Life is the Best Teacher

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

2026-07-06T04:35:34.939-07:00

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

2026-04-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

2026-04-21T05:13:00.000-07:00

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.

"Luxury" Farming: The High Cost of Exports — Noureddine Boutahar

2026-04-04T10:30:00.000-07:00

The paradox between export-oriented agriculture and food

sovereignty embodies the core thesis of the book Food First (Lappé & Collins). The authors argue that hunger and vulnerability are not the results of resource scarcity, but rather political choices that prioritize "digital growth" and macroeconomic figures over the basic livelihood and security of the people.

Applying this lens to the Moroccan model, it is clear that successive agricultural policies have triggered an export boom while leaving the citizen's "daily bread" at the mercy of the wind. This obsession with luxury crops tailored for European and Gulf markets is depleting Morocco’s most precious resource: its water.

While entire regions face structural thirst, groundwater is being diverted to cultivate water-intensive "cash crops" like watermelons and avocados in semi-arid zones. These products essentially export thousands of liters of water overseas, while the domestic prices of staples like onions and potatoes soar to record highs.

True to the book's warnings, subsidies and incentives flows primarily toward large-scale investors and export giants. Meanwhile, the small-scale farmer—the backbone of grain and vegetable production—faces the specter of bankruptcy and drought. This imbalance fuels a rural exodus, further straining urban centers and driving up inflation.

In our modern context, the "manufacture of hunger" does not imply an absence of food in the markets; rather, it means that the cost of a simple citizen's tagine is now held hostage by foreign currency fluctuations and the whims of international consumers. Returning to national priorities—privatizing wheat and basic vegetables over luxury fruits—is not merely an economic preference; it is a fundamental necessity for social stability and genuine sovereignty.

When Envy Turns Lethal — Noureddine Boutahar

2026-04-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

A Jordanian social media user brilliantly captured the current wave of jealousy surrounding Morocco's footballing

dominance by drawing on a haunting literary allegory. He tells the story of a village pillaged by invaders, where every woman was forced into submission except for one. She fought tooth and nail to defend her honor until she finally repelled her attacker.

Instead of hailing her as a hero, the other women conspired to kill her. Their motive? Her survival as the "sole virtuous one" was a stinging rebuke to their own surrender—a living testament that exposed their compliance to their husbands.

This metaphor perfectly encapsulates the toxic political and sporting envy currently directed at the Kingdom of Morocco. Unable to keep pace with the Moroccan "footballing boom" or the country’s world-class infrastructure, critics have found themselves overshadowed. The success of the Atlas Lions has become a mirror, cruelly reflecting the failures of those around them.

Morocco’s excellence has become an "unbearable proof" of others' shortcomings. Consequently, praying for Morocco’s downfall in the Africa Cup of Nations isn't about healthy sporting rivalry; it is a desperate attempt to normalize failure. They want everyone to wallow in the slough of despond together, hoping that by pulling Morocco down into the mud, they can finally obscure the towering achievements that keep them up at night.

Morocco Is the Root Noureddine Boutahar

2026-02-11T10:25:00.000-08:00

Moroccan identity runs deep—weathered, resilient, and not easily worn down. It rises from the stubborn contours of this land and the singular

temperament shaped by its mountains, deserts, and seas. Moroccans are not an offshoot of somewhere else, nor a cultural satellite orbiting East or West. Just as Japan belongs to its islands, China to its civilizational core, and the Arabs of the Peninsula to their own cradle, Morocco belongs first and foremost to itself. Its geography has forged a temperament that does not bend easily and does not trail behind others.

If someone feels a sentimental pull toward a homeland beyond our borders, that is their private affair. What they cannot do is project that longing onto an entire nation or dress ideological fantasies up as historical destiny.

One persistent myth—often driven by politics rather than scholarship—is the claim that Morocco must be “Arabized” to be authentically Muslim. That argument collapses under the slightest scrutiny. Islam is a universal faith, not an ethnic label. Iranians are Muslim but not Arab. Indonesians are Muslim but not Arab. Moroccans are proudly Muslim, but their faith does not erase their Amazigh roots, nor does it require them to trade their history for someone else’s. To portray Moroccans as latecomers or subordinates in their own land is less an argument than a bid to dilute a sovereignty that predates recorded memory.

The defense of Moroccan identity is not romantic rhetoric; it rests on hard evidence. Long before chronicles were penned, archaeology had already spoken. The discoveries at Jebel Irhoud revealed that some of the earliest Homo sapiens—over 300,000 years ago—walked this soil. Morocco is not a branch grafted onto a distant trunk; it is one of the oldest roots of humanity itself.

Even Ibn Khaldun, so often selectively quoted, dismissed the fanciful claims linking the Amazigh to Yemen or Himyar. He was unequivocal: such tales belonged to legend, not history.

Attempts to assign Moroccans an “external lineage” have come from opposite directions. Pan-Arab ideologues tried to fold Morocco wholesale into the East. European colonial powers, under “divide and rule,” floated theories of Northern European Amazigh origins to legitimize their presence. Different scripts, same objective: deny Morocco its own authorship.

We are not guests here. We are not late arrivals. No other nation is endlessly asked to justify its belonging; why should Morocco be? We claim no privilege and seek no quarrel, but we refuse to live in anyone’s shadow. Ours is a nation shaped by ancient kingdoms and far-reaching empires, not an echo chamber for borrowed voices.

