The Sentence That Changed the Course of My Life. Noureddine Boutahar

In the early 1970s, deep in the Moroccan countryside, I was one of the lucky few in our school to pass the primary school

certificate exam (Shahada). Back then, that certificate carried as much weight as a high school diploma does today. Celebrating those who passed was a major event—families and neighbors would gather, and the entire tribe would beam with pride.

But behind the joy of success, another battle was brewing: the quest to find a middle school in the city. In post-independence Morocco, schools were few and far between, and boarding slots were few and far in between. Facing this uphill battle, my father made up his mind. He decided to take me to the city of Meknes so I could live with my aunt and join my older brother, who was already studying there.

However, the real hurdle was securing a seat. For two whole days, my father combed through every school in the city, only to be met with the same devastating, broken-record response: “Everything is full.” On the third day, we sat down for lunch. My father had returned dragging his feet from utter exhaustion. Before we even touched our food, he looked at me, completely heartbroken, and told me he couldn’t find a spot. Then, he caught me off guard with a defining question: “Do you want to go back to the countryside and herd livestock?” Without a second thought, I answered him in earnest Amazigh: “No, I want to study.”

At that exact moment, I saw my father’s face change completely. His eyes welled up with helpless tears, and despite his hunger, he lost his appetite. My father was a disciplined man of habit; he had a hearty appetite but stuck strictly to three fixed meals a day—a rigid routine he maintained until he passed away at nearly a hundred years old. Yet, my cry for an education had completely cut off his appetite that day.

The next morning, God rest his soul, he asked me to come with him to the Mohamed bin Abdullah Middle School in the heart of Meknes. It was a prestigious institution where most of the teaching staff were Europeans, along with a few Egyptians and Palestinians. The moment we walked into the courtyard, we saw the principal standing outside his office, looking impeccably sharp and imposing in his sunglasses. We had barely reached him, and before we could even offer a greeting, my father bowed down in sheer parental desperation, trying to kiss his feet just to secure a seat for me. The principal nobly stopped him, lifting him back up. After a moment of heavy silence, the principal glanced back and forth between my father and me, as if weighing the situation in his mind. Then, he turned to my father and promised to work something out.

And so he did. I joined the classroom that very week. As the English say, and the rest is history.

Yes, I was given a new lease on life at a time when most, if not all, of my peers were condemned to drop out of school and spend the rest of their days enduring the harshness, fragility, and isolation of the countryside. All of this happened thanks to a single sentence that altered my destiny—and thanks to a great father who, despite only attending basic literacy classes, realized early on that education was the ultimate lifeline.

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.

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.

Novice Teachers and the Search for Ready-Made Material: A Closer Look. Noureddine Boutahar

A quick look at teacher forums and social media today reveals a striking scene: novice teachers, bright-eyed but often exhausted, frantically scour the internet and plead with colleagues for ready-made lesson plans, activities, tests, and quizzes. To an unsympathetic observer, this desperate search might look like laziness—a refusal to "do the hard yards" of planning. However, that view completely misses the forest for the trees. What we're actually seeing is not indolence, but a very real-world response to the huge chasm between pedagogical theory (what they learned) and classroom practice (what they face every day). This common behavior signals a systemic flaw, but it also reflects something admirable: a profound yearning to teach well, to make learning truly worthwhile for their students, and simply, to get it right.

As a teacher who began teaching in the late 1980s — an era of chalky fingers and clunky blackboards — I understand that impulse all too well. Back then, there were no search engines one could summon instant inspiration from, no online forums teeming with shared wisdom. I, too, sought ready-made material from experienced colleagues, hoping to pilfer their magic. Most refused — not out of meanness, but out of wisdom. Left to my own devices, I struggled through the nights, crafting my initial “pedagogical dishes” from scratch. Those years were my true apprenticeship, my baptism by fire.

I recall one sweltering afternoon when I was attempting to explain an English word without slipping into Arabic. My hair was damp with sweat, my patience thinning, my students wide-eyed. Years later, one of them — now a high-ranking official — reminded me of that exact moment: “I remember your long, straight hair was wet with sweat as you tried to define that word. Thanks for trying.” That single memory, more than any promotion or certificate, remains my greatest reward. As Paulo Freire once wrote, “Teaching is not the transfer of knowledge, but the creation of possibilities for its own production.”

