Moroccan Souk: Childhood Joys and Haircut Woes Noureddine Boutahar

 As a Moroccan Gen Xer, the Souk (open-air marketplace) held a special place in my childhood, serving as a vibrant hub where the spirit of our community thrived. It was a space where adults sought their necessities, while I sought out enjoyment. Each week, this open-air market came to life, with vendors proudly displaying their diverse array of goods and services under canvas white tents, transforming a designated space into a bustling spectacle.

In this vibrant gathering, our country folks unveiled their treasures with flair – wheat, barley, peas and broad beans neatly packed in sacks and panniers, enticing buyers with the bounty of their harvest. Meanwhile, the Souk's lively tapestry expanded to include a menagerie of livestock: sheep, goats, donkeys, and mules, all contributing to the bustling energy of the market.

The Souk, a meticulously orchestrated symphony of commerce, showcased impeccable organization. Each section had its designated space, contributing to a harmonious flow. A corner was exclusively reserved for the vibrant hues of fresh vegetables and fruits, while another boasted the earthy tones of grains and cereals. There existed a dedicated space for blacksmiths and farriers, and another for artisans crafting donkey panniers. Further along, a designated spot catered to skilled haircutters, and a lively locale housed the butchers. Beyond the bustling market, a fence stood where farmers securely stowed their pack and draft animals—the unsung heroes and sole modes of transportation in those bygone days—all under the vigilant gaze of a watchful guard, earning a few coins in return.

Accompanying my grandmother, I made occasional visits to the Souk, often timed with the reluctant need for a haircut. Though the idea of trimming my fair, straight hair wasn't appealing, it was the sole reason I was permitted to join this bustling spectacle. My parents, wary of hygiene concerns, frowned upon letting my hair grow too long, deeming it a breeding ground for unwelcome guests like lice, which were very common in those days.

Yet, amidst the haircuts and clippings, what I cherished most about the Souk were the breakfasts at the charming tented cafes. There, we indulged in hearty meals – mint tea sweetened generously, scrambled eggs drizzled with olive oil and tomatoes, hot whole-wheat flour bread, and the pièce de résistance, Sfenj, traditional Moroccan yeasted donuts, airy and soft on the inside and crisp on the outside. Its aroma wafted through the entire Souk, a scent that lingers in my memories.

Another highlight was encountering relatives amidst the vibrant chaos. Amidst greetings, teasing, and expressions of familial affection, a small piece of money would change hands. This ‘windfall’ became my ticket to delight, spent on candies and chewing gum, turning the Souk into a playground for my sweet tooth.

The haircut sessions, conducted by a family friend doubling as the barber, were less enjoyable. His tools were weathered, and makeshift solutions were common. The absence of chairs meant that we had to sit on the ground, on old sacks, or on the donkey packs of other customers, patiently waiting for our turn. Despite my requests for a longer haircut, my parents insisted on a short crop, leaving me dissatisfied and occasionally frustrated. While everyone complimented my hair, a sentiment I also shared, my heart leaned towards the enchantment of long strands. The transformation to a shorter haircut rendered me completely different and less handsome, and subjected me to teasing from my peers.

Exhausted from the day's adventures, having had my fill of playtime and satisfied my sweet cravings, I would often doze off on the way home on muleback. To prevent any mishaps, either my grandmother or my father would place me in front of them on the mule, ensuring a safe journey back, where dreams of the lively Souk lingered until the next visit.

There is a Moroccan proverb that goes, "Those who benefit from the Souk applaud its merits." I stand among those who have reaped the Souk’s rewards, albeit not in material or economic terms. Instead, my gains were intangible, catering to the needs of a young child seeking fun as well as exploration, experimentation, and transformation. In the bustling marketplace, I discovered not only goods but a realm of experiences that shaped my journey of growth, offering the currency of curiosity, joy, and the ever-changing fabric of life.

