Shadows and Lessons from Boston (contd) Noureddine Boutahar

 Boston reveals itself as a quiet visual composition, where layers of history stand shoulder to shoulder with a contemporary pulse and a firmly rooted academic spirit. It is a gentle city, yet heavy with memory; its landmarks speak eloquently of the transformations they have witnessed. From the Freedom Trail, its red line threading through old houses, silent churches, and the State House, to the precincts of Harvard University in Cambridge—where knowledge carries its own dignity and life moves to a modest, unhurried
rhythm—the past and the present interlace without clamor. This sense of clarity deepens during a stroll along the Charles River, which flows like an artery of light and water, dividing the city without tearing it apart, and then in the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA), where art speaks in whispers and identities recede before the eye’s astonishment. Meanwhile, The T moves like an unseen thread, stitching places to faces and moments, affirming that Boston is not merely a place, but a state of being—one that quietly rearranges my relationship with time.

As days passed, Boston ceased to be a scene observed from the outside and became an experience lived from within. In its small details—in the measured pace of people’s steps, in their uncomplicated relationship with time, in the presence of books in cafés and on trains—there was a meaning that slipped in softly. A meaning not proclaimed aloud, but felt.

I came to realize, gradually, that reading here is neither an exceptional act nor a badge of cultural distinction; it is a daily habit, as natural as breathing. People carry books the way they carry their keys, returning to them whenever the day offers a small pocket of emptiness. It all seemed so ordinary as to pass unnoticed—except to someone arriving from a place where reading is an event rather than a routine. As the proverb goes, familiarity breeds content, and what is woven into everyday life rarely calls attention to itself.

I recall one day on The T, heading back from downtown toward the university district. The train was crowded, and I stood quietly watching faces. Most passengers were absorbed in their books, newspapers, or e-readers, as if each were traveling alone despite the crush. Suddenly the train lurched; I lost my balance and fell against a young lady seated nearby. I apologized, but she did not look up, nor did she show the slightest irritation. She was so immersed in her book that the surrounding world seemed no more than a faded backdrop.

In that moment, no grand explanation occurred to me, no ready-made conclusion. I simply sensed that reading creates around a person a calm distance—one that shields them from intrusion and offers an engagement deeper than watching others. Those who fill their time with what they read place a lighter burden on the world, granting others the simple right to be as they are. After all, empty minds are the devil’s workshop, while occupied ones tend toward quiet grace.

Thus Boston has remained in my memory: a city that does not teach by direct instruction, nor raise signposts telling you what to understand, but leaves its mark gently. A city that reminds you that what is built within endures more firmly than what is erected without, and that meaning—like a river—needs only a measure of silence to keep on flowing.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston Noureddine Boutahar

Boston University was never merely a stop along my academic path; it was a space where new layers of awareness took shape and where experiences accumulated with a depth no less profound than what I learned in lecture halls. Ah, Boston—a city that knows how to leave its mark on the soul, how to plant in memory shadows that do not fade with time. There, among the venerable buildings and quiet corridors of the university, I was not only a student in pursuit of knowledge, but a human being rediscovering himself, learning to see the world with wider eyes and a more attentive heart.

In those years, I lived in one of the university’s imposing wings—a residence modest in appearance yet rich in human encounters. I shared it with Si Ahmed, a Palestinian for whom Palestine lived in the chest long before it could ever be reduced to a place on a map. His talk was never mere political commentary or passing news; it was a daily confession of pain, memory, and a right that does not expire with time. He spoke of his homeland as one speaks of one’s mother—with raw sincerity and a loyalty that never runs dry. I listened at length, sensing—without his having to spell it out—that a homeland may be occupied in land, but it is never defeated as long as it lives in the hearts of its people. As the old saying goes, home is where the heart is.

The name of the building we lived in—Ignacio Hall—stirred a quiet curiosity in me. Who was this “Ignacio,” immortalized on a university wall? One day I asked a professor about him. She did not know the details, but she spoke of a well-rooted tradition in American academic culture: that students who find success return to their first university to give back, building a wing or endowing a facility that bears their name, in gratitude to the place that helped shape them. Her answer was less a lesson in history than in gratitude—a reminder that one good turn deserves another, and that true loyalty often speaks in deeds rather than slogans.

