The Jewish Peddler Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A Generation Adrift: The Decline of Curiosity in Education Noureddine Boutahar

Not long ago, I was watching a football match in a local coffee shop when a seemingly trivial yet telling incident unfolded. It rekindled a dormant sadness about the state of today’s education—the alarming shallowness of knowledge among young people.

Two Portuguese teams were playing, while nearby, two stylishly dressed young men sat watching, their attention divided between the match on TV and their gleaming iPhones. Their brand-new devices, pristine sneakers, heavy gold necklaces, and easy confidence spoke of a generation fluent in the language of consumerism. I soon learned they were twelfth graders at a nearby high school.

As they commented on the players, one suddenly turned to the waiter and said, “Karim, could you change the language, please? No one here speaks Brazilian.” He then looked at me and smiled, expecting agreement. I smiled back, but as a teacher, I couldn’t ignore the glaring error.

Curious whether it was a slip of the tongue, a joke, or a genuine misconception, I asked, “What nationality are the teams?”

“Portuguese,” he replied.

“And what language do people in Portugal speak?”

“Portuguese,” he answered without hesitation.

“And in Brazil?”

“Brazilian,” he said, brimming with confidence.

Gently, I corrected him, explaining that the language on TV was Portuguese, not ‘Brazilian.’ I added that Brazil’s official language is Portuguese, spoken by nearly all of its population due to Portugal’s colonization. I compared it to how Morocco and Algeria speak French due to French colonization or how India and Pakistan use English because of British rule. He listened intently, nodding in appreciation, as if a light had just switched on in his mind.

This brief exchange sent me down memory lane. At his age, my knowledge of geography and history was far more robust. I recalled my demanding teacher, Mr. Terrab, who made us memorize the names and geographical features of all the countries in the curriculum—their mountains, rivers, lakes, capitals, and even their political systems. Each lesson began with a rigorous exercise: he would call four students to the board and give each one a task—for example, one to draw Africa with all its countries, another to mark the world’s mountains, a third to trace Morocco’s rivers, and a fourth to outline the mineral resources of North Africa. By high school, I could navigate the world’s political, historical, and geographical landscapes with ease.

As students, we quizzed each other relentlessly on global knowledge, boasting about who knew more about world leaders, historical events, and political affairs. Though many of us had little, wearing threadbare clothes and barely owning a second outfit, we were hungry to learn. Knowledge was our currency, and we spent it lavishly.

But today’s students? Speaking from experience, many struggle to locate Mali, Botswana, or Sierra Leone on a map. Some mistakenly place African nations in Europe, confuse European countries with those in Asia, or mix up Latin American nations with disconcerting ease. Many pass through school relying on malpractice, flaunting the latest sneakers and chasing after the newest phone models, yet remaining indifferent to the vast world beyond their screens.

This realization filled me with frustration. The spark of curiosity, once the heartbeat of education, has dimmed. In its place, gossip, social media trends, and passive learning reign supreme. The classroom, once a vibrant arena of ideas, now feels like an abandoned shrine—students mechanically copying from the board, disengaged and uninspired. Education has become a hollow ritual, a performance where teachers and students alike simply go through the motions.

Who bears the blame? Governments have surrendered to market forces, parents have abdicated their roles, teachers feel powerless, and the entire education system has turned students into guinea pigs for so long. All share responsibility for this generational drift.

I honestly don’t know whether to blame, scold, or sympathize with this generation. It is a "depressed generation" swept up in a digital whirlwind, constantly bombarded with images of seemingly perfect lives. It measures status in likes, self-worth in followers, and knowledge in whatever Google can spit out in seconds. It fails to see that this curated reality is often a mirage—where the one preaching healthy living may secretly binge on junk food; the one presenting a virtuous image might lead a double life. This culture of superficiality has stripped today’s students of critical thinking, replacing deep understanding with fleeting digital convenience.

And yet, it is hard to remain hopeful when this generation struggles not just academically but culturally and intellectually under the weight of ongoing sociopolitical crises. They navigate a dystopian era plagued by stifling mediocrity, systemic rampant corruption, economic instability, resurgent diseases, brutal wars, nuclear threats, family breakdowns, and the ever-looming shadow of climate change. Hope falters when our public schools succumb to Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmares of so-called reforms, with students reduced to mere pawns in a bigger game. Optimism falters when our public education system, once a sturdy edifice, is collapsing inward like a house of cards, or, in Mohammed Gahs's stark words, 'a massive, upside-down corpse.'

