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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All That Glitters… Noureddine Boutahar

I pulled into the parking spot in front of the institute, mindful of those public protocols that some folks nowadays seem to view more as shackles than responsibilities. My orderly

approach didn't last long, though. The silence was shattered by the driver of a luxury car who, in a cliché display of "entitlement culture," parked in a restricted zone with such brazenness you’d think the law was merely a set of suggestions meant only for the little people.

He didn't stop at breaking the rules; he turned the street into his own personal trash can. He flicked a tissue out the window with the practiced ease of someone who thinks they're pulling off a slick move, when in reality, he was putting on a masterclass in social idiocy. It brought to mind the saying of the great Zouhair Bnu Abi Salma: “Whatever trait a man may possess, even if he thinks it hidden from others, it will inevitably come to light.” I shot him a look, intending it to be a reproach, but he met it with the icy indifference of someone who couldn't care less. He even repeated the act, this time right in front of his daughter—a student, presumably at an age where she’s still forming her own sense of right and wrong.

What’s most disheartening is that this wasn't just a simple case of bad manners; it was the embodiment of a tragic "flawed role model." The problem isn't really the discarded tissue; it’s the visual lesson the daughter just received: that the symbolic power suggested by a fancy car grants its owner a fake immunity from decency and order. As the Iraqi poet said: “If the head of the house is beating the drum, the whole family will follow suit and dance.”

This scene exposes a gaping hole in our collective consciousness. We burn so much energy criticizing the way society behaves while remaining blissfully ignorant of our own unchecked actions. This hypocrisy—preaching morality while failing to practice it—is the real rot. Unless we start holding ourselves accountable before we rush to police everyone else, we’ll just keep watching our values crumble, left only to mop up the mess of our own double standards.

The Teaching Profession in Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

The teaching profession today stands at a precarious crossroads—its voice diminished, its  

stature eroded, its burdens quietly multiplied. In Morocco, as elsewhere, the figure of the teacher—once held in near-sacred regard as a custodian of knowledge and a shaper of destinies—has gradually been pushed to the margins, caught in the undertow of shifting values, fragile governance, and a troubling deficit of both material and moral recognition.

This erosion did not occur overnight. It is the slow sedimentation of years of imbalance. The classical image of the teacher rested on a stable triad: the trust of the family, the authority of the institution, and the protection of the state. Today, that equilibrium has fractured. Pedagogical discourses that rightly sought to center the learner have, in practice, often hollowed out the teacher’s authority. At the same time, the creeping language of managerialism has recast education in the vocabulary of the marketplace—where the student becomes a “client,” and the teacher, a cautious provider of services, navigating a terrain where initiative is stifled and missteps are costly.

In such a climate, trust has yielded to surveillance. The worth of the teacher is too often reduced to metrics, reports, and administrative compliance, rather than the quiet, transformative impact he or she imprints on young minds. Creativity withers under this weight, replaced by a pedagogy of survival—measured not in inspiration, but in the ability to endure.

Material conditions only deepen the strain. Education continues to be treated less as an investment than as an expense to be contained. Modest salaries, scarce resources, and taxing conditions—particularly in rural and peripheral regions—have driven many capable educators to reconsider their vocation. This quiet exodus is not a failure of commitment, but a lucid response to a system that asks much and gives little.

Yet, at the heart of this crisis, something essential endures: the human bond between teacher and learner. It is this fragile, resilient thread that sustains the very meaning of education. When the teacher is worn down—mentally, emotionally, professionally—it is the learner, especially the most vulnerable, who bears the cost.

To restore dignity to the profession is not merely a matter of policy; it is a moral imperative. It calls, on the one hand, for structural reforms that reaffirm the teacher’s authority, improve working conditions, and recognize education as a strategic investment. On the other, it demands a renewed professional consciousness—one that enables teachers to reclaim the depth of their mission while setting the boundaries necessary to preserve their humanity.

For in safeguarding the teacher, we safeguard the school; and in safeguarding the school, we secure the very fabric of society.