Every young teacher deserves the grace to grunt and stumble, to burn their fingers a little before they become masters of the craft. Their hunger for pre-packaged lessons is not a quest for comfort but a hunger for excellence. They want their classes to shine, their students to grow, and their own hearts to feel the quietude of satisfaction of a lesson well-taught. The trouble is not in their desire, but in the system that leaves them insufficiently equipped to meet it.

In most teacher training institutes, theory is presented in sterile separation, as if classrooms were Petri dishes. Yet the real classroom is a living organism — unpredictable, noisy, and magnificiently imperfect. New teachers, thrust into this whirlwind, often feel like sailors thrown into a storm without a chart or compass. Their desperate search for ready-made materials is really a search for a lifeboat — a bridge between theory and practice, a concrete model to copy and adapt.

When novice teachers borrow, simplify, change and modify proven lessons, they are, in effect, standing on the shoulders of giants. Einstein once said, “The only source of knowledge is experience.” By reworking the experiences of others, they gain velocity in their own. This is not intellectual piracy; it is apprenticeship — a silent form of professional development where imitation precedes innovation.

But this reliance on shared resources also exposes a deeper ailment: the absence of sustained, on-the-job training and mentorship. My own growth as a teacher did not happen in isolation; it was nurtured by seasoned supervisors, lively pedagogical meetings in Morocco and abroad, and the courage to step outside my comfort zone through presentations and model lessons. Lacking such support and opportunities for growth, many teachers today turn instead to the digital agora — those vast online communities — as a substitute for the mentorship they never had.

Instead of wagging fingers at new teachers who “copy and paste,” we must listen to what their behavior is communicating. It is a call for help and guidance, not a confession of weakness. The solution lies not in shaming, but in scaffolding — in building systems that accompany the teacher’s early struggles with patience and generosity.

John Dewey once observed, “If we teach today’s students as we taught yesterday’s, we rob them of tomorrow.” The same applies to teachers. If we prepare them with outdated methods, we rob the classroom of its future vitality. Teacher training must break from abstract frameworks and shift towards living practice: model lessons, peer observation, and collaborative lesson studies where ideas are tested, refined, and shared.

Let us then reframe the narrative. The novice teacher’s search for ready-made materials is not a flaw to correct, but a spark to nurture — the flame of commitment that drives them to seek the best for their students. When properly guided, that search can evolve into a powerful culture of professional growth, where teachers learn with and from one another. As the old saying goes, “A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.”

And so, rather than dismissing the novice teachers’ quest, let us offer them matches instead of lectures, encouragement instead of criticism, help instead of prejudices — for in kindling one teacher’s flame, we brighten the entire classroom of tomorrow.

 

Saving Public Schools is Saving the Country. Noureddine Boutahar

Public education in Morocco has never been just a place to teach reading and writing; it is the collective memory and the true factory of the nation’s elites. Yet, through years of failed government policies, it has been deliberately maligned and painted as a corpse waiting to be buried—so that the gates of privatization can swing wide open. It is grossly unfair to reduce public schools to a story of failure. These very schools produced the doctors who filled our hospitals, the engineers who designed dams and roads, and the professionals who ran our institutions. They raised Morocco’s name high in international competitions. From their classrooms came the golden generation that built the foundations of an independent state, and their graduates compete in the world’s top universities. How can any government, with a straight face, deny this history and run away from these achievements?
The bitter truth is that successive governments never truly wanted to reform public education; they treated it like a guinea pig for half-baked experiments driven by partisan and electoral interests. Take the so-called “Arabization” policy: a hasty decision, only half-baked—Arabic in primary and secondary, but French still ruling higher education. The result? A deliberate exclusion of poor children, while the wealthy secured their future in private schools and foreign missions. As the proverb goes, “When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.”
And then came the notorious “Emergency Plan.” Billions were poured in, only to vanish into thin air. Nothing changed in classrooms, because planning was chaotic and decisions were made behind closed doors, far from the voices of teachers on the ground. Was this not organized chaos? Was this not a calculated demolition of the last bastion of social equality?
The latest brainchild of the government is the “Pioneer Schools” project  مدارس الريادة . The program promises to go back to basics, sharpening students’ skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic through methods like “Teaching at the Right Level” (TaRL). It also pledges ongoing teacher training, better school facilities, and stronger parental involvement.
Yet the scheme seems to have started off on the wrong foot. Just a couple of years in, teachers and parents already fear it is clipping the wings of top students merely to keep everyone on the same page. As a result, many families are flocking to private schools—a costly move at a time when household budgets are already stretched thin by soaring food prices.
Successive governments have pushed public schools to the back burner, even though they are the last line of defense for the poor against a system of privilege. Instead of protecting them, they colluded to weaken them—forcing struggling families into the arms of private education, piling debt on their shoulders. Call it what it is: a deliberate impoverishment of public education to fatten the private market.
What public schools need is not more empty talk, but political courage: to restore teachers’ dignity—long trampled underfoot—, to invest seriously in infrastructure, to modernize curricula with boldness, and to neutralize the power of the greedy lobbies that profit from failure. Otherwise, governments are not simply weakening education; they are burning the very bridges to the nation’s future. And as another proverb reminds us: “You reap what you sow.”

