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.