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.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston Noureddine Boutahar

Boston University was never merely a stop along my academic path; it was a space where new layers of awareness took shape and where experiences accumulated with a depth no less profound than what I learned in lecture halls. Ah, Boston—a city that knows how to leave its mark on the soul, how to plant in memory shadows that do not fade with time. There, among the venerable buildings and quiet corridors of the university, I was not only a student in pursuit of knowledge, but a human being rediscovering himself, learning to see the world with wider eyes and a more attentive heart.

In those years, I lived in one of the university’s imposing wings—a residence modest in appearance yet rich in human encounters. I shared it with Si Ahmed, a Palestinian for whom Palestine lived in the chest long before it could ever be reduced to a place on a map. His talk was never mere political commentary or passing news; it was a daily confession of pain, memory, and a right that does not expire with time. He spoke of his homeland as one speaks of one’s mother—with raw sincerity and a loyalty that never runs dry. I listened at length, sensing—without his having to spell it out—that a homeland may be occupied in land, but it is never defeated as long as it lives in the hearts of its people. As the old saying goes, home is where the heart is.

The name of the building we lived in—Ignacio Hall—stirred a quiet curiosity in me. Who was this “Ignacio,” immortalized on a university wall? One day I asked a professor about him. She did not know the details, but she spoke of a well-rooted tradition in American academic culture: that students who find success return to their first university to give back, building a wing or endowing a facility that bears their name, in gratitude to the place that helped shape them. Her answer was less a lesson in history than in gratitude—a reminder that one good turn deserves another, and that true loyalty often speaks in deeds rather than slogans.

Beyond shared housing, Boston also gifted me a rare friendship whose warmth I still carry. Nasser, an Algerian from Kabylia, was my closest companion and daily confidant. Quiet and sparing with words, his presence was as reassuring as a clear morning. He faced life with a steady gaze, loved its simplicity, and lived in harmony with himself, as if calm itself had chosen to dwell in him. His Amazigh identity flowed in his veins without affectation or the need for proof—proof, after all, lies in being, not in saying.

I recall a day when we were strolling through downtown and came upon a large bookstore. We entered out of curiosity, perhaps also out of nostalgia for paper in an age when screens were beginning to elbow books aside. Silence ruled the place, until suddenly the strains of a Kabyle shatḥa drifted from a hidden speaker, breaking the stillness and awakening memory. In that instant, Nasser changed; something lit up in his eyes. He grasped the edges of his jacket and burst into the traditional Kabyle dance with pride and joy, oblivious to the surprised glances around him. I stood there, captivated, applauding, and understood then that true identity does not wither in exile—it often shines more brightly. You can take a man out of his land, but you cannot take the land out of the man.

Yet the deepest—and simplest—lesson came to me from an unexpected place: a glass door in the university library. One day, as I pushed it open, I felt it scraping the floor and wondered how such a flaw could go unattended. I remarked to Nasser, with mild disbelief, how Americans could overlook something so small. No one answered me that day. But the following morning, at precisely seven-thirty, we passed by the same spot. The door opened and closed smoothly, as if nothing had ever been wrong. I saw no maintenance worker and heard no tools—only the result. And then it dawned on me: progress is no magic trick, nor the child of chance; it is the quiet fruit of conscientious work done without fanfare. As the proverb has it, actions speak louder than words.

We, the In-Between Generation of the 60s, 70s, and 80s Noureddine Boutahar

Almost everyone born somewhere between the echoes of the sixties and the dawn of the eighties, back when the world felt a little rougher around the edges, belonged to a different breed. Born in the 1960s, 1970s, and early 1980s, we are the “in-between generation”—a unique segment of society. Born into simplicity, nurtured in modesty, and thrust, almost unprepared, into the maelstrom of technology and modernity, our lives bridge the analog and digital eras. Our experiences reflect the beauty of tradition and the challenges of transition, caught between the warmth of the past and the chill of the present.

In our formative years, life unfolded at a gentler pace, and moments held profound significance. Childhood wasn't measured by screen time or social media validation but by scraped knees, dusty playgrounds, and storytelling beneath a canopy of stars. Ours is the generation that stood at the cusp of a profound transformation, witnessing life as we knew it undergo a sea change. This pivotal experience wove a rich, intricate tapestry of memories, experiences and ideas within us, —a perspective so nuanced that even Picasso’s brush or Dalí’s surreal vision could scarcely capture its unique essence.

