Peculiar Beggars Noureddine Boutahar

In my childhood, our country home was frequently visited by people of every stripe, but some were so memorable they etched themselves into my memory like indelible tattoos. Of all these visitors, four figures remain vivid in the gallery of my memory, each defined by unique traits, by the light they shed and the shadows they left behind. They were vagrants in a peculiar twilight—neither beggars nor kin, neither saints nor sinners—hovering in the ambiguous space between need and familiarity, often veiled in an air of sanctity.

The first was Moulay Thami, a Fkih—a traditional Islamic scholar revered for his memorization of the Quran and his role as a teacher. This particular Fkih, with his singular demeanor, stood apart for the musicality of his recitations, which bore a striking resemblance to the crooning of popular singers. A self-proclaimed Sharif, claiming descent from the Prophet Mohammed, he hailed from the tribe of Ait Yadin, north of Khemisset. These twin credentials—his scholarship and lineage—he wore like a shield of invincibility, granting him entry to every home and the audacity to negotiate the alms he believed were his due. He loaded butter, wool, grains, and olive oil onto the large and robust panniers of his mule. This brown beast, large and strong, docile and obedient, reminiscent of George Washington’s Ruth mule, bore his loot to the souk, where charity transformed into coin. Regardless of the weather, he invariably wore two djellabas, the lighter beneath the heavier. A loosely wound turban perpetually crowned his head, and with each step, his yellow babouches revealed cracked heels that grazed the ground. During his stays, which lasted a day or two, Moulay Thami punctuated our meals with Quranic recitations and prayers. Yet, with us children, his piety dissolved into a kind of Miss Trunchbull’s misopedia and tyranny. His voice, sharp as a coachman’s whip, demanded silence when we shouted, cried, or sang, and his threats—cutting off ears and other outlandish punishments—hung over us like a sword of Damocles.

The second was a kif (cannabis) smoker, a man marked by frailty and serene detachment. He drifted into our lives like a puff of smoke from his sebssi (a narrow, clay-bowled pipe), which seemed like an extension of his being. Originating in Meknes and claiming Sharif lineage, his visits were brief, no more than a single day and night, yet they lingered in the air like his cannabis scent. The last image I retain of him is of a man with a scrawny physique and a protuberant Adam's apple, wearing a military jacket worn over a dingy shirt, its collar frayed and uneven. His pants, bleached of color by wear, and his military lace-up boots, scuffed at the toes, had also begun to lose their color. He was a man of few bites but fervent smoke, like a mystic at prayer. We, the children, watched him with the fascination reserved for the strange and forbidden, peering from behind covers as he carved his kif with precision, filling his pipe as though performing a sacred rite. Quiet and untroubled, he rarely spoke, offering only monosyllabic answers to my father’s questions about his family. To us children, he was a curious enigma, embodying the indifference of a sunbathing cat, utterly oblivious to the world around him. Sharif Boul’issi—or "the cannabis addict Sharif," as we called him—preferred cash only, likely because he made his rounds on foot, carrying his addiction tools in his worn bag. Yet even as a child, I struggled to reconcile the idea of a pothead with the baraka—the divine blessing—we were told he carried.

The third visitor was a real freeloader of disconcerting cunning—a man who came not out of necessity, but out of ingrained habit, like a migratory bird returning to its field of plenty. Twice a year, he appeared: once in spring for butter and wool, and again in summer for grains. Each visit, he commandeered one of our mules to haul his "spoils" from neighboring families, leaving us shorthanded during busy seasons. We not only provided the mount but also served as the storehouse for his "loot." In time, he would ask my father or uncle to sell these goods at the souk so he could return home with cash in hand. This man, pale and overweight, hailed from Ouazzane, where he worked as a tailor and imam, leading prayers at one of the town's mosques. His hands and feet—soft, hairy, and as pale as unworked dough—betrayed a life untouched by the grueling labor that had left ours weathered and calloused. In contrast to the babouches favored by most men of his generation, he invariably wore highly polished shoes and pristine white Ouazzani djellabas. He stayed for a dozen scattered days, his presence an unwelcome burden we endured with clenched teeth and bowed heads. Refusing him was unthinkable; to deny a holy man, even one so dubious, was to risk invoking dreadful curses—or so we believed. Our hospitality, though reluctant, was deeply rooted in tradition and fear, a reflection of the unyielding power such superstitions held over our lives.

