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.

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.

 

 

A New Kid in Rabat Noureddine Boutahar

I moved to Rabat in September 1979, hoping to resolve the residency issues that had plagued me in Meknes. However, I quickly realized I had only exchanged one set of problems for another -- Out of the frying pan into the fire. My early days in Rabat were fraught with emotional, social, and financial hardships that persisted, albeit diminished, over time.

My early days in Rabat were marked by a profound sense of isolation, stress, and anxiety. The entire life I had painstakingly built in the Ismaili City— the memories I had cherished, the friendships I had nurtured, and the adjustments I had made transitioning from rural to urban living— soon fell apart. Suddenly, I was starting over from scratch. Without friends, unfamiliar with Rabat's layout, and unaccustomed to the fast-paced rhythm of a metropolis, I felt lost and adrift. The city's towering buildings and bustling streets were intimidating, and the cold, hurried glances of strangers chipped away at my confidence, deepening my sense of isolation. It took me a long time to find my footing.

My new school, Yacoub Elmansour, one of the most illustrious establishments in the very heart of the city, attracted children from middle-class Rbati families who were strangers to rural life, let alone to country kids like myself. I often found myself a solitary island at the back of the classroom, feeling isolated and avoided like The Ugly Duckling. For weeks, some kids observed me with the wary eyes of explorers encountering an uncharted land. Others seemed like timid deer, unsure of how to approach that new kid in town. I was not sure how to approach them like a hesitant traveler at a crossroads, unsure of whether to befriend or avoid them.

However, my diligence and active participation in classes, particularly in English and French, eventually became a beacon, drawing the attention of some classmates. A few, notably Ahmed and Khalil, began to approach me. As the baccalaureate exam loomed closer on the horizon, they invited me into their study circle. We occasionally met at Jardin d’Essai Park, and I assisted them with English and French, especially in summarizing French texts—a daunting challenge that many students dreaded and often failed, yet one at which I consistently excelled. In return, they supported me in Arabic grammar, which was my biggest pet peeve.

Initially, I made pilgrimages to Meknes almost every other weekend to visit friends and family. However, this routine strained my finances and wasted precious time needed to prepare for the demanding baccalaureate exams. Eventually, I stopped these journeys and tried to cope with my solitude. This isolation, however, became fertile ground for my reading habits. I started borrowing books from the library and the few acquaintances I had, spending my free time in parks, by the seaside, and in green spaces, devouring pages with a hunger for every word.

I had a friend from Meknes who had moved to Salé, and on weekends, I would walk from Rabat to Salé, across the Bouregreg River, to visit him. However, Thami lacked the aptitude for academics and had little inclination for studies and reading. Consequently, I began to withdraw, limiting our interactions to the bare minimum. When he failed to obtain his baccalaureate, he decided to emigrate to France, which deepened my loneliness like a shadow at dusk.

To escape the hardships of life in Rabat, I joined the Académie Royale Militaire (ARM) of Meknes after earning my baccalaureate and passing the entrance exam. However, I soon realized that military life was not for me and quit after almost a month, returning to Rabat and enrolled in the English department at Mohamed V University.

After leaving the ARM, I found myself in a tough spot: the university enrollment deadline had already passed. Desperate to find a way in, I went from office to office, knocking on doors, trying to find someone who could help me. For more than a month, I was consumed by anxiety, sadness, and disappointment, fearing I would lose an entire year and struggle even more without a scholarship, especially given the daily expenses of student life in the costly city of Rabat. I filed a complaint with the student unions and even sought assistance from a government minister. My persistence paid off when one day, Mr. Bakkari, a student union official and later a parliamentarian, asked me to hand over my enrollment documents. I breathed a sigh of relief.

University life was a vibrant mosaic, a stark contrast to high school, with its diversity making it fantastic. Students came from various villages and towns around Rabat, and I felt that we were all sailors navigating the same uncharted waters, sharing the anxiety of starting a new chapter in life.

I quickly forged strong bonds with new friends, with whom I co-prepared for exams and quizzes. Most of our work was collaborative, carried out beyond the confines of lectures and seminars. We learned to strike a balance between our studies and other activities, like sports and trips to the beach. However, despite my modest scholarship and occasional financial help from my brother, I struggled to cover the expenses of a young student in a bustling metropolis. The city demanded more than I could afford, with costs for books, clothing, travel, excursions, and the occasional lunch with friends. Among my Rbati friends, most of whom came from well-off families, I was the least financially secure.

