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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Architecture of Character Noureddine Boutahar

With the exception of my father, who taught himself to read and write, my family was illiterate. Yet, they were architects of character, raising a garden of children rich in values, etiquette, and empathy. In our rural home, my

education began long before I ever took a seat in a classroom. My parents, grandparents, uncle, aunts, and even the wider community served as my first teachers. They did not teach with books or blackboards but through life itself, imparting lessons learned from their own experiences. I learned by observing their harmonious lives, listening to their wise words, and emulating their virtuous actions.

Respect for elders was one of the keystones of my family’s unwritten curriculum. Elders were more than just elderly; they were living archives, custodians of not only family and village history but also our traditions, myths, and legends. To honor them was both an obligation and a privilege. In our home, grandparents were the sun around which we all revolved, their voices sought for guidance in matters as weighty as marriages or property disputes and as light as the proper way to welcome a guest. We kissed their hands or foreheads after every separation and upon returning from school as a sign of affection and respect. We never wavered in our willingness to help them find misplaced garments and always offered assistance in performing difficult chores and carrying heavy burdens. Among our Amazigh families, any elder man was an “unky,” and any elder woman was an “aunty.” Even elder siblings held a place of honor within the family.  Brothers were addressed as "Baba," and sisters as "Lalla" or "Mamma"—titles conveying reverence and respect, reflecting the belief that even "a single day's difference in age brought wisdom".  This same respect extended to teachers, who were considered akin to parents.  The saying "The one who teaches me even a single word is like a father to me forever" illustrates this deep appreciation. Teachers were seen as guides, leading students through the vast and wonderful world of knowledge, and were therefore held in the highest esteem. Ultimately, respect for the elderly—rooted in earned trust rather than blind submission—served as the mortar binding the bricks of society, enabling us to bridge the generational divide and foster stronger intergenerational connections.

Good manners were another keystone of the silent curriculum my family passed down. In our home, good manners were more than rules; they were an art form, a type of choreography for graceful coexistence. From an early age, I learned the subtle melody of courtesy: never to talk back, never to stare intently, to sit up straight out of respect and humility, and to speak only after careful thought, for words are arrows that cannot be taken back once released. Equally important, we were taught never to be bystanders, to act when witnessing wrongdoing, and to take responsibility where others might look away. Even at the table, we practiced restraint: eating sparingly in the presence of guests, feigning fullness out of pride and generosity—a lesson embodied in the saying, “Hunger in my stomach, pride in my heart.” When sharing food, the largest portion always went to the other person, a quiet testament to the deep-rooted altruism of our rural life. Gratitude, too, was a virtue rehearsed daily, as natural as breathing. A simple “thank you,” wrapped in a warm gaze and smile, my parents said, wove a shared joy between the giver and receiver. These good manners were instilled in us through words, example, and the ceaseless rhythm of sayings and idioms, repeated so often they became woven into the fabric of our being, second nature and instinctive mantras.

Hospitality was the shining gem of our family values, a flame that burned warmly in our home for strangers and friends alike. We seldom ate a meal without a guest at our table. Our door was always open, and visitors came from near and far, drawn not just by necessity but by the knowledge that they would be received as kin. Even beggars, peddlers, and passersby found food and shelter under our roof. My grandfather, ever mindful of this deep-seated tradition, would invite a neighbor for no other reason than to ensure the guest spot was never left vacant. Hospitality, as practiced in our family, was not mere obligation; it was a celebration of humanity itself. It reminds me of Louis de Jaucourt’s words in his Encyclopédie, where he characterized hospitality as “the virtue of a great soul that cares for the whole universe through the ties of humanity.”

Honesty, too, was a virtue etched deep into our souls in the bloom of childhood, remaining as unwavering as a mountain. My father’s creed, “I’d rather lose my head than my integrity,” was a beacon we were taught to follow. Integrity was not merely expected; it was demanded, reinforced through countless examples. I recall a stray calf that joined our herd and stayed so long it became sacred—a no-man’s animal, untouchable as though blessed by fate itself. My family exhausted every avenue to track down its rightful owner, even hiring a public crier at the souk to announce its presence in our cattle. When no legitimate claimant appeared, the calf lived out its days with us, untouched—a silent testament to our family’s unbending commitment to honesty.

