Between Rooms and Sky

Photo by Levi Ari Pronk on Unsplash

A house that hosted and welcomed many faraway visitors. It always gave me a sense of completion. This shelter blended perfectly with the earth, leaning on the small mountain behind it. It would always carry an earthly smell after the rain. For my mom, it was home.

The rooms were built with clay, hay, and rocks. There, the scorching summer heat was more bearable. Leaving out the guest room, which was later finished with a thick layer of cement along the walls and painted blue on the bottom, leaving the upper part white. A symbol of quiet hospitality. Where tea and bread were shared, along with words of joyful remembrance.

It was a house you stepped in between. Where the sky greeted us in our journeys, going from one room to the other. Roofs were traditionally made of logs, hay, and plaster. The weather change was felt the moment you exited a room, when shoes were on and we set off to the next. Plus, an open-air view that left track of time behind, allowing small things to be enjoyed freely.

In this rocky region where flowers bloom fiercely in March and April, the land mostly supports bushes, cactuses, fields of cumin, and many wild herbs. Water came only from a well — if you were lucky, an engine would pull it faster than a bucket.

People grew accustomed to this life and fought quietly to remain in it. One more feature found was the “matmoura,” a storage place in the ground that served for centuries as protection for their women and provisions from raiders. Similar to the old banks and granaries of the Amazigh people who lived in the high mountains.

At last, the day always came to an end. The night sky covered us, and a torch or lantern was needed for roaming around the house. Once the lights were out, darkness prevailed. Putting us to sleep, even with the distant fear of scorpions or snakes. Yet we strangely woke up early. No heaviness. No reluctance. We felt new, ready — a self that only existed in the moment.