The Whistle Cricket: A Forgotten Marvel of Morocco’s Natural Heritage Noureddine Boutahar

During my frequent journeys to Boukashmir—my ancestral village tucked near the famed bottling town of Oulmes in the heart of the Middle Atlas Mountains—I’m often met with an unexpected yet familiar sight that pulls me straight into the embrace of childhood memory. As I near the edge of the forest, I instinctively slow down, anticipating the appearance of a large, spiny insect calmly making its way across the road—unhurried, yet with quiet intent. I never miss the chance to snap a few photos, once again captivated by its strange elegance and enduring presence.

This “curious insect,” to borrow a phrase from Carl Linnaeus, is Eugaster spinulosa—a species endemic to North Africa’s arid and semi-arid zones, especially Morocco, and to a lesser extent, Algeria and Tunisia. Despite its formidable size and striking appearance, it remains a largely obscure figure in both public imagination and scientific literature. Few researchers have studied it; most references are footnotes in dusty monographs. Yet this bush-cricket, colloquially known in English as the "whistle cricket," is a remarkable creature with a story worth telling.

Belonging to the Tettigoniidae family, Eugaster spinulosa is flightless and cannot jump. Instead, it navigates the world on sturdy legs, relying on a suite of defenses rather than speed. Its spiny, horned thorax and smooth, barrel-like abdomen give it an intimidating appearance, though it is entirely harmless to humans. Its coloration ranges widely—some specimens are jet-black with crimson-tipped spines, while others wear a checkered tapestry of earthy browns and beiges. Only the males possess small, hidden elytra for sound production. When threatened, the insect doesn’t bite or flee—it reflexively “bleeds” from its joints, a vivid crimson fluid that startles predators and evokes awe in onlookers.

What makes the whistle cricket even more captivating is its place in Amazigh folk culture. In some regions, we Amazigh call it bougrir; in others, wagnim—names whose linguistic roots are now lost to time. One of the few well-documented uses of this insect is practical and poetic: herdsmen would dry its body, remove its legs, and turn it into a whistle—hence the name "whistle cricket." Scientists have also noted an oddity in its reproductive life: after mating, the male becomes infertile for ten days—a peculiar quirk that only deepens its mystery. Local beliefs, passed down through generations, claim that the reflexive bleeding has medicinal value, treating certain skin conditions.

Despite its ecological and cultural significance, this ground-dwelling, herbivorous insect lacks a widely recognized common name in either English or French. It is usually referred to by its Latin name, though in Arabic sources it may appear as الجرادة الشوكية (thorny locust) or الصرصور الجبلي (mountain cockroach)—labels that fail to capture its uniqueness and charm.

To me, this insect is more than a natural curiosity. Each time I meet one on the road to or from Boukashmir, I instinctively veer aside, giving it safe passage. My reasons are simple, yet deeply felt. First, because every creature deserves its place under the sun. Second, because it is stitched into the fabric of my rural childhood, when our elders used its blood to treat skin fungi. And third, because it has become alarmingly rare—perhaps a victim of worsening droughts or the vanishing flora it depends on for food and shelter.

In an age when we are increasingly detached from the land and its lesser-known inhabitants, this humble cricket offers a quiet reminder. Small though it is, it carries within it a forgotten thread of Morocco’s natural and cultural tapestry. Insects like the whistle cricket are not mere oddities—they are silent witnesses to our changing world and living archives of indigenous knowledge. Its story deserves not only to be told—but to be remembered.

My Circumcision Noureddine Boutahar

Circumcision, the ancient ritual of removing the foreskin, is common to Judaism, Islam, and some Christian groups. Often performed on infants, it’s a symbol of faith, purity, and sometimes health. In Morocco, circumcision is referred to as t’hara, meaning purification, and is celebrated by families with parties that range from simple to grand, depending on means and custom.

In my case, as part of a large family of siblings and cousins, the circumcision was a group event, shared with my younger brother Abdelmajid and our cousin Hamid, who was the youngest. I was the eldest, almost six, and many details remain etched in my memory as if it all happened yesterday. I never understood why my family had waited so long to circumcize me, though there is no fixed age for it in Islam.

Our celebration took place on a summer day in the sixties. My family pitched a series of popular Amazigh black tents for the guests: separate ones for men, women, and young men. In each, the best carpets were spread, tables set, and tea essentials readied a couple of days in advance. Tea, at these gatherings, was more than a drink; it was the lifeblood of Amazigh hospitality, served continuously throughout the day. It was more than just beverage; it was the essence that wove gatherings together, nurturing camaraderie and breathing life into conversations at these assemblies.

