A Generation Adrift: The Decline of Curiosity in Education Noureddine Boutahar

Not long ago, I was watching a football match in a local coffee shop when a seemingly trivial yet telling incident unfolded. It rekindled a dormant sadness about the state of today’s education—the alarming shallowness of knowledge among young people.

Two Portuguese teams were playing, while nearby, two stylishly dressed young men sat watching, their attention divided between the match on TV and their gleaming iPhones. Their brand-new devices, pristine sneakers, heavy gold necklaces, and easy confidence spoke of a generation fluent in the language of consumerism. I soon learned they were twelfth graders at a nearby high school.

As they commented on the players, one suddenly turned to the waiter and said, “Karim, could you change the language, please? No one here speaks Brazilian.” He then looked at me and smiled, expecting agreement. I smiled back, but as a teacher, I couldn’t ignore the glaring error.

Curious whether it was a slip of the tongue, a joke, or a genuine misconception, I asked, “What nationality are the teams?”

“Portuguese,” he replied.

“And what language do people in Portugal speak?”

“Portuguese,” he answered without hesitation.

“And in Brazil?”

“Brazilian,” he said, brimming with confidence.

Gently, I corrected him, explaining that the language on TV was Portuguese, not ‘Brazilian.’ I added that Brazil’s official language is Portuguese, spoken by nearly all of its population due to Portugal’s colonization. I compared it to how Morocco and Algeria speak French due to French colonization or how India and Pakistan use English because of British rule. He listened intently, nodding in appreciation, as if a light had just switched on in his mind.

This brief exchange sent me down memory lane. At his age, my knowledge of geography and history was far more robust. I recalled my demanding teacher, Mr. Terrab, who made us memorize the names and geographical features of all the countries in the curriculum—their mountains, rivers, lakes, capitals, and even their political systems. Each lesson began with a rigorous exercise: he would call four students to the board and give each one a task—for example, one to draw Africa with all its countries, another to mark the world’s mountains, a third to trace Morocco’s rivers, and a fourth to outline the mineral resources of North Africa. By high school, I could navigate the world’s political, historical, and geographical landscapes with ease.

As students, we quizzed each other relentlessly on global knowledge, boasting about who knew more about world leaders, historical events, and political affairs. Though many of us had little, wearing threadbare clothes and barely owning a second outfit, we were hungry to learn. Knowledge was our currency, and we spent it lavishly.

But today’s students? Speaking from experience, many struggle to locate Mali, Botswana, or Sierra Leone on a map. Some mistakenly place African nations in Europe, confuse European countries with those in Asia, or mix up Latin American nations with disconcerting ease. Many pass through school relying on malpractice, flaunting the latest sneakers and chasing after the newest phone models, yet remaining indifferent to the vast world beyond their screens.

This realization filled me with frustration. The spark of curiosity, once the heartbeat of education, has dimmed. In its place, gossip, social media trends, and passive learning reign supreme. The classroom, once a vibrant arena of ideas, now feels like an abandoned shrine—students mechanically copying from the board, disengaged and uninspired. Education has become a hollow ritual, a performance where teachers and students alike simply go through the motions.

Who bears the blame? Governments have surrendered to market forces, parents have abdicated their roles, teachers feel powerless, and the entire education system has turned students into guinea pigs for so long. All share responsibility for this generational drift.

I honestly don’t know whether to blame, scold, or sympathize with this generation. It is a "depressed generation" swept up in a digital whirlwind, constantly bombarded with images of seemingly perfect lives. It measures status in likes, self-worth in followers, and knowledge in whatever Google can spit out in seconds. It fails to see that this curated reality is often a mirage—where the one preaching healthy living may secretly binge on junk food; the one presenting a virtuous image might lead a double life. This culture of superficiality has stripped today’s students of critical thinking, replacing deep understanding with fleeting digital convenience.

And yet, it is hard to remain hopeful when this generation struggles not just academically but culturally and intellectually under the weight of ongoing sociopolitical crises. They navigate a dystopian era plagued by stifling mediocrity, systemic rampant corruption, economic instability, resurgent diseases, brutal wars, nuclear threats, family breakdowns, and the ever-looming shadow of climate change. Hope falters when our public schools succumb to Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmares of so-called reforms, with students reduced to mere pawns in a bigger game. Optimism falters when our public education system, once a sturdy edifice, is collapsing inward like a house of cards, or, in Mohammed Gahs's stark words, 'a massive, upside-down corpse.'

