Ahmed Boukmakh, a Pioneer in Planting the Seeds of Enlightened Education Noureddine Boutahar

Given the current attacks on teachers, and at this critical moment for education, I have chosen to pause and reflect on a cornerstone of Moroccan heritage that has stood the test of time: the iconic Iqra’ schoolbook series, crafted by the esteemed educator Ahmed Boukmakh. I will begin by offering a glimpse into the historical backdrop of this remarkable series—one that weathered the tides of commercial textbook publishing—and then share brief summaries of a few of its enduring tales, along with the timeless moral lessons they impart.

Although many of today’s younger generations may not recognize his name, Ahmed Boukmakh remains a familiar figure to most Moroccans who attended public school in the early years following independence or during the 1970s. His journey led him from the worlds of theatre to the primary school classroom. There, he made lasting contributions, having laid some of the foundational stones of Morocco’s post-independence educational system.

Ahmed Boukmakh was born in Tangier in the 1920s, during the tumultuous period of the Rif War. His mother passed away when he was just eight years old—a tragedy that marked a difficult childhood. From a young age, he worked in his father’s store, which sold both groceries and consumer goods on one side, and books and novels on the other. It was in that unique space, balanced between labor and literature, that Boukmakh’s character was forged.

At the age of eighteen, he became an active member of the Shoura wa Listiqlal (Consultation and Independence) Party. His political involvement had unfortunate consequences: his father was later imprisoned in Rabat after colonial authorities found pro-independence banners in the family’s store. During that difficult time, young Ahmed found himself the de facto head of the household, tasked with caring for his younger siblings and managing the store.

His creative spark was lit even before the Iqra’ series, as he began writing plays in the 1940s. These early works are still referenced in the literary collections of the renowned scholar Abdullah Gannoun, who was Boukmakh’s mentor, teacher, and spiritual guide. Boukmakh’s plays, often performed at the historic Cervantes Theatre in Tangier—a beacon of translated works by Shakespeare and Molière—sought to instill patriotism and civic values in the youth and theatregoers.

After one of his friends was abducted, and as political tensions plagued the party he had joined, Boukmakh eventually chose to withdraw from political activism. His marriage around the same time gave him reason and space to focus on a new mission: writing and publishing educational books. With the invaluable guidance of the eminent Abdullah Gannoun, he embarked on a creative journey that culminated in the legendary Iqra’ series, skillfully weaving together narratives adapted or translated from the works of great international novelists from both East and West.

The idea was born out of a desire to provide Arabic-language textbooks that could be easily taught in primary school classrooms. At that time, nearly all available educational materials were in French—the language of the colonialist. The first edition of Iqra’, printed in 1954, became one of the earliest foundational texts for the primary education system in Tangier—and later across Morocco.

The Iqra’ series comprised five textbooks designed to be taught over five academic years. Upon completing the final volume, students would earn the highly regarded Shahada—a "Certificate Diploma" that often brought honor to families and even access to civil service jobs. Boukmakh later expanded the collection to include Fus’ha (Classical Arabic) in five volumes, as well as Arriyadiat (Mathematics) and Al-Qiraa Liljami’ (Reading for All), a literacy education series. These books combined captivating stories with vivid illustrations and images to stimulate student curiosity and strengthen their visual memory. He collaborated with leading Moroccan artists such as painter Ahmed Chabaa and caricaturist Ahmed Chentouf.

Boukmakh's writing was defined by short, impactful sentences and a concise style. This directness made his schoolbooks perfect for young learners. He knew that to speak to a child’s mind, you don’t knock on the door—you slip in through the window. His language was simple but never shallow. With a few well-chosen words, he managed to light up young imaginations while slipping in a moral or two when no one was looking.

Although his textbooks were gradually phased out in the early 1980s and replaced with newer materials, editions of Iqra’ continued to be reprinted until 2013—and perhaps even today—for use in literacy programs.

We owe a great deal to the stories from these books—stories that students from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s still remember as though they learned them just yesterday. Boukmakh’s work helped shape what many now nostalgically call the "golden generation" of Moroccan education. The writings of the late teacher Ahmed Boukmakh emerged at a significant turning point in Morocco’s history: the transition from colonial rule to national independence. His texts consistently promoted values of citizenship, patriotism, respect, and ethical living. His stories were both moving and timeless.