Even in moments of sporting triumph and trial—like the recent African Cup—identity revealed itself plainly. In the end, a Moroccan stands first with his brother and on his own soil. This land breeds pride, fierce solidarity, and a work ethic that speaks for itself. As the poet Miskin al-Darimi warned centuries ago: “Your brother, your brother—for he who has no brother is like a man who charges into battle unarmed.”

The 3 Lies of Harvard Noureddine Boutahar

2026-02-06T10:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Letters to “Teranga” — and to Those Who Hide Behind It

2026-02-01T09:47:00.000-08:00

Noureddine Boutahar

To the Senegal Head Coach:

Coach, do you rest easy after breaking faith with the oldest law of hospitality—bread and salt —and feeding it to disorder? What unfolded was not competitive intensity; it was a failure of command. Morocco did not train you so you could return as a conqueror, nor did it help build your career so you could trample the rules of the very house that once gave you shelter. You replaced the game’s intelligence with temper, turned the stands into a fog of noise, and used the touchline as a megaphone for agitation. The signal to your players was unmistakable: lose your composure and you might yet prevail. In that moment, you stopped leading and started lighting fires.

To the Senegalese Football Federation:

To the Federation, this is a rebuke equal to the disappointment you have caused. Rather than acting as a brake on excess and a guardian of standards, you chose to shield misconduct—sometimes through silence, other times through thin excuses that fooled no one. Where was the moral authority that sporting diplomacy demands? Where was the respect owed to millions watching and to thousands filling Moroccan stadiums? You squandered a long-standing legacy of fraternity—one forged well before the eras of Senghor and Abdou Diouf—and traded wisdom for obstinacy, restraint for bluster. By allowing recklessness to stain the Lions of Teranga jersey, once a symbol of continental dignity, you reduced it to evidence of institutional drift unworthy of Senegal’s standing. Worse still, this blow came not from an open rival, but from a partner we assumed had our back—only to discover, too late, a knife in it.

To the CAF Disciplinary Committee:

Your ruling was not balance; it was evasion. Placing victim and aggressor on the same footing is not justice—it is its distortion. Disorder was not punished; it was normalized. You issued the offender a clean bill of health and broadcast a corrosive lesson: raise your voice, bend the rules, and leniency will follow. In doing so, CAF drifted from the role of referee into that of fig leaf, blurring the line between order and chaos and confirming, once again, that African football struggles to clean its own house. As the old saying goes, a crooked yardstick never measures straight.

To Those Who Lie in Wait for Morocco’s Fall:

Your embrace of turmoil is not conviction; it is instinct. It is crab mentality at its rawest—if we cannot rise, no one should. Your effort to drag Morocco down is really an attempt to smash the mirror that exposes your own shortcomings. In the process, you hand the world fresh proof for its worst clichés about the continent and push African football another step closer to the edge. You are, quite simply, cutting off your nose to spite your face.

In closing, Morocco must remember that it is moving through a jungle, not strolling in a landscaped garden. Machiavelli’s advice remains as relevant as ever: be a fox to detect the traps, and a lion to keep the wolves at bay.

When the Pitch Tears Away the Mask Noureddine Boutahar

2026-01-21T10:01:35.616-08:00

The Africa Cup of Nations was far more than a mere tournament; it was a

crucible of truth. It shattered the brittle illusion of "brotherhood" and stripped away the masks of affection that had long obscured less noble faces. In the heat of competition, buried grudges surfaced, and the hollow resonance of slogans withered before the bluntness of reality. From the debris of these broken pretenses, one clarity remains, pristine and absolute: a Moroccan is brother to a Moroccan.

Experience has been a stern teacher, revealing that those who do not cherish goodwill are unworthy of it. Nations are not anchored by the fickle applause of strangers, but by the bedrock of inner strength and the unity of their own ranks. Real power is found in the "inward turn"—in trusting our own genius and forging a domestic solidarity that requires no external validation. Morocco’s worth is drawn solely from the veins of its own sons and daughters.

To those whom we offered our hearts before our homes—those welcomed with the warmth of genuine hospitality and the sanctuary of our stability—decency proved a foreign tongue. They chose to repay grace with contempt, baring fangs that had been carefully hidden beneath cloaks of hypocrisy. In truth, they have not harmed Morocco; gold does not rust, and our essence remains untarnished. Instead, they have performed a singular service: they have shown us exactly who they are.

The response to such betrayal is not found in the futility of reproach, but in the dignity of a constructive withdrawal. We must pour our collective energy into the "Morocco of Tomorrow," a project defined by unwavering seriousness. Like a caterpillar retreating into the silence of its cocoon to prepare for flight, we must turn inward. Our country belongs in the ranks of nations far too dignified to be distracted by the petty malice of bad neighbors or the warped mindsets of false friends.

This path is not an innovation; it is the well-worn road of greatness. History is replete with nations bitten by the snakes of betrayal that chose to heal through self-reliance:

Germany: After the ruin of war and the bitterness of fractured alliances, it turned its gaze inward. By rebuilding its identity and economy from the ground up, it became the titan upon whose shoulders the continent now rests.

Japan: Rather than being extinguished by nuclear fire, it answered devastation with a productive inwardness. Rising from the ashes of Hiroshima, it conquered the world through the quiet power of science and technology, leaving the noise of empty slogans to the winds.

History confirms the old wisdom: no one scratches your skin as well as your own fingernails. To waste time on those with "crab mentalities"—those who seek only to drag the soaring back down into the swamp—is to risk drowning in the mud of their making. Our strength lies in the conviction that reaching the summit requires our eyes to stay fixed on the peak, oblivious to the stones thrown from the shadows below.

