement to our nights. After he had eaten, we would linger, brimming with curiosity. Where had he traveled? What had he seen? What were the other children like in the places he had visited? Had he encountered wild animals, stray dogs, or thieves? Sometimes, he would humor us with tales of his journeys, though, truth be told, I preferred my grandmother’s—they had a way of weaving magic into the mundane. Still, his stories brought a welcome change to our otherwise predictable nights.

By morning, he would usually be gone, slipping away before the world stirred. I have no memory of his departures, but we children would scour the spot where he had camped, hoping to unearth a forgotten relic—a hidden treasure or a lost trinket. Once, I struck gold, or so it felt—I stumbled upon a coin, a find that filled me with pride. I rushed to show my grandmother, though I never knew its true worth. She tucked it safely away until the peddler's next visit. When he returned, my honesty was rewarded with a small, wondrous prize—a packet of chewing gum, five individually wrapped sticks, each one a treasure in itself.

 

The Architecture of Character Noureddine Boutahar

With the exception of my father, who taught himself to read and write, my family was illiterate. Yet, they were architects of character, raising a garden of children rich in values, etiquette, and empathy. In our rural home, my

education began long before I ever took a seat in a classroom. My parents, grandparents, uncle, aunts, and even the wider community served as my first teachers. They did not teach with books or blackboards but through life itself, imparting lessons learned from their own experiences. I learned by observing their harmonious lives, listening to their wise words, and emulating their virtuous actions.

Respect for elders was one of the keystones of my family’s unwritten curriculum. Elders were more than just elderly; they were living archives, custodians of not only family and village history but also our traditions, myths, and legends. To honor them was both an obligation and a privilege. In our home, grandparents were the sun around which we all revolved, their voices sought for guidance in matters as weighty as marriages or property disputes and as light as the proper way to welcome a guest. We kissed their hands or foreheads after every separation and upon returning from school as a sign of affection and respect. We never wavered in our willingness to help them find misplaced garments and always offered assistance in performing difficult chores and carrying heavy burdens. Among our Amazigh families, any elder man was an “unky,” and any elder woman was an “aunty.” Even elder siblings held a place of honor within the family.  Brothers were addressed as "Baba," and sisters as "Lalla" or "Mamma"—titles conveying reverence and respect, reflecting the belief that even "a single day's difference in age brought wisdom".  This same respect extended to teachers, who were considered akin to parents.  The saying "The one who teaches me even a single word is like a father to me forever" illustrates this deep appreciation. Teachers were seen as guides, leading students through the vast and wonderful world of knowledge, and were therefore held in the highest esteem. Ultimately, respect for the elderly—rooted in earned trust rather than blind submission—served as the mortar binding the bricks of society, enabling us to bridge the generational divide and foster stronger intergenerational connections.

Good manners were another keystone of the silent curriculum my family passed down. In our home, good manners were more than rules; they were an art form, a type of choreography for graceful coexistence. From an early age, I learned the subtle melody of courtesy: never to talk back, never to stare intently, to sit up straight out of respect and humility, and to speak only after careful thought, for words are arrows that cannot be taken back once released. Equally important, we were taught never to be bystanders, to act when witnessing wrongdoing, and to take responsibility where others might look away. Even at the table, we practiced restraint: eating sparingly in the presence of guests, feigning fullness out of pride and generosity—a lesson embodied in the saying, “Hunger in my stomach, pride in my heart.” When sharing food, the largest portion always went to the other person, a quiet testament to the deep-rooted altruism of our rural life. Gratitude, too, was a virtue rehearsed daily, as natural as breathing. A simple “thank you,” wrapped in a warm gaze and smile, my parents said, wove a shared joy between the giver and receiver. These good manners were instilled in us through words, example, and the ceaseless rhythm of sayings and idioms, repeated so often they became woven into the fabric of our being, second nature and instinctive mantras.

Hospitality was the shining gem of our family values, a flame that burned warmly in our home for strangers and friends alike. We seldom ate a meal without a guest at our table. Our door was always open, and visitors came from near and far, drawn not just by necessity but by the knowledge that they would be received as kin. Even beggars, peddlers, and passersby found food and shelter under our roof. My grandfather, ever mindful of this deep-seated tradition, would invite a neighbor for no other reason than to ensure the guest spot was never left vacant. Hospitality, as practiced in our family, was not mere obligation; it was a celebration of humanity itself. It reminds me of Louis de Jaucourt’s words in his Encyclopédie, where he characterized hospitality as “the virtue of a great soul that cares for the whole universe through the ties of humanity.”

