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.
