A Four-Year Emotional Turmoil Noureddine Boutahar

Completing university and graduating from Teacher Training School marked the close of one chapter and the start of another. It was the end of an era of studies and the beginning of a professional career. With my teaching degree in hand, I knew exactly what I wanted: to earn enough to live, to travel, and enjoy life. I looked forward to the relief from exam stress, the thrill of living alone, and the satisfaction of earning my own paycheck. However, it was disappointing to step into quicksand just when I was looking forward to enjoying both my professional and personal life.
I counted the days until my appointment after graduation, confident that, as one of the top graduates, I would be posted to the city I requested: Khemisset. However, mid-September  1986, brought bitter disappointment and boiling anger. Instead of Khemisset, I was assigned to Rommani, a small agricultural town 40 miles from Rabat, technically part of Khemisset province. The prospect of working in such a remote place, after having grown accustomed to the bustle of Rabat, was both dispiriting and disheartening. 
An hour's drive from Rabat in my brother’s car brought me to a town isolated by uneven terrain, dotted with sparse, dusty neighborhoods. The houses had long lost their original color to dust and neglect. A few poor coffee shops and a handful of small shops stocked only with life's bare essentials completed the bleak picture. I found myself cursing fate and fortune, for it was neither choice nor will, but chance that had led me to this forsaken corner of the country. 
The school I was to teach at stood alone, surrounded by rugged hills and set on a dry riverbed that would flood during the rainy season. Aside from the red tiles on its roof and the sprawling park in front, the building had no distinguishing features. It was plain, nondescript, and wholly unremarkable. The large park of the school felt almost ceremonial, serving no real purpose—none of the teachers at the time owned a car. I once joked with a French teacher and friend, saying perhaps the intention was for us to park our shoes there instead.
Finding a place to live proved to be the first challenge. Housing options were limited—most homes consisted of little more than a few rooms with a toilet and a couple of water taps. No real kitchens, no bathtubs, and few electrical outlets. Rent was so high that sharing a house was the only viable option, but at the beginning of the school year, I hadn’t yet found anyone to share with. So, I rented a house on the outskirts of town and lived alone for the first two months. Eventually, I found two fellow teachers willing to split the cost of a house in the town center. Together, we shared rent, food expenses, and the inevitable frustrations of life in Rommani. 
One of those frustrations was water. We had access to running water for only two hours every other day. During those brief windows, we filled plastic bottles and buckets and would discard out most of the old water when the new supply came—a poor habit, but we had no choice. Sometimes we left the taps open overnight, hoping to wake up with filled buckets, but too often we found water pooling under our beds. Looking back, I deeply regret that careless, wasteful, and unsustainable behavior we were compelled to adopt after being dealt a bad hand. 
Another challenge was the lack of essential goods. Basic items like bananas had to be pre-ordered and paid for in advance with the grocer. We teachers even pleaded with a shopkeeper who also sold papers to set some aside for us, sometimes paying double the price. Trips to larger cities to stock up on supplies were frequent, but with no refrigerator—and barely enough salary to afford one—much of what we bought ended up wasted.
Transportation was another obstacle. Despite Rommani being only 40 miles from Rabat and 50 miles from Khemisset, getting there could be a nightmare. We often had to wait hours to catch a ride to Rabat or anywhere else, especially in the afternoons. At times, we offered taxi drivers a premium fare to reach our destination. On other occasions, we sought out gypsy cabs—unlicensed operators who, like sardines in a can, crammed more passengers into their vehicles than they were meant to hold. 
Also, Rommani lacked any form of entertainment or amenities, so I traveled to Rabat twice a week—on weekends and Wednesday afternoons—returning Thursday mornings. The routine was exhausting, time-consuming, and financially burdensome, and after nearly two months, I had to cut it down to just once a week, limiting my trips to the weekends.  I endured the monotony of small-town life, grappling with the profound emptiness and boredom of having nothing to do and nowhere to go. 
At school, I was assigned to teach four 12th-grade classes. The students were my peers, and some were even my age. Teaching without textbooks, I relied on a vague syllabus and some notes. This required an immense amount of effort to find suitable teaching materials—exercises, texts, games, tests—especially in a pre-internet, pre-cell phone era when English resources were scarce. I often visited the American bookstore and British Council in Rabat, scouring for material, which I would photocopy or even copy by hand at times, as it was difficult to take some books outside the library for photocopying. 
I taught English solely in English, without any Arabic translation. This approach was unfamiliar to my students who complained at first, but over time, they accepted and even appreciated it. As a novice teacher, I exhausted myself, talking too much, over-explaining, and striving for an unattainable perfection. The stress led to burnout, depression, and near obsessive-compulsive behavior. I eventually visited a doctor, who gave me a week off—the first of only two medical leaves I took during my 38 years in teaching. 
To make matters worse, the hardships I endured in Rommani—the constant stress, the unhealthy diet I was forced into, the water my stomach couldn’t tolerate—culminated in a painful stomach ulcer. It took nearly a year to recover, through strict dieting, rigorous treatment, and the soothing remedies of my grandmother’s herbal cures. 
I spent four monotonous years in Rommani, and things steadily worsened. My passion for reading waned, my enthusiasm for teaching faded, and I felt increasingly trapped. Unable to balance my personal desires with my professional obligations, I confided in my father and brother that if I couldn’t transfer to a larger city, I would resign. My father, ever supportive, spoke to a family friend who had considerable influence in Khemisset, and soon enough, I was transferred to Abdellah Guennoun school in Khemisset, where I would spend the remaining 34 years of my career. 
It has been 34 years since I left the Zaari town, and most of the memories I carry from that time are far from pleasant, save for the friendships I forged with fellow teachers, students, and a few locals. My experience has given me deep sympathy for teachers assigned to even more remote and isolated corners of the country, facing challenges far greater than my own, which makes my problems pale in comparison to theirs. Perhaps those hard four years were the rough sea that made me a skilled sailor. As Steve Jobs said, 'Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith.'

