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.

A Tribute to my Lost Brother, Abdelmajid. By Noureddine Boutahar

Six cruel, painful months have passed since the death of my brother, Abdelmajid. Yet I am still unable to forget or sit back and enjoy anything to the fullest because his memory is a constant sore; a pebble in the shoe of my consciousness. I was told to write about him and about his death because that might help me heal and root out that cutting sadness which has been eating away at my heart and mind. I don’t think the words will come out easily, for the deep corrosive grief will throttle my throat and numb my fingers. But I will try my best.

Mjid or Mjidou, as everyone including myself always called him, died in an unforgettable car accident in the evening of October 8th, 2012. He left behind a wife, two sons, and a girl and he adored them all like any good father and loving husband would. He also left behind old parents to whom he was very attached, and to whom he provided every comfort they required. Mjidou’s role model was his Dad to whom he looked up as a paragon of honesty, integrity, and humility. However, Mjidou still kept his own adorable personality and excellent manners that made him the special man he was. A man with a giant heart which had room enough for everyone: brothers, sisters, in-laws, and anyone whose path crossed his.

Abdelmajid was still young and always in good health. He lived all his life in the clean and salubrious countryside of Boukachmir, near Oulmes, where he sowed and tilled his land and tended his cattle and sheep. He loved the soil of his land and sweated his guts out to clear it and make it a better place to live than it had been before. He loved his cattle and sheep and was especially fond of his dog –Sam– which preceded him in death by a few days (see photo bellow). Mjid sometimes complained of country life, but only during times of drought which devastated animals and crops.

Mjid was active and his schedule was always hectic. In addition to family chores and responsibilities, he never failed to give a helping hand to his many friends, neighbors, and tribesmen. He was the pillar of both our family and Boukachmir community. The crowds at his funeral bore witness to the love the community felt for him. People from far and wide came to his funeral on foot, on muleback, and by car and each one told a story which testified to the piety, integrity, and honesty of Mjid. He was a hero to everyone who knew him because he was among those who give others preference over themselves “even though they are in privation.” (alhashr)

Mjidou had little free time and he spent it on partridge hunting. He fought tooth and claw to set up a hunters and shooters association for the youth of his community - the last thing in the long list of their dreams. The association saw the light of day only a dozen of days before his death. My brother always dreamed big but started small and continued steadfastly, persevering and enduring through the trials and obstacles until achieving his ultimate objective. He never faltered, he never gave in, and he never bent to despair.

Mjid was young and semi-illiterate; however, the elderly and the educated filled their pitchers at the springs of his “wise and discerning mind”. My brother was endowed with the virtues of wisdom, insight, reflectiveness, and unflinching kindness, which earned him enormous popularity among the old and young, and made him a mentor to whomever sought his advice.

Because Mjid was always healthy, energetic, and full of life, I had always believed I would die before him and he would take care of everything: he would cry his eyes out, dig my grave with friends - with a heavy heart, receive condolence offerers and serve them, take care of my kids and be a shoulder for them to cry on. If I were given a choice, I would choose to die before him, but every living soul has a term. As is said in the Quran, “when their time arrives, they can neither postpone it by one hour, nor advance it.” (Yunus)

What more shall I say about my brother whose death has torn every inch of my soul? What more shall I say about Mjidou whose death has impacted the way I think about my life? What more shall I say about a brother whose memory is a constant torment, an everlasting reminder of the futility of life, a clear warning that life is meaningless and a big bubble that will soon deflate?

The keyboard will not help in phrasing my silent sorrows. All I can do right now is tuck my brother away in my heart and pray: May you rest in peace, dear brother, and may God Almighty welcome you in his Heaven. May Allah Almighty ease the family grief and pain and give us all strength enough to get through the loss of a great man whose like Boukachmir will never bear again. May Allah grant us patience and count us among those who take refuge in Him and say, “To God we belong, and to Him we will return.” (Al Baqara) Amen.