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.

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.”

Ahmed Boukmakh, a Pioneer in Planting the Seeds of Enlightened Education Noureddine Boutahar

Given the current attacks on teachers, and at this critical moment for education, I have chosen to pause and reflect on a cornerstone of Moroccan heritage that has stood the test of time: the iconic Iqra’ schoolbook series, crafted by the esteemed educator Ahmed Boukmakh. I will begin by offering a glimpse into the historical backdrop of this remarkable series—one that weathered the tides of commercial textbook publishing—and then share brief summaries of a few of its enduring tales, along with the timeless moral lessons they impart.

Although many of today’s younger generations may not recognize his name, Ahmed Boukmakh remains a familiar figure to most Moroccans who attended public school in the early years following independence or during the 1970s. His journey led him from the worlds of theatre to the primary school classroom. There, he made lasting contributions, having laid some of the foundational stones of Morocco’s post-independence educational system.

Ahmed Boukmakh was born in Tangier in the 1920s, during the tumultuous period of the Rif War. His mother passed away when he was just eight years old—a tragedy that marked a difficult childhood. From a young age, he worked in his father’s store, which sold both groceries and consumer goods on one side, and books and novels on the other. It was in that unique space, balanced between labor and literature, that Boukmakh’s character was forged.

At the age of eighteen, he became an active member of the Shoura wa Listiqlal (Consultation and Independence) Party. His political involvement had unfortunate consequences: his father was later imprisoned in Rabat after colonial authorities found pro-independence banners in the family’s store. During that difficult time, young Ahmed found himself the de facto head of the household, tasked with caring for his younger siblings and managing the store.

His creative spark was lit even before the Iqra’ series, as he began writing plays in the 1940s. These early works are still referenced in the literary collections of the renowned scholar Abdullah Gannoun, who was Boukmakh’s mentor, teacher, and spiritual guide. Boukmakh’s plays, often performed at the historic Cervantes Theatre in Tangier—a beacon of translated works by Shakespeare and Molière—sought to instill patriotism and civic values in the youth and theatregoers.

After one of his friends was abducted, and as political tensions plagued the party he had joined, Boukmakh eventually chose to withdraw from political activism. His marriage around the same time gave him reason and space to focus on a new mission: writing and publishing educational books. With the invaluable guidance of the eminent Abdullah Gannoun, he embarked on a creative journey that culminated in the legendary Iqra’ series, skillfully weaving together narratives adapted or translated from the works of great international novelists from both East and West.

The idea was born out of a desire to provide Arabic-language textbooks that could be easily taught in primary school classrooms. At that time, nearly all available educational materials were in French—the language of the colonialist. The first edition of Iqra’, printed in 1954, became one of the earliest foundational texts for the primary education system in Tangier—and later across Morocco.

The Iqra’ series comprised five textbooks designed to be taught over five academic years. Upon completing the final volume, students would earn the highly regarded Shahada—a "Certificate Diploma" that often brought honor to families and even access to civil service jobs. Boukmakh later expanded the collection to include Fus’ha (Classical Arabic) in five volumes, as well as Arriyadiat (Mathematics) and Al-Qiraa Liljami’ (Reading for All), a literacy education series. These books combined captivating stories with vivid illustrations and images to stimulate student curiosity and strengthen their visual memory. He collaborated with leading Moroccan artists such as painter Ahmed Chabaa and caricaturist Ahmed Chentouf.

Boukmakh's writing was defined by short, impactful sentences and a concise style. This directness made his schoolbooks perfect for young learners. He knew that to speak to a child’s mind, you don’t knock on the door—you slip in through the window. His language was simple but never shallow. With a few well-chosen words, he managed to light up young imaginations while slipping in a moral or two when no one was looking.

Although his textbooks were gradually phased out in the early 1980s and replaced with newer materials, editions of Iqra’ continued to be reprinted until 2013—and perhaps even today—for use in literacy programs.

