All That Glitters… Noureddine Boutahar

I pulled into the parking spot in front of the institute, mindful of those public protocols that some folks nowadays seem to view more as shackles than responsibilities. My orderly

approach didn't last long, though. The silence was shattered by the driver of a luxury car who, in a cliché display of "entitlement culture," parked in a restricted zone with such brazenness you’d think the law was merely a set of suggestions meant only for the little people.

He didn't stop at breaking the rules; he turned the street into his own personal trash can. He flicked a tissue out the window with the practiced ease of someone who thinks they're pulling off a slick move, when in reality, he was putting on a masterclass in social idiocy. It brought to mind the saying of the great Zouhair Bnu Abi Salma: “Whatever trait a man may possess, even if he thinks it hidden from others, it will inevitably come to light.” I shot him a look, intending it to be a reproach, but he met it with the icy indifference of someone who couldn't care less. He even repeated the act, this time right in front of his daughter—a student, presumably at an age where she’s still forming her own sense of right and wrong.

What’s most disheartening is that this wasn't just a simple case of bad manners; it was the embodiment of a tragic "flawed role model." The problem isn't really the discarded tissue; it’s the visual lesson the daughter just received: that the symbolic power suggested by a fancy car grants its owner a fake immunity from decency and order. As the Iraqi poet said: “If the head of the house is beating the drum, the whole family will follow suit and dance.”

This scene exposes a gaping hole in our collective consciousness. We burn so much energy criticizing the way society behaves while remaining blissfully ignorant of our own unchecked actions. This hypocrisy—preaching morality while failing to practice it—is the real rot. Unless we start holding ourselves accountable before we rush to police everyone else, we’ll just keep watching our values crumble, left only to mop up the mess of our own double standards.

The Teaching Profession in Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

The teaching profession today stands at a precarious crossroads—its voice diminished, its  

stature eroded, its burdens quietly multiplied. In Morocco, as elsewhere, the figure of the teacher—once held in near-sacred regard as a custodian of knowledge and a shaper of destinies—has gradually been pushed to the margins, caught in the undertow of shifting values, fragile governance, and a troubling deficit of both material and moral recognition.

This erosion did not occur overnight. It is the slow sedimentation of years of imbalance. The classical image of the teacher rested on a stable triad: the trust of the family, the authority of the institution, and the protection of the state. Today, that equilibrium has fractured. Pedagogical discourses that rightly sought to center the learner have, in practice, often hollowed out the teacher’s authority. At the same time, the creeping language of managerialism has recast education in the vocabulary of the marketplace—where the student becomes a “client,” and the teacher, a cautious provider of services, navigating a terrain where initiative is stifled and missteps are costly.

In such a climate, trust has yielded to surveillance. The worth of the teacher is too often reduced to metrics, reports, and administrative compliance, rather than the quiet, transformative impact he or she imprints on young minds. Creativity withers under this weight, replaced by a pedagogy of survival—measured not in inspiration, but in the ability to endure.

Material conditions only deepen the strain. Education continues to be treated less as an investment than as an expense to be contained. Modest salaries, scarce resources, and taxing conditions—particularly in rural and peripheral regions—have driven many capable educators to reconsider their vocation. This quiet exodus is not a failure of commitment, but a lucid response to a system that asks much and gives little.

Yet, at the heart of this crisis, something essential endures: the human bond between teacher and learner. It is this fragile, resilient thread that sustains the very meaning of education. When the teacher is worn down—mentally, emotionally, professionally—it is the learner, especially the most vulnerable, who bears the cost.

To restore dignity to the profession is not merely a matter of policy; it is a moral imperative. It calls, on the one hand, for structural reforms that reaffirm the teacher’s authority, improve working conditions, and recognize education as a strategic investment. On the other, it demands a renewed professional consciousness—one that enables teachers to reclaim the depth of their mission while setting the boundaries necessary to preserve their humanity.

For in safeguarding the teacher, we safeguard the school; and in safeguarding the school, we secure the very fabric of society.

"Luxury" Farming: The High Cost of Exports — Noureddine Boutahar

The paradox between export-oriented agriculture and food

sovereignty embodies the core thesis of the book Food First (Lappé & Collins). The authors argue that hunger and vulnerability are not the results of resource scarcity, but rather political choices that prioritize "digital growth" and macroeconomic figures over the basic livelihood and security of the people.

Applying this lens to the Moroccan model, it is clear that successive agricultural policies have triggered an export boom while leaving the citizen's "daily bread" at the mercy of the wind. This obsession with luxury crops tailored for European and Gulf markets is depleting Morocco’s most precious resource: its water.

While entire regions face structural thirst, groundwater is being diverted to cultivate water-intensive "cash crops" like watermelons and avocados in semi-arid zones. These products essentially export thousands of liters of water overseas, while the domestic prices of staples like onions and potatoes soar to record highs.

True to the book's warnings, subsidies and incentives flows primarily toward large-scale investors and export giants. Meanwhile, the small-scale farmer—the backbone of grain and vegetable production—faces the specter of bankruptcy and drought. This imbalance fuels a rural exodus, further straining urban centers and driving up inflation.

In our modern context, the "manufacture of hunger" does not imply an absence of food in the markets; rather, it means that the cost of a simple citizen's tagine is now held hostage by foreign currency fluctuations and the whims of international consumers. Returning to national priorities—privatizing wheat and basic vegetables over luxury fruits—is not merely an economic preference; it is a fundamental necessity for social stability and genuine sovereignty.

When Envy Turns Lethal — Noureddine Boutahar

A Jordanian social media user brilliantly captured the current wave of jealousy surrounding Morocco's footballing

dominance by drawing on a haunting literary allegory. He tells the story of a village pillaged by invaders, where every woman was forced into submission except for one. She fought tooth and nail to defend her honor until she finally repelled her attacker.

Instead of hailing her as a hero, the other women conspired to kill her. Their motive? Her survival as the "sole virtuous one" was a stinging rebuke to their own surrender—a living testament that exposed their compliance to their husbands.

This metaphor perfectly encapsulates the toxic political and sporting envy currently directed at the Kingdom of Morocco. Unable to keep pace with the Moroccan "footballing boom" or the country’s world-class infrastructure, critics have found themselves overshadowed. The success of the Atlas Lions has become a mirror, cruelly reflecting the failures of those around them.

Morocco’s excellence has become an "unbearable proof" of others' shortcomings. Consequently, praying for Morocco’s downfall in the Africa Cup of Nations isn't about healthy sporting rivalry; it is a desperate attempt to normalize failure. They want everyone to wallow in the slough of despond together, hoping that by pulling Morocco down into the mud, they can finally obscure the towering achievements that keep them up at night.

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.