The core issue extends beyond a failing education system; it’s a profound cultural shift. To reignite intellectual curiosity, we must all— governed and governors alike—radically rethink how we educate and inspire young minds. Otherwise, if the old saying holds true—'you reap what you sow'—then we risk raising a generation of passive consumers, exhibiting the Dunning-Kruger effect, adrift in a sea of information yet understanding so little of its depths.

The Architecture of Character Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Echoes of Neighborly Bonds Noureddine Boutahar

An Amazigh proverb wisely states, "Yuf

uzgar gar ajjar"—better a jujube hedge than a bad neighbor. Yet, my childhood neighbors were neither thorny shrubs nor bad apples. They were beacons of kindness, nurturing harmonious and peaceful lives. We didn't choose them; tradition and custom fostered respect, friendship, and mutual support. Our nearest neighbors lived two miles away, yet the rhythms of rural life and the demands of animal husbandry intertwined our lives. This created a rich tapestry of daily interaction. We shared a unique bond with our immediate neighbors, distinct from our good relations with the rest of the tribe: we had all emigrated to Tizitine, a land not our own.

To the north, like a lone willow tree on the horizon, stood the home of the Meknassi family—named for their patriarch, a man who carried the city of Meknes in his very name. Brought to the region by a European colonist to manage the farm where he lived, Meknassi was a reserved figure, his caution an invisible shield around his home. Few crossed his threshold, yet our family was a welcome exception. His wife and children would occasionally visit, bringing small gifts of henna, headscarves, traditional cakes, and other Moroccan treats. We reciprocated with flavorful meals from the Moroccan smorgasbord—traditional dishes like rfissa, marchouch, couscous, and, of course, the ever-present mint tea. We freely shared what we could with the Meknassi family and borrowed farming tools, kitchen utensils, and, at times, foodstuff without hesitation or fear of refusal. On Eid days, the Meknassi family joined us to break bread, sharing pastries as if we were not simply neighbors but petals of the same flower. Together, our families always weathered the storms of sorrow and reveled in the sunlight of joy, offering unwavering support to one another. Perhaps Meknassi’s reserve stemmed from his unfamiliarity with this new land, a fear of the unknown. Or perhaps it was our family’s reputation for hospitality and peacemaking that drew him to us, like a weary traveler finding solace in a shaded grove. When Ssi Abid Boubia bought the estate and the Meknassis had to leave, it was a heart-wrenching day; saying goodbye was a very tearful occasion for my family.

To the south lived the Said Boubia family, later bound to ours by marriage. Said Boubia, the family patriarch, had been brought to the area from Doukkala, near El Jadida, by his father, a traveling peddler. Embracing their new surroundings, they made this place their home and learnt Tamazight. Said who grew up here and married an Amazigh woman, spoke it so fluently that the little Arabic he knew was unmistakably tinged with the tones of Tamazight. He became my grandfather’s closest friend—a man with the heart of a troubadour and the soul of a nomad. Carefree and resilient, he approached life as a song to be sung, not a treasure to be hoarded. Though he was middle-class by countryside standards, he always referred to money as “lushekh n dunith”—earthly dross. Said and my grandfather met almost daily in the grazing pastures, their camaraderie as natural as the sunrise over the Tizitine hills. Together, they tended their livestock, frequented the souk, and attended celebrations, as inseparable as a well-worn pair of boots. Said’s unannounced visits were legendary—a blend of spontaneity and humor that gave him the charm of a modern-day minstrel. Their friendship was a deep, flowing river, nourishing both families with laughter and unwavering trust. When Said’s wife, Hadda, passed away, my grandmother stepped in as a surrogate mother to his children, who called her “Tchia” with the same affection as my father and uncle. We generously shared what we had with the Ait Said, as we called them, and borrowed farming tools and kitchen utensils from each other with confidence, knowing they would never be refused. This, coupled with Said’s son later marrying my elder sister, deepened the bond between our families, transforming simple neighborliness into something akin to kinship—a connection forged in shared joys and sorrows, shared pastures and celebrations, and a profound understanding of life’s rhythms.

