“Boushta” is one of those words that disappeared with the disappearance of a public service that was once essential for postal and telecommunications services in Ahfir.

“Boushta” was a colloquial term widely used in previous decades. Some members of the older generation still use it today, often out of nostalgia for a bygone era, its people, stories, and memories.

The word derives from the French term La Poste or the Italian Posta. In Ahfir, the post office was located opposite the Union Sportive Ahfir café and Mohammed V Garden, at the lower end of Mohammed V Avenue. Nearby stood several public services, including the police station, customs office, and what people called the “vegetable doctor,” a popular but inaccurate term referring to the agricultural products inspector responsible for exported produce bound for Europe through the Algerian port of Ghazaouet. Next to it stood the Dériveau, later Lux Cinema, which did not last long before being replaced by residential buildings and Café Oran.

I clearly remember when the PTT (Post, Telegraph and Telephone service) was managed by Mr. Fettahi, the local postmaster. He was an imposing man, strongly built, always carrying a cigarette between his lips. He would often speak while the cigarette remained hanging from the left side of his mouth.

I also vividly remember the postal staff. Most belonged to the first generation of employees who spoke French fluently. Their command of the language impressed and intimidated us, earning our deep respect.

Among them were:

The late Mohamed Mansouri

Bekkay Jellouli (Bourras)

Mohamed Khlifi

Miloud Ndaloussi

Mekki Azizi

The late Miloud Zairi (mailman)

The late Abdelmoumen Alem (mail carrier)

Our neighbor Lakhdar Bekkouch

Mr. Bahi

Later, the young Arabi Zeroual (who is probably retired today) joined them, as did my cousin, the late Mohamed Fatah, known for his brisk pace, who occasionally assisted or replaced Miloud in mail delivery.

The reception hall was small. Everyone could hear everyone else. A high counter separated customers from employees, carefully designed to prevent clients from seeing the staff’s work documents.

Suddenly, one of the employees would call out:

“Collect call from Rabat, booth number 1!”

The customer would rush to the telephone booth while everyone nearby unintentionally listened to the conversation.

Another typical scene:

“Who’s next?”

An elderly man approaches and asks the employee to write an urgent telegram to his son in Casablanca, requesting that he quickly send him 500 dirhams.

The employee suggests a shorter and cheaper version:

“Hello, stop, need 500 DH, stop, urgent, stop.”

Since every word increased the cost.

Then another man enters, greets everyone, and receives a warm welcome as if he were one of the staff members. He walks directly to his post office box, unlocks it, checks inside, and says:

“No news is good news.”

He was among the few people who had a post office box because they did not have a permanent address in town.

Yet another scene:

“Where are you going, Mekki?”

“I’m delivering a telegram to its recipient.”

Mr. Azizi immediately gets on his motorcycle and heads off to deliver the urgent document.

Throughout all this, postal stamps struck envelopes continuously, typewriters rattled steadily, and friendly conversations flowed among employees.

That was the symphony of the Boushta.

That was the orchestra of Ahfir’s PTT.

Those days have vanished forever.

That building is gone.

That was Ahfir without its Boushta.

That was my town when it had a unique identity, traditions, and values built on simplicity, brotherhood, solidarity, and kindness.

Abdelhalim

17 May 2017

Note: The examples and scenes described are fictional, but they undoubtedly reflect situations that occurred at various times. Everyone who experienced the Boushta surely has similar memories and stories of daily life at the post office.

L’article Photo and Memories: “The Post Office” est apparu en premier sur ahfir.com.

Location: Former Ahfir High School, now S.M. Ben Abderrahmane Middle School, Ahfir.

A sports team belonging to the school’s boarding section.

I recognized our friend Hammane El Ouazzani, who was among the boarding students of Abi El Kheir High School during the academic years 1973/74, 1974/75, 1975/76, and 1976/77. We studied together with the brothers Mohamed Chamlal, Tahar Ajbilo, Abdelhafid Kassimi, Abdelkader Lahmidi, Bouyahiaoui, and others in the 7th Literary Class 1. The late student was known in the photo as number 4.

