Morocco Is the Root Noureddine Boutahar

Moroccan identity runs deep—weathered, resilient, and not easily worn down. It rises from the stubborn contours of this land and the singular

temperament shaped by its mountains, deserts, and seas. Moroccans are not an offshoot of somewhere else, nor a cultural satellite orbiting East or West. Just as Japan belongs to its islands, China to its civilizational core, and the Arabs of the Peninsula to their own cradle, Morocco belongs first and foremost to itself. Its geography has forged a temperament that does not bend easily and does not trail behind others.

If someone feels a sentimental pull toward a homeland beyond our borders, that is their private affair. What they cannot do is project that longing onto an entire nation or dress ideological fantasies up as historical destiny.

One persistent myth—often driven by politics rather than scholarship—is the claim that Morocco must be “Arabized” to be authentically Muslim. That argument collapses under the slightest scrutiny. Islam is a universal faith, not an ethnic label. Iranians are Muslim but not Arab. Indonesians are Muslim but not Arab. Moroccans are proudly Muslim, but their faith does not erase their Amazigh roots, nor does it require them to trade their history for someone else’s. To portray Moroccans as latecomers or subordinates in their own land is less an argument than a bid to dilute a sovereignty that predates recorded memory.

The defense of Moroccan identity is not romantic rhetoric; it rests on hard evidence. Long before chronicles were penned, archaeology had already spoken. The discoveries at Jebel Irhoud revealed that some of the earliest Homo sapiens—over 300,000 years ago—walked this soil. Morocco is not a branch grafted onto a distant trunk; it is one of the oldest roots of humanity itself.

Even Ibn Khaldun, so often selectively quoted, dismissed the fanciful claims linking the Amazigh to Yemen or Himyar. He was unequivocal: such tales belonged to legend, not history.

Attempts to assign Moroccans an “external lineage” have come from opposite directions. Pan-Arab ideologues tried to fold Morocco wholesale into the East. European colonial powers, under “divide and rule,” floated theories of Northern European Amazigh origins to legitimize their presence. Different scripts, same objective: deny Morocco its own authorship.

We are not guests here. We are not late arrivals. No other nation is endlessly asked to justify its belonging; why should Morocco be? We claim no privilege and seek no quarrel, but we refuse to live in anyone’s shadow. Ours is a nation shaped by ancient kingdoms and far-reaching empires, not an echo chamber for borrowed voices.

Even in moments of sporting triumph and trial—like the recent African Cup—identity revealed itself plainly. In the end, a Moroccan stands first with his brother and on his own soil. This land breeds pride, fierce solidarity, and a work ethic that speaks for itself. As the poet Miskin al-Darimi warned centuries ago: “Your brother, your brother—for he who has no brother is like a man who charges into battle unarmed.”

The 3 Lies of Harvard Noureddine Boutahar

During my stay in Boston in 2004, I had the privilage of visiting Harvard
University—that towering beacon of learning—in the company of a group of distinguished professors and students from Boston University. It was there, in the heart of this esteemed institution that enshrines Veritas (Truth) as its sacred motto, that I chanced upon a deliciously ironic paradox, one the locals recount with a knowing smile.

Standing proudly in Harvard Yard is a magestic bronze statue said to represent John Harvard. Among students, however, it goes by a far less reverent moniker: the Statue of Three Lies. At first glance, the label seems almost heretical in America’s oldest university, a place that claims truth as its lodestar. But, as the saying goes, the devil is in the details.

The First Lie: A Case of Mistaken Identity

The inscription confidently asserts that the statue portrays John Harvard himself. In truth, that’s a bit of a tall tale. When the sculptor Daniel Chester French began work in 1884, he quickly discovered that no authentic portraits of John Harvard existed; the man had died more than two centuries earlier. Faced with this void, French scraped together an escape by using a Harvard student of the time, Sherman Hoar, as his model—thus giving a fictional face to a very real benefactor.

The Second Lie: The Founder’s Myth

The pedestal also proclaims John Harvard as the university’s “Founder.” Historically, however, a different truth lies beneath the surface. Harvard was established by a formal vote of the Great and General Court of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. John Harvard’s true claim to fame lies elsewhere: he was the institution’s first benevolent benefactor, donating half his estate and his entire library. The university bears his name as a tribute to his altruistic generosity, not as recognition of authorship.

The Third Lie: A Chronological Slip

Finally, the date 1638 is engraved as the year of Harvard’s founding. The records, however, are clear: the university was founded in 1636. The year 1638 marks John Harvard’s death and the execution of his bequest—not the birth of the institution itself.