The night before, our hands and feet were covered in henna—a ritual preparation for the day ahead. My grandmother had dried and ground the plant from Zagora into a fine powder days before. Close relatives, mostly women, sang and danced to the bendir’s beat as they applied the paste, continuing late into the night. The young girls wore delicate henna patterns as well, which I later learned symbolized blessings for future marriages.

The following day, family and neighbors, young and old, arrived in their finest traditional attire. The women wore ornate kaftans and elegant takchitas—two-layered kaftans with one simple layer beneath a more decorative outer layer—paired with impressive, mostly silver jewelry. The men donned light jellabas suited to the summer heat or mismatched suits. They all arrived on foot, on horses, mules, or donkeys, each decorated with handwoven hanbel rugs. Some rugs were striped, while others featured intricate patterns and sequins that shimmered in the sunlight like gem pendents. 

That red-letter day was a swirl of songs, dances, and the booming sounds of fantasia horsemanship. Inside the two largest adjoining tents, the men chatted, teased, and commented on the fantasia, an awe-inspiring display of skilled horsemanship traditionally performed for family milestones like circumcisions, weddings, and other festive occasions. Meanwhile, the women sang and danced tirelessly to the rhythms of bendirs and the strains of a violin skillfully played by a young boy who had crafted it himself from a tin jerrycan that once held pesticides.

I enjoyed the atmosphere but sensed something unusual in the air. First, we three were hennayed and dressed up in a way that felt extravagant, like bridegooms. Second, I overheard snippets of conversation hinting that we were the reason for all this attention. Finally, when ahjjam, the barber and a circumcision expert, arrived, my suspicions were almost confirmed. This barber, a family friend from Jirry near Meknes, was a polymath—part barber, part healer, skilled in hijama (cupping), circumcision, and cautery. He traveled on a prized palomino mule, saddled like a horse, with a white mane that made it stand out. His presence cemented my growing anxiety, keeping me on high alert.

When lunch began, the fantasia and dancing paused, and guests settled for the feast: roasted lamb méchoui -- the timeless centerpiece of such rural celebrations-- followed by lamb tajine, and finally couscous with free-range chicken. For dessert, trays of watermelon and black and yellow grapes were served, all quickly devoured. Afterward, the true purpose of the gathering became clear. As talk turned to "the kids" and our names were mentioned here and there, someone called my name. I darted from the tent and ran as fast as I could, but my uncle, swift as an eagle, soon caught me by the scruff of my neck, hoisted me into the air, my legs flailing as I struggled to escape.

Despite my resistance, ahjjam had his ways. In mere moments, it was over, and I was in my grandmother’s arms, sobbing my heart out.  My two companions followed suit, their cries mingling with mine as a circle of women surrounded us, their ululations and songs filling the air to muffle our sobs. Their songs included verses like biast aya hajjam (“Cut it, barber!”) and asi afous nek zik (“Lift your hands and leave!”).

After the ordeal, the gift-giving began. Families placed their offerings on tisguit—woven palm trays carried atop the heads of dancing women—and aghanim (reed) notched along their length, and decorated with hanging paper money, and capped with mint bouquets. In addition to circumcision songs, chants of praise filled the air, celebrating our family ties and the importance of gift-giving, with verses in Amazigh and occasionally heavily accented Arabic.

For several days, I was pampered indoors, my every whim indulged by my grandmother. Yet, I was kept clad only in a loose daraia tunic, forbidden from wearing undergarments. Despite this cosseting, I craved the fresh air and freedom outdoors. Within two weeks, I was back to my usual leisure pursuits—running, climbing trees, and riding animals. However, the experience left a lasting impression. Decades later, when my son underwent circumcision, I found myself crying downstairs, a surge of sympathy for my parents washing over me.

May our parents rest in peace. We seldom grasp the depth of their quiet endurance until we find ourselves walking their path with our own children, feeling the weight of their sacrifices and love in ways we never could before. Children, it seems, are born to decipher what our parents left unsaid.

