The Mucky Duck

A pub can be a magical place.

-Rhys Ifans

If you had strolled into a certain public house in Sheffield one rainy evening in late autumn, 1966, you’d have been confronted with a strange scene — not at all the usual gathering you would have expected to see in The Black Swan, known to all Sheffielders as The Mucky Duck.


Located on Snig Hill, near the city centre, The Black Swan of the fifties had been a single-storey remnant, all that was left after a Luftwaffe bombing raid. But, by the sixties, the original pub had been demolished and a new one built on the original footprint. It still retained, however, the famous soot-covered Black Swan or “Mucky Duck” pub sign, re-mounted on the modern frontage. Otherwise, everything remained the same. Whenever the double doors opened, a blast of stale beer fumes would still waft over the heads of the people waiting patiently at the bus stop outside.

There had once been a mysterious wooden door located in the corner by the shops below, mentioned in a spoof article in the Twikker student rag magazine. During the one evening we spent there, though, I can assure you that I didn’t see any raincoat-clad men sidling through it. To be perfectly honest, pubs weren’t our usual habitat, as neither T nor I drank alcohol, and we were quite happy drinking our glasses of orange juice or Coke in the Student Union bar, although T would sometimes go to a pub with his judo teammates after a fight. He would still only have a soft drink, though.

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T in the Union bar (with glass of Coke)

Not all the Algerian students were like him. Some of them were quite dedicated drinkers and found the English pub entertaining and instructive. They would sit there quite happily for hours, cigarette dangling from their lips, their pint of bitter in front of them on a beer-stained wooden table. Either that, or they would prop up the bar with their foot posed nonchalantly on the brass foot rail, doing their best to blend in with the locals and soak up the atmosphere.

The atmosphere? Well, in the English pub of the sixties, it was usually made up of one part cigarette smoke, one part beer fumes, and the rest a blend of wet dog, damp wool and mouse droppings. Dusty, smoke-darkened curtains would droop forlornly from their brass rings, and your shoes would stick to the floor as you walked across it. The Mucky Duck, alas, was no exception to the rule.

That night, however, it was different. T’s best friend, Mus, was in Sheffield on a visit from his university in Paris and, whenever he arrived on the scene, everything changed. Mus was already known to some of the other Harrachi students from their high school there. Some of them had even been members of the same group of friends hanging around the beaches of Algiers soon after independence, enjoying their new-found freedom.

Mus was the original party animal — never happier than when he was boogie-ing along, snapping his fingers to the latest hit playing on a loop inside his head. Impossible to imagine that he would be dead a mere six years later – poisoned by his French girlfriend for the insurance money.

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Most of the early evening had been spent in the Union bar with the other Algerian students and their girlfriends, but Mus had not found it exciting enough, so, at someone’s suggestion, we all piled into three cars and set off for The Black Swan. Climbing out of the cars, laughing and joking, arms flung around each other’s shoulders, we drew curious glances from the staider members of the Sheffield populace going quietly about their business on the rainy streets.

On the pavement ahead, the uneven slabs had a rainbow sheen – all that had been left of a childish game of hopscotch. The outline was still there, a ghostly shadow of what it had been before the heavy rain had pounded the city. One of our friends, forgetting himself for a moment and lost in childhood memories of games of la marelle played on the streets of Algiers, did a little hop, skip and jump on the numbered squares before stopping in embarrassment.

Above, the sky was dominated by tumbling greys — smoky and silver. Rain poured down from the sky as if it meant to wash us away, or keep soaking us until we smudged like an Impressionist painting. Our shoes sodden with water, our hair stuck to our faces and heads, we splashed through the torrents of rainwater flowing down the steep hill to where the pub lights were shining out on to the wet pavements. We finally tumbled in through the doors of The Mucky Duck, laughing and joking in a mixture of French, English and Arabic — all twelve of us.

Once inside, fifty pairs of eyes swivelled in our direction.