Granting these narrative concessions, the statue remains a mandatory stop on any Harvard tour. Visitors and students alike line up to rub the statue’s left shoe for luck and for academic success. Decades of hopeful hands have polished the toe box of the shoe to a gleaming gold, creating a striking contrast with the rest of the bronze figure.

It is a scene that perfectly captures the uneasy marriage of academic dignity and popular myth. In the end, it reminds us that all that glitters is not gold—and that even at Harvard, a well-polished “lie” can grow into a beloved tradition.

Letters to “Teranga” — and to Those Who Hide Behind It

Noureddine Boutahar 

To the Senegal Head Coach:

Coach, do you rest easy after breaking faith with the oldest law of hospitality—bread and salt —and feeding it to disorder? What unfolded was not competitive intensity; it was a failure of command. Morocco did not train you so you could return as a conqueror, nor did it help build your career so you could trample the rules of the very house that once gave you shelter. You replaced the game’s intelligence with temper, turned the stands into a fog of noise, and used the touchline as a megaphone for agitation. The signal to your players was unmistakable: lose your composure and you might yet prevail. In that moment, you stopped leading and started lighting fires.

To the Senegalese Football Federation:

To the Federation, this is a rebuke equal to the disappointment you have caused. Rather than acting as a brake on excess and a guardian of standards, you chose to shield misconduct—sometimes through silence, other times through thin excuses that fooled no one. Where was the moral authority that sporting diplomacy demands? Where was the respect owed to millions watching and to thousands filling Moroccan stadiums? You squandered a long-standing legacy of fraternity—one forged well before the eras of Senghor and Abdou Diouf—and traded wisdom for obstinacy, restraint for bluster. By allowing recklessness to stain the Lions of Teranga jersey, once a symbol of continental dignity, you reduced it to evidence of institutional drift unworthy of Senegal’s standing. Worse still, this blow came not from an open rival, but from a partner we assumed had our back—only to discover, too late, a knife in it.

To the CAF Disciplinary Committee:

Your ruling was not balance; it was evasion. Placing victim and aggressor on the same footing is not justice—it is its distortion. Disorder was not punished; it was normalized. You issued the offender a clean bill of health and broadcast a corrosive lesson: raise your voice, bend the rules, and leniency will follow. In doing so, CAF drifted from the role of referee into that of fig leaf, blurring the line between order and chaos and confirming, once again, that African football struggles to clean its own house. As the old saying goes, a crooked yardstick never measures straight.

To Those Who Lie in Wait for Morocco’s Fall:

Your embrace of turmoil is not conviction; it is instinct. It is crab mentality at its rawest—if we cannot rise, no one should. Your effort to drag Morocco down is really an attempt to smash the mirror that exposes your own shortcomings. In the process, you hand the world fresh proof for its worst clichés about the continent and push African football another step closer to the edge. You are, quite simply, cutting off your nose to spite your face.

In closing, Morocco must remember that it is moving through a jungle, not strolling in a landscaped garden. Machiavelli’s advice remains as relevant as ever: be a fox to detect the traps, and a lion to keep the wolves at bay.

When the Pitch Tears Away the Mask Noureddine Boutahar

The Africa Cup of Nations was far more than a mere tournament; it was a

crucible of truth. It shattered the brittle illusion of "brotherhood" and stripped away the masks of affection that had long obscured less noble faces. In the heat of competition, buried grudges surfaced, and the hollow resonance of slogans withered before the bluntness of reality. From the debris of these broken pretenses, one clarity remains, pristine and absolute: a Moroccan is brother to a Moroccan.

Experience has been a stern teacher, revealing that those who do not cherish goodwill are unworthy of it. Nations are not anchored by the fickle applause of strangers, but by the bedrock of inner strength and the unity of their own ranks. Real power is found in the "inward turn"—in trusting our own genius and forging a domestic solidarity that requires no external validation. Morocco’s worth is drawn solely from the veins of its own sons and daughters.

To those whom we offered our hearts before our homes—those welcomed with the warmth of genuine hospitality and the sanctuary of our stability—decency proved a foreign tongue. They chose to repay grace with contempt, baring fangs that had been carefully hidden beneath cloaks of hypocrisy. In truth, they have not harmed Morocco; gold does not rust, and our essence remains untarnished. Instead, they have performed a singular service: they have shown us exactly who they are.

The response to such betrayal is not found in the futility of reproach, but in the dignity of a constructive withdrawal. We must pour our collective energy into the "Morocco of Tomorrow," a project defined by unwavering seriousness. Like a caterpillar retreating into the silence of its cocoon to prepare for flight, we must turn inward. Our country belongs in the ranks of nations far too dignified to be distracted by the petty malice of bad neighbors or the warped mindsets of false friends.