Beyond shared housing, Boston also gifted me a rare friendship whose warmth I still carry. Nasser, an Algerian from Kabylia, was my closest companion and daily confidant. Quiet and sparing with words, his presence was as reassuring as a clear morning. He faced life with a steady gaze, loved its simplicity, and lived in harmony with himself, as if calm itself had chosen to dwell in him. His Amazigh identity flowed in his veins without affectation or the need for proof—proof, after all, lies in being, not in saying.

I recall a day when we were strolling through downtown and came upon a large bookstore. We entered out of curiosity, perhaps also out of nostalgia for paper in an age when screens were beginning to elbow books aside. Silence ruled the place, until suddenly the strains of a Kabyle shatḥa drifted from a hidden speaker, breaking the stillness and awakening memory. In that instant, Nasser changed; something lit up in his eyes. He grasped the edges of his jacket and burst into the traditional Kabyle dance with pride and joy, oblivious to the surprised glances around him. I stood there, captivated, applauding, and understood then that true identity does not wither in exile—it often shines more brightly. You can take a man out of his land, but you cannot take the land out of the man.

Yet the deepest—and simplest—lesson came to me from an unexpected place: a glass door in the university library. One day, as I pushed it open, I felt it scraping the floor and wondered how such a flaw could go unattended. I remarked to Nasser, with mild disbelief, how Americans could overlook something so small. No one answered me that day. But the following morning, at precisely seven-thirty, we passed by the same spot. The door opened and closed smoothly, as if nothing had ever been wrong. I saw no maintenance worker and heard no tools—only the result. And then it dawned on me: progress is no magic trick, nor the child of chance; it is the quiet fruit of conscientious work done without fanfare. As the proverb has it, actions speak louder than words.

Our Breakfasts: A Taste of Tradition Noureddine Boutahar

In the countryside of the The Sixties and The Seventies, our breakfasts
were seasonal affairs, woven from the land’s bounty and sustained by the fruits of our labor. Our table depended heavily on home-grown produce, yet it was never the same; it shifted with the seasons, transformed on holidays, and took on special flavors when guests and visitors graced our home.

Each morning, our breakfast was grounded in the earthy taste of homemade bread or harcha—the quintessential Amazigh breakfast semolina flatbread baked from wheat grown in our fields, or sometimes corn or barley, depending on the season. Shaped over a wood fire on a clay griddle, these loaves were often as big as a medium size car wheel, sized to satisfy a family of many mouths, eating in shifts most of the time. The women who prepared and served breakfast often ate last, tucked away in the kanoun—the small space reserved for cooking. The scent of warm bread wrapped around them like a soft shawl as they ate, often while still tending to the meal of latecomers.

Preparing a meal was a ritual that required firewood or dried cow dung, three stones to prop up the griddle, and a raboz (bellows) to breathe life into the flames. At a pinch, if the bellows were busy or the rush was urgent, the women blew into the fire themselves, often at the cost of teary eyes from the smoke. Bread, our dawn companion, called the women from their beds in the wee small hours. They would grind the grain by hand with a traditional stone mill, turning it with the strength of, usually, two women across from each other. Then, they’d sift the flour, knead the dough, and leave it to rise. The soft, rhythmic voices of women turning the grinder, singing traditional and religious songs, became a gentle lullaby to my drowsy ears.

Alongside the bread, there was always fresh butter from our cows and rich olive oil from our trees, ready to be dipped and savored. Mint tea, steaming and fragrant, was our staple drink, though sometimes the luxurious aroma of coffee with milk slipped into the morning air. Two cups were the rule, but we, the children, knew how to stretch that rule, coaxing our way to a third and sometimes even a fourth.

For special days—Eids, visits from guests, or simply a change from routine—there was a stack of sheets of meloui, delicate pastry sheets slathered with butter and honey, and sfenj, my mother’s specialty. These airy, fried dough rings were a rare treat, appearing only two or three times a year, which made each bite feel like a small celebration.

In the winter’s chill, hearty soups, rich with medicinal herbs and spices to ward off colds, joined our breakfast. The scent of garlic, fenugreek, parsley, and coriander from our kitchen garden would drift through the house, calling us to the table. Chickpeas, broad beans, lentils, and chopped turnips added their flavor, scent, and texture to harira, our region’s signature soup. Sometimes, just before serving, my mother would crack a few eggs into the pot, and I’d delight and boast in finding a soft piece of egg in my bowl.