We owe a great deal to the stories from these books—stories that students from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s still remember as though they learned them just yesterday. Boukmakh’s work helped shape what many now nostalgically call the "golden generation" of Moroccan education. The writings of the late teacher Ahmed Boukmakh emerged at a significant turning point in Morocco’s history: the transition from colonial rule to national independence. His texts consistently promoted values of citizenship, patriotism, respect, and ethical living. His stories were both moving and timeless.

Who among us doesn’t remember the cumulative tale of Uklat Albatatis (A Potato Dish)? It's a shining example of how the author understood the value of this storytelling form—a genre built on repetition that not only makes understanding and memorization easier, but also sharpens memory and encourages children to anticipate what comes next. Echoing classics like This Is the House That Jack Built and The Gingerbread Man, the rhythm of Boukmakh’s cumulative tales makes young readers or listeners feel clever and confident, as if they’re reading the storyteller’s mind.

Who among us can forget Hikmat Bustani (The Gardener’s Wisdom)—the tale of the elderly man, eighty years old, still planting date palms beneath the fiery sun? When the king, astonished, asked him, “Do you expect to eat from their fruits?” the gardener responded with the quiet conviction of a man committed to sustainability: “Others planted, and we ate; now we plant, so others may eat.”

Is there a more profound metaphor for generational honesty and responsibility? Have we ever truly stopped to think with such long-sightedness? To safeguard our nation’s treasures—its fertile land, its abundant seas, its vast and infinite skies—not just for today, but for generations to come? To sow trees in the earth, fish in the waters, and dreams in the heavens—dreams powered by science, technology, and innovation?

And who could forget Allah Yarana (God Is Watching Us)—the story of the thief who, under the cloak of night, climbs into a vineyard with his young son to steal grapes? “If you see anyone,” the father warns, “whistle, so I can hide.” As he begins picking the fruit, the boy lets out a piercing whistle. Alarmed, the man jumps down, only to find no one in sight. “Why did you whistle?” he demands. “Did someone see me?” The boy answers, simply and succinctly: “Yes—God, who sees everything.” A heavy quiet descends upon the father, then repentance.

A story as clear as a whistle, sounding through time—a reminder, then and now, to those entrusted with public duty: serve with integrity. Do not loot the nation’s coffers; do not squirrel away fortunes in local and faraway banks. For even in the depths of our withdrawal, God sees all.

Assarrar wa Namla (“The Cricket and the Ant”) is the kind of story that cannot fade into the mist of forgetfulness. In this parable, a carefree cricket fritters away the golden days of summer, strumming his tune and dancing in the sun, while the diligent ant toils from dawn to dusk, stockpiling grain for the lean months ahead. When winter's chill finally bites, the ant sits snug in her burrow with a full larder, while the cricket, cold and famished, comes knocking. But the ant, unmoved by his plight, reminds him that he sang through the harvest—so now, perhaps, he should dance to keep warm. The story delivers its lesson with a sting in the tail: that hard work and foresight are the keys to weathering life's inevitable storms.

And more and more stories of this kind—those that teach and enlighten without preaching—are urgently needed today. They etch values and morals into young minds, gently but firmly. As the old saying goes, “Youthful learning is etched in the mind like stone.” These stories do more than entertain; they shape character, cultivate empathy, and sow the seeds of wisdom early—and etch them deep within young hearts.

Today’s Iqra’ generation—once the rightful heirs of a golden age of learning—now looks with a lump in its throat at what so often passes for education. What was once a sumptuous banquet of stories, rich in meaning and morals, has dwindled into bland fare: lessons stripped of depth, starved of spirit. In days gone by, it was those stories—and the steady, watchful presence of conscientious parents—that shaped young minds. They raised us with the wisdom of old and guided us onto the straight and narrow from our earliest days. So much so that, at the mere sight of a teacher approaching from afar, we would instinctively snap to attention, stifle our laughter behind cupped hands, and freeze mid-play—as though time itself held its breath in their presence. Yes, we feared them—but not with dread. It was a reverent awe, the kind that made our hearts swell when a teacher gently patted our heads, whether in praise or quiet affection. It was both a crown and a blessing.

