In the early '70s, at the tender age of twelve, I was a
country bumpkin thrust into the heart of Meknes, wide-eyed and overwhelmed by
its towering buildings and bustling streets. The noise, the pace, and the sheer
number of people were utterly foreign to me. Each day felt like an adventure,
filled with both wonder and bewilderment. I faced a whirlwind of new and
challenging experiences daily, each with its own merits and demerits.
After completing primary school in the tranquil countryside, I
left my home village for the swarming city of Meknes to further my studies. The
transition was anything but smooth; finding a spot in a classroom proved to be
a daunting challenge. However, my father was relentless in his efforts to
secure a place for me. I vividly remember him tirelessly visiting numerous
junior schools in Meknes, moving from one to the next, earnestly pleading with
the principals to enroll me.
One day, he returned with a heavy heart and told me that all the
schools he had approached were full. He asked if I wanted to return home and
tend to the family livestock and work in the fields instead. Determined to
pursue my education, I urged him to try once more. Driven by my resolve, he
went back to Mohamed Ben Abdellah school principal, in a moment of profound
desperation, kneeled, and tried to kiss his feet. The principal, moved by my
father's earnest plea, agreed to enroll me and asked me to join the following
day.
The school, situated in the city center, was populated mostly by
city kids, making my initial adjustment particularly difficult. Yet, my hard
work and seriousness eventually helped me forge friendships, primarily with
other country kids and those from modest backgrounds. This diligence also earned
me the favor of my teachers, many of whom were foreign —French, Belgian,
Romanian, and Middle Eastern.
My teachers were a formidable amalgam of seriousness, diligence,
and unwavering support, tempered with a strict demeanor. Their dedication to
both their vocation and to our success was palpable, instilling in us a sense
of being valued and supported in our academic endeavors.
Despite my efforts to fit in, bullies were a constant presence and source of pestering. I
avoided them by steering clear of known hotspots, avoiding direct eye contact,
and always staying with a friend or two. Nevertheless, I faced discrimination
for my skinny frame, countryside origin, and Amazigh heritage. The
bullies often taunted me and hurled names like “beanpole”, “laarubi” —a
derogatory word meaning something akin to “hillbilly”, and “chelh” —a
denigratory term for Amazigh speaker. I met their insults with calmness,
ignoring their provocations and maintaining my self-confidence.
Boarding schools were scarce, so I lived with a family
acquaintance, Omi Fatna, a widow with two daughters who were more than a decade
older than me. The daughters visited occasionally, as they worked as housemaids
for French families. During their absences, I took on household chores, which
taught me valuable life skills early on, including washing my own clothes,
though I had only few.
My leisure time was divided between outings to the cinema with
friends on Sundays and visits to the library on weekdays when school was not in
session. Cinemas offered affordable entertainment, igniting a deep-seated
passion within me for the art of film. My companions and I delighted in a
diverse array of genres, from Westerns to Indian, Egyptian, and French cinema,
each worth every penny. Among our favorite actors were luminaries such as Clint
Eastwood, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Bruce Lee, Marlon Brando, Omar Sharif,
Faten Hamama, Mahmoud Lamliji, Ismail Yassine, Hind Rostom, and many others.
Every Rial (penny) given to me by my father, mother, and
grandmother, who served as my primary provider, was meticulously set aside for
the cinema. Whenever my grandmother planned a visit, she would sell a chicken
or two, generously allocating most of the proceeds to me. Her wallet was
nothing but her headdress. She tucked her money inside, secured it with a couple of
knots, and then hid it beneath another sequined Amazigh scarf or the collar of
a sweeping, oversized dress that trailed to the ground.
The City library in Hamria was another frequent haunt. My friends
and I would rent books and read them voraciously, passing them among ourselves
to read as many as possible each week. This insatiable reading habit greatly
improved my language skills, particularly in French and Arabic, and enriched my
writing, earning me good grades and praise from my teachers.
I excelled in sports as well, a facet of my life that held
considerable sway, elevating my self-assurance and honing crucial social
aptitudes. Excelling in basketball, soaring in high jump, and proving skilled
in racing and rope climbing, sports served as a conduit to expand my social
circle, forging new connections and assuaging the pangs of homesickness,
thereby facilitating my integration into the new environment.
Occasionally, I accompanied friends to Bab Jdid Square, a vibrant
echo of Jamaa Lafna in Marrakech, teeming with dancers, singers, acrobats, and
storytellers. Amidst the lively atmosphere, we immersed ourselves in diverse
performances, yet it was the storytellers who charmed me most. Their narratives,
usually drawn from Moroccan folklore, concluded with profound moral lessons. As
youthful students with limited means, our contributions to the storytellers’
livelihood were scanty. We would often disperse during donation pauses, only to
reconvene when the storytelling resumed.
One incident from junior school that I will never forget happened
during a sports session in 9th grade. As we were practicing shot-put, my turn came to
throw the heavy round metal ball. Just as I was about to release it, my teacher
unexpectedly stepped onto the landing sector to direct some students to move
away. The ball landed mere inches from him, forcing him to dodge. Though it was
not my fault, I quickly apologized. In a fit of anger, the teacher stormed
toward me and delivered a harsh slap across my face, throwing me off my stride.
The pain was not just physical; it pierced my heart with the sting of
injustice. The profound loss of dignity, particularly in the presence of my
classmates, has lingered as a haunting memory for many years, etching the
negative image of that teacher firmly in my mind ever since.
Financially disadvantaged though I was, a transplant from rural
origins, I discovered riches in authentic friendships, priceless experiences,
and newfound independence. Catapulted from my comfort zone at a young age, I
faced challenges head-on, navigating a strange, intimidating, painful, and
frequently bewildering world to forge my own path —occasionally navigating
alone, at times guided by circumstance, and oftentimes supported by the
guidance of teachers and the companionship of friends.