My Horseback Adventure. Noureddine Boutahar

I spent my childhood in the enchanting countryside, surrounded by donkeys, mules, and horses. My proficiency in riding was such that I earned the privilege of training these magnificent animals. However, not every tale from those days unfolded smoothly, as the following incident illustrates.

Growing up in a bustling household with my parents, grandparents, and skilled horseman uncle, equestrian performances, known as Tbourida, were a regular feature during celebrations like weddings, festivals, and competitions. Our stable housed a variety of splendid horse breeds, born from our mares and expertly trained at home, primarily by my uncle, who had a profound love for these majestic creatures.

One day, we welcomed a striking black Barb pony into our midst. My uncle, seizing the opportunity, showcased the pony's debut at a fantasia performance during a neighbor's wedding, marking the beginning of its training journey. After a day of spirited galloping, my uncle entrusted me with the task of riding the tired and calm pony back home. I succeeded, proud of handling an untrained pony, and expressed my eagerness to gentle it the next day.

The night preceding the anticipated event was sleepless, fueled by thoughts of proving my maturity to everyone. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, my uncle saddled the horse, attached the spurs, and hoisted me onto its back. These horses, known for their fiery nature and sensitivity under the saddle, responded to the slightest cues.

Upon mounting, I felt the pony's shudders but hesitated to convey my unease. A few steps later, I unintentionally jabbed the excited animal with my spurs, triggering a rapid gallop that almost threw me off. My uncle's calls to pull the bridle were futile, and I found myself in a fast, uncontrollable ride.

Fearing the worst – a potential fall into a well or abyss, or a collision with the looming fig trees – panic set in. I attempted to redirect the horse up the mountain but it refused to heed my pulling. Left with no other choice, I made a split-second decision. I leaned to the left, removed my feet from the stirrups, and leaped to the ground.

Upon regaining consciousness, pain coursed through my entire body. Bruised, swollen, and cut, I spent the next fortnight under my grandmother's care. Her expertise in healing involved massages, warm washcloths, and various herbal concoctions.

Despite the setback, I wholeheartedly agree with Rolf Kopfle's sentiment: “There are many wonderful places in the world, but one of my favorite places is on the back of my horse.' This rings true, for as the legendary American cowboy and actor Roy Rogers wisely said, 'If you tumble off a horse, the only way forward is to rise again. I'm no quitter.' Life's mishaps are but fleeting moments. So we need to embrace the lessons they bring, rise resiliently, and ride forward with a renewed determination to savor the journey ahead.  

Mediocracy is Today's Flavor du Jour. Noureddine Boutahar

In this comically absurd world, there is an abundance of the intellectually challenged, the blinder-wearers, the unwitting pawns, and the brainwashed sheeple. These individuals are moved, controlled, and exploited by the unseen hands of  manipulations, social media, and “the mysterious divinities hidden behind the tabernacle”, in Gustave Le Bon’s words. Political, economic, media and academic arenas are transforming into absurd spectacles led by these mediocre mentalities, steadily advancing to seize more platforms and jeopardize the presence of discerning minds.

According to Oxford Languages Dictionary, mediocracy is defined as "a dominant class consisting of mediocre people or a system in which mediocrity is rewarded," where the absence of authenticity, creativity, and value is noticeable, and exudes an air of insignificance, contempt, and baseness. Its champions aim to weaken our values, beliefs, cultures, and traditions, leading societies to blindly embrace the appeal of the capitalist market economy through backing, approval, widespread dissemination, and media influence.

Socrates articulated it eloquently back in the days when he remarked on a man who confidently strutted, showcasing his clothes and stylish flair: "Speak, so I may see you." This implies that genuine value is not contingent upon external beauty or style. It does not rely on the mediocre content lacking depth, accuracy, and originality that individuals post on the Internet. True value lies in the substance of one's words, the authenticity of one's ideas, and one's streadfast attitude.