 

 

Tall as Trees Noureddine Boutahar

I come from a family of towering men. My grandfather, father, my one uncle, and both my elder and one younger brother—all tall, standing like proud cedar trees of the Atlas Mountains. In people’s conversations, our family often served as the quintessential illustration, whether height was praised or poked fun at.

I had always been a bit taller than my peers, but during junior school, I shot up like a reed in the wetlands. I sprouted to almost six feet, a height that came with its own set of challenges. Adolescence is already a time of turmoil, but this sudden stretch added a layer of body dysmorphia to my other teenage worries. Not only did I loom over my classmates, but I was also skinny—an easy target for a barrage of teasing. Giraffe, beanstalk, long legs, minaret, house ladder—these names clung to me like weeds in a garden. I laughed along, but inside, the sting was bitter and hard to ignore.

My height came with practical problems too. Shoes were an issue. I needed larger sizes, which made my feet seem oversized and awkward. Clothes didn’t fit either—pants barely reached my ankles, shirt sleeves stopped at my wrists. It was hard enough being a teenager, but when your body doesn’t fit, literally and figuratively, into the world around you, it adds a new burden  to your shoulders. I spent my youth trying to shrink myself, folding inward, as if that could make me blend in.

Standing or walking with friends, I towered over them. The tallest barely reached my shoulders, and so I adapted. I hunched, bent my knees, wore shoes with no heels. I positioned myself on the lower ground, hoping to appear less tall. I suggested we sit on the floor, on the grass, on doorsteps—anywhere but standing, where my height would set me apart.

In class, being a good student came with its own complications. I liked to sit at the front, eager to learn, but students behind me often grumbled when they couldn’t see past my tall frame. I slouched or leaned left and right to give them a view of the blackboard. Some teachers, noticing the complaints, often relegated me to the back of the room. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice.

One particular incident stands out. My French physics teacher, a beautiful petite woman named Miss Barbara, called me to the board to solve a problem. As I stood writing, she slowly approached, her comments drawing her closer until she stood beside me. The class erupted into a loud laughter, louder than usual. Amidst the giggles, someone muttered, “il, il, il,” the French pronoun for "he." It didn’t take long to understand why—the teacher beside me formed the “i,” and I, towering over her, was the “l.” Together, we spelled “il.” Miss Barbara’s face flushed tomato-red, but not in anger. She turned to me, confused. I explained, "Madame, ils rient parce que vous paraissez très petite à côté de moi, qui suis très grand." (Ma'am, they're laughing because you look so small standing next to me, as I'm quite tall.) Her face softened, and she leaned into the joke, standing even closer to emphasize the contrast further, which made the roar even louder, almost hysterical.

As laughter died down, the teacher began speaking. She wasn’t just talking to me now—she was talking to the entire class. She reminded us that none of us are born the way we choose, that the beauty of life lies in its diversity—of height, language, skin color. She spoke of tolerance, of empathy, of putting ourselves in others’ shoes. She continued for a while, and although her insightful words have faded from my memory over the years, her speech held the room captive. For the first time, I felt something shift. Some of my classmates wore guilty expressions, and I could tell the teasing had lost its bite.

Miss Barbara’s ‘lesson’ gave me something I hadn’t realized I needed—a foundation to build on. Gradually, I started to accept my height, wearing shoes with small heels instead of hiding. I began to see the advantages of being tall, researching famous tall figures in history—both saints and scholars. Over time, I learned to laugh at my height. I’d even joke about it with friends, suggesting we line up by height and laughing heartily when I easily topped the list. I’d tell friends and classmates that, while I wasn’t a seer, my height gave me a unique view of the future. The girls especially liked when I joked that one day I’d marry a shorter woman—so she wouldn’t notice when I started going bald.

In the end, tall or short doesn’t matter. What defines a person isn’t the inches they stand but the character they carry within. As the pre-Islamic Arabian poet, Zuhayr ibn Abi Sulma said:

A man's tongue is one half, his heart the other,

Leaving only the form of flesh and blood.

How often does a youth's beauty captivate you,

Yet his worth rises or falls by the way he speaks.

That’s what I’ve come to learn—no height or nickname could define one more than one’s words and actions ever would.

High School Years Noureddine Boutahar

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.”