Ultimately, the architecture of a nation depends not on the approval of the world, but on the resilience of the home front. As Dostoevsky observed, “If you want people to respect you, respect yourself first.” True self-respect begins with the courage to stand firmly, and exclusively, on one’s own feet.

Take the Fruit and Leave the Wood for the Fire Noureddine Boutahar

2026-01-03T08:33:00.000-08:00

People toss out good ideas all the time—sometimes just because of who said them, or old grudges, or because they don’t like the person’s beliefs or background. It’s a shame. Truth doesn’t wear a name tag, and wisdom isn’t picky about who delivers it. What actually matters is the value an idea brings, not where it came from. You’ve heard it before: don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.

If we always played this game—rejecting anything that didn’t originate from our own little corner—we’d lose out on almost everything we rely on. Imagine saying no to cars because they weren’t invented here, or refusing to use a phone because it came from someone with a different worldview. That’s not how progress works. Civilization is messy, shared, and built on contributions from every direction. Wisdom is like lost property—if you find it, grab it. It belongs to anyone willing to claim it.

That’s the beauty of Ali ibn Abi Talib’s old saying: “Take the fruit and leave the wood for the fire.” It’s simple but sharp. Focus on what’s useful. Take what helps, what teaches, what adds something real to your life, and let the rest go. Ignore the distractions—the quirks of the messenger, the baggage, the stuff that gets in the way. Sometimes you’ve got to practice the art of overlooking, too. Don’t trip over someone’s flaws if what they’re offering is genuinely good.

Living this way means being flexible in your thinking. The smartest people can spot value, even if it’s wrapped in something they don’t like, or comes from someone they disagree with. If you close yourself off, if you only ever listen to people who look or think just like you, you end up stuck in a tiny world. You never see the big picture peeking through the keyhole.

Honestly, we need that kind of wisdom now more than ever. There’s so much noise, so many clashing opinions. Instead of slamming the door on everything unfamiliar or inconvenient, start picking out the fruit wherever you find it. Figure out what feeds your mind and soul, and leave the rest for the fire. That’s how you grow. That’s how you rise above the small stuff and make the world a little wider, a little richer for everyone.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston (contd) Noureddine Boutahar

2025-12-31T11:02:00.000-08:00

Boston reveals itself as a quiet visual composition, where layers of history stand shoulder to shoulder with a contemporary pulse and a firmly rooted academic spirit. It is a gentle city, yet heavy with memory; its landmarks speak eloquently of the transformations they have witnessed. From the Freedom Trail, its red line threading through old houses, silent churches, and the State House, to the precincts of Harvard University in Cambridge—where knowledge carries its own dignity and life moves to a modest, unhurried
rhythm—the past and the present interlace without clamor. This sense of clarity deepens during a stroll along the Charles River, which flows like an artery of light and water, dividing the city without tearing it apart, and then in the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA), where art speaks in whispers and identities recede before the eye’s astonishment. Meanwhile, The T moves like an unseen thread, stitching places to faces and moments, affirming that Boston is not merely a place, but a state of being—one that quietly rearranges my relationship with time.

As days passed, Boston ceased to be a scene observed from the outside and became an experience lived from within. In its small details—in the measured pace of people’s steps, in their uncomplicated relationship with time, in the presence of books in cafés and on trains—there was a meaning that slipped in softly. A meaning not proclaimed aloud, but felt.

I came to realize, gradually, that reading here is neither an exceptional act nor a badge of cultural distinction; it is a daily habit, as natural as breathing. People carry books the way they carry their keys, returning to them whenever the day offers a small pocket of emptiness. It all seemed so ordinary as to pass unnoticed—except to someone arriving from a place where reading is an event rather than a routine. As the proverb goes, familiarity breeds content, and what is woven into everyday life rarely calls attention to itself.

I recall one day on The T, heading back from downtown toward the university district. The train was crowded, and I stood quietly watching faces. Most passengers were absorbed in their books, newspapers, or e-readers, as if each were traveling alone despite the crush. Suddenly the train lurched; I lost my balance and fell against a young lady seated nearby. I apologized, but she did not look up, nor did she show the slightest irritation. She was so immersed in her book that the surrounding world seemed no more than a faded backdrop.

In that moment, no grand explanation occurred to me, no ready-made conclusion. I simply sensed that reading creates around a person a calm distance—one that shields them from intrusion and offers an engagement deeper than watching others. Those who fill their time with what they read place a lighter burden on the world, granting others the simple right to be as they are. After all, empty minds are the devil’s workshop, while occupied ones tend toward quiet grace.

Thus Boston has remained in my memory: a city that does not teach by direct instruction, nor raise signposts telling you what to understand, but leaves its mark gently. A city that reminds you that what is built within endures more firmly than what is erected without, and that meaning—like a river—needs only a measure of silence to keep on flowing.

Shadows and Lessons from Boston Noureddine Boutahar

2025-12-31T10:51:00.000-08:00

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.