And then there was A’mi Assem, the one visitor who brought light rather than darkness. A short, podgy old man with a face wrinkled and weathered like ancient wood, he traveled from an unknown tribe each summer, arriving astride a modest brown donkey. Due to the oppressive summer heat, the man often chose a lightweight, loose-fitting darraiya tunic. Though clean, the fabric showed the wear of many seasons. Beneath it, a modest, well-maintained but clearly not new shirt occasionally peeked through. The darraiya's short hem revealed the tapered ends of his Kandrissi pants, which covered only part of his slender, hairless calves, lending him a quiet fragility. His worn, colorless babouches bore the imprint of his overlapping big and index toes. If the other visitors were storms, he was a soft breeze, moving with a quietude that belied his years. A’mi Assem could sit cross-legged like a Buddha statue for hours, his stillness so profound it became a parable for restless children like us. He carried in his pocket a small handful of decorticated fava beans, a humble remedy for his heartburn, which he chewed slowly, methodically, as though savoring the rhythm of life itself. Unlike the other beggars, he accepted our family’s offerings with grace—a smile, a murmured “Allah yakhlef” (may God repay your kindness), and a prayer of gratitude that seemed to fill the house with a rare warmth. As kids, he was our favorite, a storyteller who spun tales as rich as the delicate threads of tapestry. His jokes, though simple, made us laugh heartily, and if they didn’t, his tickling hands ensured we would. A’mi Assem was a man who gave as much as he took, leaving behind a trail of joy and cherished memories.

Each of these visitors came with the assurance they would not leave empty-handed or empty-bellied. Some were truly needy, deserving the charity they received; others were opportunists cloaked in the guise of sanctity. Regardless, my family’s generosity never faltered. They lived by the Amazigh proverb “ig lkhir th’toot”, equivalent to the English “do good and forget it.” They cast their bread upon the waters with no thought of its return, believing instead in the quiet power of kindness. For them, charity was not a transaction but a seed of faith planted and watered with the hope that even the most hardened hearts might someday blossom. 

My 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.

My Circumcision Noureddine Boutahar

Circumcision, the ancient ritual of removing the foreskin, is common to Judaism, Islam, and some Christian groups. Often performed on infants, it’s a symbol of faith, purity, and sometimes health. In Morocco, circumcision is referred to as t’hara, meaning purification, and is celebrated by families with parties that range from simple to grand, depending on means and custom.

In my case, as part of a large family of siblings and cousins, the circumcision was a group event, shared with my younger brother Abdelmajid and our cousin Hamid, who was the youngest. I was the eldest, almost six, and many details remain etched in my memory as if it all happened yesterday. I never understood why my family had waited so long to circumcize me, though there is no fixed age for it in Islam.

Our celebration took place on a summer day in the sixties. My family pitched a series of popular Amazigh black tents for the guests: separate ones for men, women, and young men. In each, the best carpets were spread, tables set, and tea essentials readied a couple of days in advance. Tea, at these gatherings, was more than a drink; it was the lifeblood of Amazigh hospitality, served continuously throughout the day. It was more than just beverage; it was the essence that wove gatherings together, nurturing camaraderie and breathing life into conversations at these assemblies.

The night before, our hands and feet were covered in henna—a ritual preparation for the day ahead. My grandmother had dried and ground the plant from Zagora into a fine powder days before. Close relatives, mostly women, sang and danced to the bendir’s beat as they applied the paste, continuing late into the night. The young girls wore delicate henna patterns as well, which I later learned symbolized blessings for future marriages.

