The Begging Industry: Morocco’s Hidden Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

Wherever you go in Morocco, it's hard to take more than a few steps without encountering outstretched hands, tearful pleas, or heart-wrenching tales of sorrow. What was once a rare and pitiable sight has become a daily intrusion. Begging has mushroomed into a full-blown social menace—one that drains public sympathy, erodes communal values, fuels deceit, and chips away at the nation’s collective conscience.

Let’s not mince words: while some beggars are truly in need, far too many are exploiting both the system and our goodwill. Walk through any city, and you’ll find children at intersections, elderly women huddled outside mosques, and young men weaving through traffic with desperate faces and dramatic stories. But scratch beneath the surface, and the reality is often more calculated than tragic.

Most disturbing is the growing exploitation of children in this sordid trade. These kids aren’t merely poor; many are pawns in the hands of adults who should be protecting them. Organized rings operate with alarming efficiency, placing children in high-traffic areas to elicit sympathy and loosen wallets. It’s not just immoral—it’s criminal. While Moroccan law prohibits such exploitation, enforcement remains weak and inconsistent.

The deception doesn't stop there. Public trust continues to erode as stories emerge—sporadically, but credibly—of beggars leading double lives: destitute by day, but returning to comfortable homes by night. Some own property, drive fancy cars, and stash money in bank accounts, pillows, or mattresses. These are not people on the brink—they are opportunists exploiting compassion, wolves in sheep’s clothing. For some, begging has become more profitable than honest work, with earnings surpassing those of teachers and civil servants.

I once spoke with a taxi driver in Khemisset who shared a story that left him—and later, me—stunned. He had seen a man he personally knew as a street beggar park a sleek 4WD on the outskirts of the city before heading into town to beg. It was a moment that truly gave me pause.

In today’s digital age, the hustle has moved online. Social media platforms are teeming with fabricated tales of misery: strangers pretending to be sick individuals, desperate mothers, or displaced families. Even worse are the influencers who openly ask their followers for money. In both cases, with a single click, well-meaning citizens donate—often unaware they are being duped. It’s emotional blackmail, pure and simple—and it works.

Let’s be clear: this epidemic mocks real poverty. It blurs the line between genuine need and theatrical manipulation. A person with a limp or a disabled hand? We’ve often encountered individuals pretending to be handicapped to deceive others. The “stranded traveler” who needs bus fare? He’s told that story to a dozen others just that morning. The beggar who asks for food, only to return it for cash? That’s a rehearsed con. The veiled girl claiming to care for her cancer-stricken mother and seven siblings? That tale has made the rounds across the country for years.

Meanwhile, the working poor—the ones who labor honestly—remain invisible. They struggle in silence while street performers in rags collect coins with a few well-timed sobs. It’s an insult to every Moroccan who chooses dignity over deceit.

My grandmother once told a story that still lingers in my mind. A young man from a noble family fell in love with a beggar’s daughter. The girl’s father agreed to the marriage—on one condition: the young man had to join him in begging for one week. The smitten youth agreed. But when the week ended, he refused to stop. The message was clear: once someone tastes the easy life, it’s hard to turn back. Despite his noble roots, he discovered that begging was both effortless and profitable. It’s a timeless cautionary tale about a very human weakness: the lure of the path of least resistance.

This shift in values is especially visible in the countryside—at least where I come from. In the '60s, '70s, and '80s, field workers and shepherds were plentiful. Today, many have abandoned their posts for what they see as an easier life in the city, sustained by handouts of bread, yogurt, and coins. Farmers now reduce their livestock or leave their fields fallow because finding laborers has become a near impossibility.

I remember an old man who once sold vegetables in Khemisset, hauling them in by donkey from a nearby village. People paid extra out of sympathy. Over time, he gave up the trade and turned to begging instead. I also knew three little girls who begged around town—closely watched by a lurking man, perhaps their guardian, perhaps a predator.

A friend shared another story: his acquaintance offered a beggar in Meknes a job on his farm, repeating the offer several times. Eventually, the beggar declined and confessed: he visited nearly 300 cafés daily and rarely left without collecting between one and ten dirhams—not to mention free food. He earned more than many doctors and teachers. This chilling reality shows just how profitable begging has become.

Let’s not ignore the cultural and religious context. Islam certainly encourages charity—but it also upholds values of self-reliance, dignity, and personal responsibility. Blindly giving to strangers in the street often feeds the beast, not need. As the old saying goes: “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach him to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.” True charity uplifts—it does not enable. Islam also places great emphasis on helping one’s relatives, strengthening familial bonds and ensuring assistance goes where it’s truly needed.

Morocco must draw a line in the sand. Our cities cannot continue to serve as open-air theaters of staged misery. Stricter enforcement of anti-begging laws is essential—especially to protect children from exploitation. But enforcement alone isn't enough. We need to channel compassion intelligently, directing support through transparent, accountable organizations that address real social needs.

Begging is more than an eyesore; it’s a corrosive force undermining public trust, social order, and moral responsibility. It's time to reject both guilt-driven giving and and turning a blind eye to the shameful phenomenon. True solidarity means making informed choices: saying “no” when appropriate, backing legitimate social programs, and holding both the state and civil society accountable for long-term solutions.

 

We, the In-Between Generation of the 60s, 70s, and 80s Noureddine Boutahar

Almost everyone born somewhere between the echoes of the sixties and the dawn of the eighties, back when the world felt a little rougher around the edges, belonged to a different breed. Born in the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s, we are the “in-between generation”—a unique segment of society. Born into simplicity, nurtured in modesty, and thrust, almost unprepared, into the maelstrom of technology and modernity, our lives bridge the analog and digital eras. Our experiences reflect the beauty of tradition and the challenges of transition, caught between the warmth of the past and the chill of the present.