Novice Teachers and the Search for Ready-Made Material: A Closer Look. Noureddine Boutahar

2025-10-30T03:53:00.000-07:00

A quick look at teacher forums and social media today reveals a striking scene: novice teachers, bright-eyed but often exhausted, frantically scour the internet and plead with colleagues for ready-made lesson plans, activities, tests, and quizzes. To an unsympathetic observer, this desperate search might look like laziness—a refusal to "do the hard yards" of planning. However, that view completely misses the forest for the trees. What we're actually seeing is not indolence, but a very real-world response to the huge chasm between pedagogical theory (what they learned) and classroom practice (what they face every day). This common behavior signals a systemic flaw, but it also reflects something admirable: a profound yearning to teach well, to make learning truly worthwhile for their students, and simply, to get it right.

As a teacher who began teaching in the late 1980s — an era of chalky fingers and clunky blackboards — I understand that impulse all too well. Back then, there were no search engines one could summon instant inspiration from, no online forums teeming with shared wisdom. I, too, sought ready-made material from experienced colleagues, hoping to pilfer their magic. Most refused — not out of meanness, but out of wisdom. Left to my own devices, I struggled through the nights, crafting my initial “pedagogical dishes” from scratch. Those years were my true apprenticeship, my baptism by fire.

I recall one sweltering afternoon when I was attempting to explain an English word without slipping into Arabic. My hair was damp with sweat, my patience thinning, my students wide-eyed. Years later, one of them — now a high-ranking official — reminded me of that exact moment: “I remember your long, straight hair was wet with sweat as you tried to define that word. Thanks for trying.” That single memory, more than any promotion or certificate, remains my greatest reward. As Paulo Freire once wrote, “Teaching is not the transfer of knowledge, but the creation of possibilities for its own production.”

Every young teacher deserves the grace to grunt and stumble, to burn their fingers a little before they become masters of the craft. Their hunger for pre-packaged lessons is not a quest for comfort but a hunger for excellence. They want their classes to shine, their students to grow, and their own hearts to feel the quietude of satisfaction of a lesson well-taught. The trouble is not in their desire, but in the system that leaves them insufficiently equipped to meet it.

In most teacher training institutes, theory is presented in sterile separation, as if classrooms were Petri dishes. Yet the real classroom is a living organism — unpredictable, noisy, and magnificiently imperfect. New teachers, thrust into this whirlwind, often feel like sailors thrown into a storm without a chart or compass. Their desperate search for ready-made materials is really a search for a lifeboat — a bridge between theory and practice, a concrete model to copy and adapt.

When novice teachers borrow, simplify, change and modify proven lessons, they are, in effect, standing on the shoulders of giants. Einstein once said, “The only source of knowledge is experience.” By reworking the experiences of others, they gain velocity in their own. This is not intellectual piracy; it is apprenticeship — a silent form of professional development where imitation precedes innovation.

But this reliance on shared resources also exposes a deeper ailment: the absence of sustained, on-the-job training and mentorship. My own growth as a teacher did not happen in isolation; it was nurtured by seasoned supervisors, lively pedagogical meetings in Morocco and abroad, and the courage to step outside my comfort zone through presentations and model lessons. Lacking such support and opportunities for growth, many teachers today turn instead to the digital agora — those vast online communities — as a substitute for the mentorship they never had.

Instead of wagging fingers at new teachers who “copy and paste,” we must listen to what their behavior is communicating. It is a call for help and guidance, not a confession of weakness. The solution lies not in shaming, but in scaffolding — in building systems that accompany the teacher’s early struggles with patience and generosity.

John Dewey once observed, “If we teach today’s students as we taught yesterday’s, we rob them of tomorrow.” The same applies to teachers. If we prepare them with outdated methods, we rob the classroom of its future vitality. Teacher training must break from abstract frameworks and shift towards living practice: model lessons, peer observation, and collaborative lesson studies where ideas are tested, refined, and shared.

Let us then reframe the narrative. The novice teacher’s search for ready-made materials is not a flaw to correct, but a spark to nurture — the flame of commitment that drives them to seek the best for their students. When properly guided, that search can evolve into a powerful culture of professional growth, where teachers learn with and from one another. As the old saying goes, “A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.”

And so, rather than dismissing the novice teachers’ quest, let us offer them matches instead of lectures, encouragement instead of criticism, help instead of prejudices — for in kindling one teacher’s flame, we brighten the entire classroom of tomorrow.

Saving Public Schools is Saving the Country. Noureddine Boutahar

2025-09-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Public education in Morocco has never been just a place to teach reading and writing; it is the collective memory and the true factory of the nation’s elites. Yet, through years of failed government policies, it has been deliberately maligned and painted as a corpse waiting to be buried—so that the gates of privatization can swing wide open. It is grossly unfair to reduce public schools to a story of failure. These very schools produced the doctors who filled our hospitals, the engineers who designed dams and roads, and the professionals who ran our institutions. They raised Morocco’s name high in international competitions. From their classrooms came the golden generation that built the foundations of an independent state, and their graduates compete in the world’s top universities. How can any government, with a straight face, deny this history and run away from these achievements?
The bitter truth is that successive governments never truly wanted to reform public education; they treated it like a guinea pig for half-baked experiments driven by partisan and electoral interests. Take the so-called “Arabization” policy: a hasty decision, only half-baked—Arabic in primary and secondary, but French still ruling higher education. The result? A deliberate exclusion of poor children, while the wealthy secured their future in private schools and foreign missions. As the proverb goes, “When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.”
And then came the notorious “Emergency Plan.” Billions were poured in, only to vanish into thin air. Nothing changed in classrooms, because planning was chaotic and decisions were made behind closed doors, far from the voices of teachers on the ground. Was this not organized chaos? Was this not a calculated demolition of the last bastion of social equality?
The latest brainchild of the government is the “Pioneer Schools” project مدارس الريادة . The program promises to go back to basics, sharpening students’ skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic through methods like “Teaching at the Right Level” (TaRL). It also pledges ongoing teacher training, better school facilities, and stronger parental involvement.
Yet the scheme seems to have started off on the wrong foot. Just a couple of years in, teachers and parents already fear it is clipping the wings of top students merely to keep everyone on the same page. As a result, many families are flocking to private schools—a costly move at a time when household budgets are already stretched thin by soaring food prices.
Successive governments have pushed public schools to the back burner, even though they are the last line of defense for the poor against a system of privilege. Instead of protecting them, they colluded to weaken them—forcing struggling families into the arms of private education, piling debt on their shoulders. Call it what it is: a deliberate impoverishment of public education to fatten the private market.
What public schools need is not more empty talk, but political courage: to restore teachers’ dignity—long trampled underfoot—, to invest seriously in infrastructure, to modernize curricula with boldness, and to neutralize the power of the greedy lobbies that profit from failure. Otherwise, governments are not simply weakening education; they are burning the very bridges to the nation’s future. And as another proverb reminds us: “You reap what you sow.”

