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.

My Primary School Days: Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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