Little groups of two or three of the pub’s usual customers were seated, steaming gently in the warmth, at the little wooden tables scattered around the large room. Most of the men were wearing flat caps, with mufflers looped around their necks. Sometimes their hands would be resting on the handle of a walking stick, sometimes on the head of a hairy mutt of indeterminate parentage sitting patiently under their chair. Their wives were sitting next to them, powdered and rouged,  hair freshly permed and covered with a chiffon scarf, sipping daintily from their glasses of advocaat or sweet sherry.


Dragging twelve chairs into a large circle, we ordered drinks and sat there, laughing and joking as we did most lunchtimes in the Union Upper Coffee Lounge. The volume of normal Algerian conversation is very loud anyway, but it grows even louder when tongues, and inhibitions, are loosened by a few pints — and good company.

One of our friends then decided he wanted to sing a song. And not just any song. No —  a chanson paillarde, the French equivalent of a bawdy rugby song. It was lucky that my French at that time was not up to understanding some of the more risqué lyrics, or I would not have joined in the chorus so readily. The first song was followed by another, then another — all accompanied by clapping hands, stamping feet and thumping of beer glasses on tables.

When we had finally come to the end of our repertoire, we noticed that a woman dressed in an evening gown was sitting at an upright piano on a small stage at the other end of the room, singing and pounding the piano keys, her dangly earrings swaying in time to the music, desperately trying to make herself heard above the din we were making.

Then Mus had a brilliant idea. “I know,” he said, “I’ll ask her if she can sing Black Is Black!” And so he galloped across the room, climbed up on to the stage and asked the pianist politely (he had beautiful manners) in his broken English, whether she would be so kind as to sing the latest hit by Los Bravos. Her eyes popping in her efforts to continue warbling Moon River more or less in tune, she shook her head vehemently, and Mus returned crestfallen to our table.

When the landlord finally rang the bell for closing time, we spilled out of the doors to stand around on the pavement in the cold night air for a few minutes before returning to our cars. Leaning against T and tucking my hands under his jacket for warmth, I suddenly felt his body tense as someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind. Turning around, he found himself confronted by one of the other customers. “Nah then, young man …..” the man began, his bristly eyebrows drawing together.

My heart sank as I looked at him, sure that we were going to be given a dressing-down for all the noise we had made. But, much to our astonishment, a smile of pure delight spread across the man’s florid face and, shaking T’s hand, he proceeded to thank us all for an unusual and highly entertaining evening. Something out of the ordinary. “Summat a bit different, like,” as he put it so eloquently. Soon we were surrounded by a group of well-wishers, all pumping our hands and slapping us affectionately on the back.

Is it any wonder I loved Sheffield?


The Igawawen

Among (the Kabyles) the virtues of honesty, hospitality, and good-nature are conspicuous. It is not their misfortune alone that the lowlands know them no more…. it is (that) of the whole civilised world. Descendants of a mighty race whose culture once spread from the Atlantic to the Red Sea and the Hauran, from Crete to Timbuctoo and the Sudan, there are still to be found among them (a love) of the arts and sciences, the spirit of conquest, the capacity for self-government which, if developed, would make them again a great nation.

Melville William Hilton-Simpson (1925)

 have spoken a great deal about the Berbers and their illustrious history, but, apart from describing my visits to Kabylie, I have not talked much about my husband’s people, the Kabyles. The Kabyles are by far the largest of the many groups of ethnic Berbers scattered all over North Africa. They number between five and seven million, split between those still living in Algeria and those living abroad as part of the Algerian diaspora.

The appellation “Kabyle” comes from the Arabic word qabila (pl. qabaïl) for tribe, adopted by the French to describe these highland people. The French divided up the lands inhabited by the Kabyles into two administrative areas; la grande Kabylie, of which the  capital is Tizi-Ouzou,  and la petite Kabylie, with its capital of Bejaïa. However, for its inhabitants, Kabylie is simply thamurthThamurth means country, land, or simply home. It is similar in meaning to the Arabic word bled, from which, funnily enough, the English nickname Blighty for Britain is derived. Like Blighty, the word thamurth contains within it a whole wealth of unspoken longing and homesickness.