A Cry Against Chaos: The Funeral of Courtesy Noureddine Boutahar

2025-08-21T11:55:00.000-07:00

Tahar Ben Jelloun, in his latest article, didn’t unveil a hidden truth or hand us a philosophical gem. He merely rubbed salt into our daily wound: the slow, humiliating death of manners and civic sense. Nothing groundbreaking here, except that while many of us keep burying our heads in the sand, Ben Jelloun stood up and shouted: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are a nation addicted to chaos much like toddlers clinging to their toys!”

Yes, today we are hargawis of behavior—refugees from civility itself. We elbow and jostle in lines as if survival depended on it. We curse and insult at the drop of a hat, in full stereo, in front of children and grandparents alike. We feed stray cats and dogs on neighbors’ doorsteps as though sidewalks came with title deeds. We cross the road with the elegance of stampeding buffalo and then swear at whoever dares to honk. In cafés, buses, and other public places conversations are pitched at rock-concert levels, phone calls become public theater, and the rest of us are forced to applaud nonsense we never asked to hear. And when night falls, it is treated not as a time for rest, but as a sacred hour for collective harassment: music blaring, voices rising, laughter piercing as if we are not a community but lone Robinson Crusoes on a shared island.

And if that wasn’t enough, we’ve thrown in a few more “special effects”: skipping queues in bakeries and government offices as though we were God’s chosen; driving with the philosophy of “the road is mine and to hell with you”; blocking intersections to swap jokes and family gossip; honking horns like battle drums. Weddings become noise factories, complete with deafening music and ululations that could wake the dead, while the sick neighbor or weary worker be damned. Even funerals aren’t spared: we close streets, torment the living, and call it paying respect to the dead. And to put the cherry on the cake, we sprinkle in habits like letting our dogs run off-leash in public, leaving toilets unflushed so the stench can linger as a “souvenir,” blocking hallways as if they were personal living rooms, and seasoning it all with a generous dose of foul language in public spaces.

We tag public walls with vulgar graffiti that screams less “artistic expression” than “civilizational meltdown.” Garbage bins sit steps away, yet our trash prefers the street. Vigilantism, vandalism, hooliganism — we’ve turned every shade of antisocial behavior into a national folk dance. Children play football in alleys as though they were in the Champions League, while residents and drivers dodge balls instead of traffic. Smoking in public spaces is practically a civic duty now; object and you’ll quickly regret it—verbal abuse if you’re lucky, a fist or a spit in the face if you’re not. Apologies? Out of stock. Empathy? A relic. Giving a seat to an old man or priority to a pregnant woman? That’s for fairy tales.

The real punchline? We baptize this chaos with sugar-coated excuses: “It’s nothing,” “God forgive,” “hshooma,” “never mind him/her.” Voilà: breaking the law becomes charity, and disorder is paraded as a national virtue.

A few days ago, I remarked on a friend’s Facebook post that cafés had become breeding grounds for deliberate rudeness, where disturbing others is sport and confrontation is dessert. Within hours, two hundred people had clicked “like.” Proof, if any was needed, that this isn’t just my irritation—it’s a collective migraine.

And let me add a little scene of my own. I was busy drafting this article when a series of odd clicking sounds snapped my concentration. I turned around, only to find a well-dressed gentleman — shiny suit, neatly tied necktie, the whole “respectable” package — casually clipping his nails right in the middle of a supposedly “upscale” café. Imagine that: a VIP outfit paired with a public-bathhouse habit! What refinement, what taste! A surreal moment that perfectly sums up our paradox — a society plastered with cosmetic polish on the outside, yet betrayed by its fingernails on the inside.

Ben Jelloun, then, wasn’t slandering his country. He just said, in elegant French, what the rest of us shout in vulgar Arabic: enough is enough.

His cry wasn’t an attack on the homeland, but an attempt to jolt it awake. He longs for Moroccans to be known again as polite and composed, not as a nation of people who excuse every misdeed under the tattered banner of “freedom.”

But if we keep dozing, mark my words: one day we’ll gather to pray the funeral prayer of the absent over our nation’s morals—a funeral with no corpse, for a country murdered by many of its own children’s bad manners and strangled by its rulers’ greed.

And the cure? Not rocket science. As Tahar Ben Jelloun himself suggested, enforce the law, punish the offenders, and—just maybe—teach citizens that society is not their private backyard. Until then, all the window dressing in the world won’t hide the rot.