 

Our Breakfasts: A Taste of Tradition Noureddine Boutahar

In the countryside of the The Sixties and The Seventies, our breakfasts
were seasonal affairs, woven from the land’s bounty and sustained by the fruits of our labor. Our table depended heavily on home-grown produce, yet it was never the same; it shifted with the seasons, transformed on holidays, and took on special flavors when guests and visitors graced our home.

Each morning, our breakfast was grounded in the earthy taste of homemade bread or harcha—the quintessential Amazigh breakfast semolina flatbread baked from wheat grown in our fields, or sometimes corn or barley, depending on the season. Shaped over a wood fire on a clay griddle, these loaves were often as big as a medium size car wheel, sized to satisfy a family of many mouths, eating in shifts most of the time. The women who prepared and served breakfast often ate last, tucked away in the kanoun—the small space reserved for cooking. The scent of warm bread wrapped around them like a soft shawl as they ate, often while still tending to the meal of latecomers.

Preparing a meal was a ritual that required firewood or dried cow dung, three stones to prop up the griddle, and a raboz (bellows) to breathe life into the flames. At a pinch, if the bellows were busy or the rush was urgent, the women blew into the fire themselves, often at the cost of teary eyes from the smoke. Bread, our dawn companion, called the women from their beds in the wee small hours. They would grind the grain by hand with a traditional stone mill, turning it with the strength of, usually, two women across from each other. Then, they’d sift the flour, knead the dough, and leave it to rise. The soft, rhythmic voices of women turning the grinder, singing traditional and religious songs, became a gentle lullaby to my drowsy ears.

Alongside the bread, there was always fresh butter from our cows and rich olive oil from our trees, ready to be dipped and savored. Mint tea, steaming and fragrant, was our staple drink, though sometimes the luxurious aroma of coffee with milk slipped into the morning air. Two cups were the rule, but we, the children, knew how to stretch that rule, coaxing our way to a third and sometimes even a fourth.

For special days—Eids, visits from guests, or simply a change from routine—there was a stack of sheets of meloui, delicate pastry sheets slathered with butter and honey, and sfenj, my mother’s specialty. These airy, fried dough rings were a rare treat, appearing only two or three times a year, which made each bite feel like a small celebration.

In the winter’s chill, hearty soups, rich with medicinal herbs and spices to ward off colds, joined our breakfast. The scent of garlic, fenugreek, parsley, and coriander from our kitchen garden would drift through the house, calling us to the table. Chickpeas, broad beans, lentils, and chopped turnips added their flavor, scent, and texture to harira, our region’s signature soup. Sometimes, just before serving, my mother would crack a few eggs into the pot, and I’d delight and boast in finding a soft piece of egg in my bowl.

Summer had its own traditions. For us kids, breakfast began in the fig trees. Our family’s orchard was a small treasure trove, with each branch laden with figs in shades of tawny, yellow, brown, maroon, and purple. Armed with a hunk of bread, we’d climb to the highest branches, reaching for the ripest figs. Often, the birds had beaten us to the best ones, but we didn’t mind, biting around their pecked portions and eating figs straight from the branch, dirt and all; hygiene was a distant thought. If one of us found an untouched fig, we’d boast about it to the others, showing off our prize before devouring it or sharing it to let everyone in on the moment’s sweetness. Sometimes, we’d stop by the kitchen garden, picking a tomato, carrot, or turnip, rinsing it in the irrigation ditch, and eating it whole and unpeeled before heading inside for the formal breakfast. The elders would wash the figs we brought in baskets, adding them to the table—a vibrant splash of color against the bread and tea.

In the countryside where I grew up, life often began after a nourishing breakfast and a revitalizing cup of mint tea. My uncle, the hardest-working man I knew, held fast to the motto, "Breakfast is the fuel for champions." He wasn’t a learned man, but he believed deeply in the power of a hearty meal to stoke the fires of energy and set the day on the right track. And so, each morning, breakfast became a veritable feast we eagerly anticipated, preparing us to face whatever the day held in store.

A Tribute to the Greatest Father Noureddine Boutahar

My father was a self-made man who lived a life of simplicity, contentment, and quiet dignity, passing away with the same peaceful grace that defined his days. He was less concerned with accumulating wealth than with shaping us—his children—into resilient, capable men and women. Born in Boukashmir, Oulmes, and raised in Boukashmir and Tizitine, he was respected and loved in both places for his honesty, integrity, and exemplary character.