Another important principle instilled in our family was the value of work. In our home, work was more than a duty; it was a reflection of our core values—excellence, integrity, and diligence. From the moment we could walk, we were given small tasks, and as we grew, our responsibilities expanded. This was because our parents recognized work as a source of purpose, self-respect, and growth—providing direction, fostering learning, and enabling meaningful contributions to society. As far back as I can remember, our hands were engaged in simple but essential tasks: sewing our own clothes, mending buttons, washing light garments, and tending to the cows, sheep, and goats. These humble beginnings prepared us for the more exhausting labor that awaited us in the fields, where we toiled from sunrise to sunset. The reward for our efforts was modest—a token payment, not for its monetary value but as quiet encouragement, teaching us the dignity of effort and the pride of self-reliance. My family insisted, like Martin Luther King Jr., that any job worth doing should be done so well that “the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.” This ethos of excellence became my compass, guiding me through life, even when others mocked my perfectionism as “too much” or “obsessive.” Yet, it also earned me the respect of those who understood the importance of striving for greatness.

Nowadays, these virtues—once our compass and anchor—often feel like burdens in a world where honesty is a bygone ideal and flattery the currency of the realm. The principles our traditional families instilled in us now clash with a society that values expediency over integrity. Those of us who cling to these old virtues are viewed as obstacles, relics of a bygone era. Yet, even as I struggle against the current, these values remain the marrow of my being—an inheritance more precious than rubies. They are the roots that ground me, even as the winds of change swirl around us.

 

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.”

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.

Breaking the Chains of Hypocrisy Noureddine Boutahar

As if Lady Colin Campbell were speaking on my behalf when she said, 'I'm not two-faced; I'm honest, and I tell it the way it is. I'm not good at hypocrisy, pretending to be someone I'm not.' Back in my younger days, my dear old grandma, may her soul rest in peace, used to tell me that I had seriously "thick lips." Of course, she wasn't referring to my pout! What she meant was that I was as straightforward and blunt as they come. Grandma's sage advice was, "Be more like camels, darling. They've got soft tongues, perfect for munching on those prickly weeds without a fuss!”

 Fast forward to my adult years, and boy, did I face a conundrum dealing with the sheep mentality posse—the folks who march to the beat of situations and circumstances, spinning a web of lies and hypocrisy as they go. I found it tough because my honesty and no-nonsense attitude were rare like a diamond in a field of pebbles. People expected me to dish out lies as if I were a counterfeit artist forging illusions on the canvas of conversation, just to go with the social flow.

 Oh, the struggle was real! I suffered because I refused to partake in what I call social hypocrisy. They wanted me to flash a grin at people I couldn't stand, all in the name of social decorum, as if my feelings were supposed to take a backseat to theirs. I was expected to bend the truth, sprinkle fairy dust over unpleasant realities, and perform the delicate dance of social hypocrisy. However, I couldn't bring myself to play the game.

 Then, as I ventured further into the wider world, I stumbled upon the stark reality that hypocrisy is the cherished policy du jour. I crossed paths with folks who championed family values but were caught red-handed cheating on their spouses. I met religious leaders who preached about honesty but were later exposed for spinning tall tales. I encountered people who wore a friendly facade when things were smooth, but showed their true colors in times of adversity. And don't get me started on those who claimed to be against discrimination but then spewed out racist and sexist remarks like confetti.

 I was told that we're all hypocrites at times, that our actions needn’t always line up with our beliefs. I was told about the existence of "white lies," and it left me feeling a bit bewildered. It struck me as curious that people would assign colors to lies in an attempt to rationalize them. Translation? Be an angel in the daylight and a mischief-maker when no one's watching. Spread kindness and compassion during the day, and let loose your satanic side when night falls. What kind of society are we brewing here?

 Allow me to shed a bit more light on the matter: there's a clear distinction between the art of courtesy and the murky waters of hypocrisy. While courtesy is all about embodying politeness, respect, and good manners, hypocrisy takes a detour into the realm of deceit, lies, and dishonesty. Picture it like this: courtesy is the VIP section of genuine behavior, while hypocrisy is the uninvited guest crashing the party with a bag full of duplicity. Simply put, doing the right thing without the right intentions is a one-way ticket to the land of the hypocrites.

