Echoes of Junior School: Tales of Transition and Triumph Noureddine Boutahar

 In the early '70s, at the tender age of twelve, I was a country bumpkin thrust into the heart of Meknes, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by its towering buildings and bustling streets. The noise, the pace, and the sheer number of people were utterly foreign to me. Each day felt like an adventure, filled with both wonder and bewilderment. I faced a whirlwind of new and challenging experiences daily, each with its own merits and demerits.

After completing primary school in the tranquil countryside, I left my home village for the swarming city of Meknes to further my studies. The transition was anything but smooth; finding a spot in a classroom proved to be a daunting challenge. However, my father was relentless in his efforts to secure a place for me. I vividly remember him tirelessly visiting numerous junior schools in Meknes, moving from one to the next, earnestly pleading with the principals to enroll me.

One day, he returned with a heavy heart and told me that all the schools he had approached were full. He asked if I wanted to return home and tend to the family livestock and work in the fields instead. Determined to pursue my education, I urged him to try once more. Driven by my resolve, he went back to Mohamed Ben Abdellah school principal, in a moment of profound desperation, kneeled, and tried to kiss his feet. The principal, moved by my father's earnest plea, agreed to enroll me and asked me to join the following day.

The school, situated in the city center, was populated mostly by city kids, making my initial adjustment particularly difficult. Yet, my hard work and seriousness eventually helped me forge friendships, primarily with other country kids and those from modest backgrounds. This diligence also earned me the favor of my teachers, many of whom were foreign —French, Belgian, Romanian, and Middle Eastern.

My teachers were a formidable amalgam of seriousness, diligence, and unwavering support, tempered with a strict demeanor. Their dedication to both their vocation and to our success was palpable, instilling in us a sense of being valued and supported in our academic endeavors.

Despite my efforts to fit in, bullies were a constant presence and source of pestering. I avoided them by steering clear of known hotspots, avoiding direct eye contact, and always staying with a friend or two. Nevertheless, I faced discrimination for my skinny frame,  countryside origin, and Amazigh heritage. The bullies often taunted me and hurled names like “beanpole”, “laarubi” —a derogatory word meaning something akin to “hillbilly”, and “chelh” —a denigratory term for Amazigh speaker. I met their insults with calmness, ignoring their provocations and maintaining my self-confidence.

Boarding schools were scarce, so I lived with a family acquaintance, Omi Fatna, a widow with two daughters who were more than a decade older than me. The daughters visited occasionally, as they worked as housemaids for French families. During their absences, I took on household chores, which taught me valuable life skills early on, including washing my own clothes, though I had only few.

My leisure time was divided between outings to the cinema with friends on Sundays and visits to the library on weekdays when school was not in session. Cinemas offered affordable entertainment, igniting a deep-seated passion within me for the art of film. My companions and I delighted in a diverse array of genres, from Westerns to Indian, Egyptian, and French cinema, each worth every penny. Among our favorite actors were luminaries such as Clint Eastwood, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Bruce Lee, Marlon Brando, Omar Sharif, Faten Hamama, Mahmoud Lamliji, Ismail Yassine, Hind Rostom, and many others.

Every Rial (penny) given to me by my father, mother, and grandmother, who served as my primary provider, was meticulously set aside for the cinema. Whenever my grandmother planned a visit, she would sell a chicken or two, generously allocating most of the proceeds to me. Her wallet was nothing but her headdress. She tucked her money inside, secured it with a couple of knots, and then hid it beneath another sequined Amazigh scarf or the collar of a sweeping, oversized dress that trailed to the ground.

The City library in Hamria was another frequent haunt. My friends and I would rent books and read them voraciously, passing them among ourselves to read as many as possible each week. This insatiable reading habit greatly improved my language skills, particularly in French and Arabic, and enriched my writing, earning me good grades and praise from my teachers.

I excelled in sports as well, a facet of my life that held considerable sway, elevating my self-assurance and honing crucial social aptitudes. Excelling in basketball, soaring in high jump, and proving skilled in racing and rope climbing, sports served as a conduit to expand my social circle, forging new connections and assuaging the pangs of homesickness, thereby facilitating my integration into the new environment.

Occasionally, I accompanied friends to Bab Jdid Square, a vibrant echo of Jamaa Lafna in Marrakech, teeming with dancers, singers, acrobats, and storytellers. Amidst the lively atmosphere, we immersed ourselves in diverse performances, yet it was the storytellers who charmed me most. Their narratives, usually drawn from Moroccan folklore, concluded with profound moral lessons. As youthful students with limited means, our contributions to the storytellers’ livelihood were scanty. We would often disperse during donation pauses, only to reconvene when the storytelling resumed.

One incident from junior school that I will never forget happened during a sports session in 9th grade. As we were practicing shot-put, my turn came to throw the heavy round metal ball. Just as I was about to release it, my teacher unexpectedly stepped onto the landing sector to direct some students to move away. The ball landed mere inches from him, forcing him to dodge. Though it was not my fault, I quickly apologized. In a fit of anger, the teacher stormed toward me and delivered a harsh slap across my face, throwing me off my stride. The pain was not just physical; it pierced my heart with the sting of injustice. The profound loss of dignity, particularly in the presence of my classmates, has lingered as a haunting memory for many years, etching the negative image of that teacher firmly in my mind ever since.

Financially disadvantaged though I was, a transplant from rural origins, I discovered riches in authentic friendships, priceless experiences, and newfound independence. Catapulted from my comfort zone at a young age, I faced challenges head-on, navigating a strange, intimidating, painful, and frequently bewildering world to forge my own path —occasionally navigating alone, at times guided by circumstance, and oftentimes supported by the guidance of teachers and the companionship of friends.