A Generation Adrift: The Decline of Curiosity in Education Noureddine Boutahar

Not long ago, I was watching a football match in a local coffee shop when a seemingly trivial yet telling incident unfolded. It rekindled a dormant sadness about the state of today’s education—the alarming shallowness of knowledge among young people.

Two Portuguese teams were playing, while nearby, two stylishly dressed young men sat watching, their attention divided between the match on TV and their gleaming iPhones. Their brand-new devices, pristine sneakers, heavy gold necklaces, and easy confidence spoke of a generation fluent in the language of consumerism. I soon learned they were twelfth graders at a nearby high school.

As they commented on the players, one suddenly turned to the waiter and said, “Karim, could you change the language, please? No one here speaks Brazilian.” He then looked at me and smiled, expecting agreement. I smiled back, but as a teacher, I couldn’t ignore the glaring error.

Curious whether it was a slip of the tongue, a joke, or a genuine misconception, I asked, “What nationality are the teams?”

“Portuguese,” he replied.

“And what language do people in Portugal speak?”

“Portuguese,” he answered without hesitation.

“And in Brazil?”

“Brazilian,” he said, brimming with confidence.

Gently, I corrected him, explaining that the language on TV was Portuguese, not ‘Brazilian.’ I added that Brazil’s official language is Portuguese, spoken by nearly all of its population due to Portugal’s colonization. I compared it to how Morocco and Algeria speak French due to French colonization or how India and Pakistan use English because of British rule. He listened intently, nodding in appreciation, as if a light had just switched on in his mind.

This brief exchange sent me down memory lane. At his age, my knowledge of geography and history was far more robust. I recalled my demanding teacher, Mr. Terrab, who made us memorize the names and geographical features of all the countries in the curriculum—their mountains, rivers, lakes, capitals, and even their political systems. Each lesson began with a rigorous exercise: he would call four students to the board and give each one a task—for example, one to draw Africa with all its countries, another to mark the world’s mountains, a third to trace Morocco’s rivers, and a fourth to outline the mineral resources of North Africa. By high school, I could navigate the world’s political, historical, and geographical landscapes with ease.

As students, we quizzed each other relentlessly on global knowledge, boasting about who knew more about world leaders, historical events, and political affairs. Though many of us had little, wearing threadbare clothes and barely owning a second outfit, we were hungry to learn. Knowledge was our currency, and we spent it lavishly.

But today’s students? Speaking from experience, many struggle to locate Mali, Botswana, or Sierra Leone on a map. Some mistakenly place African nations in Europe, confuse European countries with those in Asia, or mix up Latin American nations with disconcerting ease. Many pass through school relying on malpractice, flaunting the latest sneakers and chasing after the newest phone models, yet remaining indifferent to the vast world beyond their screens.

This realization filled me with frustration. The spark of curiosity, once the heartbeat of education, has dimmed. In its place, gossip, social media trends, and passive learning reign supreme. The classroom, once a vibrant arena of ideas, now feels like an abandoned shrine—students mechanically copying from the board, disengaged and uninspired. Education has become a hollow ritual, a performance where teachers and students alike simply go through the motions.

Who bears the blame? Governments have surrendered to market forces, parents have abdicated their roles, teachers feel powerless, and the entire education system has turned students into guinea pigs for so long. All share responsibility for this generational drift.

I honestly don’t know whether to blame, scold, or sympathize with this generation. It is a "depressed generation" swept up in a digital whirlwind, constantly bombarded with images of seemingly perfect lives. It measures status in likes, self-worth in followers, and knowledge in whatever Google can spit out in seconds. It fails to see that this curated reality is often a mirage—where the one preaching healthy living may secretly binge on junk food; the one presenting a virtuous image might lead a double life. This culture of superficiality has stripped today’s students of critical thinking, replacing deep understanding with fleeting digital convenience.

And yet, it is hard to remain hopeful when this generation struggles not just academically but culturally and intellectually under the weight of ongoing sociopolitical crises. They navigate a dystopian era plagued by stifling mediocrity, systemic rampant corruption, economic instability, resurgent diseases, brutal wars, nuclear threats, family breakdowns, and the ever-looming shadow of climate change. Hope falters when our public schools succumb to Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmares of so-called reforms, with students reduced to mere pawns in a bigger game. Optimism falters when our public education system, once a sturdy edifice, is collapsing inward like a house of cards, or, in Mohammed Gahs's stark words, 'a massive, upside-down corpse.'

The core issue extends beyond a failing education system; it’s a profound cultural shift. To reignite intellectual curiosity, we must all— governed and governors alike—radically rethink how we educate and inspire young minds. Otherwise, if the old saying holds true—'you reap what you sow'—then we risk raising a generation of passive consumers, exhibiting the Dunning-Kruger effect, adrift in a sea of information yet understanding so little of its depths.

High School Years Noureddine Boutahar

After completing junior school at Mohamed Ben Abdellah in the vibrant heart of Meknes, I transitioned to Abderrahman Ben Zidan High School, my heart aflame with ambition and a yearning to explore untapped potential. The new school, nestled in Sidi Baba neighborhood and slightly removed from the urban center, marked a chapter in my education that fortified my confidence, sharpened my resilience, deepened my understanding of life, and sparked a bourgeoning interest in global politics.

Abderrahman Ben Zidan High School was a fresh canvas—everything gleamed with newness, from the pristine facilities to the fresh faces of teachers and schoolmates. The sports yard, much like those at most high schools of the era, was outfitted with nearly all the essentials for gymnastics, ball games, and athletic pursuits. There was a schoolboard for boarders, and it was the first time I had seen one, though I was not a boarder myself. It was newly furnished and impeccably clean. Around midday, the aroma of food wafted out, intensifying our hunger and making us envy the boarders. The students, a blend of late teens and early twenty-somethings, brought a unique dynamic. Morocco, at that time, embraced a relaxed approach to age; some pursued their baccalaureate (12th grade) well into their mid-twenties. Although I was of the conventional age for my grade, my height lent me an unwarranted air of maturity, shielding me the brunt of older students' relentless teasing.

The teachers at my new school were a complete revelation, kinder and less authoritarian than those stern educators of my junior school days. I began to form bonds with them, particularly my English teachers. Miss Mahjouba, my tenth grade teacher, stood out—a paragon of modern pedagogy and the epitome of an authoritative educator, embodying the balance of firmness and fairness. Her sweetness and kindness made her more than just an educator; she became a cherished mentor in my high school odyssey.