Summer had its own traditions. For us kids, breakfast began in the fig trees. Our family’s orchard was a small treasure trove, with each branch laden with figs in shades of tawny, yellow, brown, maroon, and purple. Armed with a hunk of bread, we’d climb to the highest branches, reaching for the ripest figs. Often, the birds had beaten us to the best ones, but we didn’t mind, biting around their pecked portions and eating figs straight from the branch, dirt and all; hygiene was a distant thought. If one of us found an untouched fig, we’d boast about it to the others, showing off our prize before devouring it or sharing it to let everyone in on the moment’s sweetness. Sometimes, we’d stop by the kitchen garden, picking a tomato, carrot, or turnip, rinsing it in the irrigation ditch, and eating it whole and unpeeled before heading inside for the formal breakfast. The elders would wash the figs we brought in baskets, adding them to the table—a vibrant splash of color against the bread and tea.

In the countryside where I grew up, life often began after a nourishing breakfast and a revitalizing cup of mint tea. My uncle, the hardest-working man I knew, held fast to the motto, "Breakfast is the fuel for champions." He wasn’t a learned man, but he believed deeply in the power of a hearty meal to stoke the fires of energy and set the day on the right track. And so, each morning, breakfast became a veritable feast we eagerly anticipated, preparing us to face whatever the day held in store.

Lessons in Discipline and Reflection from Days Gone By Noureddine Boutahar

 My junior school years were brimming with memories, both joyous and sorrowful, each offering invaluable lessons from teachers, peers, and the events themselves. These lessons ran the full gamut: academic knowledge, responsibility, social skills, and, most importantly, discipline.

It was my teachers in the 1970s, mostly foreigners, whose exemplary character inspired me to pursue a career in teaching. They emphasized discipline, setting high standards for both themselves and us as exemplary role models. Punctuality and academic integrity were two fundamental virtues instilled in us from a young age. We soon realized that teacher and student absenteeism and tardiness were the foremost forms of corruption, capable of eroding the very bedrock of education. Equally, we understood that cheating in exams was the gravest disservice a student could inflict upon themselves.

Our teachers were rarely, if ever, absent. As students, we were permitted to miss class only under extreme circumstances, such as severe illness. Absences concerned not only the administration but also the teachers, who would inquire about and sometimes penalize us for being late or absent. Take Monsieur Bonguardier, our math teacher, as an illustration. His approach was particularly strict. He would station himself at the classroom door immediately after the bell rang, ready to administer sharp knuckle raps to the crowns of tardy students’ heads. At the sound of the bell, we all hurried to line up outside his classroom to avoid his stern discipline. Latecomers, hoping to evade his knuckles, would sidle into the room, shielding their heads with a hand, a book, a school bag, or even a fold of their clothes.

Discipline outside the classroom extended into it, where we had to be fully attentive and engaged.  Monsieur Bonguardier maintained a strict policy on academic integrity. Any infraction, no matter how minor, would result in an immediate zero. Naturally, cheating was the most obvious offense, but the rules extended much further. Simply looking back during a test could be deemed suspecious enough to warrant a failing grade. Even asking for something as innocuous as an eraser, ruler, or pencil was strictly prohibited. This stringent approach instilled a sense of vigilance in us, making us extremely aware of our every action during exams.

I vividly recall an incident when Monsieur Bonguardier was explaining a math problem while writing on the chalkboard. Out of boredom, surprise, or a sudden insight, someone behind me let out a low whistle, prompting me to turn and glance. Unfortunately, my timing coincided with Monsieur Bonguardier’s, who, without a word, pointed his finger at the door, promptly asking me to leave the room. There was no room for negotiation with him -- he never relented. You had to find a way out, as he would often deliver a swift kick in the butt to hasten your exit. Thankfully, due perhaps to my clean record, I escaped physical reprimand as I exited.

Yet, facing his discipline was preferable to being sent to the principal, whose consequences rivaled those of the Moroccan police at the time. Thus, I lingered outside the classroom for the rest of the period, pondering myriad possible scenarios. As the bell finally chimed and students dispersed, I timidly approached Monsieur Bonguardier, my heart heavy with fear and shame and a palpable sense of regret, seeking forgiveness despite my expectation of rejection. To my astonishment, he responded, 'Tu es excusé cette fois, mais prends garde la prochaine fois,' loosely translating to 'You are excused this time, but be mindful next time.' He never glanced in my direction, never betrayed a hint of empathy or antipathy, continuing to write in his thick book.

Today, as I stand at the twilight of my career and reflect on the challenges I faced in school, I am reminded of a quote from G. Michael Hopf’s post-apocalyptic novel: “Tough times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times.” I wonder which phase defines our current reality —a question that warrants careful reflection.