The core issue extends beyond a failing education system; it’s a profound cultural shift. To reignite intellectual curiosity, we must all— governed and governors alike—radically rethink how we educate and inspire young minds. Otherwise, if the old saying holds true—'you reap what you sow'—then we risk raising a generation of passive consumers, exhibiting the Dunning-Kruger effect, adrift in a sea of information yet understanding so little of its depths.

Echoes of Neighborly Bonds Noureddine Boutahar

An Amazigh proverb wisely states, "Yuf

uzgar gar ajjar"—better a jujube hedge than a bad neighbor. Yet, my childhood neighbors were neither thorny shrubs nor bad apples. They were beacons of kindness, nurturing harmonious and peaceful lives. We didn't choose them; tradition and custom fostered respect, friendship, and mutual support. Our nearest neighbors lived two miles away, yet the rhythms of rural life and the demands of animal husbandry intertwined our lives. This created a rich tapestry of daily interaction. We shared a unique bond with our immediate neighbors, distinct from our good relations with the rest of the tribe: we had all emigrated to Tizitine, a land not our own.

To the north, like a lone willow tree on the horizon, stood the home of the Meknassi family—named for their patriarch, a man who carried the city of Meknes in his very name. Brought to the region by a European colonist to manage the farm where he lived, Meknassi was a reserved figure, his caution an invisible shield around his home. Few crossed his threshold, yet our family was a welcome exception. His wife and children would occasionally visit, bringing small gifts of henna, headscarves, traditional cakes, and other Moroccan treats. We reciprocated with flavorful meals from the Moroccan smorgasbord—traditional dishes like rfissa, marchouch, couscous, and, of course, the ever-present mint tea. We freely shared what we could with the Meknassi family and borrowed farming tools, kitchen utensils, and, at times, foodstuff without hesitation or fear of refusal. On Eid days, the Meknassi family joined us to break bread, sharing pastries as if we were not simply neighbors but petals of the same flower. Together, our families always weathered the storms of sorrow and reveled in the sunlight of joy, offering unwavering support to one another. Perhaps Meknassi’s reserve stemmed from his unfamiliarity with this new land, a fear of the unknown. Or perhaps it was our family’s reputation for hospitality and peacemaking that drew him to us, like a weary traveler finding solace in a shaded grove. When Ssi Abid Boubia bought the estate and the Meknassis had to leave, it was a heart-wrenching day; saying goodbye was a very tearful occasion for my family.

To the south lived the Said Boubia family, later bound to ours by marriage. Said Boubia, the family patriarch, had been brought to the area from Doukkala, near El Jadida, by his father, a traveling peddler. Embracing their new surroundings, they made this place their home and learnt Tamazight. Said who grew up here and married an Amazigh woman, spoke it so fluently that the little Arabic he knew was unmistakably tinged with the tones of Tamazight. He became my grandfather’s closest friend—a man with the heart of a troubadour and the soul of a nomad. Carefree and resilient, he approached life as a song to be sung, not a treasure to be hoarded. Though he was middle-class by countryside standards, he always referred to money as “lushekh n dunith”—earthly dross. Said and my grandfather met almost daily in the grazing pastures, their camaraderie as natural as the sunrise over the Tizitine hills. Together, they tended their livestock, frequented the souk, and attended celebrations, as inseparable as a well-worn pair of boots. Said’s unannounced visits were legendary—a blend of spontaneity and humor that gave him the charm of a modern-day minstrel. Their friendship was a deep, flowing river, nourishing both families with laughter and unwavering trust. When Said’s wife, Hadda, passed away, my grandmother stepped in as a surrogate mother to his children, who called her “Tchia” with the same affection as my father and uncle. We generously shared what we had with the Ait Said, as we called them, and borrowed farming tools and kitchen utensils from each other with confidence, knowing they would never be refused. This, coupled with Said’s son later marrying my elder sister, deepened the bond between our families, transforming simple neighborliness into something akin to kinship—a connection forged in shared joys and sorrows, shared pastures and celebrations, and a profound understanding of life’s rhythms.