The image of my father that lingers from the late 1960s is that of a strikingly handsome young man who took great care of his appearance. He always wore the best clothes he owned, styled in a classic way, especially for parties, and during his city visits. I remember how he would carry a fragrant small bar of soap in one of his flap pockets, and a white double-tooth comb, which he had brought back from France, in his breast pocket. My mischievous childhood led me to sometimes "borrow" the comb to fix my hair before putting it back. On special occasions, he would wear perfume—a rare habit among countrymen at the time—which he kept carefully stored in a wooden box alongside other treasured possessions.  

Physically, my father was a somewhat tall, athletic man with a medium build. He had straight, short-cropped blond hair, though it often appeared darker, as he always wore hats and bonnets to protect it from the elements. His forehead was prominent, his eyebrows well-defined and neatly groomed, with a strong jawline. His eyes radiated confidence, his nose was straight and proportional to his face, and his mouth held a neutral expression, complementing the overall dignified look of his portrait.

My father was widely respected for his honesty. I witnessed his deep honesty and piety firsthand when we worked together in the fields. He never allowed Zakat—the portion of wealth Muslims give to charity—to be stored in our granary. Instead, he set aside a special spot for the grains and olive oil meant for the poor. His integrity also earned him the trust of Benaissa Boubia, a wealthy farmer in Tizitine. When our family moved there in the mid-1940s, my father managed Benaissa Boubia’s tenant farming accounts for sometime. Benaissa Boubia provided land and livestock to less fortunate families, who worked the land in exchange for a share of the produce, and my father oversaw the arrangement with diligence.

In the mid-1960s, my father was reluctantly sent to France to work on farms. Though the contract was for just three months, the French farmer, impressed by his honesty and tireless work ethic, offered to extend it. My father declined, replying, 'When I left for France, I left behind a mother, a wife, and a sister-in-law milking 18 cows, and most of the milk is going to the dogs.'

My father's honesty was deeply rooted in his piety. He later told me he was among the first in our region to consistently observe his religious duties, such as praying on time, at a time when many of the local Amazigh were either flippant about or less familiar with these practices. He recounted a story from a wedding celebration when, as Dhuhr approached, he went to a nearby orchard to perform ablutions at a well and pray under the trees. A few women noticed him, puzzled, and soon gathered others to watch and giggle as they tried to figure out what the 'little boy' was doing.

As a father, he was progressive in his parenting style. At a time when physical punishment was the norm, my father never laid a hand on us. This leniency was criticized by my mother and grandfather, but he believed in a gentler approach to raising us, much like my grandmother. During family gatherings, he imparted timeless universal values of honesty, respect, modesty, altruism, and hard work upon us. 

Though born into an illiterate family, my father taught himself to read and write. After Morocco's independence, there was a national literacy campaign, and he was one of the few who took it seriously, learning both Arabic and French. He was also one of the first to own a radio, which he loved listening to, especially for news and Amazigh music and poetry known as Imalyazen. The radio’s influence on him was so strong that we were among the rare families to have pictures of Mohammed V and Gamal Abdel Nasser on the walls of our home.

One of my father's endearing qualities was his ability to listen attentively and speak eloquently. When you spoke to him, he listened with genuine interest, and when he spoke, he captured the full attention of his audience. He enjoyed recounting stories and events in vivid detail, but he did so in a way that never bored his listeners. In his later years, during my fortnightly visits, we would sit together as he shared tales from his past, rich with subtle details. Unfortunately, some ill-intentioned people would exploit this in social gatherings, asking him to recount stories or events while they devoured the shared food.

My father was also known for his pithy remarks, which revealed much about his character—his sharp wit, intelligence, directness, and unwavering confidence. One particular incident from an electoral campaign comes to mind. A candidate had come to seek his support, delivering a speech filled with vague promises and empty words. Unimpressed, my father waited for him to finish, then dryly responded, 'You know, I could probably finish my Asr prayers and go earn your university degree.' His retort, both cutting and clever, perfectly captured his no-nonsense approach to life.