Remembering Yamna Naaziz and the Soulful Art of Thamawayth. Noureddine Boutahar

2025-07-26T05:03:00.000-07:00

I remember it not just as a dream, but like a song carried on the wind. I was just a child, too small to hold a memory steady, let alone guide a mule. Yet there I sat, in front of my aunt Yattou on our sorrel molly mule named Gazella, trotting from my parents’ nomadic camp toward my grandparents’ permanent home. Once the tent disappeared behind the hill, my aunt broke into song—not just any song, but Thamawayth. Her voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the trail, weaving stories of longing, sorrow, hope, and love. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was my first brush with the heartbeat of the Middle Atlas—and the unforgettable voice of Yamna Naaziz, the woman at the heart of this article.

Thamawayth is a unique form of Amazigh poetry, traditionally performed solo. It’s often sung by a lone traveler crossing forests or a shepherd among his flock—a melody born of solitude and carried by the breeze. According to Amazigh linguist Mohamed Chafik, the word itself derives from the idea of companionship: a presence that keeps one company as one journeys through mountains and valleys. More than just music, Thamawayth is the soul’s voice, echoing into the silence. As one Quora user aptly put it, "Folk songs are important because they are a cultural phenomenon that reflects the values, dreams, and struggles of a people." That is precisely what Thamawayth embodies: it is the cry of a culture, shaped by time, hardship, and hope.

Structurally, it floats between poetry and prose—usually three to five lines, free from rhyme but rich in melody and vocal ornamentation. While both men and women perform it, it’s the female voice—with its emotive depth and tonal richness—that often leaves a deeper mark. In the Amazigh world, Thamawayth is no passing fancy. It accompanies harvests, sheep-shearing, village celebrations, punctuates a singing night, and preludes the galloping pageantry of Tbourida horsemen. When performed before an audience, it ends in a swell of applause, uproarious cheers, trilling ululations, and the beat of drums. Even animals seem to respond—I’ve seen horses nod, step, and rear as though the song/poem stirred something deep within. They say music soothes the savage beast; in this case, it awakens its soul.

Yamna Naaziz, later known as Yamna Tafersit, was born in 1930 in the countryside near Khénifra. She began singing at fifteen, around 1945, and never looked back. Her voice was a rare gift: it carried sorrow and joy in the same breath and seemed to pour feeling straight into form. Raised in the grandeur of the Middle Atlas—where even the stones seem to hum—she didn’t just sing Thamawayth; she became it.

Unlike today’s stars who rise under bright spotlights, Tafersit’s talent bloomed in fields, valleys, mountains, and meadows. While village girls gathered firewood and fodder or toiled in the fields, Yamna sang to them—lightening their burdens with each verse. She never sought fame; it came to her. She was a companion in labor, a balm for the weary, and a voice for the voiceless. As Hank Williams once said, "Folk songs express the dreams and prayers and hopes of the working people." And that’s exactly what Thamawayth has done for generations of Amazigh women and men—it has carried their burdens and dreams through the echo of every mountain pass.

The story behind Tafersit’s name is the stuff of legend. According to scholar Abdelmalek Hamzaoui in Treasures of the Middle Atlas, Yamna’s original family name was Ifersten. Her grandfather, Moha Ouhammo, was a man of great strength. One night, he was ambushed by six or seven thieves aiming to steal his livestock. But instead of fleeing, he stood his ground and chased them all off single-handedly—no bloodshed, just sheer courage. The next morning, the tribe was abuzz: “Moha devoured the thieves!” they said—not literally, of course, but in admiration of his bravery. In Amazigh, they said Ifersten Moha, and over time, the name became Afersi. After his death, his son—Yamna’s father—was called Aziz Afarssi. When Yamna registered for her administrative documents in 1968, she feminized the name and became Tafersit.

Yamna Naaziz was a contemporary of Amazigh music legends like Hammou El Yazid, Moha Oumouzzoun, El Ghazi Bennacer, Abchar El Bachir, and Mimoun Outouhan, with whom she sang the timeless epic, Awa Thaamithi Awa Thanghithi (“My Sight You Stole, My Life You Claimed”), and the Ahidous maestro Lhouceine Achibane. She also sparred in poetic duels with masters like Hmad Nmynah and Ichou Hassan. Tafersit didn’t merely drift with tradition—she carved its course.

Yamna’s voice was unmistakable, unforgettable. It carved its own generous space in the world of Thamawayth, somewhere between the velvety softness of Aicha Tagzafet—known for her duets with Hammou El Yazid—and the commanding strength of Hadda Ouakki, whose iconic performances with Bennacer Oukhoya need no introduction. Yamna’s voice also danced with the playful lilt of Itto Mouloud, famous for her songs with Lahcen Aâchouch, and echoed the vast, heartfelt tones of Fatima Tawsidant, who sang alongside Mohamed Rouicha and Mohamed Maghni. Among these luminaries, Yamna’s voice shone like a full moon in a cloudless sky—neither overshadowed nor imitative, but radiant with its own light and legend.

Before phones and loudspeakers, Thamawayth often served as a secret language—an artful way to convey veiled love messages or warn of impending danger, all wrapped in metaphor and melody. One striking example comes from the first piece recorded by Tafersit at RTM (Moroccan Radio and Television) in 1966, which opened with these powerful lines:

زايْذْ كْعذيل إوْحْذاذي نشْ أوانْ يِوينْ أبْريذْ كّولّا يْمعيذانْ نقّانْش

“Fill your horse with more fodder, you who prepare for travel! Your enemies have sworn to destroy you!