A New Kid in Rabat Noureddine Boutahar

I moved to Rabat in September 1979, hoping to resolve the residency issues that had plagued me in Meknes. However, I quickly realized I had only exchanged one set of problems for another -- Out of the frying pan into the fire. My early days in Rabat were fraught with emotional, social, and financial hardships that persisted, albeit diminished, over time.

My early days in Rabat were marked by a profound sense of isolation, stress, and anxiety. The entire life I had painstakingly built in the Ismaili City— the memories I had cherished, the friendships I had nurtured, and the adjustments I had made transitioning from rural to urban living— soon fell apart. Suddenly, I was starting over from scratch. Without friends, unfamiliar with Rabat's layout, and unaccustomed to the fast-paced rhythm of a metropolis, I felt lost and adrift. The city's towering buildings and bustling streets were intimidating, and the cold, hurried glances of strangers chipped away at my confidence, deepening my sense of isolation. It took me a long time to find my footing.

My new school, Yacoub Elmansour, one of the most illustrious establishments in the very heart of the city, attracted children from middle-class Rbati families who were strangers to rural life, let alone to country kids like myself. I often found myself a solitary island at the back of the classroom, feeling isolated and avoided like The Ugly Duckling. For weeks, some kids observed me with the wary eyes of explorers encountering an uncharted land. Others seemed like timid deer, unsure of how to approach that new kid in town. I was not sure how to approach them like a hesitant traveler at a crossroads, unsure of whether to befriend or avoid them.

However, my diligence and active participation in classes, particularly in English and French, eventually became a beacon, drawing the attention of some classmates. A few, notably Ahmed and Khalil, began to approach me. As the baccalaureate exam loomed closer on the horizon, they invited me into their study circle. We occasionally met at Jardin d’Essai Park, and I assisted them with English and French, especially in summarizing French texts—a daunting challenge that many students dreaded and often failed, yet one at which I consistently excelled. In return, they supported me in Arabic grammar, which was my biggest pet peeve.

Initially, I made pilgrimages to Meknes almost every other weekend to visit friends and family. However, this routine strained my finances and wasted precious time needed to prepare for the demanding baccalaureate exams. Eventually, I stopped these journeys and tried to cope with my solitude. This isolation, however, became fertile ground for my reading habits. I started borrowing books from the library and the few acquaintances I had, spending my free time in parks, by the seaside, and in green spaces, devouring pages with a hunger for every word.

I had a friend from Meknes who had moved to Salé, and on weekends, I would walk from Rabat to Salé, across the Bouregreg River, to visit him. However, Thami lacked the aptitude for academics and had little inclination for studies and reading. Consequently, I began to withdraw, limiting our interactions to the bare minimum. When he failed to obtain his baccalaureate, he decided to emigrate to France, which deepened my loneliness like a shadow at dusk.

To escape the hardships of life in Rabat, I joined the Académie Royale Militaire (ARM) of Meknes after earning my baccalaureate and passing the entrance exam. However, I soon realized that military life was not for me and quit after almost a month, returning to Rabat and enrolled in the English department at Mohamed V University.

After leaving the ARM, I found myself in a tough spot: the university enrollment deadline had already passed. Desperate to find a way in, I went from office to office, knocking on doors, trying to find someone who could help me. For more than a month, I was consumed by anxiety, sadness, and disappointment, fearing I would lose an entire year and struggle even more without a scholarship, especially given the daily expenses of student life in the costly city of Rabat. I filed a complaint with the student unions and even sought assistance from a government minister. My persistence paid off when one day, Mr. Bakkari, a student union official and later a parliamentarian, asked me to hand over my enrollment documents. I breathed a sigh of relief.

University life was a vibrant mosaic, a stark contrast to high school, with its diversity making it fantastic. Students came from various villages and towns around Rabat, and I felt that we were all sailors navigating the same uncharted waters, sharing the anxiety of starting a new chapter in life.