Another quality that distinguished my father was his boundless generosity. A passionate hunter, he was among the rare few in those days to own a prized 16-gauge shotgun—a symbol of status and skill. I vividly recall the day he sold one of our finest cows just to acquire that coveted weapon, an act that spoke of his deep love for the hunt.  As hunting necessitates the finest canine companions, my father always kept the very best. He often kept some of the most renowned hunting Sloughi greyhounds and German shorthaired pointers. Once, a delegation of dignified horsemen from the illustrious Imahzan tribe, came all the way from Khenifra and asked to barter one of my father’s famous Sloughi greyhounds, renowned across the region for its agility and prowess. They came bearing a substantial offer—an entire herd of sheep and goats in exchange for the prized dog. After being treated to a lavish meal of Mechoui, Couscous, and mint green tea, my father did what only he could. In a grand gesture of his legendary generosity, he refused their offer. Instead, he gifted them the Sloughi outright. That moment, like many others, etched itself into my mind as a testament to his noble spirit—one who gave not for gain, but for the sheer joy of giving.

Unfortunately, two factors contributed to my father’s declining health. The first was the tragic death of my younger brother, Abdelmajid, his  son and closest companion, in a devastating car accident. The second was his growing sense of isolation. As rheumatoid arthritis in his knee took its toll, he ventured out less frequently, which was particularly difficult for a man who had always been so social and outgoing. A fate that weighed heavily on his spirit. It was only on special occasions, when we brought him to family gatherings, that he had the opportunity to reconnect. However, in his final days, he declined most invitations, attending only the funerals of close family members, including the insistence on being present for the funeral of his granddaughter, Bouchra Boubia. He passed away just a few months later, on December 5, 2023.

Rest in peace, dear father. You will always be remembered as a loving father and a guiding light. Your legacy will continue to inspire me and my children every day, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons you shared and the boundless love you gave. You lived your life with honor and dignity, cherishing your family, your principles and your country. I hope now, in the peace of the hereafter, you no longer feel the pain of rheumatism that troubled you in your final days.

A Tribute to my Childhood Friends Noureddine Boutahar

 When I left the tranquil embrace of the countryside for the frenetic rhythm of Meknes to continue my education after primary school, I found myself adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and daunting challenges. Yet, in that tumultuous new world, I forged a few profoundly genuine friendships that became my sanctuary during those days of initiation to city life and transition from the countryside. These friends were more than mere companions; they were kindred spirits who understood my essence and stood steadfastly by my side. Our shared tastes in movies, books, and hobbies intertwined seamlessly, allowing us to navigate the labyrinth of adolescence together, sharing countless laughs, tears, and adventures. Through thick and thin, their loyalty never wavered. We attended school together, played together, visited the cinema, frequented the library, and ventured forth wandering through the city’s streets, savoring the sights and the company. 

One of my dearest friends was Slimane. He was not conventionally handsome, yet his medium height, round face, hooded eyes, and snub nose exuded a unique charm. His blond, straight hair was perpetually cropped short, a common precaution against lice in those days. Slimane was a quiet soul, his true nature revealed only after the patience of long friendship. He shunned crowds and the spotlight, preferring the solace of obscurity. I was often struck by an ineffable sadness in Slimane, a depth that hinted at untold stories. Slimane hailed from a destitute Amazigh family with more than six children, grandparents, and an aunt all living in a small, old house in the impoverished neighborhood of Sidi Baba. He wore the same clothes almost every day, including a green military jacket gifted by a relative, which became an inseparable part of his identity. His pants, worn and faded, bore testament to their better days. His rough, low-heeled shoes, repeatedly cobbled, had long since lost their original color. Despite his humble appearance, Slimane possessed a heart of gold and our friendship was like no other. He was the kind of friend who stood by you resolutely, never deceiving or betraying. His maturity belied his young age, and his quiet strength was a balm to the soul. Regrettably, he never completed junior school, sacrificing his education to work and support his family. He left both the school and the city, and sadly, our paths never crossed again.

Then there was Driss. He was nearly as tall as I was, with a strong build and an awareness of his appealing, well-developed physique. Driss did not engage in sports outside of school, his strength honed through hard labor in the countryside during school holidays when he toiled in the fields to earn a few coins to buy school books and clothes at the flea market, much like many of us did at the time. Like me, Driss was of Amazigh origin, though he came from Mejjat, an Amazigh tribe that lay to the east of Meknes. He lived alone in a room he rented, perched atop a two-story building in the heart of the old Medina. His curly hair was often cut short, and his weather-beaten, muscular frame added to his allure as a burly figure. Driss was easygoing and talkative, always finding topics to discuss, yet he was also a good listener, persuaded by logical arguments. Though not proficient in languages, he excelled in math and physics, compensating for his linguistic limitations. When Driss and I were together, our classmates dubbed us Bud & Terence, after Terence Hill and Bud Spencer, the Italian actors and heroes of our youth, famous for their action-comedy and Spaghetti Western films, with one being the clever half and the other the strong but clumsy one. After junior school, Driss and I began to lose touch as we attended different high schools. Troubled by a tempestuous relationship, Driss did not complete his education; instead, he enlisted in the army. He pursued a military career, and I later heard he became a pilot.