 A moment of silence for Mr. Ourrach, my primary school teacher, may he rest in peace. He left an indelible mark on my mind with his lesson from the famous and cherished Iqraa textbook: "Wherever you go, be mindful of your actions, for the eyes of God are always upon you." Oh, my, what a textbook! It brimmed with captivating tales of morals and values, weaving a mosaic of wisdom that resonated with the very essence of life. It wasn't just a book; it was a treasury of timeless lessons that sparked the imagination and guided the soul.

Secrets to Educational Triumph! Noureddine Boutahar

In my exploration of successful education systems across the globe, encompassing countries like Finland, Singapore, Germany, and Iceland, a consistent theme emerges: success isn't just a happy accident; it's the result of deliberate and strategic brilliance. These nations have artfully crafted a mosaic of practices and values, working in perfect harmony to yield extraordinary educational achievements.

A cornerstone of these successful systems is the emphasis on having high-quality educators. Teachers within these systems typically come from esteemed colleges and universities, a deliberate choice aimed at ensuring a sustained high standard of pedagogical expertise. Recognizing the pivotal role educators play, these successful systems go the extra mile to ensure fair compensation, acknowledging the significant contribution teachers make in shaping the future generation.

Moreover, these cultures place an undeniably significant value on education, recognizing it not merely as a means to personal development but as a crucial tool for broader economic advancement. This societal mindset fosters a deep-seated commitment to the pursuit of educational excellence.

In these systems, equality stands as a guiding principle, with nearly all students attending public schools, effectively minimizing the disparities that often characterize the schism between private and public education. Complementing this commitment to equality are the deliberately small class sizes, averaging around 20 students. Furthermore, up to three teachers may be present in a class, with one dedicated specifically to assisting struggling students, thereby providing personalized support.

An additional testament to the commitment to nurturing relationships is the prolonged interaction between teachers and students. Teachers often remain with the same group of students for up to five years, ensuring a sense of continuity and familiarity. This extended relationship allows teachers to intimately understand the strengths and weaknesses of each student, contributing to a more tailored and effective learning experience.

Formal education in these countries takes a departure from conventional practices by commencing at the age of seven. This intentional delay allows ample time for play and exploration during a child's formative years, recognizing the importance of holistic development beyond academic pursuits.

Another distinctive feature is the limited emphasis on testing, with formal exams deferred until the age of 16. This aligns with a pivotal juncture where students undergo assessments to guide their career or college choices. This intentional approach alleviates the pressure of testing, providing students with the freedom to develop holistically without the burden of excessive assessments.

The well-designed and balanced daily schedules in these systems, extending from 8:00 to 14:30 with a 30-minute lunch break, lay the foundation for an optimal learning environment. Firstly, they promote active involvement in extracurricular activities and the pursuit of personal interests, contributing to a more comprehensive and enriching educational experience. Secondly, by preventing students from spending the entire day at school, the schedules mitigate the risk of developing a disdain for the learning environment, preventing it from turning into a snoozy, prison-like scene that nobody wants to be in.

Streamlining education programs and curricula is a hallmark of these successful systems. By concentrating on essential subjects, knowledge, and skills while minimizing unnecessary complexities and workload for students, these systems guarantee a well-rounded and meaningful education.

Last but not least, the commitment to state support for teachers in these successful systems is palpable through various initiatives that ensure favorable working conditions. For instance, comprehensive professional development programs are offered to educators, equipping them with the latest teaching methodologies and tools. Additionally, the provision of modern classroom resources, such as interactive technology and up-to-date textbooks, exemplifies the dedication to supplying teachers with the necessary materials to facilitate effective learning environments.

In stark contrast to our education systems that commodify and devalue teachers, successful and ideal educational systems recognize the profound significance of quality educators, equal opportunities, and a holistic approach to student development. Without these key elements, our dream of a successful and nurturing educational environment for the future is just a whimsical fantasy. Without genuine reform, we will persist in passing the blame like a game of hot potato, tossing responsibility between us until the day when everything inevitably crumbles!

Desperate and Angry, Moroccan Teachers React: Noureddine Boutahar

Poor students! They are trapped in an oscillation, back and forth like a pendulum between home and school. This daily commute has become a routine part of their life all due to the justified strikes by their teachers. These strikes are a result of the pigheaded Education Minister's misguided devotion to his failing Fundamental System, treating it like a treasured relic. 