My high school, situated nearly six miles from home, demanded a daily commute. To save my limited funds for the occasional indulgence in cinema and newspapers, I often chose to walk. On days when time was scarce, fatigue overwhelming, or the sky's tears drenched the earth, I would reluctantly board the bus.

In my earlier days, I sometimes joined my schoolmates in the rebellious act of fare dodging. This fleeting defiance, however, soon gave way to a guilty conscience, and I abandoned the practice. My fare-evading peers, ever the jesters, would wave and laugh as their bus whisked them away, leaving me to return their playful gestures with a wave of my own, never once regretting my choice to walk the honest path.

Our school was, regrettably, not graced with many girls. In our class, there was but one: Fatima. An Amazigh originally from Souss in the south of Morocco, she was a figure of universal respect, honesty, and camaraderie. To us, she was a sister in every sense. Fatima was somewhat short and slightly plump, with a round face accentuated by a high, pointed nose and drooping lips. Fatima's light brown hair, often parted on one side and swept to the opposite, lent her a sleek and classic elegance. Occasionally, she would gather her hair into a ponytail, a style I particularly admired on her; a simple yet striking style that accentuated her features. Her character, however, shone brightly—intelligent, deeply kind, and remarkably sober. Fatima, like most girls of that era, donned skirts and mini-skirts, a fashion statement of the time. Yet, there were times when she chose to wear bell-bottom dress pants, a style that gained popularity in the 1970s, distinguished by their wide, flared bottoms. The gradual adoption of scarves and headdresses among women did not begin until the 1980s, during my university years, although such fashion choices remained uncommon then. Years later, long after I had left Meknes, I heard from classmates that Fatima had married. Tragically, she succumbed to an illness that eluded treatment. May she rest in peace, forever remembered with fondness.

Among the events I experienced for the first time in high school was Le Père Cent, a cherished tradition in certain Moroccan schools, echoing those in France—a reflection of the enduring influence of the French colonial education system. This celebration unfolds precisely one hundred days before the baccalaureate exam. On this day, senior students typically don elegant attire—suits, dresses, or various costumes—celebrating the milestone that marks the countdown to their final exams.

Le Père Cent traditionally signifies the commencement of rigorous revision for the culmination of secondary education. It is also an occasion for the principal to extend heartfelt wishes of success to the students. Though customs associated with this event vary from school to school, a common thread is the customary photo session. These photos capture the essence of this significant day in the students' final high school year, preserving it forever in their memories.

Another event that marked my passage through that school was the April 1979 teacher strikes, reminiscent of those I had witnessed in junior school earlier. However, this time, I was older and more mature, and I felt the gravity of the situation more keenly, especially with the arrest of some of my teachers. My departure from the city of Meknes that same year left me with a gnawing uncertainty about their ultimate fate.

Despite my young age, the nation's political climate was a constant undercurrent in my consciousness. Financial constraints limited my newspaper consumption, but I managed to occasionally purchase Al Muharrir, the official mouthpiece of the UNFP (Union Nationale des Forces Populaires). The paper's readership among my Moroccan teachers piqued my interest. However, it was the assassination of Omar Ben Jelloun, the editor of Al Muharrir and a prominent figure within the party, by alleged members of Chabiba Islamia that ignited a fervent desire to better understand the political landscape. I became a regular, albeit silent, observer at a newsstand in the Medina, where a kind-hearted proprietor allowed me to peruse the paper without purchase. His selfless act, a simple gesture of human kindness, left a perpetual mark. As Augustus De Morgan wisely observed, “There are special people in our lives who never leave us… even after they are gone.”

The tumultuous decade of the 1970s, particularly its latter half, fostered in me a profound understanding of world politics. These years, marked by a cascade of pivotal events, kindled my passion for reading as a means to grasp the complexities of the global stage.  The teachers' strikes, the Green March of 1975, Richard Nixon's resignation in the wake of the Watergate scandal in 1974, the end of the Vietnam War, Thatcher's ascent to power, the Iranian Revolution, the Shah's exile in Morocco, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan were just a few of the seismic shifts that shaped the era. While black-and-white mainstream television offered a glimpse into these events, newspapers, magazines, and books provided the depth and context necessary to fully grasp their implications. Immersed in this whirlwind of change, I cultivated a lifelong passion for reading and the relentless pursuit of knowledge to satiate my unyielding, thirsting curiosity.

Though I endeavored to focus on my studies, driven by a genuine love for learning, I grappled with the instability of housing which disrupted my academic pursuits. Initially, I found refuge with Oumi Fatna, a family acquaintance, but as the old lady grew frail and unable to manage the demands of hosting a schoolboy, she urged my family to find another arrangement. I then moved in with an aunt who had recently migrated with her husband to the city, seeking work to sustain themselves. The childless couple’s urban experience proved challenging, and they soon returned to their rural life.

The following year, my sister and her young family joined us in the city, as her husband sought employment as a driver. While I cherished their company, I sensed my presence was a burden to my sister, and I wished for her to feel unencumbered by my responsibilities. That same year, my brother secured a position as a gendarme in Rabat. In desperate plea for stability, I penned a long letter to him, detailing my predicament and inquiring whether I could move to the capital to continue my studies. His reply was swift and positive, marking the beginning of my new chapter in the capital.

My high school years in the late 1970s were a crucible that forged my personality and identity, a transformative period bridging the gap between childhood and young adulthood. I faced myriad challenges that instilled within me a nascent wisdom, a deeper understanding of the world, and a sense of emerging interests and passions. As Clifton Fadiman eloquently put it, “By the end of high school, I was not, of course, an educated man, but I knew how to try to become one.”

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.

Echoes of Junior School: Tales of Transition and Triumph Noureddine Boutahar

 In the early '70s, at the tender age of twelve, I was a country bumpkin thrust into the heart of Meknes, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by its towering buildings and bustling streets. The noise, the pace, and the sheer number of people were utterly foreign to me. Each day felt like an adventure, filled with both wonder and bewilderment. I faced a whirlwind of new and challenging experiences daily, each with its own merits and demerits.

After completing primary school in the tranquil countryside, I left my home village for the swarming city of Meknes to further my studies. The transition was anything but smooth; finding a spot in a classroom proved to be a daunting challenge. However, my father was relentless in his efforts to secure a place for me. I vividly remember him tirelessly visiting numerous junior schools in Meknes, moving from one to the next, earnestly pleading with the principals to enroll me.

