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.”