In response, teachers have decided to go on strike to voice their complaints after years of unparalleled patience and false façade peace. But why, you ask? Well, it's quite simple: The darn mountain put in all that effort, and what do we get? A measly, pathetic mouse, as the Arabic saying goes. 

Teachers have finally had their fill of the government's ingenious reforms in the educational system. The government, in its boundless wisdom, decided to take a bulldozer to the existing educational system. They went all out and tore it down completely with this baleful Fundamental System.

On the other side, educators, in their stubborn insistence on having a well-functioning system, have the audacity to demand better working conditions, fair pay, and resources for their students. Is it too much? Are they asking for the moon?

For decades, these educators have been making sacrifices they see as acts of dedication, willingly offering extra hours, extending their efforts beyond their job descriptions, assuming additional responsibilities to enhance their institutions, and even dipping into their personal resources to procure teaching materials, from pens and beyond. Unfortunately, those in positions of authority have misinterpreted these acts of commitment as signs of submission and vulnerability. The government took an inch for every mile the teachers gave it.

Initially, the Fundamental System was implemented discreetly and fell significantly short of teachers' expectations. It also entailed an increased workload for teachers, provided no salary raises, and introduced an extensive list of punitive measures that seem more fitting for dealing with bandits than dedicated educators! Moreover, it slapped teachers with a whopping 38 percent increase in income taxes. In addition, extra responsibilities were added to teachers' already demanding roles, making their workload even more overwhelming. Furthermore, the system made the already challenging path to career promotion even more torturous, to put it mildly. Lastly, and to add insult to injury, the system provided salary increases to administrators, while leaving teachers out in the cold!

This shows that our government has a very different vision for reform, one that avoids tackling the root issues and devising creative approaches to fix an education system in shambles. One such vision involves applying a fresh coat of paint, labeling it as 'reform,' and hoping that everyone will be fooled. The other is embracing an attitude dripping with arrogance, provocation, and intimidation instead of trying to put out the fire of a heated battle. Another one is unabashedly churning out one infuriating memorandum after another in record time, adding fuel to the blazing fire of discontent.

For surely, in the minister’s pursuit of his educational utopia, he decided to fly solo. This decision is set to cause a meteoric rise in discontent among the educators. The reckless wasting of invaluable instructional time will be elevated to an art form, and the utter ruination of the futures of those despairing students from humble backgrounds will be the crown jewel in Ben Moussa’s grand opus.

In conclusion, we can only hope for a collective awakening of conscience regarding the ongoing crisis in the Moroccan education system. It is crucial to prevent further damage to our own national interests. However, it is noteworthy that this is a pivotal moment for reform, and seizing this opportunity is very imperative. Failure to do so could have undesirable repercussions for generations to come.

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 challenges Facing 9/4 Elections in Morocco Noureddine Boutahar