Grandma is the Best Noureddine Boutahar

On the 8th of March, I was driven by an undeniable urge to pen down these cherished memories, a heartfelt tribute to my grandmother, a truly remarkable woman, whose influence shaped my character, instilling within me a profound sense of appreciation, respect, care and love for all women.

In the vast expanse of my childhood, Grandma was the towering beacon of my life. She wasn't just my guardian; she was my closest friend, teacher, and partner in navigating life's twists and turns. Her bedtime stories fueled a burning love for books as I journeyed through the landscape of growing up.

My childhood nights back in the late 1960s and early 1970s held a special enchantment that I eagerly looked forward to. My family gatherings over dinner with my siblings and cousins were about more than just the meal; they were an occasion for good-natured banter, playful teasing, and the occasional sibling rivalry. Nevertheless, the zenith of these evenings undeniably belonged to my grandmother's captivating stories. Her storytelling was nothing short of an art form, her narratives transcended mere tales; they were intricate voyages through time and the realms of imagination. With each story she spun, she effortlessly captured our complete attention. What truly set her apart was her gift for adorning her stories with unexpected twists and vivid details, rendering them all the more enthralling. On occasion, she would revisit the same story, but with a completely different tone, style, and voice, leaving us in rapt fascination with her storytelling versatility. These nights, brimming with laughter and wonder, were indelibly etched into our memories, weaving themselves into the rich fabric of our family's customs and togetherness.

There were nights when the cozy embrace of my grandmother's storytelling would lull me into a peaceful slumber even before the end of her captivating tales. Drifting into the realm of dreams mid-story was a common occurrence. However, the beauty of it all lay in my beloved grandmother's unwavering readiness to resume the narrative where she had left off on the following evening. She possessed a wellspring of patience and affection that she poured generously into her stories.

The nights my grandmother began her narratives became a ritual, a communal gathering around the story telling hearth where every eye was transfixed on her. In those moments, the world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving us immersed exclusively in the captivating universe she wove for us. The way she brought her tales to life, with that twinkle in her eye and the cadence of her voice, was nothing less than magical.

As the stories unfurled, time itself seemed to blur, and fatigue would occasionally catch up with us. One by one, in a gradual succession like falling dominos, the heads of my siblings, cousins, and myself would nod and eventually surrender to the sweet call of slumber. It was a testament to the power of her storytelling, its capacity to captivate our thoughts while guiding us with a gentle touch into the realm of dreams. This enabled us to bask in the warm familial unity until the dawn of a new day. 

My grandmother was a remarkable storyteller who effectively acted as my first novels, especially since we had no books at home. However, Nanna, as we used to call her, was not only a fable-teller but also a culinary magician who could whip up any delectable delight my heart desired. She would not only prepare savory dishes tailored to my whims and cravings, but she also had a fascinating talent to conjure up the most mouthwatering sweet treats. Being naturally tall and slender, she indulged me with her culinary delights, always insisting that I needed to eat heartily to become stronger.

Grandma’s love knew no bounds so much so that she was embraced and adored by the entire community. Her kind-hearted nature and the multitude of roles she fulfilled in our village endeared her to everyone. She donned the hats of an experienced midwife, a trusted advisor to women in their marital issues, a competent traditional healer offering herbal treatments for a variety of ailments to women and children. I always found joy in accompanying her in her house calls to neighbors or relatives because, as a guest, I was always treated to the most delectable pastries and the choicest roasted chicken piece, usually a chicken thigh.

 In the days when I couldn't accompany my grandmother on these visits, there was a heartwarming tradition she held dear. She would often return home with a succulent piece of chicken enveloped in a slice of home-made bread soaked in the aromatic stew. She always wrapped the treat in a white piece of cloth she habitually carried with her for just such a purpose. My ritual was always to start with the juicy meat before relishing the soaked bread. What an exquisite treat it was, and what a cherished memory that remains etched in the treasure grooves of my heart.

Living with my grandparents who had lived to a ripe old age was an opportunity for me to glean wisdom from their rich life experiences. Nanna and Dadda, as I called them, served as my educators, my guides, my guardians, my refuge, my source of solace, and so much more. They offered me a wellspring of knowledge, wisdom, and life lessons. They instilled in me the deep-rooted values of integrity, humility, and the power of unconditional love.

Rest in peace, Nanna. You were truly unparalleled, a cut above, the epitome of excellence. I'll cherish your memory in my heart for as long as I walk this earth.