Greater Kabylie (la grande Kabylie), is a mountainous region to be found about an hour and a half’s drive east and slightly south of the capital, Algiers. Right at its heart lie the Djudjura mountains, part of the Atlas range, of which the high ridges run northwards to the Mediterranean sea. The inhabitants of these ridges are known as the Igawawen, taking their name from the neighbouring Agawa mountain peaks. They are the core of the Kabyle people.


The Battle of Icherriden

The defeat of the Igawawen in 1857, outnumbered and outgunned at the battle of Icherriden, a few kilometres from my husband’s village, is generally taken to have brought the French conquest of Greater Kabylie to a successful conclusion.  Traditional sources recount that the legendary Fadhma N’Soumeur herself took part in the battle and ordered that the fighters be tied to each other with ropes, preventing them from fleeing the battlefield. The impact of her involvement was such that she has been seen as the embodiment of Kabyle resistance against the French and has become known as the Kabyle Joan of Arc.


Fadhma N’Soumeur

At that time, the Igawawen were a powerful confederation made up of two federations – the Ath Betrun and the Ath Menguellet, each federation being composed of four tribes.  Many terms are used to describe Kabyle political and social structures, such as “tribe,” “clan,” kinship” and “lineage” and my husband’s tribe, for want of a better word, is the Ath Wekbil or Akbil, of the Ath Menguellet federation.  They are not tribes as one would usually understand the word, but groups of villages (thudrin), sharing a common language, territory and culture.

Their dialect, a variant of the Berber language, tamazight, is called thakabaylith. Each of the Berber dialects of Algeria retains its distinctive vocabulary and character and they are not mutually comprehensible as in Morocco.  The Chaoui Berbers of the Aurès Mountains and the Kabyles can understand each other with relative ease, although there is a greater proportion of Arabic words in thachawith than in thakabaylith. By contrast, the tamahaq dialect of the Tuareg is all but incomprehensible to a Kabyle.

Greater Kabylie largely escaped the trauma of social disintegration engineered by French colonialism in many other parts of Algeria, as its steep slopes and narrow valleys did not attract European settlement.  The region was more or less left to its own devices, the colonial administration preferring to govern it from a safe distance. It had been the same with previous foreign invaders: there are no Roman ruins in Kabylie like those scattered elsewhere in Algeria and no trace of Ottoman or Vandal occupation.

The Kabyle system of self-government has consequently been left largely intact. This is not the place to describe the inner workings of this complex socio-political system, but suffice it to say that it has been fine-tuned to an incredible degree, with its own body of law that has nothing to do with the Napoleonic Code or Islamic law; its code of honour and its system of village councils. The Kabyle village council is called the thajmarth, and is organised into two opposing sides, the sfuf, presided over by the amin — almost exactly like a mini House of Commons, presided over by the Speaker.

Kabyles earned their living mostly from their land, cultivating olive and fig trees and some fruit and vegetables. My father-in-law even imported fruit trees from America and planted them down by the river. The remains of his olive press are still to be seen in the village. Beautiful objects – chests, bowls, caskets and the wooden pillars, beams and doors of a typical Kabyle house (axxam) were carved out of wood from the forests of the Djudjura. The Igawawen also excelled in three other specialised branches of the craft industry: jewellery making, arms manufacturing and the manufacture of counterfeit coins.

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My father-in-law’s olive press

Finally, the men of Greater Kabylie also found employment and notoriety as mercenaries. The French word zouave, meaning originally a “native” light infantryman is a corruption of zwawi or igawawen, but the tradition had already been established before the French. The Ottoman Dey of Algiers had an honour guard of over two thousand Kabyles. The tradition of Kabyle men seeking their fortune elsewhere, often leaving their wives and families behind, has been maintained. Many of the most haunting Kabyle songs are about the longing for thamurth or home, or are the lament of the women left behind.