The king of Morocco Mohammed VI's intervention in his last speech to remind both

political parties and the voters of the purpose and spirit of elections is a clear and solid proof of the failure of our political parties and our system of education in the formation of ‘good’ Moroccan citizens. For decades now, both – parties and education – have been wasting taxpayer money and time without achieving the desired results. So, here we are again, preparing to start from scratch, with the big question in mind, “can we make it this time?”
I, personally, don’t think so because of the poor educational and cultural level of the people who vote. Bear in mind that the well-educated, the elite class, and the intelligentsia do not usually make it to the polls. So, the remaining poor and less educated who cast their ballots are prone to be deceived, cheated, or even bought because they often lack the protection and power of good education and knowledge to save them from the trickery and intrigues of politicians to make the right and best choice in the election of their representatives.
It's noteworthy that this section of society includes two subdivisions: one population is completely and hopelessly illiterate and the other population is in unenviable semi-illiteracy. The semi-illiterate has received a low-quality education that has made it ‘neither fish nor fowl’. However, both are vulnerable politically and economically because they suffer from a basic knowledge deficit to improve their political awareness in areas like democracy and the workings of political institutions. This is because our Moroccan Makhzen (ruling elite) doesn’t want quality education for all as it is a dangerous force for change which puts its interests at stake. Sadly, a couple of ministers in this government recently blamed the Moroccan people – who are the real victims in our political system - for the problems we have at present instead of the real original obstacles.
The severest and most pressing of these obstacles is education. All the education reforms in this country since independence have been a flop and have produced the kind of people that policy makers and officials are blaming and complaining about. Our education system has hit the skids because there is no real, strong political will to reform it. Reforming it would hurt the advantages and interests of the ruling elite. Consequently, our schools are sending out into the world a generation of young men and women whose majority can ‘neither fly nor walk’ for themselves but who can only follow the crowd. It should be no surprise, then, that people are more selfish than ever before; that our moral standards are rock bottom; that foul language and swear words are filling our streets; that sword-wielding thugs are roaming our streets and raiding people’s homes; and that good manners and right conduct are things of the past. Therefore, it will come as no surprise to anyone that the 9/4 elections, under such circumstances, will fail to achieve their purpose and will fail to have the desired results.
The second contributor in this puzzle is the political parties themselves. They are in a real crisis and cannot activate the citizens or train the candidates. People have grown increasingly frustrated with them because they are too weak to tackle their own perennial internal party problems, let alone the country’s. The major factor that fritters away their credibility is their exaggerated and unrealistic promises in the run-up to the elections: These soon break and decay when they hit the brick wall of reality and Makhzen resistance. Also, people are fed up with political parties bickering and never ending battles. Many of our political parties waste their time - and ours - calling each other names instead of focusing on our priorities. In addition, political parties, admittedly, “base their political action and election program on an ideology”, however, many of our political parties do not have a unifying ideology or principles or ideals; they emerged or were made from a vacuum to serve individual or a group of individual interests.

Let’s not forget also that people are tired of seeing political parties who make it to power spend most of their time wooing the Makhzen and trying to please the deep state. They dare not initiate any kind of real reform or approach the big corruption files lest they get their fingers burned. And because there are too many political parties - more that 30 – means that no one party ever wins an outright majority, and the ‘winning’ one always needs the help of small parties who have their own interests and agendas. This way, the government always ends up with too many spokes in the wheel, which renders it inefficient and impotent to effect any fundamental reform.

In brief, I am steadfast in my belief that the outcome of the September 4th elections will not, once again, yield desired results because our education is bastardized and plagued by failed policies and shortsighted decisions. Our political parties are weak, disorganized, lack strong roots in society and fail to get the support of thinkers, theoreticians, and influential academicians. However, the main takeaway for me is that if the ruling elite do not get off their high horse and make necessary concessions, both political parties and education will remain mired in their problems, which is not in the interests of the country as a whole.