To the west lay the grand estate of the Benaissa Boubia family, their wealth stretching as far as the Tizitine horizons. They were the region's prominent landowners, possessing vast herds and sprawling fields; their affluence radiated like the glow of a distant sun—warm yet seemingly unattainable. Benaissa Boubia’s father, a humble traveling peddler from Doukkala, had been the first of the Boubia family to settle there, later joined by other kin. Benaissa grew up in Tizitine, learnt Tamazight, married Amazigh women, and adopted it as his everyday language, eventually losing fluency in his mother tongue and its tonal qualities. Benaissa, also adept at buying and selling, honed his skills to become among the most influential and prosperous figures, perhaps even the most influential. Yet, despite their considerable wealth, they treated us with a disarming humility that bridged any social divide. Benaissa himself, a man of stature and influence, often sought the company, and especially the counsel, of my father and grandfather, valuing their honesty and wisdom as a guiding compass in his affairs. His life experiences and paternal upbringing instilled in him a discerning approach to companionship, as evidenced by his wisely chosen friends and carefully selected words when speaking. His four wives, who divided their lives  between the city and the countryside, found solace and guidance in the gentle wisdom of my grandmother, who had midwived most of their children. As a child, I cherished accompanying my grandmother to their estate, knowing I would be treated to the finest confections from Meknes. Our annual formal gathering to host them saw our table overflow with dishes fit for royalty: mechoui, couscous, and free-range chicken—offerings symbolizing respect, reciprocity, and the generous hospitality befitting their prestige. When they came, with a family as large as theirs, their journey became a spectacle: some scoot and squish to make room for each other in the blue Renault 16, its elegant sway through curves reminiscent of a ballet dancer’s poise, while the rest rode in the cab and truck bed of their Ford lorry, its relentless charge over rugged terrain evoking the raw power of a bull. We plowed Baba Issat’s (as we sometimes called him) land, grazed our livestock in his fields, and occasionally worked for him, yet there was never even the slightest hint of discord.

Finally, to the east, like modest wildflowers gracing the edge of a meadow, stood the humble home of Boujemaa Agra, and his two brothers. Like our own family, they had been displaced from their ancestral lands, forced to toil for colonial settlers and affluent families. Their possessions were few—a small plot of marginal land, a handful of goats dotting the dry landscape, and a pair of sturdy donkeys—yet their hearts overflowed with kindness and generosity. Uncle Boujemaa, the head of the family, brought moments of pure joy with his visits, awaited with the same eager anticipation as the first drops of spring rain on parched earth. A natural with children, he invariably carried a small stash of sweets, delighting any child he encountered on his way to work, the souk, or while running errands. His wife and children occasionally visited when she missed our company and chats, their visits filled with shared meals, laughter, and the comforting aromas of traditional dishes such as rfissa, marchouch, and other traditional 'women' dishes. I still picture Aunt Hmama arriving astride a massive donkey, the youngest child in front and the older one behind—a living embodiment of the Amazigh saying "There's always room for one more," sometimes accompanied by her sister-in-law, Aunt Rukia, on foot. Each Monday, upon returning from the souk, Uncle Boujemaa transformed into a veritable Pied Piper, scattering trail mix and sweets along the dusty road to his home. This weekly ritual endeared him not only to the neighborhood children but to those of the entire tribe. In gratitude, we would kiss his hand, a small but sincere token of our appreciation for the warmth he brought into our lives. Having Uncle Boujemaa as a neighbor was a constant comfort, like resting against a soft cotton pillow—a reliable presence always there to ease life's burdens. His black Wellington boots, worn almost year-round, spoke of his practical nature and readiness to assist; my family knew they could always count on him when they needed help.

As the Chinese proverb wisely states, “A good neighbor is a found treasure,” this rings especially true in today’s fast-paced urban jungles. The once-vibrant tapestry of neighborly relationships has unraveled, its threads frayed by the relentless pace of modern life. Busy schedules, anonymity, and barriers of detachment have replaced the warmth of shared meals and the comfort of familiar faces. In earlier times, a knock at the door or the arrival of a visitor brought joy that enlivened the entire household. It signified more than mere company—it carried the promise of shared moments, a lovingly prepared dish, and the warmth of genuine connection. Today, however, such visits often provoke feelings of displeasure, irritation, or even frustration. Why have these bonds of neighborly goodwill and connection faded into distant memories, seemingly beyond revival? Perhaps it is because the soil of modern cities, unlike the rich, welcoming earth of the countryside, struggles to cultivate the roots of authentic human connection. Or perhaps it is because modern society has yet to grasp a timeless truth: that life's inherent difficulties and perils are best navigated not in isolation, but in community.

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.