Ahmed was another dear friend, a true Meknassi, who resided in the heart of the old city. He came from a modest family and was raised by his mother and grandparents after his father's untimely death. Ahmed's dark brown skin, tall and thin frame, curly hair often shaved, sharp nose, and long face marked his appearance. He was the shyest of all my friends, his timid nature earning him few friends at school, while concealing a heart full of empathy and compassion. Yet, his sensitivity and perceptiveness required careful handling to avoid causing him pain, inadvertently or otherwise. Like most of us, Ahmed had a limited wardrobe and often wore the same outfit throughout the school year, removing it only on weekends to wash. Ahmed did not continue beyond high school and soon joined the police, where he made a career. When I met him many years later, he had retired and was living a peaceful life with his wife and two children. He remained the kind-hearted, humble, and honest person he had always been.

El Ghazi, my second Meknassi friend, lived in the average neighborhood of Sebata. He was physically almost similar to Driss: brown-skinned, of medium height, and round-faced, possessing a moderate attractiveness. However, El Ghazi was carefree, impulsive, and impatient, always eager to prove himself. Unlike most of us, he let his curly hair grow long, earning him the nickname "Jimi Hendrix," after the iconic rock guitarist. El Ghazi was a sports enthusiast, and our shared passion led to our effortless friendship. We often persuaded our sports teachers to let us join other classes during free periods. El Ghazi and I attended the same high school after junior school, spending a couple of years studying hard and indulging in our favorite sports. In high school, due to our exceptional prowess in sports, we were entrusted with teaching other students rope climbing, handball, volleyball, and more. We took pride in this role, even though El Ghazi had a tendency to show off, especially in front of girls. In contrast, I was more serious and more committed. However, when I moved to Rabat in september of 1979, I lost contact with EL Ghazi. Without cell phones and lacking his home address, I could not keep in touch. I miss him today, as much as I miss all the friends whose paths diverged from mine after junior and high school.

Mouh was a true Amazigh, effortlessly weaving his ancestral tongue into our conversations. He called me Azaii, a nod to my Zayan roots, the proud inhabitants of the Middle Atlas Mountains, including my hometown, Oulmes. I called him "The Bohemian" because of his attire, lifestyle, and worldview. Mouh resided with his family in Borj Mashquq, a modest neighborhood in Meknes. His father, a diligent manual laborer, toiled tirelessly to provide for his family of almost ten. Mouh stood at medium height, his long face framed by brown eyes and hair that was a canvas of constant change—sometimes shaved close, sometimes cropped neatly, and at other times flowing long over his shoulders. He was a talkative, somewhat gullible, and open-hearted soul. What I admired most about him was his unyielding honesty; he never lied or made empty promises, always speaking his mind, regardless of the potential sting. Mouh’s ill-fitting clothes suggested they had been handed down from an older brother, father, or relative. However, it was his white plastic jelly sandals, repeatedly heat-welded, that set him apart. Our shared passion for soccer, with him playing barefoot, was a highlight of our friendship. However, my fondest memories were of our autumn weekend escapades to the vineyards of Meknes. We would scour the vine-laden fields around the city, gathering grapes overlooked by the harvesters. Laden with bunches of various hues and ripeness, we would return home, distributing our bounty to friends and neighbors, who in turn, rewarded our generosity with homemade cakes. Mouh joined the army before finishing high school, and I was delighted when he was stationed in Rabat for a couple of years, allowing us to reconnect. As a soldier, he and I, now a university student, would often meet for coffee and reminisce about our shared days in Meknes. Unfortunately, once he left Rabat, he disappeared from my life, and I never heard from him again.

