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.”

A Tribute to my Childhood Friends Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons in Discipline and Reflection from Days Gone By Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Alarming Normalization of Cheating in Exams Noureddine Boutahar

In recent years, the normalization of cheating has reached alarming levels, infiltrating many aspects of our lives, starting with exams, and threatening the very foundations of ethics, integrity, social trust, and equal opportunities. This disturbing trend poses significant risks to the moral fabric of our society and calls for urgent attention and intervention.

Cheating, once considered a rare, shameful, and strictly reprimanded act, has become increasingly common and, disturbingly, more socially acceptable. This shift is evident in various sectors, including education, business, journalism, science, sports, and even personal relationships. The pressure to succeed, often at any cost, has driven people to resort to dishonest means, rationalizing their actions as necessary, justifiable, or inconsequential.

In the realm of education, cheating has become a pervasive issue—a bad way to a good life. Students cheat for various reasons, often involving a combination of psychological, social, and contextual factors.

First, students often succumb to the temptation of academic dishonesty due to intense competition. Researchers observe that even the most prestigious schools are plagued by cheating scandals in such competitive environments. Plagiarism, copying information, and falsifying academic records become rampant in these circumstances.

Second, high expectations from parents and teachers can drive students to cheat to meet these demands. Success, in our educational system, is measured by students' grades, making them more "performance oriented" than "learning oriented." This overemphasis on grades rather than on learning and understanding has cultivated a culture where cheating is considered a necessary evil. This underscores the need for educational reforms alongside efforts to address cheating.

Third, the pressure to succeed is the driving force behind cheating. The fear of failure and the anxiety of receiving low grades can push students to resort to cheating to avoid the negative consequences and stigma associated with academic failure. This is evidenced by the pervasive incidents of assaults on proctors and student suicides, especially in baccalaureate national exams.

Fourth, a lack of preparation or poor study habits can open the door to cheating. Students who procrastinate or have inadequate study techniques may find themselves unprepared for high-stakes exams and turn to cheating as a last-minute solution.

Fifth, insufficient surveillance or lenient exam proctors can tempt students to cheat, even if they did not initially intend to do so. We have all heard students praise lenient invigilators and criticize those who strictly enforce the rules. Even more troubling is that some parents and guardians have become accomplices in this behavior.

Sixth, easy access to resources, especially technology and information online, has made cheating easier. Unfortunately, technology has dual negative impacts: it distracts many students from exam preparation and provides easy access to cheating during exams. Cell phones and AI tools are now more reliable and accessible for cheating than traditional methods like copying off of classmates.

Seventh, a lack of strong ethical principles leads some students to rationalize cheating by downplaying its seriousness or believing that everyone else is doing it. Sadly, many students who cheat still see themselves as principled, justifying their actions for reasons they consider legitimate.

Eighth, cheating is deeply ingrained in our culture. Students observe that dishonesty is often rewarded in politics and business, shaping their perceptions of cheating based on what they see from role models and society as a whole. When students witness individuals advancing through cheating, they may feel inclined to cheat themselves, regardless of the consequences.

Ninth, a toxic educational environment may increase the students’ proclivity to cheating. If students perceive their teachers or educational institutions as unfair, overly punitive, or leniently punitive, they might cheat as a form of resistance or because the environment makes cheating favorable.

Tenth, peer influence plays a significant role in cheating. As the proverb goes, "Birds of a feather flock together": friends or classmates who cheat can encourage others to do the same, thereby fostering a normalized culture of dishonesty. The situation has reached a critical point where some students openly boast about their ability to cheat and get away with it.

One of the most concerning consequences of the normalization of cheating is its impact on equal opportunities. Cheating creates an uneven playing field where those who engage in dishonest behavior gain an unfair advantage over those who do not. This undermines the principle of meritocracy and perpetuates inequality. When success is achieved through deceit rather than ability and effort, it demoralizes students who strive to succeed honestly and perpetuates a cycle of unfairness.

To combat this issue, it is crucial to promote a culture of integrity and ethical behavior, requiring coordinated efforts from individuals, institutions, and society at large. Also, educational reforms are essential to align assignments with students' interests and needs, reducing the temptation to cheat due to perceived task irrelevance. Furthermore, stringent enforcement of laws and policies is vital to prevent the normalization of cheating from becoming entrenched as a permanent norm. Finally, outdated exam formats should be updated to align with modern learning methods and students learning  interests and styles and to mitigate contemporary forms of cheating.