One day, he returned with a heavy heart and told me that all the schools he had approached were full. He asked if I wanted to return home and tend to the family livestock and work in the fields instead. Determined to pursue my education, I urged him to try once more. Driven by my resolve, he went back to Mohamed Ben Abdellah school principal, in a moment of profound desperation, kneeled, and tried to kiss his feet. The principal, moved by my father's earnest plea, agreed to enroll me and asked me to join the following day.

The school, situated in the city center, was populated mostly by city kids, making my initial adjustment particularly difficult. Yet, my hard work and seriousness eventually helped me forge friendships, primarily with other country kids and those from modest backgrounds. This diligence also earned me the favor of my teachers, many of whom were foreign —French, Belgian, Romanian, and Middle Eastern.

My teachers were a formidable amalgam of seriousness, diligence, and unwavering support, tempered with a strict demeanor. Their dedication to both their vocation and to our success was palpable, instilling in us a sense of being valued and supported in our academic endeavors.

Despite my efforts to fit in, bullies were a constant presence and source of pestering. I avoided them by steering clear of known hotspots, avoiding direct eye contact, and always staying with a friend or two. Nevertheless, I faced discrimination for my skinny frame,  countryside origin, and Amazigh heritage. The bullies often taunted me and hurled names like “beanpole”, “laarubi” —a derogatory word meaning something akin to “hillbilly”, and “chelh” —a denigratory term for Amazigh speaker. I met their insults with calmness, ignoring their provocations and maintaining my self-confidence.

Boarding schools were scarce, so I lived with a family acquaintance, Omi Fatna, a widow with two daughters who were more than a decade older than me. The daughters visited occasionally, as they worked as housemaids for French families. During their absences, I took on household chores, which taught me valuable life skills early on, including washing my own clothes, though I had only few.

My leisure time was divided between outings to the cinema with friends on Sundays and visits to the library on weekdays when school was not in session. Cinemas offered affordable entertainment, igniting a deep-seated passion within me for the art of film. My companions and I delighted in a diverse array of genres, from Westerns to Indian, Egyptian, and French cinema, each worth every penny. Among our favorite actors were luminaries such as Clint Eastwood, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Bruce Lee, Marlon Brando, Omar Sharif, Faten Hamama, Mahmoud Lamliji, Ismail Yassine, Hind Rostom, and many others.

Every Rial (penny) given to me by my father, mother, and grandmother, who served as my primary provider, was meticulously set aside for the cinema. Whenever my grandmother planned a visit, she would sell a chicken or two, generously allocating most of the proceeds to me. Her wallet was nothing but her headdress. She tucked her money inside, secured it with a couple of knots, and then hid it beneath another sequined Amazigh scarf or the collar of a sweeping, oversized dress that trailed to the ground.

The City library in Hamria was another frequent haunt. My friends and I would rent books and read them voraciously, passing them among ourselves to read as many as possible each week. This insatiable reading habit greatly improved my language skills, particularly in French and Arabic, and enriched my writing, earning me good grades and praise from my teachers.

I excelled in sports as well, a facet of my life that held considerable sway, elevating my self-assurance and honing crucial social aptitudes. Excelling in basketball, soaring in high jump, and proving skilled in racing and rope climbing, sports served as a conduit to expand my social circle, forging new connections and assuaging the pangs of homesickness, thereby facilitating my integration into the new environment.

Occasionally, I accompanied friends to Bab Jdid Square, a vibrant echo of Jamaa Lafna in Marrakech, teeming with dancers, singers, acrobats, and storytellers. Amidst the lively atmosphere, we immersed ourselves in diverse performances, yet it was the storytellers who charmed me most. Their narratives, usually drawn from Moroccan folklore, concluded with profound moral lessons. As youthful students with limited means, our contributions to the storytellers’ livelihood were scanty. We would often disperse during donation pauses, only to reconvene when the storytelling resumed.

One incident from junior school that I will never forget happened during a sports session in 9th grade. As we were practicing shot-put, my turn came to throw the heavy round metal ball. Just as I was about to release it, my teacher unexpectedly stepped onto the landing sector to direct some students to move away. The ball landed mere inches from him, forcing him to dodge. Though it was not my fault, I quickly apologized. In a fit of anger, the teacher stormed toward me and delivered a harsh slap across my face, throwing me off my stride. The pain was not just physical; it pierced my heart with the sting of injustice. The profound loss of dignity, particularly in the presence of my classmates, has lingered as a haunting memory for many years, etching the negative image of that teacher firmly in my mind ever since.

Financially disadvantaged though I was, a transplant from rural origins, I discovered riches in authentic friendships, priceless experiences, and newfound independence. Catapulted from my comfort zone at a young age, I faced challenges head-on, navigating a strange, intimidating, painful, and frequently bewildering world to forge my own path —occasionally navigating alone, at times guided by circumstance, and oftentimes supported by the guidance of teachers and the companionship of friends.

 

 

Ten Principles of Effective Teaching: Noureddine Boutahar

 Counting down to my retirement in a few months, I find myself reflecting on the significant journey of almost four decades spent in the teaching profession, a voyage filled with moments of growth, challenges, and innumerable rewards. From the classrooms to the workshops, from colleagues to supervisors, and from Moroccan to foreign classrooms, each experience has left an indelible mark on me. Now, as I contemplate the journey ahead for today’s teachers, I feel a strong urge to offer insights geared towards enhancing their teaching practices and alleviating some of the burdens they may face – the very essence of this article.

First, love for one's vocation is of paramount importance. Lacking authentic passion for the teaching profession renders one's professional journey burdensome and devoid of fulfillment. Conversely, embracing one's calling wholeheartedly infuses vitality, dedication, and a mindset conducive to triumph. Enjoying one’s job does not only make it easy but also brings peace of mind, boosts productivity, and enhances performance. As psychologist R J Sternberg aptly posits, genuine love for one's work engenders passion, connection, commitment, and a sense of purpose, thereby fostering creativity and efficacy.