In our formative years, life unfolded at a gentler pace, and moments held profound significance. Childhood wasn't measured by screen time or social media validation but by scraped knees, dusty playgrounds, and storytelling beneath a canopy of stars. Ours is the generation that stood at the cusp of a profound transformation, witnessing life as we knew it undergo a sea change. This pivotal experience wove a rich, intricate tapestry of memories, experiences and ideas within us, —a perspective so nuanced that even Picasso’s brush or Dalí’s surreal vision could scarcely capture its unique essence.

We walked miles to school under the scorching summer sun or through the biting cold of winter rain, with minimal protection from the elements. Education was rigorous: exams covered entire textbooks, not fragmented summaries. There were no private tutors, no motivational speeches, no multiple-choice tests to soften the challenge—just raw grit, honest effort, and the ingrained belief that hard work paves its own way. We respected our teachers, often viewing them as guiding lights. A mere glimpse of a teacher on the street was enough to instill in us a sense of humility. Our guiding principle was straightforward: "He who seeks greatness burns the midnight oil." Today, a different sentiment seems to hold sway among young people: "Cheat to succeed; integrity is a losing game."

In those days, entertainment was homegrown. We crafted our own toys from whatever scraps and simple materials we could scavenge around the house, breathing life into sticks, cloth, iron wire, and string. Barefoot and carefree, we ruled the dusty alleyways, playing open-air games like tag, hide-and-seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and blind man's bluff, our laughter echoing through the village or neighborhood like birdsong at a spring dawn. Yet, never once did a foul word escape our lips; a far cry from the vocabulary that fills the air these days! We clambered up trees like little monkeys, often tearing our clothes and leaving bits of ourselves behind—scratched and splintered, but undaunted. With the devil-may-care attitude of youth, we swam in ponds teeming with leeches and water snakes, and drank from creeks and streams that today would make a health worrywart faint. Yet, against all odds, we grew hardy and strong, as if we were tempered by nature’s own forge.

We grew up under wide skies in tattered clothes, understanding that a torn shirt and battered shoes weren't a source of shame but a testament to experience. We scraped knees without a parent hovering like a helicopter at every stumble. If we got hurt, there was no mad dash to the hospital—just a pat on the back, a whispered “You’ll be fine,” and a little dirt rubbed into the wound like some ancient magic cure. Tears were for the weak; we were told to suck it up and carry on. And yet, look at us. We thrived.

Back then, values like respect, gratitude, modesty, and humility were not merely taught—they were stitched into the very fabric of daily life. They were poured into us from an early age, like water into the roots of a young tree, by parents, relatives, and neighbors who shared a common vision of what a child should become. Schoolteachers, too, were given a free rein to shape our character with a firm but guiding hand. Between parents and teachers there existed a simple, ironclad understanding: "Spare the rod and spoil the child."

But then, the world underwent a seismic shift; the familiar landmarks vanished.

The digital floodgates burst open, and the world we knew began to crumble like a house of cards. Unprepared, we had to adapt or be swept away. Radios and gramophones yielded to televisions and cassette players and, subsequently, to computers, dumb phones, and then smartphones. The transformation wasn't gradual; it was abrupt, dramatic, merciless and all-encompassing. We transitioned from using address books and landlines to instant messaging and cloud storage, from the tactile ritual of rewinding cassettes to the immediate gratification of streaming services, from the deliberate act of writing longhand letters to the swift tap of emojis. Everything became more convenient and faster—yet also more devoid of substance.

This generational upheaval wasn’t solely about gadgets; it was a profound psychological and emotional adjustment. We bore the considerable weight of adapting without guidance—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes painfully, but always with resilience. We had no digital natives to mentor us through this new terrain. We simply had to survive—to adapt, to keep pace, to comprehend—without the luxury of choice in a world increasingly defined by "live or perish."

Now, we exist in a state of duality. Our hearts divided between the simplicity of the past and the conveniences of the present. One part of our hearts resonates with the quiet moments, the genuine human connections, and the tangible joys of the the past. The other part beats with a sense of resignation in the digital present, where relationships are often virtual, conversations are reduced to fleeting emojis, and serene silence has been drowned out by incessant noise.

Despite these profound changes, much of our core remains intact. Though our hair may have silvered and our reflections may seem unfamiliar, we remain anchored to the values of the past. We still carry the quiet dignity of well-worn clothes, the deep pride of hard-earned success, and the understated elegance of inner strength. The world may have transformed, but we still stand—not as relics of a bygone era, but as living witnesses to a time of genuine meaning.

To our generation—the generation of patience, endurance, and profound transformation—respect is rightly due. We were not handed a ready-made identity, yet we forged one. We witnessed the world bend, break, and rebuild itself—and yet, we persevered. We braved the stormy landscape of the era, weathering religious and political turmoils with a resilience forged by necessity. We walked a tightrope through those turbulent years—sometimes coming through unscathed, other times just by the skin of our teeth.

So, let the younger generations scoff at our nostalgia. Let them label us “the old school.” We wear that designation like a badge of honor because we are the bridge—connecting two distinct worlds, fluent in two languages of experience, feeling the weight of both eras. We are the quiet resilience in a clamorous world, the living memory in a digital haze.

We are the X-generation, to borrow Douglas Coupland’s term, carrying the memories of our origins but never forgetting how far we have journeyed —and that, dear readers, is the unwavering beacon that poit us home.