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.