Who among us doesn’t remember the cumulative tale of Uklat Albatatis (A Potato Dish)? It's a shining example of how the author understood the value of this storytelling form—a genre built on repetition that not only makes understanding and memorization easier, but also sharpens memory and encourages children to anticipate what comes next. Echoing classics like This Is the House That Jack Built and The Gingerbread Man, the rhythm of Boukmakh’s cumulative tales makes young readers or listeners feel clever and confident, as if they’re reading the storyteller’s mind.

Who among us can forget Hikmat Bustani (The Gardener’s Wisdom)—the tale of the elderly man, eighty years old, still planting date palms beneath the fiery sun? When the king, astonished, asked him, “Do you expect to eat from their fruits?” the gardener responded with the quiet conviction of a man committed to sustainability: “Others planted, and we ate; now we plant, so others may eat.”

Is there a more profound metaphor for generational honesty and responsibility? Have we ever truly stopped to think with such long-sightedness? To safeguard our nation’s treasures—its fertile land, its abundant seas, its vast and infinite skies—not just for today, but for generations to come? To sow trees in the earth, fish in the waters, and dreams in the heavens—dreams powered by science, technology, and innovation?

And who could forget Allah Yarana (God Is Watching Us)—the story of the thief who, under the cloak of night, climbs into a vineyard with his young son to steal grapes? “If you see anyone,” the father warns, “whistle, so I can hide.” As he begins picking the fruit, the boy lets out a piercing whistle. Alarmed, the man jumps down, only to find no one in sight. “Why did you whistle?” he demands. “Did someone see me?” The boy answers, simply and succinctly: “Yes—God, who sees everything.” A heavy quiet descends upon the father, then repentance.

A story as clear as a whistle, sounding through time—a reminder, then and now, to those entrusted with public duty: serve with integrity. Do not loot the nation’s coffers; do not squirrel away fortunes in local and faraway banks. For even in the depths of our withdrawal, God sees all.

Assarrar wa Namla (“The Cricket and the Ant”) is the kind of story that cannot fade into the mist of forgetfulness. In this parable, a carefree cricket fritters away the golden days of summer, strumming his tune and dancing in the sun, while the diligent ant toils from dawn to dusk, stockpiling grain for the lean months ahead. When winter's chill finally bites, the ant sits snug in her burrow with a full larder, while the cricket, cold and famished, comes knocking. But the ant, unmoved by his plight, reminds him that he sang through the harvest—so now, perhaps, he should dance to keep warm. The story delivers its lesson with a sting in the tail: that hard work and foresight are the keys to weathering life's inevitable storms.

And more and more stories of this kind—those that teach and enlighten without preaching—are urgently needed today. They etch values and morals into young minds, gently but firmly. As the old saying goes, “Youthful learning is etched in the mind like stone.” These stories do more than entertain; they shape character, cultivate empathy, and sow the seeds of wisdom early—and etch them deep within young hearts.

Today’s Iqra’ generation—once the rightful heirs of a golden age of learning—now looks with a lump in its throat at what so often passes for education. What was once a sumptuous banquet of stories, rich in meaning and morals, has dwindled into bland fare: lessons stripped of depth, starved of spirit. In days gone by, it was those stories—and the steady, watchful presence of conscientious parents—that shaped young minds. They raised us with the wisdom of old and guided us onto the straight and narrow from our earliest days. So much so that, at the mere sight of a teacher approaching from afar, we would instinctively snap to attention, stifle our laughter behind cupped hands, and freeze mid-play—as though time itself held its breath in their presence. Yes, we feared them—but not with dread. It was a reverent awe, the kind that made our hearts swell when a teacher gently patted our heads, whether in praise or quiet affection. It was both a crown and a blessing.

 

 

The Jewish Peddler Noureddine Boutahar

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, life in the countryside of Tizitine followed a steady rhythm, occasionally stirred by moments of excitement—weddings, festivals, weekly markets, and the much-anticipated visits of peddlers. Of all these, nothing thrilled me more than the arrival of the traveling merchants. I would plead, beg, and sometimes throw fits until my mother or grandmother relented, rewarding me with sweets, chewing gum, or a handful of trail mix—roasted chickpeas, raisins, and peanuts sold by these merchants.Yet, among all the visitors who passed through our village, none was more eagerly awaited than the Jewish peddler. He was more than just a wandering merchant; he was a bearer of wonder. With his arrival, the ordinary faded into the background, replaced by a world of small treasures—treats for the body and stories for the soul.