Honesty, too, was a virtue etched deep into our souls in the bloom of childhood, remaining as unwavering as a mountain. My father’s creed, “I’d rather lose my head than my integrity,” was a beacon we were taught to follow. Integrity was not merely expected; it was demanded, reinforced through countless examples. I recall a stray calf that joined our herd and stayed so long it became sacred—a no-man’s animal, untouchable as though blessed by fate itself. My family exhausted every avenue to track down its rightful owner, even hiring a public crier at the souk to announce its presence in our cattle. When no legitimate claimant appeared, the calf lived out its days with us, untouched—a silent testament to our family’s unbending commitment to honesty.

Another important principle instilled in our family was the value of work. In our home, work was more than a duty; it was a reflection of our core values—excellence, integrity, and diligence. From the moment we could walk, we were given small tasks, and as we grew, our responsibilities expanded. This was because our parents recognized work as a source of purpose, self-respect, and growth—providing direction, fostering learning, and enabling meaningful contributions to society. As far back as I can remember, our hands were engaged in simple but essential tasks: sewing our own clothes, mending buttons, washing light garments, and tending to the cows, sheep, and goats. These humble beginnings prepared us for the more exhausting labor that awaited us in the fields, where we toiled from sunrise to sunset. The reward for our efforts was modest—a token payment, not for its monetary value but as quiet encouragement, teaching us the dignity of effort and the pride of self-reliance. My family insisted, like Martin Luther King Jr., that any job worth doing should be done so well that “the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.” This ethos of excellence became my compass, guiding me through life, even when others mocked my perfectionism as “too much” or “obsessive.” Yet, it also earned me the respect of those who understood the importance of striving for greatness.

Nowadays, these virtues—once our compass and anchor—often feel like burdens in a world where honesty is a bygone ideal and flattery the currency of the realm. The principles our traditional families instilled in us now clash with a society that values expediency over integrity. Those of us who cling to these old virtues are viewed as obstacles, relics of a bygone era. Yet, even as I struggle against the current, these values remain the marrow of my being—an inheritance more precious than rubies. They are the roots that ground me, even as the winds of change swirl around us.

 

My Slingshot Hobby Noureddine Boutahar

Hunting with a slingshot was the bread and butter of boyhood in my generation—a rite of passage for young country boys. A catapult dangling from a boy’s neck was as common as shadows at sunrise—an unmistakable sign of youthful curiosity and untamed energy. These were days when our pastimes were stitched together by our own hands, simple yet rich, untouched by the buzz of electronics or the glare of screens.

The slingshot, or catapult, is a hand-powered projectile weapon with a Y-shaped frame and elastic bands attached to a pouch that held small stones. We bought the rubber bands at the weekly souk. There were two types to choose from: flat bands, often repurposed from tire inner tubes, and tubular bands, pricier but far more durable. We whittled the frames from orchard trees and fashioned the pouches from worn-out shoe leather. Soaking the leather in water softened it, making it pliable for crafting. To us, these slingshots were more than tools—they were the heartbeat of childhood adventure.

I recall with a warm ache the times I hunted alongside my elder brother. Back then, I was his “beater,” a sidekick descending the valley, flushing out game with shouts, thrown stones, or a stick dragged noisily through the underbrush. When the birds perched above him in the trees, he struck with the precision of a marksman, killing them instantly. My reward? The honor of carrying the game, strung proudly on my belt like trophies of war.

Eager to follow in my brother’s footsteps, I began crafting my own slingshots around the age of eight. I started carving frames and buying bands from the souk. Hunting became a shared adventure with my younger brother and cousins, each of us taking turns as hunter and beater in a fair and playful democracy. Wild pigeons (tourterelles) were our prized quarry, though we also hunted quails, larks, and sparrows. Quails, elusive and solitary, were a rare delight, while sparrows and larks filled the gaps when pickings were scarce.

The best part of the hunt came after: we would bring the game home, pluck the feathers, wash the birds, and roast them over open flames. Their meager meat, seasoned by fire and triumph, tasted divine to us. Our parents, however, teased us, calling it a child’s indulgence, and rarely joined us in savoring our spoils.

Through practice, my slingshot became a seamless extension of my arm. I could bring down a bird mid-flight with uncanny precision. But beyond hunting, my catapult proved versatile: it was my tool for knocking ripe figs from treetops, my guardian against stray dogs, and my weapon of choice against snakes, which I shot from a safe distance.

Yet, slingshot hunting was not without its dangers and harsh lessons, some etched deep into my memory. One summer, while stalking wild pigeons, I crept cautiously through a shrub for cover. My focus was so intense on my target that I failed to notice a hidden wasp nest until I was practically nose-to-nest with it. In a heartbeat, the wasps erupted like an angry volcano, their stingers raining down on my face. I flung my slingshot away and fled in a frenzy, swatting and shouting, but the persistent swarm chased me all the way home. For a week, my face was a swollen canvas of pain, soothed only by my grandmother’s poultices and prayers.

