A Childhood Lesson in Courage and Fear Noureddine Boutahar

My family lived a semi-nomadic life. During the winter months, my parents and uncle would pack up their tents and move higher into the mountains and forests in search of better grazing lands for our cows, sheep, and goats. I, however, stayed behind with my grandparents in the house on the plateau. I was deeply attached to them, and being close to the school I attended kept me there.

I would visit my biological parents occasionally, either with my grandmother or grandfather. I clearly remember one such visit during my fourth-grade spring holiday. My grandmother and I made the trip to see them. That day, we enjoyed a hearty lunch—my mother had prepared Moroccan Rfissa with one of her finest roosters, followed by sweet mint tea. After a long, pleasant conversation between my mother and grandmother, the sun began to set behind the hills. My grandmother decided it was time to head back. As she prepared to leave, I asked to stay for a couple of days. She rarely denied me anything, so, after a moment of hesitation, she mounted her mule and rode away, leaving me behind.

The following day, boredom set in. I missed my grandmother's warmth, her cooking, and her ever-present comfort. I yearned for my world where I used to roam and immerse in carefree play and unbridled joy. I soon asked to be taken home—home to me meant my grandparents' house. But everyone was busy with livestock, chores, and other tasks, so I decided to make the journey alone, on foot.

That afternoon, as the shadows of the hills began to stretch across the mountains, I set off on the ten-mile trek. My mother trailed behind me, warning of the dangers of traveling so late, but I paid her no mind. I quickened my pace, determined to prove I could make the journey on my own.

Halfway through, as darkness fell, regret crept in. The trees and bushes around me transformed into ominous shapes—wolves, stray dogs, witches, jinn. Every shadow seemed alive. I stopped often, listening for any sign of danger, straining to convince myself that what I saw were just inanimate objects. But fear gripped me tighter as I continued. One shadow—a bush or rock, I never knew which—convinced my imagination it was a wolf lurking nearby. On either side of the road were fields of tall wheat, ripe and thick. Desperate, I decided to veer into the field on my left, hoping to lose the imagined beast in the dense crop.

The wheat stalks brushed against my shoulders, and though I was tall for my age, the field seemed to swallow me whole. Worse yet, it had recently rained, and the ground was still wet. I ran through the field, my clothes getting drenched, my legs heavy with fatigue. After a while, I stopped, exhausted and scared. I listened carefully for any sound—a wolf’s footsteps, a growl, anything. But there was nothing except the eerie silence of the night. Only then did I realize I was lost, surrounded by endless wheat, with no sense of direction. Tears welled up in my eyes, and soon I was sobbing uncontrollably.

In my despair, I forced myself to think of a solution. It occurred to me that if I could reach the top of a nearby hill, I might see the lights of a house and find my way. I climbed, my heart heavy with fear, and from the summit, I saw a faint light in the distance, nearly three miles away. It gave me hope, and I headed toward it, walking, running, and stopping occasionally to catch my breath. My tears flowed silently as dark thoughts filled my mind.

As I neared the house, dogs began barking furiously. But their barking was familiar. These were our dogs—two Aidis, a retriever, a beagle, and two greyhounds. They would have attacked any stranger, but I called their names quickly and fearfully before it was too late —Swiss, Jdia, Hallouf, Boby, Bully, Ghannam. Their barks turned into friendly whimpers as they recognized me, wagging their tails and jumping up to greet me.

Our field worker came out of his hut, alerted by the dogs. He shined his torch on me, trying to make sense of who I was. His surprise was clear. He murmured something under his breath, clearly in sympathy, as he guided me into the house. When I finally stepped into the house, my grandmother’s reaction was one of shock and concern. I was soaked, trembling, and utterly exhausted. She embraced me, soothing my tears, but my sobs only grew stronger in her arms.

While she changed my clothes, she scolded me for embarking on such a dangerous journey alone and was equally upset that my mother had allowed it. My grandfather, the tough yet emotional man, joined in, his voice filled with the "what-ifs" that could have turned the situation worse. My grandmother sat me by the furnace to warm up while she prepared a meal. Soon, there was a teapot on the table, alongside fresh homemade bread, pure honey, olive oil, and butter from our cows. As I ate, she asked me endless questions about the ordeal.

Though that night was one of the worst experiences of my childhood, it became a lesson I carried with me. As Nietzsche said, "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger." The challenges I faced in life, no matter how daunting, helped shape the person I became.