We walked miles to school under the scorching summer sun or through the biting cold of winter rain, with minimal protection from the elements. Education was rigorous: exams covered entire textbooks, not fragmented summaries. There were no private tutors, no motivational speeches, no multiple-choice tests to soften the challenge—just raw grit, honest effort, and the ingrained belief that hard work paves its own way. We respected our teachers, often viewing them as guiding lights. A mere glimpse of a teacher on the street was enough to instill in us a sense of humility. Our guiding principle was straightforward: "He who seeks greatness burns the midnight oil." Today, a different sentiment seems to hold sway among young people: "Cheat to succeed; integrity is a losing game."

In those days, entertainment was homegrown. We crafted our own toys from whatever scraps and simple materials we could scavenge around the house, breathing life into sticks, cloth, iron wire, and string. Barefoot and carefree, we ruled the dusty alleyways, playing open-air games like tag, hide-and-seek, leapfrog, hopscotch, and blind man's bluff, our laughter echoing through the village or neighborhood like birdsong at a spring dawn. Yet, never once did a foul word escape our lips; a far cry from the vocabulary that fills the air these days! We clambered up trees like little monkeys, often tearing our clothes and leaving bits of ourselves behind—scratched and splintered, but undaunted. With the devil-may-care attitude of youth, we swam in ponds teeming with leeches and water snakes, and drank from creeks and streams that today would make a health worrywart faint. Yet, against all odds, we grew hardy and strong, as if we were tempered by nature’s own forge.

We grew up under wide skies in tattered clothes, understanding that a torn shirt and battered shoes weren't a source of shame but a testament to experience. We scraped knees without a parent hovering like a helicopter at every stumble. If we got hurt, there was no mad dash to the hospital—just a pat on the back, a whispered “You’ll be fine,” and a little dirt rubbed into the wound like some ancient magic cure. Tears were for the weak; we were told to suck it up and carry on. And yet, look at us. We thrived.

Back then, values like respect, gratitude, modesty, and humility were not merely taught—they were stitched into the very fabric of daily life. They were poured into us from an early age, like water into the roots of a young tree, by parents, relatives, and neighbors who shared a common vision of what a child should become. Schoolteachers, too, were given a free rein to shape our character with a firm but guiding hand. Between parents and teachers there existed a simple, ironclad understanding: "Spare the rod and spoil the child."

But then, the world underwent a seismic shift; the familiar landmarks vanished.

The digital floodgates burst open, and the world we knew began to crumble like a house of cards. Unprepared, we had to adapt or be swept away. Radios and gramophones yielded to televisions and cassette players and, subsequently, to computers, dumb phones, and then smartphones. The transformation wasn't gradual; it was abrupt, dramatic, merciless and all-encompassing. We transitioned from using address books and landlines to instant messaging and cloud storage, from the tactile ritual of rewinding cassettes to the immediate gratification of streaming services, from the deliberate act of writing longhand letters to the swift tap of emojis. Everything became more convenient and faster—yet also more devoid of substance.

This generational upheaval wasn’t solely about gadgets; it was a profound psychological and emotional adjustment. We bore the considerable weight of adapting without guidance—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes painfully, but always with resilience. We had no digital natives to mentor us through this new terrain. We simply had to survive—to adapt, to keep pace, to comprehend—without the luxury of choice in a world increasingly defined by "live or perish."

Now, we exist in a state of duality. Our hearts divided between the simplicity of the past and the conveniences of the present. One part of our hearts resonates with the quiet moments, the genuine human connections, and the tangible joys of the the past. The other part beats with a sense of resignation in the digital present, where relationships are often virtual, conversations are reduced to fleeting emojis, and serene silence has been drowned out by incessant noise.

Despite these profound changes, much of our core remains intact. Though our hair may have silvered and our reflections may seem unfamiliar, we remain anchored to the values of the past. We still carry the quiet dignity of well-worn clothes, the deep pride of hard-earned success, and the understated elegance of inner strength. The world may have transformed, but we still stand—not as relics of a bygone era, but as living witnesses to a time of genuine meaning.