Lessons in Discipline and Reflection from Days Gone By Noureddine Boutahar

 My junior school years were brimming with memories, both joyous and sorrowful, each offering invaluable lessons from teachers, peers, and the events themselves. These lessons ran the full gamut: academic knowledge, responsibility, social skills, and, most importantly, discipline.

It was my teachers in the 1970s, mostly foreigners, whose exemplary character inspired me to pursue a career in teaching. They emphasized discipline, setting high standards for both themselves and us as exemplary role models. Punctuality and academic integrity were two fundamental virtues instilled in us from a young age. We soon realized that teacher and student absenteeism and tardiness were the foremost forms of corruption, capable of eroding the very bedrock of education. Equally, we understood that cheating in exams was the gravest disservice a student could inflict upon themselves.

Our teachers were rarely, if ever, absent. As students, we were permitted to miss class only under extreme circumstances, such as severe illness. Absences concerned not only the administration but also the teachers, who would inquire about and sometimes penalize us for being late or absent. Take Monsieur Bonguardier, our math teacher, as an illustration. His approach was particularly strict. He would station himself at the classroom door immediately after the bell rang, ready to administer sharp knuckle raps to the crowns of tardy students’ heads. At the sound of the bell, we all hurried to line up outside his classroom to avoid his stern discipline. Latecomers, hoping to evade his knuckles, would sidle into the room, shielding their heads with a hand, a book, a school bag, or even a fold of their clothes.

Discipline outside the classroom extended into it, where we had to be fully attentive and engaged.  Monsieur Bonguardier maintained a strict policy on academic integrity. Any infraction, no matter how minor, would result in an immediate zero. Naturally, cheating was the most obvious offense, but the rules extended much further. Simply looking back during a test could be deemed suspecious enough to warrant a failing grade. Even asking for something as innocuous as an eraser, ruler, or pencil was strictly prohibited. This stringent approach instilled a sense of vigilance in us, making us extremely aware of our every action during exams.

I vividly recall an incident when Monsieur Bonguardier was explaining a math problem while writing on the chalkboard. Out of boredom, surprise, or a sudden insight, someone behind me let out a low whistle, prompting me to turn and glance. Unfortunately, my timing coincided with Monsieur Bonguardier’s, who, without a word, pointed his finger at the door, promptly asking me to leave the room. There was no room for negotiation with him -- he never relented. You had to find a way out, as he would often deliver a swift kick in the butt to hasten your exit. Thankfully, due perhaps to my clean record, I escaped physical reprimand as I exited.

Yet, facing his discipline was preferable to being sent to the principal, whose consequences rivaled those of the Moroccan police at the time. Thus, I lingered outside the classroom for the rest of the period, pondering myriad possible scenarios. As the bell finally chimed and students dispersed, I timidly approached Monsieur Bonguardier, my heart heavy with fear and shame and a palpable sense of regret, seeking forgiveness despite my expectation of rejection. To my astonishment, he responded, 'Tu es excusé cette fois, mais prends garde la prochaine fois,' loosely translating to 'You are excused this time, but be mindful next time.' He never glanced in my direction, never betrayed a hint of empathy or antipathy, continuing to write in his thick book.

Today, as I stand at the twilight of my career and reflect on the challenges I faced in school, I am reminded of a quote from G. Michael Hopf’s post-apocalyptic novel: “Tough times create strong men, strong men create good times, good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times.” I wonder which phase defines our current reality —a question that warrants careful reflection.

The Alarming Normalization of Cheating in Exams Noureddine Boutahar

In recent years, the normalization of cheating has reached alarming levels, infiltrating many aspects of our lives, starting with exams, and threatening the very foundations of ethics, integrity, social trust, and equal opportunities. This disturbing trend poses significant risks to the moral fabric of our society and calls for urgent attention and intervention.

Cheating, once considered a rare, shameful, and strictly reprimanded act, has become increasingly common and, disturbingly, more socially acceptable. This shift is evident in various sectors, including education, business, journalism, science, sports, and even personal relationships. The pressure to succeed, often at any cost, has driven people to resort to dishonest means, rationalizing their actions as necessary, justifiable, or inconsequential.

