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.