To our generation—the generation of patience, endurance, and profound transformation—respect is rightly due. We were not handed a ready-made identity, yet we forged one. We witnessed the world bend, break, and rebuild itself—and yet, we persevered. We braved the stormy landscape of the era, weathering religious and political turmoils with a resilience forged by necessity. We walked a tightrope through those turbulent years—sometimes coming through unscathed, other times just by the skin of our teeth.

So, let the younger generations scoff at our nostalgia. Let them label us “the old school.” We wear that designation like a badge of honor because we are the bridge—connecting two distinct worlds, fluent in two languages of experience, feeling the weight of both eras. We are the quiet resilience in a clamorous world, the living memory in a digital haze.

We are the X-generation, to borrow Douglas Coupland’s term, carrying the memories of our origins but never forgetting how far we have journeyed —and that, dear readers, is the unwavering beacon that poit us home.

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.

The Architecture of Character Noureddine Boutahar

With the exception of my father, who taught himself to read and write, my family was illiterate. Yet, they were architects of character, raising a garden of children rich in values, etiquette, and empathy. In our rural home, my

education began long before I ever took a seat in a classroom. My parents, grandparents, uncle, aunts, and even the wider community served as my first teachers. They did not teach with books or blackboards but through life itself, imparting lessons learned from their own experiences. I learned by observing their harmonious lives, listening to their wise words, and emulating their virtuous actions.

Respect for elders was one of the keystones of my family’s unwritten curriculum. Elders were more than just elderly; they were living archives, custodians of not only family and village history but also our traditions, myths, and legends. To honor them was both an obligation and a privilege. In our home, grandparents were the sun around which we all revolved, their voices sought for guidance in matters as weighty as marriages or property disputes and as light as the proper way to welcome a guest. We kissed their hands or foreheads after every separation and upon returning from school as a sign of affection and respect. We never wavered in our willingness to help them find misplaced garments and always offered assistance in performing difficult chores and carrying heavy burdens. Among our Amazigh families, any elder man was an “unky,” and any elder woman was an “aunty.” Even elder siblings held a place of honor within the family.  Brothers were addressed as "Baba," and sisters as "Lalla" or "Mamma"—titles conveying reverence and respect, reflecting the belief that even "a single day's difference in age brought wisdom".  This same respect extended to teachers, who were considered akin to parents.  The saying "The one who teaches me even a single word is like a father to me forever" illustrates this deep appreciation. Teachers were seen as guides, leading students through the vast and wonderful world of knowledge, and were therefore held in the highest esteem. Ultimately, respect for the elderly—rooted in earned trust rather than blind submission—served as the mortar binding the bricks of society, enabling us to bridge the generational divide and foster stronger intergenerational connections.

Good manners were another keystone of the silent curriculum my family passed down. In our home, good manners were more than rules; they were an art form, a type of choreography for graceful coexistence. From an early age, I learned the subtle melody of courtesy: never to talk back, never to stare intently, to sit up straight out of respect and humility, and to speak only after careful thought, for words are arrows that cannot be taken back once released. Equally important, we were taught never to be bystanders, to act when witnessing wrongdoing, and to take responsibility where others might look away. Even at the table, we practiced restraint: eating sparingly in the presence of guests, feigning fullness out of pride and generosity—a lesson embodied in the saying, “Hunger in my stomach, pride in my heart.” When sharing food, the largest portion always went to the other person, a quiet testament to the deep-rooted altruism of our rural life. Gratitude, too, was a virtue rehearsed daily, as natural as breathing. A simple “thank you,” wrapped in a warm gaze and smile, my parents said, wove a shared joy between the giver and receiver. These good manners were instilled in us through words, example, and the ceaseless rhythm of sayings and idioms, repeated so often they became woven into the fabric of our being, second nature and instinctive mantras.