Modern Standard Arabic or Colloquial Arabic in Classrooms Noureddine Boutahar

There is a controversy brewing right now in Morocco over

whether or not to use Darija (Moroccan everyday, colloquial language) in education rather than Modern Standard Arabic which has been used since the year dot. This controversy reached its peak last month with the famous TV debate between the businessman Noureddine Ayouch and thinker Abdellah Laroui. As an educator, father, and patriotic citizen of a country whose education rates among the world’s most deficient, I feel it incumbent upon myself to weigh in and provide my own opinion and thoughts.
In my humble opinion, Noureddine Ayouch wants to open Pandora’s Box with his proposal to use Darija in the classroom, because once it's opened, it will certainly be difficult to close again. Of the many types of Darija, I don’t know which he prefers that we use. I don’t know what he wants to do with Tamazight speakers like myself either. Nor do I know what will become of the Hassania speakers in the South. What I know so far is that once Darija becomes the language of the classroom, Modern Standard Arabic will jump to the line of foreign languages. So, why would he want to add another foreign language (Arabic) to the already existing list?
Also, because the hornets’ nest has been agitated, some people have started questioning whether Darija should be written in Arabic or in Latin characters, and whether it should be written from right to left or from left to write. Proponents of the Latin style argue that since Darija is teeming with French, Spanish, Tamazight and Latin words, which are all written from left to right, Darija should be also. So, isn't it better to let sleeping Pandora lie?
Blaming the failures of our system of education on standard Arabic is too simplistic an approach to a highly complex problem. However, I am dead scared that oversimplified approaches like this might take center stage and distract attention from the real, central problems as well as from higher priorities in Moroccan education. The side thing might become the main thing, which is a form of Gresham's Law: “bad money, drives out good.”
What's worse is that Mr.Ayouch's proposal has come out of the blue. It was put forth without the backing of any sound theoretical or empirical research. Besides, our concern stems from the fact that the proposal was made by businessmen - strangers to the world of education- with their own objectives and agendas. And as is well known, businessmen have a nose for business; they know where money is and fight tooth and nail for it. So, this is a golden opportunity for business fat cats to make money out of new textbooks, dictionaries, and other materials needed for the new language. In short, “to those that have, shall be given”
Also, when great thinkers of the stature of AbdellahLaroui and Abdelkader Fassi Fihri refuse the proposal, we should be on guard and be willing to fight back to protect ourselves from those who intentionally or unintentionally want to strip us of our identity as a people and to subdue our culture and heritage. Otherwise, how else can we explain the fact that these people want to gradually kill a standard language and replace it with street language that will end up degrading our kids thinking. As George Orwell said, "Language can also corrupt thought."
Even if we take Mr Ayouch and Co.’s proposal on faith, time is not working in our favor: How much time will Darija need to gain momentum and take off? Morocco has already wasted too much time lagging behind less economically developed countries in the field of education to spend even another minute tinkering with a language that is a mixture of lingo, slang, and jargon. We have enough problems with already established and widely accepted languages; we needn’t rub more salt in the wound.
Conversely, I agree with Abdellah Laroui that Darija may be used to explain some scientific concepts and processes –what many teachers already do. I also agree that we need to simplify the kind of Arabic used in the classrooms for beginners but not to the point of oversimplification or distortion, or to the point of speaking down to the pupils and keeping their level at rock bottom.
Bottom line: Let’s uncover the real problems in our system of education and deal with them. Let’s not take uncalculated risks and make rash missteps that may prove costly to this country in terms of money, time, and reputation. Pinning the defects of Moroccan education on Modern Standard Arabic is like blaming the victim, and may unnecessarily hold us back for decades.

Back to School Noureddine Boutahar

Students across Morocco are headed back to school for another school year. Their backpacks full of heavy and expensive books weighing them down. Their heads and hearts are full of false hopes, empty aspirations and sunken dreams generated by the sky rocketing unemployment among graduates and sporadic attempts of reform that usually end up in limbo and confusion. Their school year ahead is made up of a series of challenges, hurdles, and multi-faceted complex problems whose solutions are not on the near horizon. However, a detailed and in-depth analysis of the sad state of education in Morocco is beyond the scope of this post which will primarily be addressing the small drops that swell the river such as large class sizes, long school days, lack of basic materials and facilities, poor textbooks, arbitrary top-down decisions, and rife corruption.

Moroccan classrooms are typically too crowded for learning. Sometimes class size is greater than fifty students which is detrimental to the learning and teaching process especially in the early years of schooling when kids require so much of teacher time and need individual attention. Large classes, also, mean behavior problems for kids and management challenges for teachers who turn into mere babysitters. This certainly causes many students to lag behind and eventually drop out at a young age. A former education minister said that he’d rather see the kids in a crowded class than on the street. However, because of this failed policy thousands of them soon drop out as they cannot keep up with the other kids. Because of this boomerang policy Morocco ranks 4th worst educational reformer worldwide.

School refusal and hate is, also, very common among Moroccan students for various reasons such as having to do loads of homework, memorize stuff they will never need, wake up early every school day and so on. However, I for one see school day length (08-18) as one of the major reasons why our students look down on school. Our students spent most of their time and daylight hours at school; usually from dawn to dusk, nine months a year. It’s a different kind of jail with no bars but no freedom. I have spent some time in a few American schools where most high schools start at 7:30 a.m. and end at 2:30 p.m. I heard in Canada, whose ranking in education is among the top ten, the school day is even shorter – 5.5 hours a day. In these countries students have the afternoon for themselves, for extra-curricular activities, for homework and assignment, for projects, and for other activities and interests that would prepare them for adult life. Our students, on the contrary, routinely go to school in the morning, come back from school in the evening until they get extremely tired of school.

