A Tribute to the Greatest Father Noureddine Boutahar

My father was a self-made man who lived a life of simplicity, contentment, and quiet dignity, passing away with the same peaceful grace that defined his days. He was less concerned with accumulating wealth than with shaping us—his children—into resilient, capable men and women. Born in Boukashmir, Oulmes, and raised in Boukashmir and Tizitine, he was respected and loved in both places for his honesty, integrity, and exemplary character.

The image of my father that lingers from the late 1960s is that of a strikingly handsome young man who took great care of his appearance. He always wore the best clothes he owned, styled in a classic way, especially for parties, and during his city visits. I remember how he would carry a fragrant small bar of soap in one of his flap pockets, and a white double-tooth comb, which he had brought back from France, in his breast pocket. My mischievous childhood led me to sometimes "borrow" the comb to fix my hair before putting it back. On special occasions, he would wear perfume—a rare habit among countrymen at the time—which he kept carefully stored in a wooden box alongside other treasured possessions.  

Physically, my father was a somewhat tall, athletic man with a medium build. He had straight, short-cropped blond hair, though it often appeared darker, as he always wore hats and bonnets to protect it from the elements. His forehead was prominent, his eyebrows well-defined and neatly groomed, with a strong jawline. His eyes radiated confidence, his nose was straight and proportional to his face, and his mouth held a neutral expression, complementing the overall dignified look of his portrait.

My father was widely respected for his honesty. I witnessed his deep honesty and piety firsthand when we worked together in the fields. He never allowed Zakat—the portion of wealth Muslims give to charity—to be stored in our granary. Instead, he set aside a special spot for the grain and olive oil meant for the poor. His integrity also earned him the trust of Benaissa Boubia, a wealthy farmer in Tizitine. When our family moved there in the mid-1940s, my father managed Benaissa Boubia’s tenant farming accounts for sometime. Benaissa Boubia provided land and livestock to less fortunate families, who worked the land in exchange for a share of the produce, and my father oversaw the arrangement with diligence.

In the mid-1960s, my father was reluctantly sent to France to work on farms. Though the contract was for just three months, the French farmer, impressed by his honesty and tireless work ethic, offered to extend it. My father declined, replying, 'When I left for France, I left behind a mother, a wife, and a sister-in-law milking 18 cows, and most of the milk is going to the dogs.'

My father's honesty was deeply rooted in his piety. He later told me he was among the first in our region to consistently observe his religious duties, such as praying on time, at a time when many of the local Amazigh were less familiar with these practices. He recounted a story from a wedding celebration when, as Dhuhr approached, he went to a nearby orchard to perform ablutions at a well and pray under the trees. A few women noticed him, puzzled, and soon gathered others to watch and giggle as they tried to figure out what the 'little boy' was doing.

As a father, he was progressive in his parenting style. At a time when physical punishment was the norm, my father never laid a hand on us. This leniency was criticized by my mother and grandfather, but he believed in a gentler approach to raising us, much like my grandmother. During family gatherings, he imparted timeless universal values of honesty, respect, modesty, altruism, and hard work upon us. 

Though born into an illiterate family, my father taught himself to read and write. After Morocco's independence, there was a national literacy campaign, and he was one of the few who took it seriously, learning both Arabic and French. He was also one of the first to own a radio, which he loved listening to, especially for news and Amazigh music and poetry known as Imalyazen. The radio’s influence on him was so strong that we were among the rare families to have pictures of Mohammed V and Gamal Abdel Nasser on the walls of our home.

One of my father's endearing qualities was his ability to listen attentively and speak eloquently. When you spoke to him, he listened with genuine interest, and when he spoke, he captured the full attention of his audience. He enjoyed recounting stories and events in vivid detail, but he did so in a way that never bored his listeners. In his later years, during my fortnightly visits, we would sit together as he shared tales from his past, rich with subtle details. Unfortunately, some ill-intentioned people would exploit this in social gatherings, asking him to recount stories or events while they devoured the shared food.