Hospitality was the shining gem of our family values, a flame that burned warmly in our home for strangers and friends alike. We seldom ate a meal without a guest at our table. Our door was always open, and visitors came from near and far, drawn not just by necessity but by the knowledge that they would be received as kin. Even beggars, peddlers, and passersby found food and shelter under our roof. My grandfather, ever mindful of this deep-seated tradition, would invite a neighbor for no other reason than to ensure the guest spot was never left vacant. Hospitality, as practiced in our family, was not mere obligation; it was a celebration of humanity itself. It reminds me of Louis de Jaucourt’s words in his Encyclopédie, where he characterized hospitality as “the virtue of a great soul that cares for the whole universe through the ties of humanity.”

Honesty, too, was a virtue etched deep into our souls in the bloom of childhood, remaining as unwavering as a mountain. My father’s creed, “I’d rather lose my head than my integrity,” was a beacon we were taught to follow. Integrity was not merely expected; it was demanded, reinforced through countless examples. I recall a stray calf that joined our herd and stayed so long it became sacred—a no-man’s animal, untouchable as though blessed by fate itself. My family exhausted every avenue to track down its rightful owner, even hiring a public crier at the souk to announce its presence in our cattle. When no legitimate claimant appeared, the calf lived out its days with us, untouched—a silent testament to our family’s unbending commitment to honesty.

Another important principle instilled in our family was the value of work. In our home, work was more than a duty; it was a reflection of our core values—excellence, integrity, and diligence. From the moment we could walk, we were given small tasks, and as we grew, our responsibilities expanded. This was because our parents recognized work as a source of purpose, self-respect, and growth—providing direction, fostering learning, and enabling meaningful contributions to society. As far back as I can remember, our hands were engaged in simple but essential tasks: sewing our own clothes, mending buttons, washing light garments, and tending to the cows, sheep, and goats. These humble beginnings prepared us for the more exhausting labor that awaited us in the fields, where we toiled from sunrise to sunset. The reward for our efforts was modest—a token payment, not for its monetary value but as quiet encouragement, teaching us the dignity of effort and the pride of self-reliance. My family insisted, like Martin Luther King Jr., that any job worth doing should be done so well that “the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better.” This ethos of excellence became my compass, guiding me through life, even when others mocked my perfectionism as “too much” or “obsessive.” Yet, it also earned me the respect of those who understood the importance of striving for greatness.

Nowadays, these virtues—once our compass and anchor—often feel like burdens in a world where honesty is a bygone ideal and flattery the currency of the realm. The principles our traditional families instilled in us now clash with a society that values expediency over integrity. Those of us who cling to these old virtues are viewed as obstacles, relics of a bygone era. Yet, even as I struggle against the current, these values remain the marrow of my being—an inheritance more precious than rubies. They are the roots that ground me, even as the winds of change swirl around us.

 

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.”

My Quranic School Experience. Noureddine Boutahar

As I journey down the memory lane of my life, retracing it to my early childhood, one striking and indelible memory comes to the forefront — the momentous and somewhat daunting first day at the Quranic School. This particular recollection is so vivid that it demands to be shared, pursuant to the insightful words of American writer Lois Lowry, who aptly remarked, 'Memories need to be shared.' 

Morocco has long been distinguished by a unique and authentic method of Quran memorization, a tradition passed down through generations. This practice which unfolded in Quranic schools known as "Kuttab" or "Msid", relied on simple tools like wooden boards, reed pens, and ink made from gum arabic and clay. These schools were supervised by a teacher known as the Fqih, selected by the villagers. Instead of receiving monetary compensation, the Fqih was provided with provisions for living, and, if single, even a wife from the village. Beyond teaching the Quran, writing, and arithmetic, the Fqih also served as a respected advisor to the community, playing a crucial role in shaping young minds and guiding the village through various aspects of life.

In my generation, almost every child attended the Quranic School, almost like a kindergarten rite of passage. However, my stint there was fleeting. I remember my first day vividly, as if it happened only yesterday. The Fqih, seated on a sheepskin rug that doubled as his prayer carpet, wielded a long stick that reached every nook of the room, bustling with cross-legged students aged five to seven. As he enforced discipline among the students, an air of fear permeated the atmosphere, heightened by the Fqih's imposing physique and resonant, intimidating voice.