A Cry Against Chaos: The Funeral of Courtesy Noureddine Boutahar

Tahar Ben Jelloun, in his latest article, didn’t unveil a hidden truth or hand us a philosophical gem. He merely rubbed salt into our daily wound: the slow, humiliating death of manners and civic sense. Nothing groundbreaking here, except that while many of us keep burying our heads in the sand, Ben Jelloun stood up and shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are a nation addicted to chaos much like toddlers clinging to their toys!”

Yes, today we are hargawis of behavior—refugees from civility itself. We elbow and jostle in lines as if survival depended on it. We curse and insult at the drop of a hat, in full stereo, in front of children and grandparents alike. We feed stray cats and dogs on neighbors’ doorsteps as though sidewalks came with title deeds. We cross the road with the elegance of stampeding buffalo and then swear at whoever dares to honk. In cafés, buses, and other public places conversations are pitched at rock-concert levels, phone calls become public theater, and the rest of us are forced to applaud nonsense we never asked to hear. And when night falls, it is treated not as a time for rest, but as a sacred hour for collective harassment: music blaring, voices rising, laughter piercing as if we are not a community but lone Robinson Crusoes on a shared island.

And if that wasn’t enough, we’ve thrown in a few more “special effects”: skipping queues in bakeries and government offices as though we were God’s chosen; driving with the philosophy of “the road is mine and to hell with you”; blocking intersections to swap jokes and family gossip; honking horns like battle drums. Weddings become noise factories, complete with deafening music and ululations that could wake the dead, while the sick neighbor or weary worker be damned. Even funerals aren’t spared: we close streets, torment the living, and call it paying respect to the dead. And to put the cherry on the cake, we sprinkle in habits like letting our dogs run off-leash in public, leaving toilets unflushed so the stench can linger as a “souvenir,” blocking hallways as if they were personal living rooms, and seasoning it all with a generous dose of foul language in public spaces.

We tag public walls with vulgar graffiti that screams less “artistic expression” than “civilizational meltdown.” Garbage bins sit steps away, yet our trash prefers the street. Vigilantism, vandalism, hooliganism — we’ve turned every shade of antisocial behavior into a national folk dance. Children play football in alleys as though they were in the Champions League, while residents and drivers dodge balls instead of traffic. Smoking in public spaces is practically a civic duty now; object and you’ll quickly regret it—verbal abuse if you’re lucky, a fist or a spit in the face if you’re not. Apologies? Out of stock. Empathy? A relic. Giving a seat to an old man or priority to a pregnant woman? That’s for fairy tales.

The real punchline? We baptize this chaos with sugar-coated excuses: “It’s nothing,” “God forgive,” “hshooma,” “never mind him/her.” Voilà: breaking the law becomes charity, and disorder is paraded as a national virtue.

A few days ago, I remarked on a friend’s Facebook post that cafés had become breeding grounds for deliberate rudeness, where disturbing others is sport and confrontation is dessert. Within hours, two hundred people had clicked “like.” Proof, if any was needed, that this isn’t just my irritation—it’s a collective migraine. 