The Jewish peddler was a wandering merchant, traveling from village to village, house to house, selling an assortment of goods essential to daily life. Every month or so, he would set up shop near our home, thriving on bartering goods in exchange for money, silver jewelry—once abundant among Amazigh women—wool fleeces, and grains like wheat or barley. His wares were as varied as they were intriguing, ranging from soap and kitchen utensils to small tools for home repairs, agate bracelets, necklaces, and sewing necessities such as needles and thread. I never knew his real name; people simply referred to him as "the Jewish peddler" or "the leprous peddler," though in conversation, they addressed him as "A'attar," the Amazigh word for peddler. 

He was of medium height, likely in his late fourties or early fifties. My memories of his appearance remain vivid: he wore a handwoven Amazigh djellaba, frayed at the elbows, worn thin at the seat, and torn at the cuffs—proof that the road had been his constant companion. Beneath the djellaba, he wore a more refined gandoura, a long tunic. His head was always covered with a small cap, which I later learned was a kippah—a religious garment worn by Jews, not merely protection from the elements. On sunny days, the kippah was crowned with a Moroccan sombrero, meticulously woven from the leaves of the dwarf palm, its wide brim offering shade for both head and shoulders. His feet were encased in sturdy, lace-up brodequin boots, faded but still holding their own, much like their owner. 

Women were his primary customers, purchasing everything from small mirrors, agate jewelry, and trinkets to kohl, walnut bark miswak for brushing teeth, and small ceramic pots of rouge to color their lips and cheeks. Shopping with the peddler was not just an errand—it was an event, stretching over an hour as the women admired, tried on, and haggled for goods, their voices rising and falling in animated debate. Time seemed to slow to a crawl—there was no rush for either the ladies or the peddler. 

For us children, his visits were the highlight of the season. He always brought small gifts—sweets, trail mix, dates, or dried figs. Some called him "the leprous peddler" because of the visible scars from leprosy on his face and hands, but our parents drummed into us the importance of kindness and respect, reminding us that such names were hurtful and impolite. We never used them. Instead, we addressed him with warmth as ‘aammi,’ akin to ‘unkie,’ just as we called elderly women ‘aatti ’ or ‘khally,’ meaning auntie. 

The peddler traveled with a large, sturdy grey jack donkey, the kind bred with mares to produce mules. The donkey carried enormous panniers stuffed with goods, sometimes so full that the animal was almost swallowed up by its load. Yet, there was always space for the peddler himself, who rode side-saddle atop the beast, as though it were a throne from which he surveyed the world. 

He often spent the night near our home, drawn perhaps by the warmth and safety my family offered. He would pitch his tent a short distance from our house, stow his goods inside, and then lead his donkey to our well for water. Afterward, he tethered the animal with a thick iron stake and fed it hay from our stack. The Three Musketeers of the family—my brother Abdelmajid, my cousin Hamid, and I—would bicker over who got to bring him dinner, knowing full well that the lucky one would be rewarded with a small gift. More often than not, we all ended up going together, unable to resist the pull of adventure. 

The presence of the peddler added a spark of excitement to our nights. After he had eaten, we would linger, brimming with curiosity. Where had he traveled? What had he seen? What were the other children like in the places he had visited? Had he encountered wild animals, stray dogs, or thieves? Sometimes, he would humor us with tales of his journeys, though, truth be told, I preferred my grandmother’s—they had a way of weaving magic into the mundane. Still, his stories brought a welcome change to our otherwise predictable nights.

By morning, he would usually be gone, slipping away before the world stirred. I have no memory of his departures, but we children would scour the spot where he had camped, hoping to unearth a forgotten relic—a hidden treasure or a lost trinket. Once, I struck gold, or so it felt—I stumbled upon a coin, a find that filled me with pride. I rushed to show my grandmother, though I never knew its true worth. She tucked it safely away until the peddler's next visit. When he returned, my honesty was rewarded with a small, wondrous prize—a packet of chewing gum, five individually wrapped sticks, each one a treasure in itself.