To the west lay the grand estate of the Benaissa Boubia family, their wealth stretching as far as the Tizitine horizons. They were the region's prominent landowners, possessing vast herds and sprawling fields; their affluence radiated like the glow of a distant sun—warm yet seemingly unattainable. Benaissa Boubia’s father, a humble traveling peddler from Doukkala, had been the first of the Boubia family to settle there, later joined by other kin. Benaissa grew up in Tizitine, learnt Tamazight, married Amazigh women, and adopted it as his everyday language, eventually losing fluency in his mother tongue and its tonal qualities. Benaissa, also adept at buying and selling, honed his skills to become among the most influential and prosperous figures, perhaps even the most influential. Yet, despite their considerable wealth, they treated us with a disarming humility that bridged any social divide. Benaissa himself, a man of stature and influence, often sought the company, and especially the counsel, of my father and grandfather, valuing their honesty and wisdom as a guiding compass in his affairs. His life experiences and paternal upbringing instilled in him a discerning approach to companionship, as evidenced by his wisely chosen friends and carefully selected words when speaking. His four wives, who divided their lives  between the city and the countryside, found solace and guidance in the gentle wisdom of my grandmother, who had midwived most of their children. As a child, I cherished accompanying my grandmother to their estate, knowing I would be treated to the finest confections from Meknes. Our annual formal gathering to host them saw our table overflow with dishes fit for royalty: mechoui, couscous, and free-range chicken—offerings symbolizing respect, reciprocity, and the generous hospitality befitting their prestige. When they came, with a family as large as theirs, their journey became a spectacle: some scoot and squish to make room for each other in the blue Renault 16, its elegant sway through curves reminiscent of a ballet dancer’s poise, while the rest rode in the cab and truck bed of their Ford lorry, its relentless charge over rugged terrain evoking the raw power of a bull. We plowed Baba Issat’s (as we sometimes called him) land, grazed our livestock in his fields, and occasionally worked for him, yet there was never even the slightest hint of discord.

Finally, to the east, like modest wildflowers gracing the edge of a meadow, stood the humble home of Boujemaa Agra, and his two brothers. Like our own family, they had been displaced from their ancestral lands, forced to toil for colonial settlers and affluent families. Their possessions were few—a small plot of marginal land, a handful of goats dotting the dry landscape, and a pair of sturdy donkeys—yet their hearts overflowed with kindness and generosity. Uncle Boujemaa, the head of the family, brought moments of pure joy with his visits, awaited with the same eager anticipation as the first drops of spring rain on parched earth. A natural with children, he invariably carried a small stash of sweets, delighting any child he encountered on his way to work, the souk, or while running errands. His wife and children occasionally visited when she missed our company and chats, their visits filled with shared meals, laughter, and the comforting aromas of traditional dishes such as rfissa, marchouch, and other traditional 'women' dishes. I still picture Aunt Hmama arriving astride a massive donkey, the youngest child in front and the older one behind—a living embodiment of the Amazigh saying "There's always room for one more," sometimes accompanied by her sister-in-law, Aunt Rukia, on foot. Each Monday, upon returning from the souk, Uncle Boujemaa transformed into a veritable Pied Piper, scattering trail mix and sweets along the dusty road to his home. This weekly ritual endeared him not only to the neighborhood children but to those of the entire tribe. In gratitude, we would kiss his hand, a small but sincere token of our appreciation for the warmth he brought into our lives. Having Uncle Boujemaa as a neighbor was a constant comfort, like resting against a soft cotton pillow—a reliable presence always there to ease life's burdens. His black Wellington boots, worn almost year-round, spoke of his practical nature and readiness to assist; my family knew they could always count on him when they needed help.

As the Chinese proverb wisely states, “A good neighbor is a found treasure,” this rings especially true in today’s fast-paced urban jungles. The once-vibrant tapestry of neighborly relationships has unraveled, its threads frayed by the relentless pace of modern life. Busy schedules, anonymity, and barriers of detachment have replaced the warmth of shared meals and the comfort of familiar faces. In earlier times, a knock at the door or the arrival of a visitor brought joy that enlivened the entire household. It signified more than mere company—it carried the promise of shared moments, a lovingly prepared dish, and the warmth of genuine connection. Today, however, such visits often provoke feelings of displeasure, irritation, or even frustration. Why have these bonds of neighborly goodwill and connection faded into distant memories, seemingly beyond revival? Perhaps it is because the soil of modern cities, unlike the rich, welcoming earth of the countryside, struggles to cultivate the roots of authentic human connection. Or perhaps it is because modern society has yet to grasp a timeless truth: that life's inherent difficulties and perils are best navigated not in isolation, but in community.