Second, Benjamin Franklin once wisely said, "If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail!" This timeless saying holds true, particularly in the field of education. Success hinges upon meticulous planning, serving not only as a roadmap but also as a tool for foreseeing potential obstacles, optimizing the resources at one’s disposal, and establishing clear objectives to steer one's path towards success. In the context of education, effective planning is vitally necessary and must be a continuous, evolving process. Each class, each school year, and each class stream possesses its own peculiarity and presents unique challenges and opportunities, necessitating a tailored approach. Therefore, consistent review and refinement of lesson plans are essential to adapt to changing circumstances and ensure progress towards successful teaching goals.

Third, in education, fostering meaningful relationships with students is indispensable. Central to this endeavor is the cultivation of mutual respect and rapport. Learning students' first names, lending a compassionate ear and a comforting shoulder, and upholding their dignity are the foundation stones for building strong bridges of connection with students, paving the way for effective teaching and learning. As child psychiatrist James Comer accurately stated, “No significant learning can occur without a significant relationship.”

Fourth, understanding generational differences also is essential in bridging the gap between educators and students. By embracing contemporary tools, media, and concerns, can help teachers not only play students at their game but also tailor their approach to resonate with the evolving needs of their pupils. The interests of Gen Xers do not necessarily align with the preferences of Gen Zs, just as the characteristics of Gen Zs do not necessarily mirror the traits of Gen Alphas. British author, speaker and international advisor on education Sir Ken Robinson reinforces this point when he warns that clinging to outdated paradigms risks alienating millions of today's youth.

Fifth, the ideal balance between permissive and authoritarian teaching style is authoritative, another hallmark of effective teaching. Embracing the traditional teaching adage of "Don't smile until Christmas," or being excessively lenient with students, are extremes that can result in discipline problems and ineffective learning outcomes. However, employing a judicious blend of firmness and empathy will certainly foster an environment of collaboration and mutual respect, one that is conducive to optimal learning and impactful teaching practices. As Aristotle keenly observed, true virtue lies in moderation, lest extremes often descend into folly - "Virtue is a mean between two vices."

Sixth, maintaining a positive attitude and distancing oneself from negativity are crucial for sustaining morale in the teaching profession. Surrounding oneself with positive influences fortifies one's resilience and resolve amidst adversity. In the classroom, the focus should be on giving one’s all, not on advocating for one’s rights or seeking revenge for society's injustices. Compartmentalizing personal biases and affiliations from the educational milieu is essential for fostering inclusivity and impartiality. Union affiliation, political party allegiance, and ideological beliefs should be left beyond the confines of the classroom.

Seventh, modeling integrity is of primary importance in teaching. This value underscores honesty, consistency, and authenticity in one’s words and deeds. Students are vigilant copycats and discerning morality police who will confront inconsistency between rhetoric and action. In Israelmore Ayivor words, “You don’t lead by what you say to them; you lead them by what they see you do. True leaders are self-leaders.”

Eighth, the gamification of learning enhances engagement and retention. We are not only homo sapiens, but homo ludens (man the player) as well. So incorporating games in one’s lessons, regardless of age group, makes learning enjoyable, easy, and engaging. For the American poet, essayist and naturalist Diane Ackerman, “Play is our brain's favorite way of learning,” because humans are not solely rational beings but also playful creatures, and play is not just a frivolous activity, but a serious and essential part of human life.

Ninth, good teachers bookend every lesson with engaging activities. Stimulating warm-up exercises capture students' interest from the start, while compelling concluding activities leave a lasting impression. Introducing elements such as riddles, jokes, proverbs, optical illusion art and so on at the start of the lesson, and concluding with engaging and practical activities that assess understanding, promote critical thinking, address misconceptions, and inspire students, all contribute to minimizing disruptions and enhancing student satisfaction.

Tenth, teaching transcends mere monetary gains; it is about making a difference in the world, earning respect, nurturing genuine connections, and molding young minds. While financial rewards may be scant in teaching, the intangible dividends – witnessing students' joy, gratitude, and success – are immeasurable. While money hold significance too, to me, there is no greater reward than inspiring a fervent love for learning in others. In the realm of teaching, it is not a matter of what one can extract from society, but rather, what one can contribute to it.

In conclusion, I hope these insights gleaned from decades of experience will serve as guiding beacons, especially for novice teachers. Since experience is the greatest teacher, it is essential to heed the wisdom of those who have walked this professional path before. School life has challenged them, tested their resolve, and propelled them to grow.

My Quranic School Experience. Noureddine Boutahar

As I journey down the memory lane of my life, retracing it to my early childhood, one striking and indelible memory comes to the forefront — the momentous and somewhat daunting first day at the Quranic School. This particular recollection is so vivid that it demands to be shared, pursuant to the insightful words of American writer Lois Lowry, who aptly remarked, 'Memories need to be shared.' 

Morocco has long been distinguished by a unique and authentic method of Quran memorization, a tradition passed down through generations. This practice which unfolded in Quranic schools known as "Kuttab" or "Msid", relied on simple tools like wooden boards, reed pens, and ink made from gum arabic and clay. These schools were supervised by a teacher known as the Fqih, selected by the villagers. Instead of receiving monetary compensation, the Fqih was provided with provisions for living, and, if single, even a wife from the village. Beyond teaching the Quran, writing, and arithmetic, the Fqih also served as a respected advisor to the community, playing a crucial role in shaping young minds and guiding the village through various aspects of life.

In my generation, almost every child attended the Quranic School, almost like a kindergarten rite of passage. However, my stint there was fleeting. I remember my first day vividly, as if it happened only yesterday. The Fqih, seated on a sheepskin rug that doubled as his prayer carpet, wielded a long stick that reached every nook of the room, bustling with cross-legged students aged five to seven. As he enforced discipline among the students, an air of fear permeated the atmosphere, heightened by the Fqih's imposing physique and resonant, intimidating voice.

On the day I joined the Msid, our main focus was on reciting Quranic verses. Towards the back, a young boy grappled with the verses, his pauses and hesitations betraying a lack of memorization. Abruptly, at the Fqih's signal, two older boys sprang into action, seizing the struggling reciter, pulling him to the front, and binding his feet. The Fqih wielded a two-foot olive tree stick adorned with small thorns, unleashing a merciless flogging upon the child's soles. Despite the child's desperate cries and promises of improved memorization the next day, the Fkih remained indifferent. 

Unable to witness this injustice without response, I spontaneously rose, grabbed an ink bottle, and swiftly made my exit. Alarmed, the Fqih hastily pulled up his Jellaba, chasing after me for a few steps. Eventually, he halted, calling out for me to return with the bottle. However, I sprinted away, resolute in my determination to escape the troubling scene.