The following day, family and neighbors, young and old, arrived in their finest traditional attire. The women wore ornate kaftans and elegant takchitas—two-layered kaftans with one simple layer beneath a more decorative outer layer—paired with impressive, mostly silver jewelry. The men donned light jellabas suited to the summer heat or mismatched suits. They all arrived on foot, on horses, mules, or donkeys, each decorated with handwoven hanbel rugs. Some rugs were striped, while others featured intricate patterns and sequins that shimmered in the sunlight like gem pendents. 

That red-letter day was a swirl of songs, dances, and the booming sounds of fantasia horsemanship. Inside the two largest adjoining tents, the men chatted, teased, and commented on the fantasia, an awe-inspiring display of skilled horsemanship traditionally performed for family milestones like circumcisions, weddings, and other festive occasions. Meanwhile, the women sang and danced tirelessly to the rhythms of bendirs and the strains of a violin skillfully played by a young boy who had crafted it himself from a tin jerrycan that once held pesticides.

I enjoyed the atmosphere but sensed something unusual in the air. First, we three were hennayed and dressed up in a way that felt extravagant, like bridegooms. Second, I overheard snippets of conversation hinting that we were the reason for all this attention. Finally, when ahjjam, the barber and a circumcision expert, arrived, my suspicions were almost confirmed. This barber, a family friend from Jirry near Meknes, was a polymath—part barber, part healer, skilled in hijama (cupping), circumcision, and cautery. He traveled on a prized palomino mule, saddled like a horse, with a white mane that made it stand out. His presence cemented my growing anxiety, keeping me on high alert.

When lunch began, the fantasia and dancing paused, and guests settled for the feast: roasted lamb méchoui -- the timeless centerpiece of such rural celebrations-- followed by lamb tajine, and finally couscous with free-range chicken. For dessert, trays of watermelon and black and yellow grapes were served, all quickly devoured. Afterward, the true purpose of the gathering became clear. As talk turned to "the kids" and our names were mentioned here and there, someone called my name. I darted from the tent and ran as fast as I could, but my uncle, swift as an eagle, soon caught me by the scruff of my neck, hoisted me into the air, my legs flailing as I struggled to escape.

Despite my resistance, ahjjam had his ways. In mere moments, it was over, and I was in my grandmother’s arms, sobbing my heart out.  My two companions followed suit, their cries mingling with mine as a circle of women surrounded us, their ululations and songs filling the air to muffle our sobs. Their songs included verses like biast aya hajjam (“Cut it, barber!”) and asi afous nek zik (“Lift your hands and leave!”).

After the ordeal, the gift-giving began. Families placed their offerings on tisguit—woven palm trays carried atop the heads of dancing women—and aghanim (reed) notched along their length, and decorated with hanging paper money, and capped with mint bouquets. In addition to circumcision songs, chants of praise filled the air, celebrating our family ties and the importance of gift-giving, with verses in Amazigh and occasionally heavily accented Arabic.

For several days, I was pampered indoors, my every whim indulged by my grandmother. Yet, I was kept clad only in a loose daraia tunic, forbidden from wearing undergarments. Despite this cosseting, I craved the fresh air and freedom outdoors. Within two weeks, I was back to my usual leisure pursuits—running, climbing trees, and riding animals. However, the experience left a lasting impression. Decades later, when my son underwent circumcision, I found myself crying downstairs, a surge of sympathy for my parents washing over me.

May our parents rest in peace. We seldom grasp the depth of their quiet endurance until we find ourselves walking their path with our own children, feeling the weight of their sacrifices and love in ways we never could before. Children, it seems, are born to decipher what our parents left unsaid.

 

Our Breakfasts: A Taste of Tradition Noureddine Boutahar

In the countryside of the The Sixties and The Seventies, our breakfasts
were seasonal affairs, woven from the land’s bounty and sustained by the fruits of our labor. Our table depended heavily on home-grown produce, yet it was never the same; it shifted with the seasons, transformed on holidays, and took on special flavors when guests and visitors graced our home.