And let me add a little scene of my own. I was busy drafting this article when a series of odd clicking sounds snapped my concentration. I turned around, only to find a well-dressed gentleman — shiny suit, neatly tied necktie, the whole “respectable” package — casually clipping his nails right in the middle of a supposedly “upscale” café. Imagine that: a VIP outfit paired with a public-bathhouse habit! What refinement, what taste! A surreal moment that perfectly sums up our paradox — a society plastered with cosmetic polish on the outside, yet betrayed by its fingernails on the inside.

Ben Jelloun, then, wasn’t slandering his country. He just said, in elegant French, what the rest of us shout in vulgar Arabic: enough is enough.

His cry wasn’t an attack on the homeland, but an attempt to jolt it awake. He longs for Moroccans to be known again as polite and composed, not as a nation of people who excuse every misdeed under the tattered banner of “freedom.”

But if we keep dozing, mark my words: one day we’ll gather to pray the funeral prayer of the absent over our nation’s morals—a funeral with no corpse, for a country murdered by many of its own children’s bad manners and strangled by its rulers’ greed.

And the cure? Not rocket science. As Tahar Ben Jelloun himself suggested, enforce the law, punish the offenders, and—just maybe—teach citizens that society is not their private backyard. Until then, all the window dressing in the world won’t hide the rot.

Remembering Yamna Naaziz and the Soulful Art of Thamawayth. Noureddine Boutahar

I remember it not just as a dream, but like a song carried on the wind. I was just a child, too small to hold a memory steady, let alone guide a mule. Yet there I sat, in front of my aunt Yattou on our sorrel molly mule named Gazella, trotting from my parents’ nomadic camp toward my grandparents’ permanent home. Once the tent disappeared behind the hill, my aunt broke into song—not just any song, but Thamawayth. Her voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the trail, weaving stories of longing, sorrow, hope, and love. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was my first brush with the heartbeat of the Middle Atlas—and the unforgettable voice of Yamna Naaziz, the woman at the heart of this article. 

Thamawayth is a unique form of Amazigh poetry, traditionally performed solo. It’s often sung by a lone traveler crossing forests or a shepherd among his flock—a melody born of solitude and carried by the breeze. According to Amazigh linguist Mohamed Chafik, the word itself derives from the idea of companionship: a presence that keeps one company as one journeys through mountains and valleys. More than just music, Thamawayth is the soul’s voice, echoing into the silence. As one Quora user aptly put it, "Folk songs are important because they are a cultural phenomenon that reflects the values, dreams, and struggles of a people." That is precisely what Thamawayth embodies: it is the cry of a culture, shaped by time, hardship, and hope.

Structurally, it floats between poetry and prose—usually three to five lines, free from rhyme but rich in melody and vocal ornamentation. While both men and women perform it, it’s the female voice—with its emotive depth and tonal richness—that often leaves a deeper mark. In the Amazigh world, Thamawayth is no passing fancy. It accompanies harvests, sheep-shearing, village celebrations, punctuates a singing night, and preludes the galloping pageantry of Tbourida horsemen. When performed before an audience, it ends in a swell of applause, uproarious cheers, trilling ululations, and the beat of drums. Even animals seem to respond—I’ve seen horses nod, step, and rear as though the song/poem stirred something deep within. They say music soothes the savage beast; in this case, it awakens its soul.

Yamna Naaziz, later known as Yamna Tafersit, was born in 1930 in the countryside near Khénifra. She began singing at fifteen, around 1945, and never looked back. Her voice was a rare gift: it carried sorrow and joy in the same breath and seemed to pour feeling straight into form. Raised in the grandeur of the Middle Atlas—where even the stones seem to hum—she didn’t just sing Thamawayth; she became it.

Unlike today’s stars who rise under bright spotlights, Tafersit’s talent bloomed in fields, valleys, mountains, and meadows. While village girls gathered firewood and fodder or toiled in the fields, Yamna sang to them—lightening their burdens with each verse. She never sought fame; it came to her. She was a companion in labor, a balm for the weary, and a voice for the voiceless. As Hank Williams once said, "Folk songs express the dreams and prayers and hopes of the working people." And that’s exactly what Thamawayth has done for generations of Amazigh women and men—it has carried their burdens and dreams through the echo of every mountain pass.