Another reason why our schools are not doing well has to do with the fact that education has become a lucrative business in this country. The weight of students’ backpacks is a perfect example of how enticing this sector is for profit-motivated businessmen who see education as another horizon for making quick money. Students’ backpacks are full of expensive school books and other school items which do nothing but provide fast and easy money to ‘The Merchants of Books’. It’s a sad and known fact that when business comes in the door, education and learning flies out the window. Too many books don’t make good students when the business mentality takes control of most aspects of education; they only drive those who cannot afford them to drop out and fall into a life of poverty, drug abuse, violence, crimes, and so on.

As for corruption, the situation is even worse, and it has taken quite a toll on Moroccan education. There have been some good-intentioned attempts to correct the failures of education but were usually nipped in the bud by corruption. Corruption in this very sensitive sector runs the gamut from bribery to embezzlement and cronyism to paid tutoring lessons by greedy teachers. Cases of entrepreneurs who have been found guilty of embezzling funds allocated to building or renovating schools and purchasing teaching materials is the talk of every street and home. Cronyism whereby some teachers can get desirable appointments and other services is a common currency in the field of education, as well. Also, the issue of “ghost teachers” is a prime example of corruption and officials’ impotence. These parasite irregular and illegal civil servants drain the already strained budget of education and expose the government’s impotence against the ruling elite who make the rules and the ultimate decisions. Other teachers are accomplices in the destruction of our system of education through the notorious shameful ‘private lessons’. These paid tutorings which pick the pockets of many poverty-stricken and middle-class families , are a disease which has plagued not only private and public schools but higher institutions as well and has, thus, eroded the educational system as a whole.

Also, the lack of basic educational resources and school facilities is a major constraint our schools are facing. Chalk and board are the only teaching materials that most Moroccan classrooms have. There are attempts, now, to equip schools with technology such as computers, internet connections, interactive whiteboards, and so on. However, it seems this is done in a hasty foolhardy manner and without a well-designed and proper planning. A perfect example of such imprudent rush is the little training teachers get which is not sufficient or adequate enough to incorporate technology into their classroom instruction. These so-called trainings are never supported by follow-ups or updates or hands-on tests or whatever to ensure competency, mastery, and continuity. Even the best and hardest working teachers need congenial and wiser training to spur them on to give the best they can. Some see the whole process only as a cash cow that earns them hard cash and others see it as a waste of time and money –especially the technophobe educators.

Another obstacle that impedes real educational progress in Morocco is arbitrary top-down decision making by individual school officials or a minority group of the ruling elite. Arabization, for example, undertaken and implemented by the then minister of Education, Azzeddine Laraki, in 1977 stopped at the 12th grade (baccalaureate). This has caused many science students to avoid going to Science Colleges and other higher institutes or to drop out because of deficiencies in French, the language of instruction there and also the language par excellence for the ruling elite. In addition to arbitrariness, irresolution, bureaucracy, and individual decisions are the main defining features of this sector which has suffered many similar unfinished reforms and wrong choices for decades. The protests and demonstrations of 1965, 1981, 1984, 1990 and multiple nationwide strikes act as an authentic witness to the failure of cosmetic makeovers which have been performed by successive helpless and façade governments since independence.

One more hurdle on the way to quality education in Morocco is the imposed top-down curriculum that focuses on quantity rather than quality. The amount of books students are asked to buy each year is a clear evidence of this orientation. Also, external parties’ (parents, inspectors, principals, officials, etc) insistence on the number of lessons covered rather than the way they are covered bears witness to the emphasis on quantity, teaching, and rote learning. Besides, most teachers usually struggle with the curriculum and find it difficult to finish the number of lessons and units in due time. Some teachers work overtime to finish, others wrap up the lessons quickly at the expense of learning, critical thinking, skills development, promotion of social and universal values and so forth.

The importance of quality education is well recognized. If you take care of education, it will take care of everything else including economic growth and prosperity as well as justice and equity. So, it’s high time those who rule from behind the curtains understand that low quality education is a weapon of mass destruction and a perennial security threat. They, also, have to stop dodging responsibility, pitting parents against teachers and teacher unions, and exhibiting a cavalier attitude towards the sufferings of kids of low and modest-income families. Hopefully, the coming government officials (under the new constitution) will have a broader outlook, a clearer vision, a stronger willingness, and more freedom to take educational reform seriously and expedite its process because it’s the best investment in the future of this country and a reliable guarantee of its durable social stability and economic progress. As Thomas Friedman said, "Countries that don’t invest in the future tend to not do well there."