Today, however, mediocracy has taken hold of people's daily lives, claiming a significant share of their mental energy. The mediocre dedicate substantial time to debates over trivial matters like fashion trends, accessories, food, and the appeal of public figures. Global television and social media discussions further amplify these frivolous topics, engaging in debates about a dancer's legs, a singer's earrings, or a model's eyelashes. The mediocre have morphed into revered role models, "paper tigers" in Mao Zedong's words, posing a looming threat as mediocracy tightens its grip on the world.

How did the mediocre achieve this? According to the Canadian philosopher, Alain Deneault, “There was no Reichstag fire. No storming of the Bastille. No mutiny on the Aurora. Instead, the mediocre have seized power without firing a single shot. They rose to power on the tide of an economy where workers produce assembly-line meals without knowing how to cook at home, give customers instructions over the phone that they themselves don't understand, or sell books and newspapers that they never read.” Once unknown nobodies and fools now find themselves propelled into the limelight and fame, courtesy of contemporary media and social platforms that provide a stage for mediocracy to emerge, spreading from obscurity.

As Alain Deneault emphasized, mediocracy has become dominant, shaping societal culture with a cohort of mediocre media figures. This normalization has blurred the lines between corruption and innocence to the extent that virtue is seen as a punishable act, and vice is hailed as the ultimate virtue. Kindness is deemed foolish, while malice is paradoxically applauded as brilliance and intelligence.

The danger of mediocracy gaining ground and assembling more followers is that we draw nearer to what the French polymath, Gustave Le Bon, described as the sheep-like mentality of the crowd. Le Bon defined the crowd as a group of individuals united by a common idea, belief, or ideology. The idea which unites a crowd is not chosen by a process of clear reasoning and examination of evidence. Instead, crowds accept beliefs and ideas superficially and utilize them as fuel for revolutionary action. He says, “How numerous are the crowds that have heroically faced death for beliefs ideas and phrases that they scarcely understood.”

In addition, mediocre people are okay with doing the minimum and getting by without putting in enough effort. They avoid pushing limits, challenging norms, thinking creatively, or making extra efforts to achieve goals. They complete tasks but don't aim to stand out or make a big impression. They are content with being average, and as long as things work, they consider it a success. They also anticipate conformity from everyone, expecting individuals to follow the herd without questioning. Anyone who deviates is often unjustly labeled as foolish, a traitor, a turncoat, or a coward.

Another issue with mediocracy is its contagious nature. If one surrounds oneself with individuals who embody mediocracy, negativity, and contentment with average standards, it is likely to influence one to remain at that level. The environment plays a crucial role in shaping the quality and achievements of an individual. Jogging alongside people at one's pace maintains the same speed, preventing any upward movement beyond that average quality and mentality. According to Le Bon, when an individual becomes part of a crowd, he undergoes a profound psychological transformation that, “He is no longer himself but has become an automaton who has ceased to be guided by his will.”

One additional issue with the mediocres is their tendency to go through life wearing blinders. As the movie "Don't Look Up" exemplifies, the mediocre exhibit a lack of concern for matters of public importance. In the film, two astronomers attempt to warn humanity about an impending comet that poses a threat to civilization. Satirically, this warning is met with indifference from mediocre figures in government, politics, celebrities, and the media regarding the impending danger.

It's disheartening that we find ourselves in an era dominated by mediocracy and distraction, a time of deviating away from sound reasoning and higher values. This cultural shift has paved the way for the widespread proliferation of political and social corruption, the prevalence of ignorance, the dissemination of low-quality content, and the erosion of societal standards. There is no magic bullet, secret formula, or quick fix for breaking free from the clutches of mediocracy. It is a collective responsibility, echoing Jean-Paul Sartre's insight: "When we say that a person is responsible for oneself, we don't only mean that one is responsible for one's individuality, but also that one is responsible for all of humanity."

Regrettably, the trajectory towards the rise of mediocracy and the increasing influence of the mediocre provides little reason for optimism, at least in the foreseeable future. Thus, I can only echo the sentiment expressed by the Hadith: "Do as you please if you have no sense of shame."