Lastly, there was Ssi Mohammed. Living in the same neighborhood, we formed a bond despite never being classmates. He had left school early while still in 5^th grade to support his family, as his father's income was insufficient for their large family. Ssi Mohammed was strong but noticeably short, and while he could have been considered handsome, he paid little attention to his appearance, not even combing his hair. Despite his shyness and preference for solitude, he was good-natured, and his laughter, when it came, was heartfelt and genuine. We often met on weekends to watch movies, with Egyptian films being his favorite due to his limited understanding of French. Ssi Mohammed was the only friend who invited me to his home from time to time in Borj Mashquq, one of the poorest neighborhoods of Meknes then. His mother would make mint tea for us and cook Harsha, which we slathered with olive oil and pure honey from their countryside home in Zerhoun. Unfortunately, I started losing contact with Ssi Mohammed after I left Meknes. I visited him a couple of times after the baccalaureate, which I got in Rabat, but university life soon consumed my time and energy and left little room for anything else like reconnecting with childhood friends.

These were my childhood friends, each holding a cherished place in my heart. Their comfort and encouragement were my anchors during the formative years of my life and the critical times when I was thrust into an unfamiliar place, devoid of family and knowledge of local customs. They were the true friends who supported and guided me, listened with empathy, and transformed even the simplest moments into something extraordinary. As someone once said, “Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.”

Lessons in Discipline and Reflection from Days Gone By Noureddine Boutahar

 My junior school years were brimming with memories, both joyous and sorrowful, each offering invaluable lessons from teachers, peers, and the events themselves. These lessons ran the full gamut: academic knowledge, responsibility, social skills, and, most importantly, discipline.

It was my teachers in the 1970s, mostly foreigners, whose exemplary character inspired me to pursue a career in teaching. They emphasized discipline, setting high standards for both themselves and us as exemplary role models. Punctuality and academic integrity were two fundamental virtues instilled in us from a young age. We soon realized that teacher and student absenteeism and tardiness were the foremost forms of corruption, capable of eroding the very bedrock of education. Equally, we understood that cheating in exams was the gravest disservice a student could inflict upon themselves.

Our teachers were rarely, if ever, absent. As students, we were permitted to miss class only under extreme circumstances, such as severe illness. Absences concerned not only the administration but also the teachers, who would inquire about and sometimes penalize us for being late or absent. Take Monsieur Bonguardier, our math teacher, as an illustration. His approach was particularly strict. He would station himself at the classroom door immediately after the bell rang, ready to administer sharp knuckle raps to the crowns of tardy students’ heads. At the sound of the bell, we all hurried to line up outside his classroom to avoid his stern discipline. Latecomers, hoping to evade his knuckles, would sidle into the room, shielding their heads with a hand, a book, a school bag, or even a fold of their clothes.

Discipline outside the classroom extended into it, where we had to be fully attentive and engaged.  Monsieur Bonguardier maintained a strict policy on academic integrity. Any infraction, no matter how minor, would result in an immediate zero. Naturally, cheating was the most obvious offense, but the rules extended much further. Simply looking back during a test could be deemed suspecious enough to warrant a failing grade. Even asking for something as innocuous as an eraser, ruler, or pencil was strictly prohibited. This stringent approach instilled a sense of vigilance in us, making us extremely aware of our every action during exams.

I vividly recall an incident when Monsieur Bonguardier was explaining a math problem while writing on the chalkboard. Out of boredom, surprise, or a sudden insight, someone behind me let out a low whistle, prompting me to turn and glance. Unfortunately, my timing coincided with Monsieur Bonguardier’s, who, without a word, pointed his finger at the door, promptly asking me to leave the room. There was no room for negotiation with him -- he never relented. You had to find a way out, as he would often deliver a swift kick in the butt to hasten your exit. Thankfully, due perhaps to my clean record, I escaped physical reprimand as I exited.

Yet, facing his discipline was preferable to being sent to the principal, whose consequences rivaled those of the Moroccan police at the time. Thus, I lingered outside the classroom for the rest of the period, pondering myriad possible scenarios. As the bell finally chimed and students dispersed, I timidly approached Monsieur Bonguardier, my heart heavy with fear and shame and a palpable sense of regret, seeking forgiveness despite my expectation of rejection. To my astonishment, he responded, 'Tu es excusé cette fois, mais prends garde la prochaine fois,' loosely translating to 'You are excused this time, but be mindful next time.' He never glanced in my direction, never betrayed a hint of empathy or antipathy, continuing to write in his thick book.

Today, as I stand at the twilight of my career and reflect on the challenges I faced in school, I am reminded of a quote from G. Michael Hopf’s post-apocalyptic novel: “Tough times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times.” I wonder which phase defines our current reality —a question that warrants careful reflection.