In the realm of education, cheating has become a pervasive issue—a bad way to a good life. Students cheat for various reasons, often involving a combination of psychological, social, and contextual factors.

First, students often succumb to the temptation of academic dishonesty due to intense competition. Researchers observe that even the most prestigious schools are plagued by cheating scandals in such competitive environments. Plagiarism, copying information, and falsifying academic records become rampant in these circumstances.

Second, high expectations from parents and teachers can drive students to cheat to meet these demands. Success, in our educational system, is measured by students' grades, making them more "performance oriented" than "learning oriented." This overemphasis on grades rather than on learning and understanding has cultivated a culture where cheating is considered a necessary evil. This underscores the need for educational reforms alongside efforts to address cheating.

Third, the pressure to succeed is the driving force behind cheating. The fear of failure and the anxiety of receiving low grades can push students to resort to cheating to avoid the negative consequences and stigma associated with academic failure. This is evidenced by the pervasive incidents of assaults on proctors and student suicides, especially in baccalaureate national exams.

Fourth, a lack of preparation or poor study habits can open the door to cheating. Students who procrastinate or have inadequate study techniques may find themselves unprepared for high-stakes exams and turn to cheating as a last-minute solution.

Fifth, insufficient surveillance or lenient exam proctors can tempt students to cheat, even if they did not initially intend to do so. We have all heard students praise lenient invigilators and criticize those who strictly enforce the rules. Even more troubling is that some parents and guardians have become accomplices in this behavior.

Sixth, easy access to resources, especially technology and information online, has made cheating easier. Unfortunately, technology has dual negative impacts: it distracts many students from exam preparation and provides easy access to cheating during exams. Cell phones and AI tools are now more reliable and accessible for cheating than traditional methods like copying off of classmates.

Seventh, a lack of strong ethical principles leads some students to rationalize cheating by downplaying its seriousness or believing that everyone else is doing it. Sadly, many students who cheat still see themselves as principled, justifying their actions for reasons they consider legitimate.

Eighth, cheating is deeply ingrained in our culture. Students observe that dishonesty is often rewarded in politics and business, shaping their perceptions of cheating based on what they see from role models and society as a whole. When students witness individuals advancing through cheating, they may feel inclined to cheat themselves, regardless of the consequences.

Ninth, a toxic educational environment may increase the students’ proclivity to cheating. If students perceive their teachers or educational institutions as unfair, overly punitive, or leniently punitive, they might cheat as a form of resistance or because the environment makes cheating favorable.

Tenth, peer influence plays a significant role in cheating. As the proverb goes, "Birds of a feather flock together": friends or classmates who cheat can encourage others to do the same, thereby fostering a normalized culture of dishonesty. The situation has reached a critical point where some students openly boast about their ability to cheat and get away with it.

One of the most concerning consequences of the normalization of cheating is its impact on equal opportunities. Cheating creates an uneven playing field where those who engage in dishonest behavior gain an unfair advantage over those who do not. This undermines the principle of meritocracy and perpetuates inequality. When success is achieved through deceit rather than ability and effort, it demoralizes students who strive to succeed honestly and perpetuates a cycle of unfairness.

To combat this issue, it is crucial to promote a culture of integrity and ethical behavior, requiring coordinated efforts from individuals, institutions, and society at large. Also, educational reforms are essential to align assignments with students' interests and needs, reducing the temptation to cheat due to perceived task irrelevance. Furthermore, stringent enforcement of laws and policies is vital to prevent the normalization of cheating from becoming entrenched as a permanent norm. Finally, outdated exam formats should be updated to align with modern learning methods and students learning  interests and styles and to mitigate contemporary forms of cheating.

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.

 

 

My Primary School Days: Noureddine Boutahar

The nagging million-dollar question that frequently crosses my mind is whether I was fortunate or unfortunate by not attending a Quranic School. I belong to the select few of my generation who bypassed the traditional route through a Quranic school and dove straight into the realm of government public education.