This haunting verse wasn’t born in a vacuum. Its roots reach back to the time of the French occupation of Moroccan lands. As the story goes, a woman spotted a young man preparing his horse for a journey. Aware that enemies lay in ambush, planning to kill him, she didn’t shout a warning—she sang one. With danger in the air and spies possibly nearby, she used poetry as a shield, sending him this cryptic message wrapped in metaphor and melody. In a time when every word could cost a life, her voice became his lifeline—a subtle warning hidden in plain sight.

Yamna Naaziz’s poetry spanned the full spectrum—from the depths of personal sorrow to the heights of national pride. Yet the piece that every Amazigh, young and old, carries in their heart is a love story woven in legend, and it goes like this:

أذْروخْ أوا روياخْ كاخْ ثينْ اجظاظْ أياسْمونْ قّاري يعقوب أرْش قّارخْ

“You weep, and I weep—like two stranded birds. Darling, call me Jacob, and I’ll call you [Isaac].”

A line of aching simplicity, full of longing and love. Its roots lie in a legend many Amazigh children grew up hearing—often around a glowing fire, wrapped in ahandirs (Amazigh handwoven blankets), their grandmothers’ voices weaving memory into myth. Though the three popular versions of the legend differ slightly in detail, their core meaning and theme remain the same across them all.

My own grandmother, may she rest in peace, told it often. She said that long ago, a virtuous woman in the tribe sent two young boys—Jacob and Isaac—to deliver food to a pregnant woman with cravings. But, as children often do, they were overtaken by curiosity and hunger. They tampered with the food—tasting it, playing with it—until it was spoiled. When the woman found out, her reaction was swift and fierce. Not only had they ruined the food, but they had betrayed a trust. In her anger, she cursed them: May God turn them into two birds, perched forever on the same tree—each calling out to the other, yet never able to see or hear one another again. And so it came to pass. The heavens heard, and the boys were transformed—left to chirp and cry endlessly, close in distance, yet forever out of reach.

Tragically, Yamna Naaziz’s final years were marked by hardship. Despite her enormous contribution to Amazigh heritage, she passed away in 2006, in illness and poverty, in a modest home in Khénifra. No fanfare, no state honors. And yet, though her body departed quietly, her voice still lingers—echoing through valleys, drifting on radio waves, etched in old recordings, and stitched into memory. A voice like hers doesn’t go silent—it haunts the wind.

For me, Thamawayth is more than a genre—it’s a refuge. I don’t just listen to it; I sing it. Whenever I hike the mountains of my hometown, Boukashmir, and find myself in a vast, open space—a canvas of wind, solitude, and memory—I let my voice roam. And when I am truly alone, I return to these favorites:

أوا شْمِذِرُورانْ أثِيزي نو، أوا گبدّلّ إغْصان إخاثارّ سْوِ دّايْمْزّين!

I wish I could bring back my youth! I wish I could trade these old bones for young ones!

أوسيخْشْ أ لْمْري ذا وْرْ ياذاسْ عقّيلْخْ إيْخْفْ إينوْ أورْ ثْنوگيزْ ألّيگالْ ساوالخْ

I held the mirror, but I didn’t remember myself, nor did I recognize my reflection until I spoke.

ثْنّا يِثْگيظْ أوخا تيتْگّا بوتسْمّارث إ لْقالْب إسْمخازّا باظاظْ إغْصانِينو

What love has done to me—even a hammer couldn’t do to a sugar cube; love has crushed my bones.

أوا زيخْ ثايْتشّين أيْدّايْ سّالاْيْن غدْ أيْدّا يْسْظارّ إوْرگازْ ألْمْسّي نْسْ

It is the woman who elevates or diminishes a man's status and his home.

أدّا يْناوْظْ عاري أثوگا خْسْ أشمانّيخْ إكْسْ لْقْنْظْ إِ وُولِنو أوا يْغّوذا أوراعا نْمْ

When I climb the mountain and see the greenery, despair leaves my heart because of the beauty I behold.

إوا يا يوذْماوْن زيلّينْ، أموديسْنوفا وْرْتْمْثاثم أتقّيميم أوما دّويْث أتافْظ

To you, good faces, I wish you hadn't died, even if it meant the end of all existence.

أجّانْخ أنْسّارا ثيميزار ثْنّا وْري يْعْجيبن رْحْلْخ، أناوْظ ثيدّا وْرْسّينْخ.

Let me roam the world. Should a place displease me, I'll depart, seeking lands yet unknown.

أثا حوذْرْ أ طّْيّارَا أوشيدْ أفرْ أذامْ نارو ثابْراتْ أوِيتْ إِيواينْحوبّا غرْ يْخامْن

Bend down, airplane, and give me your wing, so I can give you a letter to take to my beloved’s tent.

أوا عْدّان ميدنْ زيلّين وْرِيد إسْ قْلّان، إوا ماني شا يْعْزّن غورِي أذيگ أمْ ثاسانْو

Many good people exist; they aren’t hard to find. But where are those as cherished as my own heart?

أثاظْفي نْدّونيث أموريد إِ لْموث أ لْحْرّ لِّيخْرا وْرْذا دّيتْعاياذْ وْنّا ثِيوْيْ

How sweet life would be if not for death! Oh, the bitterness of death—for whoever it takes never returns.