A Tribute to my Childhood Friends Noureddine Boutahar

 When I left the tranquil embrace of the countryside for the frenetic rhythm of Meknes to continue my education after primary school, I found myself adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces and daunting challenges. Yet, in that tumultuous new world, I forged a few profoundly genuine friendships that became my sanctuary during those days of initiation to city life and transition from the countryside. These friends were more than mere companions; they were kindred spirits who understood my essence and stood steadfastly by my side. Our shared tastes in movies, books, and hobbies intertwined seamlessly, allowing us to navigate the labyrinth of adolescence together, sharing countless laughs, tears, and adventures. Through thick and thin, their loyalty never wavered. We attended school together, played together, visited the cinema, frequented the library, and ventured forth wandering through the city’s streets, savoring the sights and the company. 

One of my dearest friends was Slimane. He was not conventionally handsome, yet his medium height, round face, hooded eyes, and snub nose exuded a unique charm. His blond, straight hair was perpetually cropped short, a common precaution against lice in those days. Slimane was a quiet soul, his true nature revealed only after the patience of long friendship. He shunned crowds and the spotlight, preferring the solace of obscurity. I was often struck by an ineffable sadness in Slimane, a depth that hinted at untold stories. Slimane hailed from a destitute Amazigh family with more than six children, grandparents, and an aunt all living in a small, old house in the impoverished neighborhood of Sidi Baba. He wore the same clothes almost every day, including a green military jacket gifted by a relative, which became an inseparable part of his identity. His pants, worn and faded, bore testament to their better days. His rough, low-heeled shoes, repeatedly cobbled, had long since lost their original color. Despite his humble appearance, Slimane possessed a heart of gold and our friendship was like no other. He was the kind of friend who stood by you resolutely, never deceiving or betraying. His maturity belied his young age, and his quiet strength was a balm to the soul. Regrettably, he never completed junior school, sacrificing his education to work and support his family. He left both the school and the city, and sadly, our paths never crossed again.

Then there was Driss. He was nearly as tall as I was, with a strong build and an awareness of his appealing, well-developed physique. Driss did not engage in sports outside of school, his strength honed through hard labor in the countryside during school holidays when he toiled in the fields to earn a few coins to buy school books and clothes at the flea market, much like many of us did at the time. Like me, Driss was of Amazigh origin, though he came from Mejjat, an Amazigh tribe that lay to the east of Meknes. He lived alone in a room he rented, perched atop a two-story building in the heart of the old Medina. His curly hair was often cut short, and his weather-beaten, muscular frame added to his allure as a burly figure. Driss was easygoing and talkative, always finding topics to discuss, yet he was also a good listener, persuaded by logical arguments. Though not proficient in languages, he excelled in math and physics, compensating for his linguistic limitations. When Driss and I were together, our classmates dubbed us Bud & Terence, after Terence Hill and Bud Spencer, the Italian actors and heroes of our youth, famous for their action-comedy and Spaghetti Western films, with one being the clever half and the other the strong but clumsy one. After junior school, Driss and I began to lose touch as we attended different high schools. Troubled by a tempestuous relationship, Driss did not complete his education; instead, he enlisted in the army. He pursued a military career, and I later heard he became a pilot.

Ahmed was another dear friend, a true Meknassi, who resided in the heart of the old city. He came from a modest family and was raised by his mother and grandparents after his father's untimely death. Ahmed's dark brown skin, tall and thin frame, curly hair often shaved, sharp nose, and long face marked his appearance. He was the shyest of all my friends, his timid nature earning him few friends at school, while concealing a heart full of empathy and compassion. Yet, his sensitivity and perceptiveness required careful handling to avoid causing him pain, inadvertently or otherwise. Like most of us, Ahmed had a limited wardrobe and often wore the same outfit throughout the school year, removing it only on weekends to wash. Ahmed did not continue beyond high school and soon joined the police, where he made a career. When I met him many years later, he had retired and was living a peaceful life with his wife and two children. He remained the kind-hearted, humble, and honest person he had always been.

