The Sentence That Changed the Course of My Life. Noureddine Boutahar

In the early 1970s, deep in the Moroccan countryside, I was one of the lucky few in our school to pass the primary school

certificate exam (Shahada). Back then, that certificate carried as much weight as a high school diploma does today. Celebrating those who passed was a major event—families and neighbors would gather, and the entire tribe would beam with pride.

But behind the joy of success, another battle was brewing: the quest to find a middle school in the city. In post-independence Morocco, schools were few and far between, and boarding slots were few and far in between. Facing this uphill battle, my father made up his mind. He decided to take me to the city of Meknes so I could live with my aunt and join my older brother, who was already studying there.

However, the real hurdle was securing a seat. For two whole days, my father combed through every school in the city, only to be met with the same devastating, broken-record response: “Everything is full.” On the third day, we sat down for lunch. My father had returned dragging his feet from utter exhaustion. Before we even touched our food, he looked at me, completely heartbroken, and told me he couldn’t find a spot. Then, he caught me off guard with a defining question: “Do you want to go back to the countryside and herd livestock?” Without a second thought, I answered him in earnest Amazigh: “No, I want to study.”

At that exact moment, I saw my father’s face change completely. His eyes welled up with helpless tears, and despite his hunger, he lost his appetite. My father was a disciplined man of habit; he had a hearty appetite but stuck strictly to three fixed meals a day—a rigid routine he maintained until he passed away at nearly a hundred years old. Yet, my cry for an education had completely cut off his appetite that day.

The next morning, God rest his soul, he asked me to come with him to the Mohamed bin Abdullah Middle School in the heart of Meknes. It was a prestigious institution where most of the teaching staff were Europeans, along with a few Egyptians and Palestinians. The moment we walked into the courtyard, we saw the principal standing outside his office, looking impeccably sharp and imposing in his sunglasses. We had barely reached him, and before we could even offer a greeting, my father bowed down in sheer parental desperation, trying to kiss his feet just to secure a seat for me. The principal nobly stopped him, lifting him back up. After a moment of heavy silence, the principal glanced back and forth between my father and me, as if weighing the situation in his mind. Then, he turned to my father and promised to work something out.

And so he did. I joined the classroom that very week. As the English say, and the rest is history.

Yes, I was given a new lease on life at a time when most, if not all, of my peers were condemned to drop out of school and spend the rest of their days enduring the harshness, fragility, and isolation of the countryside. All of this happened thanks to a single sentence that altered my destiny—and thanks to a great father who, despite only attending basic literacy classes, realized early on that education was the ultimate lifeline.

Magpie Chase Noureddine Boutahar

 Growing up in the countryside granted me a wealth of blessings: a tranquil rhythm of life, the embrace of nature, invigorating air, an unwavering sense of freedom, and a community so closely woven it felt like an extended family. Despite the meager population density of those bygone days, familiarity thrived – a world where everyone knew everyone, where assistance, love, and support flowed freely. In this close-knit haven, the ethos was one of selfless sharing, a collective fortitude that weathered the storms of country life together.

Agriculture stood as the backbone of my rural homeland, where the majority of inhabitants were farmers, agriculturalists, and shepherds. As children, we were embraced by the collective care of our community, where each adult member shouldered the mantle of responsibility for our education and moral compass as if we were their own children.

My grandfather held a revered position as one of the most respected figures in our countryside. His
integrity, sagacity, and firm principles set him apart, earning him both admiration and, at times, instilling fear in those who veered off the right path. Unfazed by the prospect of parental reproach, he did not hesitate to discipline any mischievous village child. Boys and girls held both love and trepidation for him, recognizing that his corrections, admonitions, or critiques were always motivated by their best interests.

Amidst the ubiquitous fig trees that embellished our village, we cultivated a charming haven of our own – a petite vineyard and a flourishing vegetable garden. Brimming with tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, zucchini, gourds, calabashes, pumpkins, and a myriad of delights, it served as a vital source of sustenance for our household. Beyond our own needs, we generously shared the bounties with neighbors and cherished close relatives.

Yet, our lush haven faced a relentless foe, none other than the mischievous avian troupe comprising magpies, blackbirds, and sparrows. This winged menace posed a never-ending threat, especially to our precious tomatoes and grapes, a source of perpetual frustration for my farm aficionado grandfather.

One day, in a bid to safeguard our precious harvest, Grandfather, a genuinely popular green-fingered man, devised a plan reminiscent of Mao Zedong's "Smash Sparrows Campaign" from 1958 to 1962. Rallying the village youngsters, Grandpa issued a call to arms, urging them to embark on a mission to thwart the feathery invaders. Magpies, known for their early-morning raids on our tomatoes and grapes, found themselves facing an unexpected challenge from the resolute village youth. It was a scene remindful of ancient battles, but in this case, the prize was not just victory but also the safeguarding of our delectable fruits and vegetables.