A Zouave

Kabyles, although settled in their villages like the Mzabis, did not possess the latter’s religious fervour and eagerly accepted the implication of upward mobility offered by a French education. T’s grandfather and father were both highly educated for the time, his grandfather being one of the Algerians of Kabyle origin studying at the École Normale (teacher training college) at Bouzaréah near Algiers at the end of the nineteenth century. His father had been in his last year of secondary school in Tizi Ouzou, before his schooling was brought to an abrupt end by his eldest brother following their father’s death.

Thus developed a substantial Kabyle intelligentsia – French-speaking and modernist. Kabylie has become remarkable for the number of accountants, businessmen, civil servants, doctors, lawyers, teachers and engineers (of whom T is one, of course) it has produced in recent generations. Not only that, but Kabyle writers, poets and singer-songwriters are amongst the most prolific in Algeria, some of their work reaching an appreciative international audience. Writers such as Mouloud Mammeri, Mouloud Feraoun, Tahar Djaout and Kateb Yacine; singer-songwriters such as Lounis Ait Menguellet, Idir and Matoub Lounès. There are even iconic French actors and singers with a Kabyle heritage: Daniel Prévost, Isabelle Adjani, Edith Piaf and Marianne Cotillard.

The political salience of the Igawawen was evident even at the time of the French conquest and it was they who provided the majority of the Kabyle element in the leadership of the nationalist movement from 1926 onwards. The full story of their vital role in the Algerian independence struggle cannot be told here, but the fact that they subsequently lost their positions in the national leadership of the FLN has been a cause for resentment ever since. Their enormous contribution to the war effort has been airbrushed from history. The concerted attempts to erase their identity have led to many uprisings, the most recent being the Berber Spring (tafsut imazighen) in 1980 and the Black Spring (tafsut taberkant) in 2001.

The scale and character of the igawawen contribution to modern Algerian politics cannot be dismissed as being simply a trait borrowed from the French cultural influence on their region, as a capacity for politics is not something that can be imported. It is bred in the bone.


Monument to the Battle of Incherriden

The Devil Wore Black

I think bullying in general is for cowards.

-Eddie Alvarez

A ya ar dhagui! A ya ar dhagui!”  (Come outside! Come outside!)

That summer morning of 1953 was picture-postcard perfect —the sky an unbroken backdrop of forget-me-not blue, with just a few stray clouds, like wispy curls of hair, floating lazily across it. Promising more heat to come as the day progressed, the sun was already a smouldering ball of yellow in the sky, its rays painting the surrounding mountain peaks and valleys in vivid colours, like a new painting on which the oil paint was still wet. Continue reading

The Master Of Lateral Thinking

Explosions are not comfortable.

-Yevgeny Zamyatin

Attention! Attention! Incendie à la raffinerie!”

The gendarmes’ talkie-walkies suddenly sprang into life and a crackly voice announced that a serious fire had broken out at the refinery. My heart in my mouth, I peered through the dirty window of my office in the direction of the refinery. A huge plume of thick black smoke hung like a harbinger of doom in the still air above it. Continue reading


The strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence.

George Eliot

Drawing together his brows in annoyance at being disturbed over such a trivial matter, T’s father shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t bother me with that,” he told his son brusquely. “Go to Michelet yourself and don’t come back without your exemption.” Continue reading

Couscous With Butter And Sugar

Sometimes we survive by forgetting.


“Where on earth is he?” I muttered to myself, pacing up and down the house, from the bedroom — where our new-born son was sleeping peacefully in his cot — to the living-room and back again, as if I wanted to wear a path along the tiled corridor. Continue reading

My Brother’s Keeper

Who needs superheroes when you have a brother?


T opened his eyes to a cold blue dawn and leaped out of bed, flinging his window open, before hastily slamming it shut again to stop the freezing air rushing in. In his unheated loft space, he could see his breath hanging in the air and feel the roughly-hewn floorboards cold against the soles of his bare feet. The house seemed no warmer inside than out and, during the night, frost had crept across the glass pane of the window as if spun by wintry spiders. Listening to the wind rattling the tiles on the roof just above his head and the snow beginning to tap against the window, he shivered. Continue reading