Despite residing almost four miles away from the Msid, I made a swift return, outpacing the renowned Said Aouita. My heart pounded against my ribs, and tears blurred my vision as I recounted my sob story to my astonished and alarmed mother and grandmother, one breathless sentence at a time. My grandmother, my stalwart protector, vowed to ensure I never returned to the Msid.

In the ensuing days, my father took the initiative to enroll me in a formal primary school, albeit as a listener due to my not having reached the eligible age. Mr. Ourrach, with his remarkable kindness, trustworthiness, and unwavering support, fostered an environment where I felt at ease, enabling me to enthusiastically absorb a wealth of knowledge, including a few Quranic verses, from the sidelines. His passion for teaching was truly authentic, and he triumphed in capturing the hearts and minds of all his students.

As for the topic of caning, it was part and parcel of attending Quranic Schools. It constituted a widespread form of corporal punishment in Moroccan Msids, being meted out for a spectrum of infractions, both serious and trivial. These included failure to recite verses, making noise, truancy, bullying, fighting, stealing, and disobedience. Children were struck on various body parts, and the severity often depended on the perceived gravity of the offense. However, many students attested that the number of strokes seemed arbitrary.

Today, as I hear the heart-rending stories of the dehumanizing punishments my peers endured under certain Fkihs' authority, a profound sadness engulfs me. Yet, my heart swells with immense gratitude for my exceptionally kind-hearted, affectionate grandmother. She not only spared me from the haunting specter of having my mental and emotional health shattered by a mere stick but also shielded me from potential negative consequences in physical development.

Read to Write Noureddine Boutahar

 My friend Khalid Nkhaili recently told me about his admiration for my writing and expressed curiosity about my journey in developing this skill. Well, let me take you back to the roots of my love for writing—a passion that sprouted in the fertile soil of my childhood, nurtured by my deep affection for reading.

Growing up in a serene Moroccan countryside, I attended a school with no books at home and no library to quench my literary thirst. However, my love for reading knew no bounds. As soon as I could decipher words, I eagerly devoured the Souk’s* offerings, which wrapped our groceries, vegetables, and fruit in old newspaper pieces. Those crumpled sheets became my literary treasures. I would meticulously straighten them, immersing myself in the articles within. Though I didn't fully grasp the content, occasionally stumbling upon news from my father's old transistor radio added a layer of familiarity.

Another unexpected source of reading material was the medicine boxes brought home by a sick family member. The drug information sheet became my favorite, captivating me with its dual language presentation in Arabic and French. Little did I know that this would be the starting point for my journey to becoming proficient in French, a skill that would prove valuable from my junior school days onward.

Upon moving from the countryside to the bustling city of Meknes after primary school, I discovered a true treasure—the city library. My newfound haven, the “Librairie Municipale” library, became a sanctuary where I not only read voraciously but also borrowed books to continue my literary exploration at home.

This dedicated reading routine bore fruit, significantly influencing my writing style. I began crafting compelling paragraphs and essays that garnered praise from my teachers. In junior school, my instructors, including Madame Massardier, Madame Boulanger, and Monsieur Dupont, alongside an unnamed Arabic teacher, actively encouraged my writing endeavors. Their support fueled my passion.

Transitioning to university life, influential professors like Mr. Ezzroura and Mr. Jamari continued to champion my writing in English. Their mentorship, among many others, played a pivotal role in shaping my literary journey. In one memorable instance, Mr. Jamari took the initiative to share a snippet of one of my essays with our classmates. His discerning comment echoed in my ears — a prophecy, it seemed — as he boldly declared that I was destined to be a writer. This pivotal moment not only bolstered my confidence but also ignited a flame of ambition within me.

Once I found a comfortable rhythm in expressing myself, I took the plunge into the world of “journalism”. I began submitting articles to a few Moroccan newspapers, composing them in both Arabic and French. While not a regular occurrence, the moments when my work graced the pages and captured the attention of the general public were truly gratifying. Witnessing my words in print was a source of pride, fueling my passion for sharing stories and ideas with a broader audience.

Today, acknowledging the profound impact of reading, I eagerly took steps to ensure that my children could savor its delightful rewards. The enchanting tunes of bedtime tales continue to resonate as cherished chapters in the hearts of my little ones, especially my beloved daughters. They joyfully reminisce about those bedtime adventures, considering them among the finest moments of their early years. It truly warms my heart to see that the love for reading and books has taken root in each of them.

Remarkably, one of my daughters, Rime, has emerged as a budding wordsmith, crafting exceptional articles that find a home in prestigious global publications. Witnessing her talent bloom is not just a source of parental pride but a testament to the enduring power of reading and storytelling within our family.

The bottom line, the axiom "Nemo Dat" holds true in the symbiotic relationship between reading and writing. A profound truth underscores my writing journey: one cannot master the art of writing without immersing oneself in the vast ocean of literature. Reading provides writers with ideas for structure, language, literary techniques, and effective ways to convey a writer's purpose, replenishing the creative energy needed for continued writing.

* Moroccan outdoor weekly market.

The Cat Dies on the First Day Noureddine Boutahar

An idiom is a linguistic magician, conjuring figurative wonders that transcend the literal. Shaped by the environment of their origin, these idioms carry captivating stories within them.

My friend Driss Eladouany recently posted the Moroccan idiom "The cat dies on the first day" on his Facebook page. Intrigued, I delved into its layers of meaning, realizing its depth and cultural significance. This idiom weaves back to a tale from the Moroccan countryside, a story with myriad versions each echoing the same timeless message and meaning.

Now, allow me to encapsulate the essence of the story for you:           

In the heart of the Moroccan rural area, a young man's wedding night culminated in a vibrant celebration filled with joyous dances and delectable feasts. Post-wedding, the bride gracefully transitioned into her daily routine, which included the heartwarming task of preparing breakfast for her husband before he set out to toil in the fields. Amid the fragrance of freshly steeped tea and warm ‘Harcha’ bread, a cat emerged, its meows echoing through the room. The newlywed youth, seeking to assert his authority, shooed away the persistent feline. Yet, the cat remained undeterred, its presence a challenge to his newly established dominance. In a fit of anger, he struck the innocent creature with a fatal blow.

