My Circumcision Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Our Breakfasts: A Taste of Tradition Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Humble Abode in the 1960s Noureddine Boutahar

Our abode in the 1960s was a humble yet enchanting haven, a harmonious blend of simplicity and ancient tradition. Our home was a rustic ensemble, comprising a sturdy stone room and two weathered reed and clay shacks, their walls etched with the silent stories of a life lived in harmony with nature. At the heart of this tranquil abode stood our majestic black Amazigh tent, a singular gem that cast a quiet dignity over the entire surrounding. Nearby, a smaller tent was staked for our shepherd, while two more, ready for our nomadic journeys, awaited the call of the seasons. As the rhythm of the land dictated, my father and uncle would head to the verdant pastures of the mountains, forever attuned to the intricate dance of nature's cycles.

This magnificient tent was not merely a shelter; it was a cherished sanctuary, meticulously cared for and revered. It was there that we welcomed guests, and it was there that family gathered for special occasions, such as the Eids (religious ceremonies). Unlike any other structure, the tent was crafted with unparalleled artistry from a blend of black and brown goat hair, every fiber woven with intention and care. Skilled women, including my mother and grandmother, meticulously wove the rectangular panels, while the men, on a designated day of communal effort, meticulously sewed these panels together. This special occasion was marked by the preparation of a sumptuous feast, a couple of roasted roosters or sheep, shared with neighbors who joined in the festivities and lent their hands to the task. The tent’s very presence inspired awe within our Amazigh community, symbolizing both the architectural wisdom of our ancestors and the profound bond our people shared with nature. Each thread told a story, a testament to the artistry of our people, passed down and refined over generations, weaving beauty and purpose into every detail.

 By nightfall, our cows—loyal companions on our agrarian journey—were tethered to rugged wooden stakes with thick ropes made from goat hair or from esparto (halfa) grass. For the sheep, goats, and occasional lambs, we fashioned rough-hewn shelters from tree branches, favoring the protective strength of jujube trees to shield them from the elements and lurking wolves. This rustic tapestry extended to our poultry, too, housed in simple sheds crafted from dry reeds and hay, creating warm, cozy nooks for chickens, turkeys, and guinea fowl. Yet some birds, especially the adventurous guinea fowl, often found refuge in the branches of nearby trees, serving as vigilant sentinels, ever ready to sound the alarm when strangers or wild creatures neared.

In our traditions of hospitality, livestock and poultry took on special roles, with each guest honored according to their place in a silent hierarchy. Family guests were offered succulent chicken, while turkey and buttery homemade bread from our own wheat fields were reserved for close friends. The rarest honor—a roasted sheep—was saved for the most distinguished visitors. Within this ecosystem, the poultry also served a practical role; they were managed by the women of our family. My grandmother, mother, and aunt raised chickens, selling eggs and fattened birds to earn modest sums. These earnings became small luxuries—occasional makeup or clothing, things they bought when their husbands could not, or chose not to. When a cherished guest arrived, my father or grandfather would buy the finest rooster from the women, turning it into a culinary gift for our visitors.

As for our broad beans, peas, oat, wheat, and barley, they were stored in granaries crafted with a blend of semi-modern and traditional designs, each element serving its purpose with distinct craftsmanship. Our semi-modern granary was a solid stone room with a cement floor, built to provide sturdier, more permanent storage. In contrast, the traditional granaries were a collection of large, circular containers made from interwoven reeds and clay, their interiors carefully paved with cow dung to improve insulation and preserve the grain's quality. I fondly recall three of these traditional granaries standing just behind our main stable, and I sometimes joined in to watch as my father, uncle, and a hired hand built them with remarkable dedication. I loved witnessing the happiness, camaraderie, and care they poured into their work—each step marked by a true pride in their craft and a shared sense of purpose.

This was “the land that made me me”, the soil from which I sprang. To some, it may have seemed like the middle of nowhere, but to me, it was the heart of everything. Others might see it as outdated, quaint, even old-fashioned, but to me, it was the best of times in the finest of places.