Each morning, our breakfast was grounded in the earthy taste of homemade bread or harcha—the quintessential Amazigh breakfast semolina flatbread baked from wheat grown in our fields, or sometimes corn or barley, depending on the season. Shaped over a wood fire on a clay griddle, these loaves were often as big as a medium size car wheel, sized to satisfy a family of many mouths, eating in shifts most of the time. The women who prepared and served breakfast often ate last, tucked away in the kanoun—the small space reserved for cooking. The scent of warm bread wrapped around them like a soft shawl as they ate, often while still tending to the meal of latecomers.

Preparing a meal was a ritual that required firewood or dried cow dung, three stones to prop up the griddle, and a raboz (bellows) to breathe life into the flames. At a pinch, if the bellows were busy or the rush was urgent, the women blew into the fire themselves, often at the cost of teary eyes from the smoke. Bread, our dawn companion, called the women from their beds in the wee small hours. They would grind the grain by hand with a traditional stone mill, turning it with the strength of, usually, two women across from each other. Then, they’d sift the flour, knead the dough, and leave it to rise. The soft, rhythmic voices of women turning the grinder, singing traditional and religious songs, became a gentle lullaby to my drowsy ears.

Alongside the bread, there was always fresh butter from our cows and rich olive oil from our trees, ready to be dipped and savored. Mint tea, steaming and fragrant, was our staple drink, though sometimes the luxurious aroma of coffee with milk slipped into the morning air. Two cups were the rule, but we, the children, knew how to stretch that rule, coaxing our way to a third and sometimes even a fourth.

For special days—Eids, visits from guests, or simply a change from routine—there was a stack of sheets of meloui, delicate pastry sheets slathered with butter and honey, and sfenj, my mother’s specialty. These airy, fried dough rings were a rare treat, appearing only two or three times a year, which made each bite feel like a small celebration.

In the winter’s chill, hearty soups, rich with medicinal herbs and spices to ward off colds, joined our breakfast. The scent of garlic, fenugreek, parsley, and coriander from our kitchen garden would drift through the house, calling us to the table. Chickpeas, broad beans, lentils, and chopped turnips added their flavor, scent, and texture to harira, our region’s signature soup. Sometimes, just before serving, my mother would crack a few eggs into the pot, and I’d delight and boast in finding a soft piece of egg in my bowl.

Summer had its own traditions. For us kids, breakfast began in the fig trees. Our family’s orchard was a small treasure trove, with each branch laden with figs in shades of tawny, yellow, brown, maroon, and purple. Armed with a hunk of bread, we’d climb to the highest branches, reaching for the ripest figs. Often, the birds had beaten us to the best ones, but we didn’t mind, biting around their pecked portions and eating figs straight from the branch, dirt and all; hygiene was a distant thought. If one of us found an untouched fig, we’d boast about it to the others, showing off our prize before devouring it or sharing it to let everyone in on the moment’s sweetness. Sometimes, we’d stop by the kitchen garden, picking a tomato, carrot, or turnip, rinsing it in the irrigation ditch, and eating it whole and unpeeled before heading inside for the formal breakfast. The elders would wash the figs we brought in baskets, adding them to the table—a vibrant splash of color against the bread and tea.

In the countryside where I grew up, life often began after a nourishing breakfast and a revitalizing cup of mint tea. My uncle, the hardest-working man I knew, held fast to the motto, "Breakfast is the fuel for champions." He wasn’t a learned man, but he believed deeply in the power of a hearty meal to stoke the fires of energy and set the day on the right track. And so, each morning, breakfast became a veritable feast we eagerly anticipated, preparing us to face whatever the day held in store.

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.

Tall as Trees Noureddine Boutahar

I come from a family of towering men. My grandfather, father, my one uncle, and both my elder and one younger brother—all tall, standing like proud cedar trees of the Atlas Mountains. In people’s conversations, our family often served as the quintessential illustration, whether height was praised or poked fun at.