I quickly forged strong bonds with new friends, with whom I co-prepared for exams and quizzes. Most of our work was collaborative, carried out beyond the confines of lectures and seminars. We learned to strike a balance between our studies and other activities, like sports and trips to the beach. However, despite my modest scholarship and occasional financial help from my brother, I struggled to cover the expenses of a young student in a bustling metropolis. The city demanded more than I could afford, with costs for books, clothing, travel, excursions, and the occasional lunch with friends. Among my Rbati friends, most of whom came from well-off families, I was the least financially secure.

University's faculty of the English department was a melting pot of nationalities, with teachers from Morocco, Britain, America, Iraq, and more. Each had their unique teaching style, but they all fostered positive relationships with students, respected diverse talents and learning methods, encouraged active learning, and emphasized the importance of time management. I particularly admired and learned a lot from Mr. Ezzroura, Mr. Jamari, Mrs Boutaleb, Mr Sanders, Mr Iraqi, Mr Gravel and others.

University taught me more than just academic lessons. I gained valuable life skills, practical experience, and interpersonal relationships that contributed to my personal development. I also became more aware of the political atmosphere in the country, with students affiliating with various political ideologies, from leftists to right-wing Istiqlal party members, and emerging Islamists.

Frequent strikes over issues such as delayed scholarships, poor campus food, and political decisions led to the creation of the university police, mockingly dubbed AWACS by students. This sardonic nickname referenced the American surveillance aircraft renowned for its all-seeing, all-weather capabilities. These planes were the talk of the town in early October 1980 when Washington dispatched four AWACS to Saudi Arabia in response to Iraq's invasion of Iran, followed by the Reagan administration's controversial proposal in April 1981 to sell five AWACS to the Saudis—a deal that narrowly escaped Congressional rejection the following October.

Among the events that rekindled university strikes were two significant hunger strikes in the 1980s. The first, known as the Casablanca Bread Riots or 'The Bread Martyrs'—a term coined by Driss Basri, one of the most powerful Ministers of the Interior—erupted on May 29, 1981, in Casablanca. This uprising was fueled by sharp increases in food prices. The economic strain from the ongoing Moroccan Sahara War and the severe drought of 1981 led to soaring costs, prompting a widespread general strike. Thousands from the shantytowns surrounding Casablanca took to the streets, targeting symbols of wealth in their outrage. The government's response was brutal, with official reports citing 66 deaths, while opposition figures claimed the toll was as high as 637. The second uprising occurred in 1984, echoing the unrest of the earlier revolt and further highlighting the ongoing discontent and hardship faced by the populace.

It is worth mentioning that the early 1980s ushered in a transformative period for Morocco, marking a division into two distinct eras. Before 1981, Morocco thrived with prosperity, abundant goodness, and lavish rainfall. After 1981, however, the country faced a stark contrast: soaring prices, widespread unemployment, burdensome inflation, and numerous other challenges, all exacerbated by the severe drought of that year and the Sahara conflict. The vibrancy of Morocco in the 1970s filled me with hope and inspired me to stay, complete my education, and pursue a teaching career in Morocco. Despite the allure of relocating to France or the United States, which attracted many of my peers, I chose to remain in Morocco, drawn by its dynamic spirit and opportunities.

During my university years, reading every day became my go-to activity, providing solace and an escape from the challenges of daily life. I read voraciously, both for university and personal interest. For pleasure, I devoured magazines from the UAE, Egypt, and especially Iraq, where publications were abundant and very affordable. Occasionally, I splurged on expensive English papers and magazines like The International Herald Tribune and The Sun. My French reading included both Moroccan and French publications. The radio also played a crucial role in honing my linguistic skills, with the BBC English being my favorite channel, followed by France Inter and the French-speaking Moroccan RTM. These experiences ignited my passion for writing, leading me to contribute to various newspapers and magazines in Arabic and French.

Despite the strikes and disruptions in university life, and despite my financial constraints, my unwavering dedication to reading and hard work paid off. By studying diligently with friends in libraries, parks, and coffee shops, I excelled academically, never failing a test, and graduated with distinction. I maintained this level of excellence at the teacher training school, where I also graduated with distinction. This achievement led to the honor of being received by the late King Hassan II among the laureates of 1986.

I believe that people mature through a combination of small traumas, hard work, and the diverse experiences they encounter. Childhood traumas, in particular, can accelerate this process, compelling individuals to develop a maturity beyond their years. This journey often involves self-reliance, trial and error, suffering, and finding one's own solutions. This resonates deeply with my own life. On my path to achieving success, I relied heavily on myself. My hard work and the lessons learned from my sufferings have significantly increased my wisdom, compassion, and resilience. I have always depended on and trusted myself. My parents were often unaware of my academic progress, only inquiring at the end of each school year whether I had passed and how close I was to finding a job.

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.