Shadows and Lessons from Boston (contd) Noureddine Boutahar

 Boston reveals itself as a quiet visual composition, where layers of history stand shoulder to shoulder with a contemporary pulse and a firmly rooted academic spirit. It is a gentle city, yet heavy with memory; its landmarks speak eloquently of the transformations they have witnessed. From the Freedom Trail, its red line threading through old houses, silent churches, and the State House, to the precincts of Harvard University in Cambridge—where knowledge carries its own dignity and life moves to a modest, unhurried
rhythm—the past and the present interlace without clamor. This sense of clarity deepens during a stroll along the Charles River, which flows like an artery of light and water, dividing the city without tearing it apart, and then in the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA), where art speaks in whispers and identities recede before the eye’s astonishment. Meanwhile, The T moves like an unseen thread, stitching places to faces and moments, affirming that Boston is not merely a place, but a state of being—one that quietly rearranges my relationship with time.

As days passed, Boston ceased to be a scene observed from the outside and became an experience lived from within. In its small details—in the measured pace of people’s steps, in their uncomplicated relationship with time, in the presence of books in cafés and on trains—there was a meaning that slipped in softly. A meaning not proclaimed aloud, but felt.

I came to realize, gradually, that reading here is neither an exceptional act nor a badge of cultural distinction; it is a daily habit, as natural as breathing. People carry books the way they carry their keys, returning to them whenever the day offers a small pocket of emptiness. It all seemed so ordinary as to pass unnoticed—except to someone arriving from a place where reading is an event rather than a routine. As the proverb goes, familiarity breeds content, and what is woven into everyday life rarely calls attention to itself.

I recall one day on The T, heading back from downtown toward the university district. The train was crowded, and I stood quietly watching faces. Most passengers were absorbed in their books, newspapers, or e-readers, as if each were traveling alone despite the crush. Suddenly the train lurched; I lost my balance and fell against a young lady seated nearby. I apologized, but she did not look up, nor did she show the slightest irritation. She was so immersed in her book that the surrounding world seemed no more than a faded backdrop.

In that moment, no grand explanation occurred to me, no ready-made conclusion. I simply sensed that reading creates around a person a calm distance—one that shields them from intrusion and offers an engagement deeper than watching others. Those who fill their time with what they read place a lighter burden on the world, granting others the simple right to be as they are. After all, empty minds are the devil’s workshop, while occupied ones tend toward quiet grace.

Thus Boston has remained in my memory: a city that does not teach by direct instruction, nor raise signposts telling you what to understand, but leaves its mark gently. A city that reminds you that what is built within endures more firmly than what is erected without, and that meaning—like a river—needs only a measure of silence to keep on flowing.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston Noureddine Boutahar

Boston University was never merely a stop along my academic path; it was a space where new layers of awareness took shape and where experiences accumulated with a depth no less profound than what I learned in lecture halls. Ah, Boston—a city that knows how to leave its mark on the soul, how to plant in memory shadows that do not fade with time. There, among the venerable buildings and quiet corridors of the university, I was not only a student in pursuit of knowledge, but a human being rediscovering himself, learning to see the world with wider eyes and a more attentive heart.

In those years, I lived in one of the university’s imposing wings—a residence modest in appearance yet rich in human encounters. I shared it with Si Ahmed, a Palestinian for whom Palestine lived in the chest long before it could ever be reduced to a place on a map. His talk was never mere political commentary or passing news; it was a daily confession of pain, memory, and a right that does not expire with time. He spoke of his homeland as one speaks of one’s mother—with raw sincerity and a loyalty that never runs dry. I listened at length, sensing—without his having to spell it out—that a homeland may be occupied in land, but it is never defeated as long as it lives in the hearts of its people. As the old saying goes, home is where the heart is.

The name of the building we lived in—Ignacio Hall—stirred a quiet curiosity in me. Who was this “Ignacio,” immortalized on a university wall? One day I asked a professor about him. She did not know the details, but she spoke of a well-rooted tradition in American academic culture: that students who find success return to their first university to give back, building a wing or endowing a facility that bears their name, in gratitude to the place that helped shape them. Her answer was less a lesson in history than in gratitude—a reminder that one good turn deserves another, and that true loyalty often speaks in deeds rather than slogans.