El Ghazi, my second Meknassi friend, lived in the average neighborhood of Sebata. He was physically almost similar to Driss: brown-skinned, of medium height, and round-faced, possessing a moderate attractiveness. However, El Ghazi was carefree, impulsive, and impatient, always eager to prove himself. Unlike most of us, he let his curly hair grow long, earning him the nickname "Jimi Hendrix," after the iconic rock guitarist. El Ghazi was a sports enthusiast, and our shared passion led to our effortless friendship. We often persuaded our sports teachers to let us join other classes during free periods. El Ghazi and I attended the same high school after junior school, spending a couple of years studying hard and indulging in our favorite sports. In high school, due to our exceptional prowess in sports, we were entrusted with teaching other students rope climbing, handball, volleyball, and more. We took pride in this role, even though El Ghazi had a tendency to show off, especially in front of girls. In contrast, I was more serious and more committed. However, when I moved to Rabat in september of 1979, I lost contact with EL Ghazi. Without cell phones and lacking his home address, I could not keep in touch. I miss him today, as much as I miss all the friends whose paths diverged from mine after junior and high school.

Mouh was a true Amazigh, effortlessly weaving his ancestral tongue into our conversations. He called me Azaii, a nod to my Zayan roots, the proud inhabitants of the Middle Atlas Mountains, including my hometown, Oulmes. I called him "The Bohemian" because of his attire, lifestyle, and worldview. Mouh resided with his family in Borj Mashquq, a modest neighborhood in Meknes. His father, a diligent manual laborer, toiled tirelessly to provide for his family of almost ten. Mouh stood at medium height, his long face framed by brown eyes and hair that was a canvas of constant change—sometimes shaved close, sometimes cropped neatly, and at other times flowing long over his shoulders. He was a talkative, somewhat gullible, and open-hearted soul. What I admired most about him was his unyielding honesty; he never lied or made empty promises, always speaking his mind, regardless of the potential sting. Mouh’s ill-fitting clothes suggested they had been handed down from an older brother, father, or relative. However, it was his white plastic jelly sandals, repeatedly heat-welded, that set him apart. Our shared passion for soccer, with him playing barefoot, was a highlight of our friendship. However, my fondest memories were of our autumn weekend escapades to the vineyards of Meknes. We would scour the vine-laden fields around the city, gathering grapes overlooked by the harvesters. Laden with bunches of various hues and ripeness, we would return home, distributing our bounty to friends and neighbors, who in turn, rewarded our generosity with homemade cakes. Mouh joined the army before finishing high school, and I was delighted when he was stationed in Rabat for a couple of years, allowing us to reconnect. As a soldier, he and I, now a university student, would often meet for coffee and reminisce about our shared days in Meknes. Unfortunately, once he left Rabat, he disappeared from my life, and I never heard from him again.

Lastly, there was Ssi Mohammed. Living in the same neighborhood, we formed a bond despite never being classmates. He had left school early while still in 5^th grade to support his family, as his father's income was insufficient for their large family. Ssi Mohammed was strong but noticeably short, and while he could have been considered handsome, he paid little attention to his appearance, not even combing his hair. Despite his shyness and preference for solitude, he was good-natured, and his laughter, when it came, was heartfelt and genuine. We often met on weekends to watch movies, with Egyptian films being his favorite due to his limited understanding of French. Ssi Mohammed was the only friend who invited me to his home from time to time in Borj Mashquq, one of the poorest neighborhoods of Meknes then. His mother would make mint tea for us and cook Harsha, which we slathered with olive oil and pure honey from their countryside home in Zerhoun. Unfortunately, I started losing contact with Ssi Mohammed after I left Meknes. I visited him a couple of times after the baccalaureate, which I got in Rabat, but university life soon consumed my time and energy and left little room for anything else like reconnecting with childhood friends.

These were my childhood friends, each holding a cherished place in my heart. Their comfort and encouragement were my anchors during the formative years of my life and the critical times when I was thrust into an unfamiliar place, devoid of family and knowledge of local customs. They were the true friends who supported and guided me, listened with empathy, and transformed even the simplest moments into something extraordinary. As someone once said, “Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.”