On the day I joined the Msid, our main focus was on reciting Quranic verses. Towards the back, a young boy grappled with the verses, his pauses and hesitations betraying a lack of memorization. Abruptly, at the Fqih's signal, two older boys sprang into action, seizing the struggling reciter, pulling him to the front, and binding his feet. The Fqih wielded a two-foot olive tree stick adorned with small thorns, unleashing a merciless flogging upon the child's soles. Despite the child's desperate cries and promises of improved memorization the next day, the Fkih remained indifferent. 

Unable to witness this injustice without response, I spontaneously rose, grabbed an ink bottle, and swiftly made my exit. Alarmed, the Fqih hastily pulled up his Jellaba, chasing after me for a few steps. Eventually, he halted, calling out for me to return with the bottle. However, I sprinted away, resolute in my determination to escape the troubling scene.

Despite residing almost four miles away from the Msid, I made a swift return, outpacing the renowned Said Aouita. My heart pounded against my ribs, and tears blurred my vision as I recounted my sob story to my astonished and alarmed mother and grandmother, one breathless sentence at a time. My grandmother, my stalwart protector, vowed to ensure I never returned to the Msid.

In the ensuing days, my father took the initiative to enroll me in a formal primary school, albeit as a listener due to my not having reached the eligible age. Mr. Ourrach, with his remarkable kindness, trustworthiness, and unwavering support, fostered an environment where I felt at ease, enabling me to enthusiastically absorb a wealth of knowledge, including a few Quranic verses, from the sidelines. His passion for teaching was truly authentic, and he triumphed in capturing the hearts and minds of all his students.

As for the topic of caning, it was part and parcel of attending Quranic Schools. It constituted a widespread form of corporal punishment in Moroccan Msids, being meted out for a spectrum of infractions, both serious and trivial. These included failure to recite verses, making noise, truancy, bullying, fighting, stealing, and disobedience. Children were struck on various body parts, and the severity often depended on the perceived gravity of the offense. However, many students attested that the number of strokes seemed arbitrary.

Today, as I hear the heart-rending stories of the dehumanizing punishments my peers endured under certain Fkihs' authority, a profound sadness engulfs me. Yet, my heart swells with immense gratitude for my exceptionally kind-hearted, affectionate grandmother. She not only spared me from the haunting specter of having my mental and emotional health shattered by a mere stick but also shielded me from potential negative consequences in physical development.

Breaking the Chains of Hypocrisy Noureddine Boutahar

As if Lady Colin Campbell were speaking on my behalf when she said, 'I'm not two-faced; I'm honest, and I tell it the way it is. I'm not good at hypocrisy, pretending to be someone I'm not.' Back in my younger days, my dear old grandma, may her soul rest in peace, used to tell me that I had seriously "thick lips." Of course, she wasn't referring to my pout! What she meant was that I was as straightforward and blunt as they come. Grandma's sage advice was, "Be more like camels, darling. They've got soft tongues, perfect for munching on those prickly weeds without a fuss!”

 Fast forward to my adult years, and boy, did I face a conundrum dealing with the sheep mentality posse—the folks who march to the beat of situations and circumstances, spinning a web of lies and hypocrisy as they go. I found it tough because my honesty and no-nonsense attitude were rare like a diamond in a field of pebbles. People expected me to dish out lies as if I were a counterfeit artist forging illusions on the canvas of conversation, just to go with the social flow.

 Oh, the struggle was real! I suffered because I refused to partake in what I call social hypocrisy. They wanted me to flash a grin at people I couldn't stand, all in the name of social decorum, as if my feelings were supposed to take a backseat to theirs. I was expected to bend the truth, sprinkle fairy dust over unpleasant realities, and perform the delicate dance of social hypocrisy. However, I couldn't bring myself to play the game.

 Then, as I ventured further into the wider world, I stumbled upon the stark reality that hypocrisy is the cherished policy du jour. I crossed paths with folks who championed family values but were caught red-handed cheating on their spouses. I met religious leaders who preached about honesty but were later exposed for spinning tall tales. I encountered people who wore a friendly facade when things were smooth, but showed their true colors in times of adversity. And don't get me started on those who claimed to be against discrimination but then spewed out racist and sexist remarks like confetti.