The story behind Tafersit’s name is the stuff of legend. According to scholar Abdelmalek Hamzaoui in Treasures of the Middle Atlas, Yamna’s original family name was Ifersten. Her grandfather, Moha Ouhammo, was a man of great strength. One night, he was ambushed by six or seven thieves aiming to steal his livestock. But instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and chased them all off single-handedly—no bloodshed, just sheer courage. The next morning, the tribe was abuzz: “Moha devoured the thieves!” they said—not literally, of course, but in admiration of his bravery. In Amazigh, they said Ifersten Moha, and over time, the name became Afersi. After his death, his son—Yamna’s father—was called Aziz Afarssi. When Yamna registered for her administrative documents in 1968, she feminized the name and became Tafersit.

Yamna Naaziz was a contemporary of Amazigh music legends like Hammou El Yazid, Moha Oumouzzoun, El Ghazi Bennacer, Abchar El Bachir, and Mimoun Outouhan, with whom she sang the timeless epic, Awa Thaamithi Awa Thanghithi (“My Sight You Stole, My Life You Claimed”), and the Ahidous maestro Lhouceine Achibane. She also sparred in poetic duels with masters like Hmad Nmynah and Ichou Hassan. Tafersit didn’t merely drift with tradition—she carved its course.

Yamna’s voice was unmistakable, unforgettable. It carved its own generous space in the world of Thamawayth, somewhere between the velvety softness of Aicha Tagzafet—known for her duets with Hammou El Yazid—and the commanding strength of Hadda Ouakki, whose iconic performances with Bennacer Oukhoya need no introduction. Yamna’s voice also danced with the playful lilt of Itto Mouloud, famous for her songs with Lahcen Aâchouch, and echoed the vast, heartfelt tones of Fatima Tawsidant, who sang alongside Mohamed Rouicha and Mohamed Maghni. Among these luminaries, Yamna’s voice shone like a full moon in a cloudless sky—neither overshadowed nor imitative, but radiant with its own light and legend.

Before phones and loudspeakers, Thamawayth often served as a secret language—an artful way to convey veiled love messages or warn of impending danger, all wrapped in metaphor and melody. One striking example comes from the first piece recorded by Tafersit at RTM (Moroccan Radio and Television) in 1966, which opened with these powerful lines:

زايْذْ كْعذيل إوْحْذاذي نشْ أوانْ يِوينْ أبْريذْ كّولّا يْمعيذانْ نقّانْش

“Fill your horse with more fodder, you who prepare for travel! Your enemies have sworn to destroy you!

This haunting verse wasn’t born in a vacuum. Its roots reach back to the time of the French occupation of Moroccan lands. As the story goes, a woman spotted a young man preparing his horse for a journey. Aware that enemies lay in ambush, planning to kill him, she didn’t shout a warning—she sang one. With danger in the air and spies possibly nearby, she used poetry as a shield, sending him this cryptic message wrapped in metaphor and melody. In a time when every word could cost a life, her voice became his lifeline—a subtle warning hidden in plain sight.

Yamna Naaziz’s poetry spanned the full spectrum—from the depths of personal sorrow to the heights of national pride. Yet the piece that every Amazigh, young and old, carries in their heart is a love story woven in legend, and it goes like this:

أذْروخْ أوا روياخْ كاخْ ثينْ اجظاظْ  أياسْمونْ قّاري يعقوب أرْش قّارخْ 

“You weep, and I weep—like two stranded birds. Darling, call me Jacob, and I’ll call you [Isaac].”

A line of aching simplicity, full of longing and love. Its roots lie in a legend many Amazigh children grew up hearing—often around a glowing fire, wrapped in ahandirs (Amazigh handwoven blankets), their grandmothers’ voices weaving memory into myth. Though the three popular versions of the legend differ slightly in detail, their core meaning and theme remain the same across them all.