Later, when questioned about his actions, the young man explained that he sought to establish an example for his wife, a stark reminder of the obedience expected of her. His harsh punishment served as a clear warning against defiance.

The idiom 'The cat dies on the first day' finds its echo in various English equivalents, such as 'show your true colors from the outset,' 'start as you mean to go,' 'establish a strong start,' and 'commence with the end in mind.' Yet, delving into the origins, circumstances, and the rich tapestry of tradition and culture that birthed this idiom reveals a depth that sets it apart. These English counterparts, while close, may lose their true resonance without the awareness of the unique story, tradition, and cultural nuances that define 'The cat dies on the first day.' In understanding its roots, we unlock a richer appreciation for the wisdom encapsulated in this captivating expression.

Hence, the idiom "The cat dies on the first day" surfaces as a haunting testament to the oppressive patriarchal norms that once gripped Moroccan society. Rooted in a bygone era, the tale serves as a poignant reminder of the historical status of Moroccan women—a time when they were not just subjugated but also unfairly vilified and accused of various perceived wrongs.

Idioms, in general, serve as vibrant snapshots of the rich tapestry of a language, capturing the essence of a people's environment, life, history, and culture. Rooted in the very spirit and emotions of native speakers, these linguistic gems forge an intimate connection with the historical backdrop, economic dynamics, geographical nuances, and customs of a society. In essence, idioms are not just linguistic expressions; they are windows into the soul of a language, offering profound insights into the collective experience of a community.

The Moroccan idiom 'The cat dies on the first day' unravels a cautionary tale embedded in tradition, revealing enduring lessons of power dynamics and societal expectations. Through idioms, we catch a glimpse of timeless virtues that transcend language and time.

Seven Reasons to Avoid Translation when Teaching English. Noureddine Boutahar

Videos of teachers teaching English in Arabic have been mushrooming in large quantities since the closure of schools in March 2020 due to COVID-19. Many teachers built on a self-made theory that translation is the magic formula for students to improve their English language skills and to succeed in their studies. The word for word translations made my hackles rise so badly that I decided to write this post as a reaction to all the disservice some teachers are doing the Moroccan learners of English.

First, many people think only a knowledge of two languages is sufficient enough to teach one -- or both. This is not true because, on the one hand, there is no perfect one-to-one correspondence between languages, as linguists tell us, and if this were true, Google could do the job of language teachers. On the other hand, knowledge of a language is not sufficient to teach it because real teachers have special abilities to integrate their knowledge of the language with teaching strategies, techniques, and skills to structure an environment conducive to effective and sustainable learning instead of resorting to way-out methods like translation. As Bloomfield puts it: “Translation into the native language is bound to mislead the learner, because the semantic units of different languages do not match and because the student under the practiced stimulus of the native form is almost certain to forget the foreign one.”

Second, many people confine language learning to word recognition and resort to translation as a shortcut to save time and effort. However, language is more than words and vocabulary, and translation is not enough for learners to completely comprehend what they are reading for example. In addition to word polysemy, very often what is implied or left unsaid is as important as what is said because language is loaded with culture and carries more than words. Thus, learners need to develop necessary analytical skills and reading strategies and not the misconception that effective reading requires translation and comprehension of every single word.

Third, heavy emphasis on translation makes students “too examination-conscious.” and thus encourages a memorization approach to learning. This memorization approach does not facilitate the acquisition of practical skills, values, and attitudes in learners at all, nor does it help to meet the long-term objectives of learning foreign languages. It merely concentrates on passing of national examinations by students and, thus, exacerbates the “certificate syndrome” which is one of the most notorious features of our adopted education system. 

Fourth, translation does not do students any service, but rather renders them lazy language learners, dependent on teachers’ spoon-feeding. We all know from experience that students do not suddenly become active and independent on their own; it is teachers’ attitude towards learning and their teaching style that make all the difference. Too often, ordinary teachers make students dependent on them, while artisan ones allow students to be independent and critical thinkers. Besides, mollycoddling students with translations and similar crutches will certainly encourage them to take advantage of it and do as little as possible to get by knowing that teachers are there to provide whatever help they need at school. So, they never try to learn to fly on their own and may have a disadvantage for life.

Fifth, translation deprives students from thinking in the target language. Students who are used to translating every single word become less confident in their ability to make hypotheses about how language works. Their mind stops trying to guess or use language learning strategies to enable them to take responsibility for their own learning.  So, they “examine the target language through the grammar and lexis of their native language”. Also, translation makes learners less confident in their ability to communicate in the target language although communication is one of the main objectives of foreign language learning. What is even worse is that these students get stuck writing the simplest thing in English and ask for help to translate every single word and idea from Arabic into English.  As Arthur W. Chickering and Zelda F. Gamson put it, "Learning is not a spectator sport. Students do not learn much just by sitting in class listening to teachers, memorizing prepackaged assignments, and spitting out answers.”

Sixth, teachers who emphasize translation make bad use of class time which is one of the few opportunities many students have to hear and practice English. Our students rarely have a chance to use English outside the classroom, and depriving them of the opportunity to use it in class will only demotivate especially those whose objectives go beyond the walls of school. Also, Moroccan students often expect English classes to be fun and hope to have funny teachers who integrate games and role-plays into their classrooms so they can play with English and do not want a Grammar Translation drill sergeant who disregards the productive use of the opportunities given by the classroom.

Seventh, I wonder whether translation could help achieve the following objectives described in the Moroccan Pedagogical Guidelines?

1. To develop the communication competencies necessary for a variety of real-life purposes.

2. To develop knowledge and sub-skills necessary for a variety of real-life purposes.

3. To develop study skills leading to learner autonomy.

4. To develop the intellectual abilities of the learner.

5. To develop cross-cultural communication competency.

6. To enhance the learner’s awareness of, and reflection upon, global issues.

7. To reinforce values pertaining to character, civility, and citizenship.

That said, I have to admit that translation can sometimes save lives provided that it is not adopted as the main approach to teaching and learning English. I concur with using translation, for example, when visuals like PowerPoint and realia and teaching techniques like paraphrasing and clarifications all fail. However, we should always bear in mind Atkinson's caveat that “Every second spent using L1 is a second not spent using English!”

Moroccan Youth Issues Noureddine Boutahar

I don’t believe I am the only one to think that the tempest of despair is shaking the ground beneath the Moroccan youth due to the fact that our successive governments’ anemic efforts have failed to properly invest in youth asset . This article seeks to explore the main problems facing the Moroccan youth which have been engendered by defective and deficient policies although a full treatment of the issues is beyond the scope of this post.