University's faculty of the English department was a melting pot of nationalities, with teachers from Morocco, Britain, America, Iraq, and more. Each had their unique teaching style, but they all fostered positive relationships with students, respected diverse talents and learning methods, encouraged active learning, and emphasized the importance of time management. I particularly admired and learned a lot from Mr. Ezzroura, Mr. Jamari, Mrs Boutaleb, Mr Sanders, Mr Iraqi, Mr Gravel and others.

University taught me more than just academic lessons. I gained valuable life skills, practical experience, and interpersonal relationships that contributed to my personal development. I also became more aware of the political atmosphere in the country, with students affiliating with various political ideologies, from leftists to right-wing Istiqlal party members, and emerging Islamists.

Frequent strikes over issues such as delayed scholarships, poor campus food, and political decisions led to the creation of the university police, mockingly dubbed AWACS by students. This sardonic nickname referenced the American surveillance aircraft renowned for its all-seeing, all-weather capabilities. These planes were the talk of the town in early October 1980 when Washington dispatched four AWACS to Saudi Arabia in response to Iraq's invasion of Iran, followed by the Reagan administration's controversial proposal in April 1981 to sell five AWACS to the Saudis—a deal that narrowly escaped Congressional rejection the following October.

Among the events that rekindled university strikes were two significant hunger strikes in the 1980s. The first, known as the Casablanca Bread Riots or 'The Bread Martyrs'—a term coined by Driss Basri, one of the most powerful Ministers of the Interior—erupted on May 29, 1981, in Casablanca. This uprising was fueled by sharp increases in food prices. The economic strain from the ongoing Moroccan Sahara War and the severe drought of 1981 led to soaring costs, prompting a widespread general strike. Thousands from the shantytowns surrounding Casablanca took to the streets, targeting symbols of wealth in their outrage. The government's response was brutal, with official reports citing 66 deaths, while opposition figures claimed the toll was as high as 637. The second uprising occurred in 1984, echoing the unrest of the earlier revolt and further highlighting the ongoing discontent and hardship faced by the populace.

It is worth mentioning that the early 1980s ushered in a transformative period for Morocco, marking a division into two distinct eras. Before 1981, Morocco thrived with prosperity, abundant goodness, and lavish rainfall. After 1981, however, the country faced a stark contrast: soaring prices, widespread unemployment, burdensome inflation, and numerous other challenges, all exacerbated by the severe drought of that year and the Sahara conflict. The vibrancy of Morocco in the 1970s filled me with hope and inspired me to stay, complete my education, and pursue a teaching career in Morocco. Despite the allure of relocating to France or the United States, which attracted many of my peers, I chose to remain in Morocco, drawn by its dynamic spirit and opportunities.

During my university years, reading every day became my go-to activity, providing solace and an escape from the challenges of daily life. I read voraciously, both for university and personal interest. For pleasure, I devoured magazines from the UAE, Egypt, and especially Iraq, where publications were abundant and very affordable. Occasionally, I splurged on expensive English papers and magazines like The International Herald Tribune and The Sun. My French reading included both Moroccan and French publications. The radio also played a crucial role in honing my linguistic skills, with the BBC English being my favorite channel, followed by France Inter and the French-speaking Moroccan RTM. These experiences ignited my passion for writing, leading me to contribute to various newspapers and magazines in Arabic and French.

Despite the strikes and disruptions in university life, and despite my financial constraints, my unwavering dedication to reading and hard work paid off. By studying diligently with friends in libraries, parks, and coffee shops, I excelled academically, never failing a test, and graduated with distinction. I maintained this level of excellence at the teacher training school, where I also graduated with distinction. This achievement led to the honor of being received by the late King Hassan II among the laureates of 1986.

I believe that people mature through a combination of small traumas, hard work, and the diverse experiences they encounter. Childhood traumas, in particular, can accelerate this process, compelling individuals to develop a maturity beyond their years. This journey often involves self-reliance, trial and error, suffering, and finding one's own solutions. This resonates deeply with my own life. On my path to achieving success, I relied heavily on myself. My hard work and the lessons learned from my sufferings have significantly increased my wisdom, compassion, and resilience. I have always depended on and trusted myself. My parents were often unaware of my academic progress, only inquiring at the end of each school year whether I had passed and how close I was to finding a job.