My father was also known for his pithy remarks, which revealed much about his character—his sharp wit, intelligence, directness, and unwavering confidence. One particular incident from an electoral campaign comes to mind. A candidate had come to seek his support, delivering a speech filled with vague promises and empty words. Unimpressed, my father waited for him to finish, then dryly responded, 'You know, I could probably finish my Asr prayers and go earn your university degree.' His retort, both cutting and clever, perfectly captured his no-nonsense approach to life.

Another quality that distinguished my father was his boundless generosity. A passionate hunter, he was among the rare few in those days to own a prized 16-gauge shotgun—a symbol of status and skill. I vividly recall the day he sold one of our finest cows just to acquire that coveted weapon, an act that spoke of his deep love for the hunt.  As hunting necessitates the finest canine companions, my father always kept the very best. He often kept some of the most renowned hunting Sloughi greyhounds and German shorthaired pointers. Once, a delegation of dignified horsemen from the illustrious Imahzan tribe, came all the way from Khenifra and asked to barter one of my father’s famous Sloughi greyhounds, renowned across the region for its agility and prowess. They came bearing a substantial offer—an entire herd of sheep and goats in exchange for the prized dog. After being treated to a lavish meal of Mechoui, Couscous, and mint green tea, my father did what only he could. In a grand gesture of his legendary generosity, he refused their offer. Instead, he gifted them the Sloughi outright. That moment, like many others, etched itself into my mind as a testament to his noble spirit—one who gave not for gain, but for the sheer joy of giving.

Unfortunately, two factors contributed to my father’s declining health. The first was the tragic death of my younger brother, Abdelmajid, his  son and closest companion, in a devastating car accident. The second was his growing sense of isolation. As rheumatoid arthritis in his knee took its toll, he ventured out less frequently, which was particularly difficult for a man who had always been so social and outgoing. A fate that weighed heavily on his spirit. It was only on special occasions, when we brought him to family gatherings, that he had the opportunity to reconnect. However, in his final days, he declined most invitations, attending only the funerals of close family members, including the insistence on being present for the funeral of his granddaughter, Bouchra Boubia. He passed away just a few months later, on December 5, 2023.

Rest in peace, dear father. Your passing has left us heartbroken, and there isn’t a dry eye among those whose lives you touched and whose hearts you warmed. You will always be remembered as a wonderful father and an exceptional role model. You lived life on your own terms, fully and honorably, loving your family as deeply as you loved your country and the values you upheld. Your legacy will continue to inspire me and my children every day, and I am eternally grateful for the lessons you shared and the boundless love you gave. I pray you are now in a place free from the pain of your rheumatism. Amen.

A Childhood Lesson in Courage and Fear Noureddine Boutahar

My family lived a semi-nomadic life. During the winter months, my parents and uncle would pack up their tents and move higher into the mountains and forests in search of better grazing lands for our cows, sheep, and goats. I, however, stayed behind with my grandparents in the house on the plateau. I was deeply attached to them, and being close to the school I attended kept me there.

I would visit my biological parents occasionally, either with my grandmother or grandfather. I clearly remember one such visit during my fourth-grade spring holiday. My grandmother and I made the trip to see them. That day, we enjoyed a hearty lunch—my mother had prepared Moroccan Rfissa with one of her finest roosters, followed by sweet mint tea. After a long, pleasant conversation between my mother and grandmother, the sun began to set behind the hills. My grandmother decided it was time to head back. As she prepared to leave, I asked to stay for a couple of days. She rarely denied me anything, so, after a moment of hesitation, she mounted her mule and rode away, leaving me behind.

The following day, boredom set in. I missed my grandmother's warmth, her cooking, and her ever-present comfort. I yearned for my world where I used to roam and immerse in carefree play and unbridled joy. I soon asked to be taken home—home to me meant my grandparents' house. But everyone was busy with livestock, chores, and other tasks, so I decided to make the journey alone, on foot.