Beyond shared housing, Boston also gifted me a rare friendship whose warmth I still carry. Nasser, an Algerian from Kabylia, was my closest companion and daily confidant. Quiet and sparing with words, his presence was as reassuring as a clear morning. He faced life with a steady gaze, loved its simplicity, and lived in harmony with himself, as if calm itself had chosen to dwell in him. His Amazigh identity flowed in his veins without affectation or the need for proof—proof, after all, lies in being, not in saying.

I recall a day when we were strolling through downtown and came upon a large bookstore. We entered out of curiosity, perhaps also out of nostalgia for paper in an age when screens were beginning to elbow books aside. Silence ruled the place, until suddenly the strains of a Kabyle shatḥa drifted from a hidden speaker, breaking the stillness and awakening memory. In that instant, Nasser changed; something lit up in his eyes. He grasped the edges of his jacket and burst into the traditional Kabyle dance with pride and joy, oblivious to the surprised glances around him. I stood there, captivated, applauding, and understood then that true identity does not wither in exile—it often shines more brightly. You can take a man out of his land, but you cannot take the land out of the man.

Yet the deepest—and simplest—lesson came to me from an unexpected place: a glass door in the university library. One day, as I pushed it open, I felt it scraping the floor and wondered how such a flaw could go unattended. I remarked to Nasser, with mild disbelief, how Americans could overlook something so small. No one answered me that day. But the following morning, at precisely seven-thirty, we passed by the same spot. The door opened and closed smoothly, as if nothing had ever been wrong. I saw no maintenance worker and heard no tools—only the result. And then it dawned on me: progress is no magic trick, nor the child of chance; it is the quiet fruit of conscientious work done without fanfare. As the proverb has it, actions speak louder than words.

Novice Teachers and the Search for Ready-Made Material: A Closer Look. Noureddine Boutahar

A quick look at teacher forums and social media today reveals a striking scene: novice teachers, bright-eyed but often exhausted, frantically scour the internet and plead with colleagues for ready-made lesson plans, activities, tests, and quizzes. To an unsympathetic observer, this desperate search might look like laziness—a refusal to "do the hard yards" of planning. However, that view completely misses the forest for the trees. What we're actually seeing is not indolence, but a very real-world response to the huge chasm between pedagogical theory (what they learned) and classroom practice (what they face every day). This common behavior signals a systemic flaw, but it also reflects something admirable: a profound yearning to teach well, to make learning truly worthwhile for their students, and simply, to get it right.

As a teacher who began teaching in the late 1980s — an era of chalky fingers and clunky blackboards — I understand that impulse all too well. Back then, there were no search engines one could summon instant inspiration from, no online forums teeming with shared wisdom. I, too, sought ready-made material from experienced colleagues, hoping to pilfer their magic. Most refused — not out of meanness, but out of wisdom. Left to my own devices, I struggled through the nights, crafting my initial “pedagogical dishes” from scratch. Those years were my true apprenticeship, my baptism by fire.

I recall one sweltering afternoon when I was attempting to explain an English word without slipping into Arabic. My hair was damp with sweat, my patience thinning, my students wide-eyed. Years later, one of them — now a high-ranking official — reminded me of that exact moment: “I remember your long, straight hair was wet with sweat as you tried to define that word. Thanks for trying.” That single memory, more than any promotion or certificate, remains my greatest reward. As Paulo Freire once wrote, “Teaching is not the transfer of knowledge, but the creation of possibilities for its own production.”

Every young teacher deserves the grace to grunt and stumble, to burn their fingers a little before they become masters of the craft. Their hunger for pre-packaged lessons is not a quest for comfort but a hunger for excellence. They want their classes to shine, their students to grow, and their own hearts to feel the quietude of satisfaction of a lesson well-taught. The trouble is not in their desire, but in the system that leaves them insufficiently equipped to meet it.

In most teacher training institutes, theory is presented in sterile separation, as if classrooms were Petri dishes. Yet the real classroom is a living organism — unpredictable, noisy, and magnificiently imperfect. New teachers, thrust into this whirlwind, often feel like sailors thrown into a storm without a chart or compass. Their desperate search for ready-made materials is really a search for a lifeboat — a bridge between theory and practice, a concrete model to copy and adapt.

When novice teachers borrow, simplify, change and modify proven lessons, they are, in effect, standing on the shoulders of giants. Einstein once said, “The only source of knowledge is experience.” By reworking the experiences of others, they gain velocity in their own. This is not intellectual piracy; it is apprenticeship — a silent form of professional development where imitation precedes innovation.