Our humble garden transformed into a battlefield, where young defenders, armed with various slingshots, rocks, sticks, hardened mud clods, and enthusiasm, stood guard against the avian marauders. They chased them up and down the whole valley which harbored oleander, thorny blackberry trees, caprifigs (male fig trees), and occasional other bushes. Some children ran barefoot, some sprinted bare-chested, while a few managed to lose their shoes, or tear their old pants or shirts in the fervor of the chase. As the youngest among us, I found myself standing beside my grandfather, a towering and robust figure. With fervor, he encouraged and shouted at the magpie chasers, urging them to pick up the pace. Each young soul sought to please him by presenting him with a bird or two.

The clash between the innocent mischief of birds and the determined spirit of village kids unfolded like a whimsical tale of rural warfare. The warriors killed a few magpies, but the clever ones that managed to escape or hide never dared to revisit, leaving our trees and garden in peaceful serenity.

Ultimately, Grandfather's strategic move evolved into a legendary tale, echoing throughout the village as proof enough to the resilience and resourcefulness of a small community united against the caprices of nature. However, the question remains: was Grandpa correct or mistaken? I will never ascertain the answer. It stands as a million-dollar question, considering his frequent perception of nature as half friend, half enemy. Though he waged this relentless struggle against the feathered creatures encroaching on his precious crops, the ethos of eco-conservation coursed through grandfather’s veins.

Uncle Boujemaa’s Souk Treats Noureddine Boutahar

 The spirit of the 1960s and 1970s Moroccan countryside was epitomized by a culture of selfless sharing and collective caring. Within this close-knit community, characterized by a profound sense of unity, cooperation, and genuine humanity, the prevailing sentiment was that someone else's children were, in essence, everyone's children—a sentiment vividly illustrated by the memories that follow.

Much like the typical experiences of youngsters in the Moroccan countryside, my days revolved around both school and the responsibility of tending to the family livestock, comprising sheep, goats, and cows. During our leisure hours, my siblings, cousins, and I reveled in the expansive grazing pastures, where abundant grass served as the backdrop for a plethora of traditional games. From tag and hide-and-seek to catch, five stones, skipping-rope, hopscotch, blind man’s bluff, racing, leapfrog, wrestling, tug of war, sack race, sling games, congkak with sheep pellets and beyond, our days were filled with joyous camaraderie.

The highlight of our week undoubtedly was Souk (open-air marketplace) day. When the sun reached its zenith, we would herd our livestock toward the main road leading to the Souk. This strategic and intentional move allowed us to intercept the returning Souk-goers and partake in the distribution of their delightful treats. These treats ranged from sweets, raisins, dry figs, dates, and roasted chickpeas to an orange that we ceremoniously peeled and portioned out among us segment by segment. Occasionally, those without such treats to offer would present us with turnips, carrots, or other vegetables. In return, we would express our gratitude with kisses on the hands of the generous givers, acknowledging the sweetness of their offerings. Their blessings and words of advice on good behavior and kindness echoed in our hearts.

Among the cherished treat-givers, Uncle Boujemaa held a special place in every child's heart. Despite not enjoying economic prosperity, Uncle Boujemaa unfailingly ensured that no child left empty-handed. His arrival from the market, side-saddled on his big brown donkey, was a sight that filled us with excitement. The donkey, accustomed to our greetings, would pause without needing a command from Uncle Boujemaa. With a warm smile, he retrieved a treasure trove of treats that he had already placed on the surface of his panniers, ready to gift us with. We graciously accepted his treats before politely requesting to express our gratitude by kissing his hand, as was the custom with the elderly in our village at that time.

Uncle Boujemaa was familiar with the names of every child in the village, both young and old. His knowledge extended to various aspects of our lives - from those who had experienced illness to those boys who had undergone circumcision, and even those who had just begun school or Quranic School. He would playfully tease us about these details, but his advice was always delivered in a more fatherly earnest tone.

Uncle Boujemaa's kindness was akin to the sweetness and delight of the goodies he generously bestowed upon us. He embodied the spirit of a true humanitarian, the kind of person who would have been a tremendous asset to Eglantyne Jebb's Save the Children. The warmth of his gentle demeanor and the simple joy of those shared moments have left a lasting impression in the memories of every child in the countryside.

The loss of Uncle Boujemaa cast a shadow of sadness that resonated deeply with us during our idyllic childhood days. I vividly recall the day when the echo of someone's voice, calling from the summit of a distant mountain a couple of miles away, reached our ears, carrying the weight of heart-rending news. It was as if the very earth beneath us hesitated to accept such an unpleasant reality.

I stood frozen, unable to fully understand the depth of the loss we had just encountered. How could the Souk days ever be the same without Uncle Boujemaa's presence? The memories of his benevolence lingered like a comforting embrace, but his departure left a void that seemed impossible to fill. In those moments, disbelief gripped my senses, refusing to let go.

Uncle Boujemaa was more than a family friend; he was every child's second father. His generosity knew no bounds, his kindness a guiding light, and his unassuming personality a source of comfort for all who knew him. May this man, whose influence surpassed the confines of time and touched the very core of our collective childhood, find eternal peace.