 I was told that we're all hypocrites at times, that our actions needn’t always line up with our beliefs. I was told about the existence of "white lies," and it left me feeling a bit bewildered. It struck me as curious that people would assign colors to lies in an attempt to rationalize them. Translation? Be an angel in the daylight and a mischief-maker when no one's watching. Spread kindness and compassion during the day, and let loose your satanic side when night falls. What kind of society are we brewing here?

 Allow me to shed a bit more light on the matter: there's a clear distinction between the art of courtesy and the murky waters of hypocrisy. While courtesy is all about embodying politeness, respect, and good manners, hypocrisy takes a detour into the realm of deceit, lies, and dishonesty. Picture it like this: courtesy is the VIP section of genuine behavior, while hypocrisy is the uninvited guest crashing the party with a bag full of duplicity. Simply put, doing the right thing without the right intentions is a one-way ticket to the land of the hypocrites.

 A moment of silence for Mr. Ourrach, my primary school teacher, may he rest in peace. He left an indelible mark on my mind with his lesson from the famous and cherished Iqraa textbook: "Wherever you go, be mindful of your actions, for the eyes of God are always upon you." Oh, my, what a textbook! It brimmed with captivating tales of morals and values, weaving a mosaic of wisdom that resonated with the very essence of life. It wasn't just a book; it was a treasury of timeless lessons that sparked the imagination and guided the soul.

Secrets to Educational Triumph! Noureddine Boutahar

In my exploration of successful education systems across the globe, encompassing countries like Finland, Singapore, Germany, and Iceland, a consistent theme emerges: success isn't just a happy accident; it's the result of deliberate and strategic brilliance. These nations have artfully crafted a mosaic of practices and values, working in perfect harmony to yield extraordinary educational achievements.

A cornerstone of these successful systems is the emphasis on having high-quality educators. Teachers within these systems typically come from esteemed colleges and universities, a deliberate choice aimed at ensuring a sustained high standard of pedagogical expertise. Recognizing the pivotal role educators play, these successful systems go the extra mile to ensure fair compensation, acknowledging the significant contribution teachers make in shaping the future generation.

Moreover, these cultures place an undeniably significant value on education, recognizing it not merely as a means to personal development but as a crucial tool for broader economic advancement. This societal mindset fosters a deep-seated commitment to the pursuit of educational excellence.

In these systems, equality stands as a guiding principle, with nearly all students attending public schools, effectively minimizing the disparities that often characterize the schism between private and public education. Complementing this commitment to equality are the deliberately small class sizes, averaging around 20 students. Furthermore, up to three teachers may be present in a class, with one dedicated specifically to assisting struggling students, thereby providing personalized support.

An additional testament to the commitment to nurturing relationships is the prolonged interaction between teachers and students. Teachers often remain with the same group of students for up to five years, ensuring a sense of continuity and familiarity. This extended relationship allows teachers to intimately understand the strengths and weaknesses of each student, contributing to a more tailored and effective learning experience.

Formal education in these countries takes a departure from conventional practices by commencing at the age of seven. This intentional delay allows ample time for play and exploration during a child's formative years, recognizing the importance of holistic development beyond academic pursuits.

Another distinctive feature is the limited emphasis on testing, with formal exams deferred until the age of 16. This aligns with a pivotal juncture where students undergo assessments to guide their career or college choices. This intentional approach alleviates the pressure of testing, providing students with the freedom to develop holistically without the burden of excessive assessments.

The well-designed and balanced daily schedules in these systems, extending from 8:00 to 14:30 with a 30-minute lunch break, lay the foundation for an optimal learning environment. Firstly, they promote active involvement in extracurricular activities and the pursuit of personal interests, contributing to a more comprehensive and enriching educational experience. Secondly, by preventing students from spending the entire day at school, the schedules mitigate the risk of developing a disdain for the learning environment, preventing it from turning into a snoozy, prison-like scene that nobody wants to be in.