I had always been a bit taller than my peers, but during junior school, I shot up like a reed in the wetlands. I sprouted to almost six feet, a height that came with its own set of challenges. Adolescence is already a time of turmoil, but this sudden stretch added a layer of body dysmorphia to my other teenage worries. Not only did I loom over my classmates, but I was also skinny—an easy target for a barrage of teasing. Giraffe, beanstalk, long legs, minaret, house ladder—these names clung to me like weeds in a garden. I laughed along, but inside, the sting was bitter and hard to ignore.

My height came with practical problems too. Shoes were an issue. I needed larger sizes, which made my feet seem oversized and awkward. Clothes didn’t fit either—pants barely reached my ankles, shirt sleeves stopped at my wrists. It was hard enough being a teenager, but when your body doesn’t fit, literally and figuratively, into the world around you, it adds a new burden  to your shoulders. I spent my youth trying to shrink myself, folding inward, as if that could make me blend in.

Standing or walking with friends, I towered over them. The tallest barely reached my shoulders, and so I adapted. I hunched, bent my knees, wore shoes with no heels. I positioned myself on the lower ground, hoping to appear less tall. I suggested we sit on the floor, on the grass, on doorsteps—anywhere but standing, where my height would set me apart.

In class, being a good student came with its own complications. I liked to sit at the front, eager to learn, but students behind me often grumbled when they couldn’t see past my tall frame. I slouched or leaned left and right to give them a view of the blackboard. Some teachers, noticing the complaints, often relegated me to the back of the room. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice.

One particular incident stands out. My French physics teacher, a beautiful petite woman named Miss Barbara, called me to the board to solve a problem. As I stood writing, she slowly approached, her comments drawing her closer until she stood beside me. The class erupted into a loud laughter, louder than usual. Amidst the giggles, someone muttered, “il, il, il,” the French pronoun for "he." It didn’t take long to understand why—the teacher beside me formed the “i,” and I, towering over her, was the “l.” Together, we spelled “il.” Miss Barbara’s face flushed tomato-red, but not in anger. She turned to me, confused. I explained, "Madame, ils rient parce que vous paraissez très petite à côté de moi, qui suis très grand." (Ma'am, they're laughing because you look so small standing next to me, as I'm quite tall.) Her face softened, and she leaned into the joke, standing even closer to emphasize the contrast further, which made the roar even louder, almost hysterical.

As laughter died down, the teacher began speaking. She wasn’t just talking to me now—she was talking to the entire class. She reminded us that none of us are born the way we choose, that the beauty of life lies in its diversity—of height, language, skin color. She spoke of tolerance, of empathy, of putting ourselves in others’ shoes. She continued for a while, and although her insightful words have faded from my memory over the years, her speech held the room captive. For the first time, I felt something shift. Some of my classmates wore guilty expressions, and I could tell the teasing had lost its bite.

Miss Barbara’s ‘lesson’ gave me something I hadn’t realized I needed—a foundation to build on. Gradually, I started to accept my height, wearing shoes with small heels instead of hiding. I began to see the advantages of being tall, researching famous tall figures in history—both saints and scholars. Over time, I learned to laugh at my height. I’d even joke about it with friends, suggesting we line up by height and laughing heartily when I easily topped the list. I’d tell friends and classmates that, while I wasn’t a seer, my height gave me a unique view of the future. The girls especially liked when I joked that one day I’d marry a shorter woman—so she wouldn’t notice when I started going bald.

In the end, tall or short doesn’t matter. What defines a person isn’t the inches they stand but the character they carry within. As the pre-Islamic Arabian poet, Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma said:

A man's tongue is one half, his heart the other,

Leaving only the form of flesh and blood.

How often does a youth's beauty captivate you,

Yet his worth rises or falls by the way he speaks.

That’s what I’ve come to learn—no height or nickname could define one more than one’s words and actions ever would.

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.