Unemployment: The meltdown in economies worldwide has not spared Morocco. Significant layoffs have caused the unemployment rate to remain high, primarily among young people aged 15-24 years. These future parents and breadwinners are unable to find a productive place within the Moroccan society for myriad reasons: inadequate supply of skills by the education system, rapid population growth beyond the economy's capacity to create jobs, automation of many human jobs, and government’s inability to implement job-creating economic development programs and projects, to name a few. As a result, unemployment takes a toll on Moroccan youth whose lives become blighted by social and emotional evils like drug addiction, crimes, dishonesty, immorality, low self-esteem, self-deprecation, and frustration.

Illiteracy: The strategy of near-total elimination of illiteracy in Morocco by 2015 has not been reached despite government efforts, and the scourge still affects 32 percent of the population. Although illiteracy is more common among adults over 50 years old, it is still widespread among the youth, especially in rural areas, with girls carrying the heaviest burden. And if we add the more than 400,000 students who drop out of school every year without obtaining any school certificate, the number of illiterate and semi-illiterate young people swells to huge numbers. Of course, the causes of this curse include mainly poverty, ignorant parents, and depletion of infrastructure. However, its causes are as wide as they are deep and harm and hinder the life of young Moroccans in a number of ways: unemployment and underemployment, low self-worth, transmission of inter-generational illiteracy, and it makes young illiterates fall easy prey to extremist and terrorist groups.

Poverty: The three major complex issues Morocco actually struggles with are illiteracy, unemployment, and poverty. In 2017, 15 people were killed and 40 others injured in a stampede during the distribution of food by a local organization in a village in the province of Essaouira. The disaster highlights the gravity of the problem of poverty in the country where over 9 million people are poor, and where children and youth are the first to bear the brunt. This scourge denies the victims their rights as human beings, deprives them of education, affects their mental and emotional well-being, and leads to poor physical and behavioral health. These poor young people live in neighborhoods with concentrated poverty, crime, and violence, and leads them to be caught up in cycles of drug abuse, crime, unemployment and underemployment. A combination of factors has contributed to the persistence of poverty in Morocco and they run the continuum from socio-economic disparities to lack of access to quality education to rentier economy; all of which are exacerbated by corruption, unaccountability, impunity, and favoritism –or “Your dad’s my friend” as Moroccans mockingly refer to it. It is worth mentioning, in this regard, that billions of dollars have been spent on programs to alleviate poverty. But who has benefited from these programs?

Lack of Quality Education: Of the 95% of school-aged children in Morocco who enroll in primary school, only 53% make it to high school. School dropout, however, is not the only obstacle faced by Moroccan students as other challenges soon pop up in the way of pupils’ academic achievements. One such hindrance is poor quality education: the World Economic Forum report for 2016/2017 ranked Morocco among the worst countries in terms of students’ achievement (119^th out of 137). Quantitatively speaking, Morocco has made giant steps in the ratio of child enrollment but, qualitatively speaking, our education has been steadily decreasing. This frustrating state is the result of multilayered reasons: top-down approaches in decision making, hasty emergency reforms, lack of qualified teachers, lack of teacher motivation, hunger and poor nutrition which affects the child’s cognitive abilities, near-extinction of school libraries, multilingual environment at school which contributes to the low literacy rates, and poor adjustment to advanced technology. Inevitably, poor education has devastating effects on the Moroccan economy as it begets ignorance, unemployment, poverty, violence, and so on. In Nita Ambari’s words, “Education empowers and emboldens the youth to chase their dreams.” I am sure she means quality education, and it is this quality education which creates a domino effect on other pathway opportunities. Without it, there would be no development breakthrough in this country and no poor would be lifted to prosperity.

Substance Abuse: Over 800,000 Moroccans are addicted to drugs. These include cannabis 4%, cocaine 2%,  psychotropic drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, and glue-sniffing, mostly by homeless kids. Worse still is that 1.2% of boy students and 0.4% of girl students use drugs, which does not augur well for the future of youth and the country as a whole. Young Moroccans, like young people worldwide, do not take drugs to feel worse, but because they are unhappy with the quality of their lives. The reasons certainly vary from young person to young person. It can be because of failures at school, boredom, rebellion, peer pressure and the desire to fit within a group. For other people, drugs can be a means to reduce or avoid psychological pain of poverty and misery. The effects of substance abuse are many and varied and run the gamut from health and mental issues to financial issues to relationships to legal issues.

In Nelson Mandela’s words, “Our children are our greatest treasure. They are our future. Those who abuse them tear at the fabric of our society and weaken our nation.” However, youth will not be able to play any important role in the development of our society unless the government invests in their health, education and safety.

Indifference is Destroying the World Noureddine Boutahar

        Why is the world getting worse than ever and why are the bad guys getting the upper hand? Why are we taking, day in day out, a few more steps backward  towards a darker, scarier, and more uncertain world?

        Part of the answer is in the short story of the humming bird:

       One day, a long time ago and in a faraway place, or so the legend goes, there was a huge forest fire that was raging the countryside. All the animals were terrified, running around in circles, screaming, crying and helplessly watching the impending disaster.

        But there in the middle of the flames, and above the cowering animals, was a tiny hummingbird busy flying from a small pond to the fire, each time fetching a few drops of water with its beak to throw on the flames. And then again and then again.

        After a while, an old grouchy armadillo, annoyed by this ridiculous useless agitation on the part of the hummingbird, cried out: “Tiny bird! Don’t be a fool. It is not with those miniscule drops of water one after the other that you are going to put out the fire and save us all!”

        To which the hummingbird replied, “Could be, but I’m going to do my bit”.

        The main theme of the story, of course, is that indifference is dangerous. It is one of the greatest threats to humanity and existence itself.

        As you know, indifference means lack of interest, concern, or sympathy. In other words, not doing our bit, in the words of the humming bird. 
        Elie Wiesel once said “The opposite of Love is note hate, it’s indifference’’. I think there is a lot of truth in this statement because people nowadays show a lack of concern about a number of pressing issues like global warming, poverty, genocide, injustice, and so many other forms of evil which drive our world towards an abyss of unimaginable horror.

        Edmund Burke, for his part said “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.” He’s right because people seem to oppose these evils in their hearts, but they never make any active effort to fight them.