Streamlining education programs and curricula is a hallmark of these successful systems. By concentrating on essential subjects, knowledge, and skills while minimizing unnecessary complexities and workload for students, these systems guarantee a well-rounded and meaningful education.

Last but not least, the commitment to state support for teachers in these successful systems is palpable through various initiatives that ensure favorable working conditions. For instance, comprehensive professional development programs are offered to educators, equipping them with the latest teaching methodologies and tools. Additionally, the provision of modern classroom resources, such as interactive technology and up-to-date textbooks, exemplifies the dedication to supplying teachers with the necessary materials to facilitate effective learning environments.

In stark contrast to our education systems that commodify and devalue teachers, successful and ideal educational systems recognize the profound significance of quality educators, equal opportunities, and a holistic approach to student development. Without these key elements, our dream of a successful and nurturing educational environment for the future is just a whimsical fantasy. Without genuine reform, we will persist in passing the blame like a game of hot potato, tossing responsibility between us until the day when everything inevitably crumbles!

Desperate and Angry, Moroccan Teachers React: Noureddine Boutahar

Poor students! They are trapped in an oscillation, back and forth like a pendulum between home and school. This daily commute has become a routine part of their life all due to the justified strikes by their teachers. These strikes are a result of the pigheaded Education Minister's misguided devotion to his failing Fundamental System, treating it like a treasured relic. 

In response, teachers have decided to go on strike to voice their complaints after years of unparalleled patience and false façade peace. But why, you ask? Well, it's quite simple: The darn mountain put in all that effort, and what do we get? A measly, pathetic mouse, as the Arabic saying goes. 

Teachers have finally had their fill of the government's ingenious reforms in the educational system. The government, in its boundless wisdom, decided to take a bulldozer to the existing educational system. They went all out and tore it down completely with this baleful Fundamental System.

On the other side, educators, in their stubborn insistence on having a well-functioning system, have the audacity to demand better working conditions, fair pay, and resources for their students. Is it too much? Are they asking for the moon?

For decades, these educators have been making sacrifices they see as acts of dedication, willingly offering extra hours, extending their efforts beyond their job descriptions, assuming additional responsibilities to enhance their institutions, and even dipping into their personal resources to procure teaching materials, from pens and beyond. Unfortunately, those in positions of authority have misinterpreted these acts of commitment as signs of submission and vulnerability. The government took an inch for every mile the teachers gave it.

Initially, the Fundamental System was implemented discreetly and fell significantly short of teachers' expectations. It also entailed an increased workload for teachers, provided no salary raises, and introduced an extensive list of punitive measures that seem more fitting for dealing with bandits than dedicated educators! Moreover, it slapped teachers with a whopping 38 percent increase in income taxes. In addition, extra responsibilities were added to teachers' already demanding roles, making their workload even more overwhelming. Furthermore, the system made the already challenging path to career promotion even more torturous, to put it mildly. Lastly, and to add insult to injury, the system provided salary increases to administrators, while leaving teachers out in the cold!

This shows that our government has a very different vision for reform, one that avoids tackling the root issues and devising creative approaches to fix an education system in shambles. One such vision involves applying a fresh coat of paint, labeling it as 'reform,' and hoping that everyone will be fooled. The other is embracing an attitude dripping with arrogance, provocation, and intimidation instead of trying to put out the fire of a heated battle. Another one is unabashedly churning out one infuriating memorandum after another in record time, adding fuel to the blazing fire of discontent.

For surely, in the minister’s pursuit of his educational utopia, he decided to fly solo. This decision is set to cause a meteoric rise in discontent among the educators. The reckless wasting of invaluable instructional time will be elevated to an art form, and the utter ruination of the futures of those despairing students from humble backgrounds will be the crown jewel in Ben Moussa’s grand opus.

In conclusion, we can only hope for a collective awakening of conscience regarding the ongoing crisis in the Moroccan education system. It is crucial to prevent further damage to our own national interests. However, it is noteworthy that this is a pivotal moment for reform, and seizing this opportunity is very imperative. Failure to do so could have undesirable repercussions for generations to come.