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 grain 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 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. Your passing has left us heartbroken, and there isn’t a dry eye among those whose lives you touched and whose hearts you warmed. You will always be remembered as a wonderful father and an exceptional role model. You lived life on your own terms, fully and honorably, loving your family as deeply as you loved your country and the values you upheld. 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. I pray you are now in a place free from the pain of your rheumatism. Amen.