This path is not an innovation; it is the well-worn road of greatness. History is replete with nations bitten by the snakes of betrayal that chose to heal through self-reliance:

Germany: After the ruin of war and the bitterness of fractured alliances, it turned its gaze inward. By rebuilding its identity and economy from the ground up, it became the titan upon whose shoulders the continent now rests.

Japan: Rather than being extinguished by nuclear fire, it answered devastation with a productive inwardness. Rising from the ashes of Hiroshima, it conquered the world through the quiet power of science and technology, leaving the noise of empty slogans to the winds.

History confirms the old wisdom: no one scratches your skin as well as your own fingernails. To waste time on those with "crab mentalities"—those who seek only to drag the soaring back down into the swamp—is to risk drowning in the mud of their making. Our strength lies in the conviction that reaching the summit requires our eyes to stay fixed on the peak, oblivious to the stones thrown from the shadows below.

Ultimately, the architecture of a nation depends not on the approval of the world, but on the resilience of the home front. As Dostoevsky observed, “If you want people to respect you, respect yourself first.” True self-respect begins with the courage to stand firmly, and exclusively, on one’s own feet.

Take the Fruit and Leave the Wood for the Fire Noureddine Boutahar

People toss out good ideas all the time—sometimes just because of who said them, or old grudges, or because they don’t like the person’s beliefs or background. It’s a shame. Truth doesn’t wear a name tag, and wisdom isn’t picky about who delivers it. What actually matters is the value an idea brings, not where it came from. You’ve heard it before: don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.

If we always played this game—rejecting anything that didn’t originate from our own little corner—we’d lose out on almost everything we rely on. Imagine saying no to cars because they weren’t invented here, or refusing to use a phone because it came from someone with a different worldview. That’s not how progress works. Civilization is messy, shared, and built on contributions from every direction. Wisdom is like lost property—if you find it, grab it. It belongs to anyone willing to claim it.

That’s the beauty of Ali ibn Abi Talib’s old saying: “Take the fruit and leave the wood for the fire.” It’s simple but sharp. Focus on what’s useful. Take what helps, what teaches, what adds something real to your life, and let the rest go. Ignore the distractions—the quirks of the messenger, the baggage, the stuff that gets in the way. Sometimes you’ve got to practice the art of overlooking, too. Don’t trip over someone’s flaws if what they’re offering is genuinely good.

Living this way means being flexible in your thinking. The smartest people can spot value, even if it’s wrapped in something they don’t like, or comes from someone they disagree with. If you close yourself off, if you only ever listen to people who look or think just like you, you end up stuck in a tiny world. You never see the big picture peeking through the keyhole.

Honestly, we need that kind of wisdom now more than ever. There’s so much noise, so many clashing opinions. Instead of slamming the door on everything unfamiliar or inconvenient, start picking out the fruit wherever you find it. Figure out what feeds your mind and soul, and leave the rest for the fire. That’s how you grow. That’s how you rise above the small stuff and make the world a little wider, a little richer for everyone.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston (contd) Noureddine Boutahar

 Boston reveals itself as a quiet visual composition, where layers of history stand shoulder to shoulder with a contemporary pulse and a firmly rooted academic spirit. It is a gentle city, yet heavy with memory; its landmarks speak eloquently of the transformations they have witnessed. From the Freedom Trail, its red line threading through old houses, silent churches, and the State House, to the precincts of Harvard University in Cambridge—where knowledge carries its own dignity and life moves to a modest, unhurried
rhythm—the past and the present interlace without clamor. This sense of clarity deepens during a stroll along the Charles River, which flows like an artery of light and water, dividing the city without tearing it apart, and then in the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA), where art speaks in whispers and identities recede before the eye’s astonishment. Meanwhile, The T moves like an unseen thread, stitching places to faces and moments, affirming that Boston is not merely a place, but a state of being—one that quietly rearranges my relationship with time.

As days passed, Boston ceased to be a scene observed from the outside and became an experience lived from within. In its small details—in the measured pace of people’s steps, in their uncomplicated relationship with time, in the presence of books in cafés and on trains—there was a meaning that slipped in softly. A meaning not proclaimed aloud, but felt.

I came to realize, gradually, that reading here is neither an exceptional act nor a badge of cultural distinction; it is a daily habit, as natural as breathing. People carry books the way they carry their keys, returning to them whenever the day offers a small pocket of emptiness. It all seemed so ordinary as to pass unnoticed—except to someone arriving from a place where reading is an event rather than a routine. As the proverb goes, familiarity breeds content, and what is woven into everyday life rarely calls attention to itself.

