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.

Moroccan Souk: Childhood Joys and Haircut Woes Noureddine Boutahar

 As a Moroccan Gen Xer, the Souk (open-air marketplace) held a special place in my childhood, serving as a vibrant hub where the spirit of our community thrived. It was a space where adults sought their necessities, while I sought out enjoyment. Each week, this open-air market came to life, with vendors proudly displaying their diverse array of goods and services under canvas white tents, transforming a designated space into a bustling spectacle.

In this vibrant gathering, our country folks unveiled their treasures with flair – wheat, barley, peas and broad beans neatly packed in sacks and panniers, enticing buyers with the bounty of their harvest. Meanwhile, the Souk's lively tapestry expanded to include a menagerie of livestock: sheep, goats, donkeys, and mules, all contributing to the bustling energy of the market.

The Souk, a meticulously orchestrated symphony of commerce, showcased impeccable organization. Each section had its designated space, contributing to a harmonious flow. A corner was exclusively reserved for the vibrant hues of fresh vegetables and fruits, while another boasted the earthy tones of grains and cereals. There existed a dedicated space for blacksmiths and farriers, and another for artisans crafting donkey panniers. Further along, a designated spot catered to skilled haircutters, and a lively locale housed the butchers. Beyond the bustling market, a fence stood where farmers securely stowed their pack and draft animals—the unsung heroes and sole modes of transportation in those bygone days—all under the vigilant gaze of a watchful guard, earning a few coins in return.

Accompanying my grandmother, I made occasional visits to the Souk, often timed with the reluctant need for a haircut. Though the idea of trimming my fair, straight hair wasn't appealing, it was the sole reason I was permitted to join this bustling spectacle. My parents, wary of hygiene concerns, frowned upon letting my hair grow too long, deeming it a breeding ground for unwelcome guests like lice, which were very common in those days.

Yet, amidst the haircuts and clippings, what I cherished most about the Souk were the breakfasts at the charming tented cafes. There, we indulged in hearty meals – mint tea sweetened generously, scrambled eggs drizzled with olive oil and tomatoes, hot whole-wheat flour bread, and the pièce de résistance, Sfenj, traditional Moroccan yeasted donuts, airy and soft on the inside and crisp on the outside. Its aroma wafted through the entire Souk, a scent that lingers in my memories.

Another highlight was encountering relatives amidst the vibrant chaos. Amidst greetings, teasing, and expressions of familial affection, a small piece of money would change hands. This ‘windfall’ became my ticket to delight, spent on candies and chewing gum, turning the Souk into a playground for my sweet tooth.

The haircut sessions, conducted by a family friend doubling as the barber, were less enjoyable. His tools were weathered, and makeshift solutions were common. The absence of chairs meant that we had to sit on the ground, on old sacks, or on the donkey packs of other customers, patiently waiting for our turn. Despite my requests for a longer haircut, my parents insisted on a short crop, leaving me dissatisfied and occasionally frustrated. While everyone complimented my hair, a sentiment I also shared, my heart leaned towards the enchantment of long strands. The transformation to a shorter haircut rendered me completely different and less handsome, and subjected me to teasing from my peers.

Exhausted from the day's adventures, having had my fill of playtime and satisfied my sweet cravings, I would often doze off on the way home on muleback. To prevent any mishaps, either my grandmother or my father would place me in front of them on the mule, ensuring a safe journey back, where dreams of the lively Souk lingered until the next visit.

There is a Moroccan proverb that goes, "Those who benefit from the Souk applaud its merits." I stand among those who have reaped the Souk’s rewards, albeit not in material or economic terms. Instead, my gains were intangible, catering to the needs of a young child seeking fun as well as exploration, experimentation, and transformation. In the bustling marketplace, I discovered not only goods but a realm of experiences that shaped my journey of growth, offering the currency of curiosity, joy, and the ever-changing fabric of life.