        So, if we continue to turn our backs to social injustice, if we continue to turn a blind eye to environmental issues, if we continue to turn a deaf ear to oppression, we’ll give free reign to selfish desires, injustice, tyranny, and violation of human rights.

       The French singer and composer, Gilbert Bécaud, summed it up well in a song when he said, “What really destroys the world is INDIFFERENCE."

Character Education Needed. Noureddine Boutahar

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” Too much knowledge without character is also a dangerous thing. In both cases, you get people who know their ABCs, but who are not educated.

People with little knowledge are just literate. People with too much knowledge and no character are just robot-like citizens.

Both types are poorly-educated in that they lack quality education. And quality-lacking education holds back and does not make for just, productive, and democratic societies. It produces half-judges, half-teachers, half-doctors, fake-priests, fake-muftis, fake-citizens… in brief a threat to society.

In Theodore Roosevelt’s words, “To educate a man in mind and not in morals is to educate a menace to society”. He means that focusing only on the education of students in core curriculums such as languages, mathematics, social studies etc. without also educating them in moral value, simply indoctrinates individuals who will jeopardize and undermine societies.

In Stephen Covey’s opinion, intellectual development without character development is like “putting a high-powered sports car in the hands of a teenager who is high on drugs.” One need only look to the ever-present stories of crime and violence that fill out televisions and newspapers to find the truth of his words; lack of character education is ubiquitous, and increasingly apparent. Present-day education gives us knowledge but not respect for ethics, character and moral values.

Remember the various terrorist attacks that shook the world! Remember the 17-year old student from Ouarzazate’s (Morocco) Sidi Daoud  high school who violently beat one of his teachers! Remember the world's most notorious scandals! These and other flagrant acts are the result of a lack of character and quality education.

Mahatma Gandhi mentioned seven things that will destroy us.  “Knowledge without character” ranks among the first three. He’s right; what good is our knowledge of Physics if all we do is build bombs and arms of mass destruction? What good is our knowledge of Philosophy if all we do is remain indifferent to gross human rights?”

As Martin Luther King put it, we live in a world of “guided missiles and misguided men.” This means that even “scientific findings” could be bent to suit the political ideologies of the amoral politicians and business-people who have not yet completed their education. 

But what is character education?

Dr. Thomas Lickona defines character education as “the deliberate effort to help people understand, care about, and act upon core ethical values.” Character education, then, aims to instill in students important fundamental, ethical and performance values such as honesty, fairness, responsibility, caring, diligence, fortitude, and respect for self and others. Its objective, also, is to form and train young people in wisdom and virtue.

Bottom line; character grounds education and keeps us from becoming bad, corrupt, wicked, and cruel.  So, isn’t it time we restore character education to its rightful place at the center of the curriculum?

The Moroccan Baccalaureate in French Section: Neocolonialism! Noureddine Boutahar

It is perfectly evident from the recent agreement between the Moroccan and French ministers of education to implement the 'Moroccan Baccalaureate in French Section' that top-down decisions is the rule governing education reforms in this country. It seems many of the de facto rulers of this country who pull the strings from behind the curtains push their own agendas and advance their interests with little or no regard at all of what Moroccan pupils need, want, or think.
The first question that sprang to mind when I heard the news was: who really needs the other, Morocco or France? French education is in a crisis and Moroccan officials are clutching at a drowning man to save them. French education system is not even among the top ten and “what’s taught in French classrooms is not particularly interesting or relevant to most pupils”. This means the French system is lagging behind major industrial countries and does not deserve to be a model for countries – like ours – wanting to build an educational system that will prepare young people for the challenges of a fast changing world. So, it’s not a surprise anymore that our system of education has gone awry. We have been betting on the wrong horse since ‘independence’, and it's high time we took off the blinders and looked for better working education systems that leave no student behind.
Having experienced both the Francophone and Anglophone systems, I think I am in a good enough position to judge the French system of education as a failing one. It is an elitist system whose objective “since Napoleon, has been about producing brilliant elite who will run the country, and to hell with the rest”. It is, in addition, a system too theory-oriented and rarely includes discovery and hands-on learning. Its survival, though, is insured only by the dependency of Francophone countries, and particularly ex-colonies. So, the establishment of the so-called ‘Moroccan Baccalaureate in French Section’ is yet another French tactic to ensure the supply and the flow of the best cadres from Morocco to France because of the fierce international competition to gain the brains of the world. On the other hand, the Francophone students who come back home are prospective securers and protectors of long-term French interests in Morocco. They will defend French interests, bring more soccer coaches, favor French companies, buy villas and chalets in France, spend their holidays and free time in France, and marry French blondes and so on.
Another reason in support of the claim that it is France that needs Morocco is that the Moroccan-French partnership has never been a win-win one. Economically, the scale of partnership has always favored the old colonizer. Politically, France has often straddled our national issues and causes. In the field of education, which is the main focus of this post, France has usually been the biggest winner – brain gain – though “they eat our salt and lead the assault” as recent events testify: At a time when the Moroccan and French ministers of education, Rachid Benmokhtar and Vincent Peillon were signing three agreements that would benefit France more than Morocco, the Ambassador of France in Washington was describing Morocco as a “mistress with whom we sleep every night and, though we are not particularly in love with her, must defend.”
Also, this Moroccan Baccalaureate in French Section will certainly discriminate against average and struggling students and students from economically and socially disadvantaged families. That is to say, French famous Grandes Ecoles doors will be shut to the 'ordinary' Moroccan students. And once successful students are divided between the private school and the French school, public school will then be a laughing stock and a shameful place to go to.
As a reminder to those who need to be reminded, a whole slew of newspaper and website articles, the World Bank, and the Royal speech of August 2013 all admitted that our educational system is in a state of catastrophic collapse and needs serious reforms. However, the Moroccan Baccalaureate in French Section is not a serious reform but a zero-sum game where Morocco loses and France wins. Worse still, it is an exacerbation of the crisis because it will discriminate against students from poor backgrounds and against national public school, and will strip our public school from the little remaining value it has left.
All in all, the best performing education systems worldwide are those that give priority to public rather than private or elite schools and those that take public opinion into account. Conversely, less performing systems perpetuate social differences through elitism, disregard public opinion, and practice top-down bureaucratic management. So, which of the two diverging roads do the new education bosses want to lead us down? Wait and see.