I recall one day on The T, heading back from downtown toward the university district. The train was crowded, and I stood quietly watching faces. Most passengers were absorbed in their books, newspapers, or e-readers, as if each were traveling alone despite the crush. Suddenly the train lurched; I lost my balance and fell against a young lady seated nearby. I apologized, but she did not look up, nor did she show the slightest irritation. She was so immersed in her book that the surrounding world seemed no more than a faded backdrop.

In that moment, no grand explanation occurred to me, no ready-made conclusion. I simply sensed that reading creates around a person a calm distance—one that shields them from intrusion and offers an engagement deeper than watching others. Those who fill their time with what they read place a lighter burden on the world, granting others the simple right to be as they are. After all, empty minds are the devil’s workshop, while occupied ones tend toward quiet grace.

Thus Boston has remained in my memory: a city that does not teach by direct instruction, nor raise signposts telling you what to understand, but leaves its mark gently. A city that reminds you that what is built within endures more firmly than what is erected without, and that meaning—like a river—needs only a measure of silence to keep on flowing.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston Noureddine Boutahar

Boston University was never merely a stop along my academic path; it was a space where new layers of awareness took shape and where experiences accumulated with a depth no less profound than what I learned in lecture halls. Ah, Boston—a city that knows how to leave its mark on the soul, how to plant in memory shadows that do not fade with time. There, among the venerable buildings and quiet corridors of the university, I was not only a student in pursuit of knowledge, but a human being rediscovering himself, learning to see the world with wider eyes and a more attentive heart.

In those years, I lived in one of the university’s imposing wings—a residence modest in appearance yet rich in human encounters. I shared it with Si Ahmed, a Palestinian for whom Palestine lived in the chest long before it could ever be reduced to a place on a map. His talk was never mere political commentary or passing news; it was a daily confession of pain, memory, and a right that does not expire with time. He spoke of his homeland as one speaks of one’s mother—with raw sincerity and a loyalty that never runs dry. I listened at length, sensing—without his having to spell it out—that a homeland may be occupied in land, but it is never defeated as long as it lives in the hearts of its people. As the old saying goes, home is where the heart is.

The name of the building we lived in—Ignacio Hall—stirred a quiet curiosity in me. Who was this “Ignacio,” immortalized on a university wall? One day I asked a professor about him. She did not know the details, but she spoke of a well-rooted tradition in American academic culture: that students who find success return to their first university to give back, building a wing or endowing a facility that bears their name, in gratitude to the place that helped shape them. Her answer was less a lesson in history than in gratitude—a reminder that one good turn deserves another, and that true loyalty often speaks in deeds rather than slogans.

Beyond shared housing, Boston also gifted me a rare friendship whose warmth I still carry. Nasser, an Algerian from Kabylia, was my closest companion and daily confidant. Quiet and sparing with words, his presence was as reassuring as a clear morning. He faced life with a steady gaze, loved its simplicity, and lived in harmony with himself, as if calm itself had chosen to dwell in him. His Amazigh identity flowed in his veins without affectation or the need for proof—proof, after all, lies in being, not in saying.

I recall a day when we were strolling through downtown and came upon a large bookstore. We entered out of curiosity, perhaps also out of nostalgia for paper in an age when screens were beginning to elbow books aside. Silence ruled the place, until suddenly the strains of a Kabyle shatḥa drifted from a hidden speaker, breaking the stillness and awakening memory. In that instant, Nasser changed; something lit up in his eyes. He grasped the edges of his jacket and burst into the traditional Kabyle dance with pride and joy, oblivious to the surprised glances around him. I stood there, captivated, applauding, and understood then that true identity does not wither in exile—it often shines more brightly. You can take a man out of his land, but you cannot take the land out of the man.

Yet the deepest—and simplest—lesson came to me from an unexpected place: a glass door in the university library. One day, as I pushed it open, I felt it scraping the floor and wondered how such a flaw could go unattended. I remarked to Nasser, with mild disbelief, how Americans could overlook something so small. No one answered me that day. But the following morning, at precisely seven-thirty, we passed by the same spot. The door opened and closed smoothly, as if nothing had ever been wrong. I saw no maintenance worker and heard no tools—only the result. And then it dawned on me: progress is no magic trick, nor the child of chance; it is the quiet fruit of conscientious work done without fanfare. As the proverb has it, actions speak louder than words.