 

My Origines Noureddine Boutahar

I was born in the early 1960s, in the tranquil Moroccan countryside of Tizitine, tucked within the Khemisset region. Though Tizitine was my birthplace, my family’s origins lie in Boukashmire, near Oulmes. In the mid-1940s, they were forced to leave Boukashmire at the request of local dignitaries. The reason for their departure was a family tragedy: my father was preparing to avenge his cousin, who had been killed by a young man after being discovered in a relationship with the man’s wife. To prevent the situation from escalating into further violence, the elders stepped in, urging my grandfather to relocate his family—his wife, two sons, and two daughters—until tempers cooled.

Seeking refuge, my grandfather found safety and a warm reception in Tizitine, more than twenty miles away, where the Boubia family took them in. What began as an act of protection grew into a lasting bond, as the two families became not only friends but eventually in-laws, intertwined by both circumstance and kinship, and the rest was history.

It was here, in Tizitine, that I was born, in a peaceful landscape, where boundless fields offered limitless freedom, and the pure joy of untouched nature filled every moment. It was here that I grew up in a vibrant agricultural family—a clan of about twenty—where each member played a role, like instruments in a grand familial orchestra. Our ensemble included my parents, grandparents, my uncle and his wife, my cousins, an aunt, a shepherd, a fieldworker, and even an abandoned child who found warmth and solace in our home. But it wasn’t just my family who shaped me—an entire proverbial village, in the truest sense, helped mold my character, values, and understanding of the world.

Our childhood home was a whirlwind of activity, filled with the joyful noise and play of siblings and cousins all under one roof. Though our days were filled with responsibilities, they were interwoven with moments of pure delight. As shepherds, we tended to sheep, goats, and cows—the lifeblood of rural existence. Skilled equestrians, we rode horses, mules, or donkeys bareback, often bridleless—sometimes to tame them, other times to lead them to the water, but more often for the sheer thrill of it. Yet, we were not all work and no play; like birds finding pockets of time to soar, we reveled in cherished traditional games—hide and seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and impromptu wrestling matches. These games not only nurtured our bodies but subtly schooled us in life’s lessons: discipline, perseverance, teamwork, and respect for others and all their differences.

Ours was a family that wandered with the seasons, semi-nomadic in nature. My parents and uncle would often pack up our tents, moving where the pastures were lush, especially in winter when the forests and mountains offered better grazing for our livestock. But I, tied to my grandparents and later to the school nearby, stayed behind in the family’s main house on the plateau, under the watchful eyes of my grandmother and grandfather. It was there, in their loving care, that I received not only an education but an inheritance of tradition and wisdom. They poured into me the values of our ancestors, and, more than anything, their life stories and lessons shaped my understanding of the world.

Living with my grandparents meant early exposure to the voices of the old and the wise—villagers who visited our home and whose perspectives filled my young mind. From them, I learned the subtle dance between right and wrong, the importance of empathy, emotional intelligence, and the art of respectful communication. In the quiet hours spent listening, I was handed a treasure trove of insights: how to shoulder responsibility, how to be accountable, how to respect diversity and navigate the intricate web of social relations.

My grandmother, with her boundless compassion, loved every child as if they were her own, and every woman as if she were family. This kindness radiated outward, making her a beloved figure throughout the countryside, earning her the love and respect of all, who affectionately called her Chia, a tender diminutive of her true name, Chrifa. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, embodied a zest for life. He lived with a carefree spirit, often unbothered by the material struggles that might come with tomorrow. I still remember him telling our neighbor, Said Boubia, “Come by from time to time so Chrifa (my grandmother) can roast one of her chickens for us.” He thrived on companionship and abhorred dining alone, always inviting others to share a meal.

The countryside granted me countless blessings, especially in terms of lifestyle and helped me gain a toehold in simplicity, a profound connection to nature, and personal growth. Enveloped in the embrace of trees, animals, and pure air, my soul found peace, and my heart, harmony. The strong community bonds, where neighbors were more like extended family, wove a social fabric that urban life often lacks. In this setting, our family grew even closer, working together in the fields, gathering for community events, or simply enjoying the outdoor beauty that surrounded us.

Moreover, rural life endowed me with invaluable practical skills—gardening, animal care, even riding horses—skills that nurtured my independence and sharpened my problem-solving abilities. The unhurried pace of life, coupled with the vastness of the landscape, naturally sparked creativity and imagination in us children. In a world largely free from the technological distractions of the time, though few existed, I was drawn to hands-on, inventive play, further enriching my childhood journey.

No words capture the essence of the time quite like those of Charles Dickens, who famously wrote: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

His words resonate deeply with the contradictions of that era—an era of profound progress and equal confusion, where hope and despair danced hand in hand, shaping the collective consciousness of those decades. Yet, as children, we remained blissfully aware only of its brighter, more hopeful side.