But this reliance on shared resources also exposes a deeper ailment: the absence of sustained, on-the-job training and mentorship. My own growth as a teacher did not happen in isolation; it was nurtured by seasoned supervisors, lively pedagogical meetings in Morocco and abroad, and the courage to step outside my comfort zone through presentations and model lessons. Lacking such support and opportunities for growth, many teachers today turn instead to the digital agora — those vast online communities — as a substitute for the mentorship they never had.

Instead of wagging fingers at new teachers who “copy and paste,” we must listen to what their behavior is communicating. It is a call for help and guidance, not a confession of weakness. The solution lies not in shaming, but in scaffolding — in building systems that accompany the teacher’s early struggles with patience and generosity.

John Dewey once observed, “If we teach today’s students as we taught yesterday’s, we rob them of tomorrow.” The same applies to teachers. If we prepare them with outdated methods, we rob the classroom of its future vitality. Teacher training must break from abstract frameworks and shift towards living practice: model lessons, peer observation, and collaborative lesson studies where ideas are tested, refined, and shared.

Let us then reframe the narrative. The novice teacher’s search for ready-made materials is not a flaw to correct, but a spark to nurture — the flame of commitment that drives them to seek the best for their students. When properly guided, that search can evolve into a powerful culture of professional growth, where teachers learn with and from one another. As the old saying goes, “A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.”

And so, rather than dismissing the novice teachers’ quest, let us offer them matches instead of lectures, encouragement instead of criticism, help instead of prejudices — for in kindling one teacher’s flame, we brighten the entire classroom of tomorrow.

 

Saving Public Schools is Saving the Country. Noureddine Boutahar

Public education in Morocco has never been just a place to teach reading and writing; it is the collective memory and the true factory of the nation’s elites. Yet, through years of failed government policies, it has been deliberately maligned and painted as a corpse waiting to be buried—so that the gates of privatization can swing wide open. It is grossly unfair to reduce public schools to a story of failure. These very schools produced the doctors who filled our hospitals, the engineers who designed dams and roads, and the professionals who ran our institutions. They raised Morocco’s name high in international competitions. From their classrooms came the golden generation that built the foundations of an independent state, and their graduates compete in the world’s top universities. How can any government, with a straight face, deny this history and run away from these achievements?
The bitter truth is that successive governments never truly wanted to reform public education; they treated it like a guinea pig for half-baked experiments driven by partisan and electoral interests. Take the so-called “Arabization” policy: a hasty decision, only half-baked—Arabic in primary and secondary, but French still ruling higher education. The result? A deliberate exclusion of poor children, while the wealthy secured their future in private schools and foreign missions. As the proverb goes, “When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.”
And then came the notorious “Emergency Plan.” Billions were poured in, only to vanish into thin air. Nothing changed in classrooms, because planning was chaotic and decisions were made behind closed doors, far from the voices of teachers on the ground. Was this not organized chaos? Was this not a calculated demolition of the last bastion of social equality?
The latest brainchild of the government is the “Pioneer Schools” project  مدارس الريادة . The program promises to go back to basics, sharpening students’ skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic through methods like “Teaching at the Right Level” (TaRL). It also pledges ongoing teacher training, better school facilities, and stronger parental involvement.
Yet the scheme seems to have started off on the wrong foot. Just a couple of years in, teachers and parents already fear it is clipping the wings of top students merely to keep everyone on the same page. As a result, many families are flocking to private schools—a costly move at a time when household budgets are already stretched thin by soaring food prices.
Successive governments have pushed public schools to the back burner, even though they are the last line of defense for the poor against a system of privilege. Instead of protecting them, they colluded to weaken them—forcing struggling families into the arms of private education, piling debt on their shoulders. Call it what it is: a deliberate impoverishment of public education to fatten the private market.
What public schools need is not more empty talk, but political courage: to restore teachers’ dignity—long trampled underfoot—, to invest seriously in infrastructure, to modernize curricula with boldness, and to neutralize the power of the greedy lobbies that profit from failure. Otherwise, governments are not simply weakening education; they are burning the very bridges to the nation’s future. And as another proverb reminds us: “You reap what you sow.”