But the darkest memory of my slingshot came in the summer of 1974, a memory that still weighs heavy on my heart. I had been sent to retrieve our equids—mares, mules, and a prized jet-black colt my uncle was breaking in to replace an aging chestnut horse. That colt, a lively spirit, often strayed to mingle with the neighbor’s animals. On this particular evening, it stubbornly refused to return, despite my best efforts. Frustration surged through me like a tempest. In a moment of anger, I aimed my slingshot at its neck and let the stone fly.

The result was a tragedy I neither intended nor foresaw. The colt reared, shaking its head in pain, and to my horror, blood trickled from its left eye. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach as guilt flooded every fiber of my being. Desperate and panicked, I ran to the old well near our orchard and hurled my slingshot into its depths, wishing I could vanish along with it.

My family was puzzled by the colt’s injury, making numerous guesses and asking endless questions, but I hid the truth for a while, burdened with guilt. Although I bared my soul to my grandmother a couple of months later, seeking solace for my egregious mistake, the weight of having wounded the innocent creature remains an enduring ache in my heart. The colt’s recovery was slow; the stone had damaged the side of its left eye, leaving a scar that never faded. My family treated it with herbal remedies, but every time I saw the animal flinch in pain, I wished I could undo my reckless act. 

A year later, the colt was sold at a reduced price to a dignitary from a neighboring tribe who loved its breed. Though it was gone, the memory of that day has never left me. Even now, I lose sleep wondering why some lessons must come at such a high cost. I often pray the colt, in whatever realm it may now roam, has forgiven the reckless boy I once was.

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.

Our First Radio Noureddine Boutahar

Growing up in the countryside during the late sixties and seventies was a unique experience, especially without the ubiquitous presence of TVs. In the rural setting of my childhood, my dad was among the few who possessed a tabletop radio, our exclusive source of at-home entertainment. This box-shaped device, powered by hefty, non-rechargeable batteries, needed time to warm up before efficiently transmitting its waves.

The front of the radio featured an indented panel housing controls and a speaker outlet. The lower part contained three knobs - one for turning on the radio and adjusting volume, another for selecting stations, and the third for changing the wavelength from long to medium. This radio was not just a device; it was the center of our entertainment universe.

Gathered around it, my family and I would listen to captivating radio dramas that sparked our imagination. Closing my eyes, I could transport myself to different times and places, enchanted by the theater of the mind. For my dad, the radio was a vital source of information. He tuned in for news updates, talk shows, and in the evenings, Amazigh programs, given that the Amazigh language had limited airtime from 16:00 to 20:00.

In the bustling heart of our expansive family, a sense of reverence and a hint of secrecy embraced the enchanting melodies of Amazigh songs—a symphony reserved for moments when we couldn't share them together. Laden with the essence of love and romance, these tunes became our private indulgence, set aside for times of seclusion. So, whoever desired to immerse themselves in the lyrical tales emanating from the radio had to find a moment of solitude.

Yet, Fridays emerged as extraordinary deviations from our usual clandestine routine. On these hallowed evenings, our abode resonated with the profound wisdom of Imadiazen, the Amazigh poets. Completing our field work and tending to the farm animals earlier than usual, we would gather around the radio, immersing ourselves in verses that intricately wove narratives of piety, faith, and invaluable religious counsel at the onset of the broadcast. As the evening unfurled, we'd be captivated by Imadiazen's poems, each one delving into diverse topics and themes, adorning our Friday nights with a mosaic of eloquence.

As children, laying a finger on that prized possession was strictly off-limits, and we always had to patiently wait for Dad to take the lead, albeit occasionally sneaking in stolen moments of radio bliss. However, when I reached my mid-teens and entered high school, I was granted the honor of using the radio without needing Dad's permission. It swiftly became a cherished pastime during school vacations, etched vividly in my memory. The radio transformed into my go-to companion for exploring various music genres, thrilling dramas, and the latest news, with a special emphasis on English programs.

Serving as my inaugural English teacher, I tuned in to BBC broadcasts, progressing from picking up a few words to understanding phrases, sentences, and eventually grasping the entire main idea. Listening to news in both Arabic and Amazigh significantly enhanced my comprehension of BBC's English global updates.

Concerns arose when my dad worried that the radio might be fostering passive behavior and laziness, especially given the agricultural work we had to attend to. Thus, an informal agreement was reached—moderate radio use was permitted only during leisure times, ensuring a balance between the radio and my farm responsibilities.

Amidst the symphony of those countryside days, our humble radio, albeit the only game in town, played a pivotal role, not merely as a purveyor of entertainment but as a gateway to enlightenment, cultural immersion, and family unity.