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 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 a comforting companion that warmed every conversation.

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 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.

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 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.

When lunch began, the fantasia and dancing paused, and guests settled for the feast: roasted lamb méchoui, 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 collar, lifted 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 sticks notched along their length, and decorated with hanging paper money, and capped with mint bouquets. Songs of praise filled the air, celebrating our family ties and the importance of gift-giving, with verses in Amazigh and occasionally 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 pampering, 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. Years 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.

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.