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.