My primary educational journey in the countryside was both challenging and enriching. The nearest school, which I attended, was situated at a considerable distance from our home. Each morning, I set out alone on a nearly eight-mile trek, and gradually the crowd assembled along the way as other kids joined in. The school day was a lengthy affair, with classes beginning around eight thirty a.m. and concluding at about sixteen hours. To endure these lengthy days, my lunch was a simple yet cherished affair, reflecting the shared experiences of many children in our community. Typically, it consisted of a bottle of fragrant mint tea my mother sealed with a makeshift stopper crafted from a piece of carrot. Accompanying the tea was half a loaf of homemade bread, generously slathered with creamy, hand-churned butter from our own dairy cows. The simple but wholesome flavors of this bread-and-butter combination provided both nourishment and comfort, evoking memories of Audrey Penn's "The Kissing Hand" story, amidst a tiring and lengthy school day.

Occasionally, my mother's resourcefulness shone through, as she would enhance my lunch with the remnants of the previous night's dinner. If there were any stew with vegetable or leftover meat, she would ingeniously transform my meal by filling the bread with these succulent delights, ensuring that every bite was a taste of home and a reminder of the love and care held in her heart for me, even when I was far from the warmth of our family hearth.

Within the school, our revered teacher, Mr. Ourrach, may his soul rest in eternal peace, played a pivotal role in shaping our educational journey. This unforgettable educator, cut a striking figure with his medium height and rectangular physique. Yet, what truly caught the eye was his impeccably sleek, jet-black hair, meticulously styled in a classic side part. He exuded an air of elegance, with his attire consistently immaculate, his garments crisp, and his shoes polished to a brilliant shine. His dedication and passion for teaching left an indelible mark on the minds of all his young students. Mr. Ourrach was not just an instructor, he was a bridge between the classroom and our Moroccan heritage. In his teachings, he used Amazigh language, the native tongue of all the children in our community. Through this linguistic link, Mr. Ourrach made our Arabic and French lessons, and even mathematics, more engaging, connecting these subjects to our cultural heritage in a way that truly resonated with us to the present day.

Another distinctive trait set Mr. Ourrach apart from other educators we had heard of or encountered. He had a cane, a common tool among educators of that era in various Moroccan regions, but it remained unused for its punitive purpose and disciplinary measures. Instead, it served as a symbol of authority and respect; a quality that today's educators would describe as authoritative. It was evident to all that his true passion lay in the nurturing of young minds. He harbored a genuine affection for his students, and his enthusiasm for his profession was tangible in every lesson. This love and dedication did not go unnoticed, or unappreciated. The parents of the students, my own included, held Mr. Ourrach in high regard. Their admiration for his tireless efforts remained unwavering and genuine. He was a remarkable teacher, to say the least, always willing to go the extra mile with his students. His positive attitude to teaching epitomizes everything that a good teacher stands for. If it had not been for him, I would not have gone beyond second or third grade much like many from my generation who fell by the wayside.

Our teacher's home nestled right beside the school, seamlessly integrated into its surroundings. The tantalizing aroma of his wife's culinary creations would frequently waft through the classroom, teasing our senses and stirring our appetites. Being both his favored student and the son of cherished acquaintance, I gratefully received occasional invitations to join him for lunch.

In return for his kindness, it was common for my parents to invite Mr Ourrach and his family, often for dinner or weekend lunches. On these occasions, the dinner table was usually graced with the warmth of hospitality and the enticing aroma of Moroccan Amazigh cuisine. The culinary dishes were skillfully prepared by my mother, my grandmother and my elder sisters. Our family's free-range chickens often took center stage in dishes like Tajine, Couscous, or Marchouch. These gatherings were a testament to the deep sense of community that defined our rural way of life and to the appreciation, respect, and importance attributed to the teacher in the rural society of the sixties and seventies. To put it mildly, these shared meals were a heartfelt gesture of appreciation for the vitally important role Mr Ourrach played in our lives. They also symbolized the intricate connections among education, family, and tradition, aspects that seem to be lacking in today's dwindling culture of teacher appreciation.

