My Quranic School Experience. Noureddine Boutahar

As I journey down the memory lane of my life, retracing it to my early childhood, one striking and indelible memory comes to the forefront — the momentous and somewhat daunting first day at the Quranic School. This particular recollection is so vivid that it demands to be shared, pursuant to the insightful words of American writer Lois Lowry, who aptly remarked, 'Memories need to be shared.' 

Morocco has long been distinguished by a unique and authentic method of Quran memorization, a tradition passed down through generations. This practice which unfolded in Quranic schools known as "Kuttab" or "Msid", relied on simple tools like wooden boards, reed pens, and ink made from gum arabic and clay. These schools were supervised by a teacher known as the Fqih, selected by the villagers. Instead of receiving monetary compensation, the Fqih was provided with provisions for living, and, if single, even a wife from the village. Beyond teaching the Quran, writing, and arithmetic, the Fqih also served as a respected advisor to the community, playing a crucial role in shaping young minds and guiding the village through various aspects of life.

In my generation, almost every child attended the Quranic School, almost like a kindergarten rite of passage. However, my stint there was fleeting. I remember my first day vividly, as if it happened only yesterday. The Fqih, seated on a sheepskin rug that doubled as his prayer carpet, wielded a long stick that reached every nook of the room, bustling with cross-legged students aged five to seven. As he enforced discipline among the students, an air of fear permeated the atmosphere, heightened by the Fqih's imposing physique and resonant, intimidating voice.

On the day I joined the Msid, our main focus was on reciting Quranic verses. Towards the back, a young boy grappled with the verses, his pauses and hesitations betraying a lack of memorization. Abruptly, at the Fqih's signal, two older boys sprang into action, seizing the struggling reciter, pulling him to the front, and binding his feet. The Fqih wielded a two-foot olive tree stick adorned with small thorns, unleashing a merciless flogging upon the child's soles. Despite the child's desperate cries and promises of improved memorization the next day, the Fkih remained indifferent. 

Unable to witness this injustice without response, I spontaneously rose, grabbed an ink bottle, and swiftly made my exit. Alarmed, the Fqih hastily pulled up his Jellaba, chasing after me for a few steps. Eventually, he halted, calling out for me to return with the bottle. However, I sprinted away, resolute in my determination to escape the troubling scene.

Despite residing almost four miles away from the Msid, I made a swift return, outpacing the renowned Said Aouita. My heart pounded against my ribs, and tears blurred my vision as I recounted my sob story to my astonished and alarmed mother and grandmother, one breathless sentence at a time. My grandmother, my stalwart protector, vowed to ensure I never returned to the Msid.

In the ensuing days, my father took the initiative to enroll me in a formal primary school, albeit as a listener due to my not having reached the eligible age. Mr. Ourrach, with his remarkable kindness, trustworthiness, and unwavering support, fostered an environment where I felt at ease, enabling me to enthusiastically absorb a wealth of knowledge, including a few Quranic verses, from the sidelines. His passion for teaching was truly authentic, and he triumphed in capturing the hearts and minds of all his students.

As for the topic of caning, it was part and parcel of attending Quranic Schools. It constituted a widespread form of corporal punishment in Moroccan Msids, being meted out for a spectrum of infractions, both serious and trivial. These included failure to recite verses, making noise, truancy, bullying, fighting, stealing, and disobedience. Children were struck on various body parts, and the severity often depended on the perceived gravity of the offense. However, many students attested that the number of strokes seemed arbitrary.

Today, as I hear the heart-rending stories of the dehumanizing punishments my peers endured under certain Fkihs' authority, a profound sadness engulfs me. Yet, my heart swells with immense gratitude for my exceptionally kind-hearted, affectionate grandmother. She not only spared me from the haunting specter of having my mental and emotional health shattered by a mere stick but also shielded me from potential negative consequences in physical development.