My own grandmother, may she rest in peace, told it often. She said that long ago, a virtuous woman in the tribe sent two young boys—Jacob and Isaac—to deliver food to a pregnant woman with cravings. But, as children often do, they were overtaken by curiosity and hunger. They tampered with the food—tasting it, playing with it—until it was spoiled. When the woman found out, her reaction was swift and fierce. Not only had they ruined the food, but they had betrayed a trust. In her anger, she cursed them: May God turn them into two birds, perched forever on the same tree—each calling out to the other, yet never able to see or hear one another again. And so it came to pass. The heavens heard, and the boys were transformed—left to chirp and cry endlessly, close in distance, yet forever out of reach.

Tragically, Yamna Naaziz’s final years were marked by hardship. Despite her enormous contribution to Amazigh heritage, she passed away in 2006, in illness and poverty, in a modest home in Khénifra. No fanfare, no state honors. And yet, though her body departed quietly, her voice still lingers—echoing through valleys, drifting on radio waves, etched in old recordings, and stitched into memory. A voice like hers doesn’t go silent—it haunts the wind.

For me, Thamawayth is more than a genre—it’s a refuge. I don’t just listen to it; I sing it. Whenever I hike the mountains of my hometown, Boukashmir, and find myself in a vast, open space—a canvas of wind, solitude, and memory—I let my voice roam. And when I am truly alone, I return to these favorites:

أوا شْمِذِرُورانْ أثِيزي نو، أوا گبدّلّ إغْصان إخاثارّ سْوِ دّايْمْزّين!

I wish I could bring back my youth! I wish I could trade these old bones for young ones!

أوسيخْشْ أ لْمْري ذا وْرْ ياذاسْ عقّيلْخْ إيْخْفْ إينوْ أورْ ثْنوگيزْ ألّيگالْ ساوالخْ

I held the mirror, but I didn’t remember myself, nor did I recognize my reflection until I spoke.

ثْنّا يِثْگيظْ أوخا تيتْگّا بوتسْمّارث إ لْقالْب إسْمخازّا باظاظْ إغْصانِينو

What love has done to me—even a hammer couldn’t do to a sugar cube; love has crushed my bones.

أوا زيخْ ثايْتشّين أيْدّايْ سّالاْيْن غدْ أيْدّا يْسْظارّ إوْرگازْ ألْمْسّي نْسْ

It is the woman who elevates or diminishes a man's status and his home.

أدّا يْناوْظْ عاري أثوگا خْسْ أشمانّيخْ إكْسْ لْقْنْظْ إِ وُولِنو أوا يْغّوذا أوراعا نْمْ

When I climb the mountain and see the greenery, despair leaves my heart because of the beauty I behold.

إوا يا يوذْماوْن زيلّينْ، أموديسْنوفا وْرْتْمْثاثم أتقّيميم أوما دّويْث أتافْظ

To you, good faces, I wish you hadn't died, even if it meant the end of all existence.

أجّانْخ أنْسّارا ثيميزار ثْنّا وْري يْعْجيبن رْحْلْخ، أناوْظ ثيدّا وْرْسّينْخ.

Let me roam the world. Should a place displease me, I'll depart, seeking lands yet unknown.

أثا حوذْرْ أ طّْيّارَا أوشيدْ أفرْ أذامْ نارو ثابْراتْ أوِيتْ إِيواينْحوبّا غرْ يْخامْن

Bend down, airplane, and give me your wing, so I can give you a letter to take to my beloved’s tent.

أوا عْدّان ميدنْ زيلّين وْرِيد إسْ قْلّان، إوا ماني شا يْعْزّن غورِي أذيگ أمْ ثاسانْو

Many good people exist; they aren’t hard to find. But where are those as cherished as my own heart?

أثاظْفي نْدّونيث أموريد إِ لْموث أ لْحْرّ لِّيخْرا وْرْذا دّيتْعاياذْ وْنّا ثِيوْيْ

How sweet life would be if not for death! Oh, the bitterness of death—for whoever it takes never returns.

Sadly, it’s a crying shame that thousands of Thamawayth poems—rich in beauty, metaphor, imagery, and subtle encryption—have been lost to the sands of time. Not from neglect, but simply because they were never written down. This loss flows from the deeply oral nature of Amazigh culture—or perhaps from the fact that it was kept that way by force or fate. Every time an Amazigh poet, man or woman, passes away, it’s as if a priceless book has been turned to ash—its pages never read, its wisdom gone forever.