After weeks of passing by Najia’s small spot at the entrance of Monastir’s old market, stopping for short conversations and making small purchases, I finally asked if I could take her portrait….
Every morning at dawn, Najia begins her walk through the streets of Monastir. At 84 years old, her steps are slow but steady, carrying the weight of both age and determination. She heads toward the entrance of the old market, where she sets up her small stall on the ground — bundles of herbs tied in plastic bags, a few handmade bars of soap, and whatever else she has prepared with her own hands.
Her work is simple but demanding. She collects thyme, tar, wild rue, and lemon balm, dries them, and prepares them herself. The soaps she sells are made from traditional methods passed down through generations. Nothing is mass-produced. Every product is a piece of her own labor.
Najia is not widely known in the market. She does not mingle or trade stories with shopkeepers. She comes with a clear purpose: to sell what she has made and to earn enough to live. She is not a skilled seller in the commercial sense. Sometimes her prices are high, sometimes low — she asks for what she believes her work is worth. What she is always proud of, however, is the quality of her herbs and soaps. If you stop and ask, she will gladly explain every detail: which plant helps the chest, which one calms the nerves, which root keeps away bad energy. She speaks with patience and certainty, less like a vendor and more like a teacher of an old craft.
However, the truth is that Najia does not sell much. The new generation rarely turns to her remedies. Pharmacies and supermarkets have taken the place of stalls like hers. The modern city leaves little space for the old ways, and many walk past without noticing her. Yet she continues to return, day after day, setting up her place at the market entrance.
What makes Najia remarkable is not the size of her stall or the number of customers she has, but her resilience. She insists on living through her work — through what she can produce with her own hands. There is dignity in her persistence, in the way she arranges her herbs, in the quiet pride of showing her knowledge to anyone willing to listen. And if you look closely, you see signs of her legacy. On her hands, worn by years of labor, are gold rings — reminders that she belongs to a generation that built its life through work, tradition, and self-reliance.
Najia’s presence at the market is not about nostalgia. It is about continuity. Even as the world moves past her, she remains — not as a relic, but as a living example of strength, self-respect, and the unbroken thread between land, tradition, and survival.