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.

 

 

From Fields to Classrooms: Lessons in Hard Work and Perseverance Noureddine Boutahar

 I owe a tremendous debt to my parents for providing me with the early foundation of discipline and mindset crucial for success in life. Their guidance instilled in me the enduring values of fortitude, perseverance, hard work, and consistency. While my peers spent their summer holidays at sea or traveling the world, mine were dedicated to toiling alongside my father and uncle in the fields. Instead of modern distractions, my days were immersed in the timeless rhythms of hard labor from sunup to sundown, interspersed with the occasional simple pleasures of traditional games under the stars.

Summer in the countryside was synonymous with the arduous yet fulfilling tasks of harvesting, threshing, winnowing, and storing crops, particularly the golden grains of wheat and barley. Each morning started with delivering breakfast to the harvesters we hired at the local market (Souk) — fragrant mint tea brewed in a large kettle, accompanied by freshly baked bread and creamy butter churned from the milk of our own cows. Later, lunch was transported on muleback, featuring steaming couscous and the refreshing buttermilk, known as Ahlab in our Amazigh tongue. Served in a sturdy large juniper dish, Ahlab was shared amongst the harvesters with wooden spoons. Occasionally, an unexpected grasshopper would leap into the couscous, prompting someone to playfully but mischievously retrieve and consume it, eliciting laughter from some and disgust from others.

Yet, it was the threshing season that held the fondest memories in my heart. The threshing floor, where we worked, was a flat, outdoor surface—usually circular and coated with cow dung. Once the coating dried, we would arrange the stalks of grain on it and employ up to six animals, such as mules, mares, or horses, to tread in circles, separating the ears of grain from the stalks and loosening the grain from the husks. Typically, it was the younger ones, myself included, who were tasked with guiding these equines. This conductor would usually sing soothing occupational traditional songs while walking behind the animals. These work songs served various purposes, such as maintaining morale and keeping both the animals and ourselves engaged.

Following the threshing process, winnowing began. Broken stalks and grain were gathered and tossed into the air using pitchforks. The wind carried away the lighter chaff, while the shorter straw fell a bit farther away, and the heavier grain settled nearby. The grain could then undergo further cleaning by passing through a sieve.

Days were long and scorching, starting early and sometimes lasting late into the night. Yet amidst the toil, I cherished the rituals and etiquette. No one dared enter the threshing floor with shoes on or unwashed. Even visitors removed their footwear before stepping inside, a testament to the respect we held for our labor and the land.

Among the regular visitors were the peddlers who arrived to barter their goods for handfuls of wheat or barley. Watermelon, prickly pear, and exotic fruits not native to our region were a tantalizing sight. My mouth watered at the sight, though I frowned upon the deceptive beggars who roamed in groups, hailing from distant lands. Still, my father never turned them away empty-handed.

The blisteringly hot days seemed endless, prompting us to drink copious amounts of water from a clay pot wrapped in a damp cloth to keep it and the water inside cool, which we kept in the shade of a large nearby tree. In contrast to the usual breakfast of harcha, butter, and mint tea, my mother's lunch offerings changed daily and ran the gamut from Couscous, Tagine, Bissara, curdled milk, Moroccan Rfissa, and more.

Sometimes we worked late into the night, especially on days when the still air offered no help in winnowing the grains from the chaff and stalks. We filled sacks of grain and transported them by mule from the threshing floor to our granary. Then, we would head to the well for a refreshing cold shower, rinsing off the grain dust and sweat from a long, sweltering summer day.

At the start of the school year, I often noticed how my city classmates had smooth, callus-free hands. In contrast, mine were rough with hard calluses from heavy manual labor, along with scars and bruises. However, I was never ashamed of my workman's hands, which were a badge of my farmer's origin. Also I had been taught that people with calloused hands do not have calloused hearts.

Today, as an educator, I often share these stories with my students, admonishing them to treat school with the utmost respect, like a sacred threshing floor. I tell them that school is not merely a place you attend; within these classroom walls, generations hone essential skills such as literacy, numeracy, and critical thinking, paving the way for employment opportunities that sustain their livelihoods. I also remind them of the Roman philosopher Seneca, who wisely remarked, "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity." That is to say, achievements are not handed out freely; they demand dedication and hard work.

 

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.