The eagerly anticipated afternoon dismissal time from school was a daily highlight, and we, student, would eagerly count down the minutes until we could rush outside and join our peers in various traditional games. These moments were etched into our memories, as the school premises became a playground for our youthful enthusiasm. Whether it was spirited games of tag, stone-throwing, hopscotch, leapfrog, or the ever-thrilling hide and seek, our laughter echoed through the countryside as we embraced the freedom of play. The joy of these games lay not only in the sheer fun they provided but also in the camaraderie and bonds we established with our friends.

These moments not only provided opportunities for play, self-expression, and recreation but also served as a convenient excuse to delay returning home. The impending return home signified the beginning of a list of responsibilities and chores. Getting back early meant embarking on tasks like rounding up stray sheep, trudging to the well to fetch water, leading the horse to its watering spot, cleaning  our dirty clothes, or even collecting dry cow dung for use as fuel in the traditional cooking methods that permeated our daily lives.

Regrettably, during those years, our school had a noticeable absence of female students, a reflection of the prevailing norms and concerns of the time. The limited presence of girls was not solely a matter of choice but a response to the parental apprehensions. Concerns regarding the safety of their daughters, who spent a significant part of the day away from the protective confines of their homes, in the company of boys, were paramount for most parents. Although I have lost count of the precise number of girls within our school, I can affirm with certainty that their number remained notably diminutive, a fact which proved disheartening.

School life is often considered the most memorable phase of our existence. All of us vividly recall both our initial and final days in school, marked by tears of arrival and tears of departure, respectively. Personally, I can distinctly recollect both my first and last days at primary school. Those primary school days were the halcyon days of my life, a treasure trove of boundless joy where each moment brimmed with profound learning experiences and the warmth of cherished friendships. Every moment was embraced as an opportunity to learn, play, and savor the pure delight of childhood. As the eloquent English actress Cara Delevingne once expressed, “I wish my school days could have dragged on a little longer, or that I could go back and do it later in life.”  

The Lark and the Hunter Noureddine Boutahar

 Not too long ago, I was explaining the idiomatic expression "as happy as a lark" to my students. Displaying an image of the bird for more clarity, I inquired if any of them had ever encountered one. To my surprise, the unanimous response was negative. I pointed out that these birds were a common sight in our schoolyard, only to be met with puzzled expressions.

Explaining further, I described how larks boast more intricate calls and elaborate songs compared to many other avian species, often performing extravagant displays during flight. However, instead of enlightenment, my explanation seemed to deepen their sense of wonder.

Reflecting on the reasons behind their lack of familiarity, I considered the overly protective nature of modern-day parents, who confine their children indoors, shielding them from the natural world. Additionally, the pervasive culture of smartphones discourages exploration, research, and curiosity.

This realization evoked a sense of empathy and sadness for today's youth, contrasting their constrained experiences with the freedom and security enjoyed by my own generation. It prompted me to share with them the timeless tale of “The Lark and the Hunter”, hoping to impart a glimpse of the natural wonders they might be missing.

In the tale of the ”The Lark and the Hunter”, a narrative ingrained in our primary school memories, a hunter ensnared a small lark, and the bird eloquently pleaded its case. "I am but a feather's weight and cannot quell your hunger; why not grant me freedom in exchange for three pearls of wisdom that will enrich your life?" The bird laid down additional terms, stating, "I’ll grant them to you this way: one while I linger by your side, the second as I perch upon the tree, and the third when I soar high in the sky." Accepting the lark's proposition, the hunter demanded the first. The lark then imparted—in lyrical verse: "Do not rejoice excessively in your gains." Relinquishing control, the hunter watched as the lark alighted gracefully upon a branch, where it continued its sage counsel, "Nor should you regret past losses." Yet, as the lark took flight into the boundless expanse, the hunter lamented, "Alas! You deceived me; hand over the third." To which the lark responded, "You failed to grasp the essence of the first two; the third shall remain beyond your reach."

The essence of this post encapsulates two key points: Firstly, contemporary children find themselves somewhat disadvantaged due to the constraints imposed upon their freedom within the modern world. Secondly, from my personal perspective, today's schoolbooks seem to be a bit lacking in educational value, as well as falling short in terms of entertainment.