A Cry Against Chaos: The Funeral of Courtesy Noureddine Boutahar

Tahar Ben Jelloun, in his latest article, didn’t unveil a hidden truth or hand us a philosophical gem. He merely rubbed salt into our daily wound: the slow, humiliating death of manners and civic sense. Nothing groundbreaking here, except that while many of us keep burying our heads in the sand, Ben Jelloun stood up and shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are a nation addicted to chaos much like toddlers clinging to their toys!”

Yes, today we are hargawis of behavior—refugees from civility itself. We elbow and jostle in lines as if survival depended on it. We curse and insult at the drop of a hat, in full stereo, in front of children and grandparents alike. We feed stray cats and dogs on neighbors’ doorsteps as though sidewalks came with title deeds. We cross the road with the elegance of stampeding buffalo and then swear at whoever dares to honk. In cafés, buses, and other public places conversations are pitched at rock-concert levels, phone calls become public theater, and the rest of us are forced to applaud nonsense we never asked to hear. And when night falls, it is treated not as a time for rest, but as a sacred hour for collective harassment: music blaring, voices rising, laughter piercing as if we are not a community but lone Robinson Crusoes on a shared island.

And if that wasn’t enough, we’ve thrown in a few more “special effects”: skipping queues in bakeries and government offices as though we were God’s chosen; driving with the philosophy of “the road is mine and to hell with you”; blocking intersections to swap jokes and family gossip; honking horns like battle drums. Weddings become noise factories, complete with deafening music and ululations that could wake the dead, while the sick neighbor or weary worker be damned. Even funerals aren’t spared: we close streets, torment the living, and call it paying respect to the dead. And to put the cherry on the cake, we sprinkle in habits like letting our dogs run off-leash in public, leaving toilets unflushed so the stench can linger as a “souvenir,” blocking hallways as if they were personal living rooms, and seasoning it all with a generous dose of foul language in public spaces.

We tag public walls with vulgar graffiti that screams less “artistic expression” than “civilizational meltdown.” Garbage bins sit steps away, yet our trash prefers the street. Vigilantism, vandalism, hooliganism — we’ve turned every shade of antisocial behavior into a national folk dance. Children play football in alleys as though they were in the Champions League, while residents and drivers dodge balls instead of traffic. Smoking in public spaces is practically a civic duty now; object and you’ll quickly regret it—verbal abuse if you’re lucky, a fist or a spit in the face if you’re not. Apologies? Out of stock. Empathy? A relic. Giving a seat to an old man or priority to a pregnant woman? That’s for fairy tales.

The real punchline? We baptize this chaos with sugar-coated excuses: “It’s nothing,” “God forgive,” “hshooma,” “never mind him/her.” Voilà: breaking the law becomes charity, and disorder is paraded as a national virtue.

A few days ago, I remarked on a friend’s Facebook post that cafés had become breeding grounds for deliberate rudeness, where disturbing others is sport and confrontation is dessert. Within hours, two hundred people had clicked “like.” Proof, if any was needed, that this isn’t just my irritation—it’s a collective migraine. 

And let me add a little scene of my own. I was busy drafting this article when a series of odd clicking sounds snapped my concentration. I turned around, only to find a well-dressed gentleman — shiny suit, neatly tied necktie, the whole “respectable” package — casually clipping his nails right in the middle of a supposedly “upscale” café. Imagine that: a VIP outfit paired with a public-bathhouse habit! What refinement, what taste! A surreal moment that perfectly sums up our paradox — a society plastered with cosmetic polish on the outside, yet betrayed by its fingernails on the inside.

Ben Jelloun, then, wasn’t slandering his country. He just said, in elegant French, what the rest of us shout in vulgar Arabic: enough is enough.

His cry wasn’t an attack on the homeland, but an attempt to jolt it awake. He longs for Moroccans to be known again as polite and composed, not as a nation of people who excuse every misdeed under the tattered banner of “freedom.”

But if we keep dozing, mark my words: one day we’ll gather to pray the funeral prayer of the absent over our nation’s morals—a funeral with no corpse, for a country murdered by many of its own children’s bad manners and strangled by its rulers’ greed.

And the cure? Not rocket science. As Tahar Ben Jelloun himself suggested, enforce the law, punish the offenders, and—just maybe—teach citizens that society is not their private backyard. Until then, all the window dressing in the world won’t hide the rot.

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.

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.