That afternoon, as the shadows of the hills began to stretch across the mountains, I set off on the ten-mile trek. My mother trailed behind me, warning of the dangers of traveling so late, but I paid her no mind. I quickened my pace, determined to prove I could make the journey on my own.

Halfway through, as darkness fell, regret crept in. The trees and bushes around me transformed into ominous shapes—wolves, stray dogs, witches, jinn. Every shadow seemed alive. I stopped often, listening for any sign of danger, straining to convince myself that what I saw were just inanimate objects. But fear gripped me tighter as I continued. One shadow—a bush or rock, I never knew which—convinced my imagination it was a wolf lurking nearby. On either side of the road were fields of tall wheat, ripe and thick. Desperate, I decided to veer into the field on my left, hoping to lose the imagined beast in the dense crop.

The wheat stalks brushed against my shoulders, and though I was tall for my age, the field seemed to swallow me whole. Worse yet, it had recently rained, and the ground was still wet. I ran through the field, my clothes getting drenched, my legs heavy with fatigue. After a while, I stopped, exhausted and scared. I listened carefully for any sound—a wolf’s footsteps, a growl, anything. But there was nothing except the eerie silence of the night. Only then did I realize I was lost, surrounded by endless wheat, with no sense of direction. Tears welled up in my eyes, and soon I was sobbing uncontrollably.

In my despair, I forced myself to think of a solution. It occurred to me that if I could reach the top of a nearby hill, I might see the lights of a house and find my way. I climbed, my heart heavy with fear, and from the summit, I saw a faint light in the distance, nearly three miles away. It gave me hope, and I headed toward it, walking, running, and stopping occasionally to catch my breath. My tears flowed silently as dark thoughts filled my mind.

As I neared the house, dogs began barking furiously. But their barking was familiar. These were our dogs—two Aidis, a retriever, a beagle, and two greyhounds. They would have attacked any stranger, but I called their names quickly and fearfully before it was too late —Swiss, Jdia, Hallouf, Boby, Bully, Ghannam. Their barks turned into friendly whimpers as they recognized me, wagging their tails and jumping up to greet me.

Our field worker came out of his hut, alerted by the dogs. He shined his torch on me, trying to make sense of who I was. His surprise was clear. He murmured something under his breath, clearly in sympathy, as he guided me into the house. When I finally stepped into the house, my grandmother’s reaction was one of shock and concern. I was soaked, trembling, and utterly exhausted. She embraced me, soothing my tears, but my sobs only grew stronger in her arms.

While she changed my clothes, she scolded me for embarking on such a dangerous journey alone and was equally upset that my mother had allowed it. My grandfather, the tough yet emotional man, joined in, his voice filled with the "what-ifs" that could have turned the situation worse. My grandmother sat me by the furnace to warm up while she prepared a meal. Soon, there was a teapot on the table, alongside fresh homemade bread, pure honey, olive oil, and butter from our cows. As I ate, she asked me endless questions about the ordeal.

Though that night was one of the worst experiences of my childhood, it became a lesson I carried with me. As Nietzsche said, "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger." The challenges I faced in life, no matter how daunting, helped shape the person I became.

 

My Origines Noureddine Boutahar

I was born in the early 1960s, in the tranquil Moroccan countryside of Tizitine, tucked within the Khemisset region. Though Tizitine was my birthplace, my family’s origins lie in Boukashmire, near Oulmes. In the mid-1940s, they were forced to leave Boukashmire at the request of local dignitaries. The reason for their departure was a family tragedy: my father was preparing to avenge his cousin, who had been killed by a young man after being discovered in a relationship with the man’s wife. To prevent the situation from escalating into further violence, the elders stepped in, urging my grandfather to relocate his family—his wife, two sons, and two daughters—until tempers cooled.

Seeking refuge, my grandfather found safety and a warm reception in Tizitine, more than twenty miles away, where the Boubia family took them in. What began as an act of protection grew into a lasting bond, as the two families became not only friends but eventually in-laws, intertwined by both circumstance and kinship, and the rest was history.