My Quranic School Experience. Noureddine Boutahar

As I journey down the memory lane of my life, retracing it to my early childhood, one striking and indelible memory comes to the forefront — the momentous and somewhat daunting first day at the Quranic School. This particular recollection is so vivid that it demands to be shared, pursuant to the insightful words of American writer Lois Lowry, who aptly remarked, 'Memories need to be shared.' 

Morocco has long been distinguished by a unique and authentic method of Quran memorization, a tradition passed down through generations. This practice which unfolded in Quranic schools known as "Kuttab" or "Msid", relied on simple tools like wooden boards, reed pens, and ink made from gum arabic and clay. These schools were supervised by a teacher known as the Fqih, selected by the villagers. Instead of receiving monetary compensation, the Fqih was provided with provisions for living, and, if single, even a wife from the village. Beyond teaching the Quran, writing, and arithmetic, the Fqih also served as a respected advisor to the community, playing a crucial role in shaping young minds and guiding the village through various aspects of life.

In my generation, almost every child attended the Quranic School, almost like a kindergarten rite of passage. However, my stint there was fleeting. I remember my first day vividly, as if it happened only yesterday. The Fqih, seated on a sheepskin rug that doubled as his prayer carpet, wielded a long stick that reached every nook of the room, bustling with cross-legged students aged five to seven. As he enforced discipline among the students, an air of fear permeated the atmosphere, heightened by the Fqih's imposing physique and resonant, intimidating voice.

On the day I joined the Msid, our main focus was on reciting Quranic verses. Towards the back, a young boy grappled with the verses, his pauses and hesitations betraying a lack of memorization. Abruptly, at the Fqih's signal, two older boys sprang into action, seizing the struggling reciter, pulling him to the front, and binding his feet. The Fqih wielded a two-foot olive tree stick adorned with small thorns, unleashing a merciless flogging upon the child's soles. Despite the child's desperate cries and promises of improved memorization the next day, the Fkih remained indifferent. 

Unable to witness this injustice without response, I spontaneously rose, grabbed an ink bottle, and swiftly made my exit. Alarmed, the Fqih hastily pulled up his Jellaba, chasing after me for a few steps. Eventually, he halted, calling out for me to return with the bottle. However, I sprinted away, resolute in my determination to escape the troubling scene.

Despite residing almost four miles away from the Msid, I made a swift return, outpacing the renowned Said Aouita. My heart pounded against my ribs, and tears blurred my vision as I recounted my sob story to my astonished and alarmed mother and grandmother, one breathless sentence at a time. My grandmother, my stalwart protector, vowed to ensure I never returned to the Msid.

In the ensuing days, my father took the initiative to enroll me in a formal primary school, albeit as a listener due to my not having reached the eligible age. Mr. Ourrach, with his remarkable kindness, trustworthiness, and unwavering support, fostered an environment where I felt at ease, enabling me to enthusiastically absorb a wealth of knowledge, including a few Quranic verses, from the sidelines. His passion for teaching was truly authentic, and he triumphed in capturing the hearts and minds of all his students.

As for the topic of caning, it was part and parcel of attending Quranic Schools. It constituted a widespread form of corporal punishment in Moroccan Msids, being meted out for a spectrum of infractions, both serious and trivial. These included failure to recite verses, making noise, truancy, bullying, fighting, stealing, and disobedience. Children were struck on various body parts, and the severity often depended on the perceived gravity of the offense. However, many students attested that the number of strokes seemed arbitrary.

Today, as I hear the heart-rending stories of the dehumanizing punishments my peers endured under certain Fkihs' authority, a profound sadness engulfs me. Yet, my heart swells with immense gratitude for my exceptionally kind-hearted, affectionate grandmother. She not only spared me from the haunting specter of having my mental and emotional health shattered by a mere stick but also shielded me from potential negative consequences in physical development.