Among the group were also the sons of Caïd El Kadri, Najib and Chouki (numbers 6 and 7). They were highly skilled in handball and other sports. Everyone from our generation knew the “Caïd’s sons” and remembered their outstanding performances in this discipline.

With the help of a fellow from Saïdia, I was able to identify the person marked as number 1. He was the late Mohamed Safraoui, who passed away in 1988.

Special thanks to our brother Si Ahmed Chouki for sharing this photograph, which documents a period when school sports enjoyed exceptional success and prestige.

I am sharing this photo with you, assigning a number to each person, in the hope that some of you may recognize them.

With my warm regards and affection.

Abdelhalim

20 April 2019

L’article Photo and Recollections: Athletes – Ahfir Boarding School (now Sidi Mohammed Ben Abderrahmane Middle School) est apparu en premier sur ahfir.com.

By chance, while browsing the vast blue world of the internet, a place filled with both nonsense and treasures, I stopped at the photo of the day. Instantly, with nostalgia and longing, the phrase “Sam Spot” came to my mind. I also remembered one of our friends who used to jokingly add: “Alik Nabout!”

When I clicked on the picture, I was met with another surprise: it showed Italian children playing the very same game decades ago, during a period that perfectly matched our own childhood years.

What is remarkable is that the accompanying article described a shared past among children from both sides of the Mediterranean Sea. With the same sense of nostalgia, the author told his story as if he had lived among us, despite some obvious cultural differences.

Since I do not speak Italian, I turned to the famous “all-knowing sheikh” of our time, the online translator. After receiving a less-than-perfect translation, I reworked the text to make better sense of it. Inspired by the original author, I then reflected on my own childhood memories, which are shared by many readers.

We are the post-independence generation.

We played football in alleys and empty lots, most of us barefoot. In that sense, we were the generation of the barefoot children.

We played traditional games such as “Al-Qam,” “Azarbout,” “Dinifri,” “Tchinika,” “Sam Spot,” and many other popular neighborhood games and card games.

We loved hunting birds and small animals. Some used slingshots, others simple homemade traps. Looking back, some of us probably committed what could be called acts of “mass bird destruction.” May God forgive us!

We spent our days at the Kiss River. Some learned how to swim, others played in the water or tried fishing. We were a generation filled with innocence and simple beliefs.

Hardly a day passed without a quarrel or a fight. Many of us broke a tooth, an arm, or came home with a bloody nose. Yet no one filed complaints, and by the next day everything was forgotten. We were the generation of forgiveness.

Our childhood was all about play: in the streets, at school, and at home before bedtime. We were the generation of fun and joy.

We ate homemade bread and bakery bread on special occasions.

Water was kept cool in traditional clay containers. Refrigerators were found only in a few shops and cafés.

We often shared the same drink from the same container without anyone worrying about germs. Even our sugary drinks were relatively natural, and traditional sweets were among our greatest pleasures. Since we spent the whole day playing outdoors, we easily burned off the extra sugar. We were the generation of simplicity and modesty.

We had no PlayStation, Nintendo, Xbox, Internet, or social media. Yet we had many real friends, not virtual ones. We were the generation of true friendship.

We ate organic food long before the term “organic” even existed: fruits, vegetables, wild plants, and natural products. Obesity was almost unheard of in our small town. Whenever we got sick, we simply said, “It’s just the wind.” We were the generation of patience.

Our neighbors’ homes were like our own homes. Everyone shared what God had provided. In good times and bad, we stood together like brothers. We were the generation of trust and mutual support.

Many of us repeated one or more school years. Parents trusted teachers and rarely blamed them. There were no psychologists or special support programs. Despite successes and failures at school, we grew up happy and content. We were the generation of contentment.

Perhaps the secret of our success was the simplicity of life, mutual love, brotherhood, and good intentions.

Written by Abdelhalim

December 2, 2017

L’article A Photo and a Memory: “Sam Spot” est apparu en premier sur ahfir.com.