It was here, in Tizitine, that I was born, in a peaceful landscape, where boundless fields offered limitless freedom, and the pure joy of untouched nature filled every moment. It was here that I grew up in a vibrant agricultural family—a clan of about twenty—where each member played a role, like instruments in a grand familial orchestra. Our ensemble included my parents, grandparents, my uncle and his wife, my cousins, an aunt, a shepherd, a fieldworker, and even an abandoned child who found warmth and solace in our home. But it wasn’t just my family who shaped me—an entire proverbial village, in the truest sense, helped mold my character, values, and understanding of the world.

Our childhood home was a whirlwind of activity, filled with the joyful noise and play of siblings and cousins all under one roof. Though our days were filled with responsibilities, they were interwoven with moments of pure delight. As shepherds, we tended to sheep, goats, and cows—the lifeblood of rural existence. Skilled equestrians, we rode horses, mules, or donkeys bareback, often bridleless—sometimes to tame them, other times to lead them to the water, but more often for the sheer thrill of it. Yet, we were not all work and no play; like birds finding pockets of time to soar, we reveled in cherished traditional games—hide and seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and impromptu wrestling matches. These games not only nurtured our bodies but subtly schooled us in life’s lessons: discipline, perseverance, teamwork, and respect for others and all their differences.

Ours was a family that wandered with the seasons, semi-nomadic in nature. My parents and uncle would often pack up our tents, moving where the pastures were lush, especially in winter when the forests and mountains offered better grazing for our livestock. But I, tied to my grandparents and later to the school nearby, stayed behind in the family’s main house on the plateau, under the watchful eyes of my grandmother and grandfather. It was there, in their loving care, that I received not only an education but an inheritance of tradition and wisdom. They poured into me the values of our ancestors, and, more than anything, their life stories and lessons shaped my understanding of the world.

Living with my grandparents meant early exposure to the voices of the old and the wise—villagers who visited our home and whose perspectives filled my young mind. From them, I learned the subtle dance between right and wrong, the importance of empathy, emotional intelligence, and the art of respectful communication. In the quiet hours spent listening, I was handed a treasure trove of insights: how to shoulder responsibility, how to be accountable, how to respect diversity and navigate the intricate web of social relations.

My grandmother, with her boundless compassion, loved every child as if they were her own, and every woman as if she were family. This kindness radiated outward, making her a beloved figure throughout the countryside, earning her the love and respect of all, who affectionately called her Chia, a tender diminutive of her true name, Chrifa. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, embodied a zest for life. He lived with a carefree spirit, often unbothered by the material struggles that might come with tomorrow. I still remember him telling our neighbor, Said Boubia, “Come by from time to time so Chrifa (my grandmother) can roast one of her chickens for us.” He thrived on companionship and abhorred dining alone, always inviting others to share a meal.

The countryside granted me countless blessings, especially in terms of lifestyle and helped me gain a toehold in simplicity, a profound connection to nature, and personal growth. Enveloped in the embrace of trees, animals, and pure air, my soul found peace, and my heart, harmony. The strong community bonds, where neighbors were more like extended family, wove a social fabric that urban life often lacks. In this setting, our family grew even closer, working together in the fields, gathering for community events, or simply enjoying the outdoor beauty that surrounded us.

Moreover, rural life endowed me with invaluable practical skills—gardening, animal care, even riding horses—skills that nurtured my independence and sharpened my problem-solving abilities. The unhurried pace of life, coupled with the vastness of the landscape, naturally sparked creativity and imagination in us children. In a world largely free from the technological distractions of the time, though few existed, I was drawn to hands-on, inventive play, further enriching my childhood journey.

No words capture the essence of the time quite like those of Charles Dickens, who famously wrote: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

His words resonate deeply with the contradictions of that era—an era of profound progress and equal confusion, where hope and despair danced hand in hand, shaping the collective consciousness of those decades. Yet, as children, we remained blissfully aware only of its brighter, more hopeful side.

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 hit the rough patch 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.”