Sadly, it’s a crying shame that thousands of Thamawayth poems—rich in beauty, metaphor, imagery, and subtle encryption—have been lost to the sands of time. Not from neglect, but simply because they were never written down. This loss flows from the deeply oral nature of Amazigh culture—or perhaps from the fact that it was kept that way by force or fate. Every time an Amazigh poet, man or woman, passes away, it’s as if a priceless book has been turned to ash—its pages never read, its wisdom gone forever.

A Journey into the Heart of Thaanasarth Noureddine Boutahar

2025-07-08T11:21:00.000-07:00

There are moments in life that rise from the fog of memory like smoke from a slow fire. For me, the ritual of Thaanasarth—an ancient Amazigh celebration observed each year on July 7—is one such moment. The scent of burning harmel (rue), the bleating of goats, the sharp commands of my grandfather summoning us children to gather—all remain etched in my senses like an ancestral song echoing through time.

This was more than a ritual; it was a way of life, a spiritual and agricultural anchor that tied us to the land, to one another, and to a heritage older than memory. As Marcus Garvey once said, “A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” Thaanasarth was just that—roots stretching deep into the soil of tradition, memory, and meaning.

Growing up in the Moroccan Amazigh countryside in the 1970s, I remember waking to the crackle of fire and the sight of smoke curling into the sky. My grandfather, alongside my father, uncle, the shepherd, and our fieldworker, would gather around a large bonfire. They were preparing for Thaanasarth in Tamazight, or Laansra in Arabic—a celebration that marked not only the height of summer but the very heartbeat of rural life.

The celebration coincided with one of the most critical agricultural periods in Morocco and North Africa. Farmers called this time Smaim—the dog days of summer, when the sun blazed fiercest and the stakes were highest. During this sweltering stretch, the fate of crops, fruit, and livestock often hung in the balance.

The rituals of Thaanasarth were as varied as the Moroccan landscape itself. In our village, and across much of rural Morocco, people would burn harmel, green oleander, and sprigs from most local herbs and trees to produce thick, aromatic smoke. This smoke was then wafted beneath the branches of fig, pomegranate, grape, and other fruit trees. It was believed to protect the fruit from premature drop, pests, and blight. But more than a remedy, the smoke was a blessing—a plea to nature’s uncertain hand for abundance and continuity.

And the smoke wasn’t reserved for trees alone. It enveloped homes, courtyards, animals, and people alike. Livestock were led through its clouds in a purification ritual meant to ward off nasal parasites afflicting goats, sheep, and cows. Some even believed it could prevent miscarriages among animals, reinforcing the sacred aura of the practice.

While modern science may raise an eyebrow at the mystical claims of Thaanasarth, it doesn’t entirely dismiss them. Research shows that harmel seeds contain harmine and harmaline—alkaloids with antibacterial, anti-parasitic, and mild psychoactive properties. These compounds can affect dopamine levels in the brain, perhaps explaining the sense of calm and clarity often reported by those inhaling the smoke.

But the villagers didn’t need scientific approval. Their faith was rooted in generational wisdom. They trusted what their hands had done and what their hearts had always known. Even if some rituals now seem quaint or superstitious, they carried symbolic weight—meaning that can’t be measured, only felt. As W. Somerset Maugham wisely put it, “Tradition is a guide, not a jailer.” Thaanasarth was never about rigid obedience—it was about navigating the rhythms of life with reverence and belonging.

Across Morocco, Thaanasarth takes on many forms. In the oases of the southeast, it is known as Asaansar, where smoke is used to fumigate trees and fields. Nomadic tribes lead their herds through the smoke in acts of ritual cleansing. In Figuig, the celebration becomes a water festival called El Graba, with children joyfully dousing one another before girls leap over fires to dry off—an act symbolizing rebirth. As someone once said, “The greatness of a culture can be found in its festivals, in its celebratory details.” And Thaanasarth is nothing if not a mosaic of such details—each gesture, plant, and chant a thread in a larger cultural fabric.

In other regions, families prepare traditional dishes like Bisara, Abadir, Marchouch, and Tharfist. Children are playfully tapped with smoldering harmel branches, and homes are ritually blessed by the smoke. In the Rif and Jbala, young people leap over bonfires in a gesture echoing ancient rites of purification and renewal. In some Amazigh areas of Algeria, the finest sheep are dusted with ash, marking them as emblems of abundance and prosperity.

During the Islamic Andalusian period, religious scholars condemned Laansra as an innovation bordering on heresy. Fatwas were issued to suppress it, encouraging alternatives such as the celebration of the Prophet’s birth (Mawlid). Yet the people stood their ground. As with many deeply rooted traditions, attempts at erasure only deepened their cultural hold.

Some historians argue that these practices reflect Christian, Jewish, or Latin influences. But to say the Amazigh merely borrowed such rituals misses the forest for the trees. It’s just as plausible—perhaps even more so—that these faiths absorbed older, indigenous traditions. After all, the Amazigh were lighting sacred fires and honoring the earth’s rhythms long before monotheistic religions or Mediterranean contact ever reached them.

In local Amazigh dialects, not observing Thaanasarth carries social consequences. To say someone ur iansir is to label them unbalanced, undisciplined—even morally suspect. The celebration was more than seasonal—it was a test of belonging. In this way, fire became more than heat or light; it became the glue that held the community together.

Interestingly, fire was not the only element in play. Water held equal importance in many regional versions of Thaanasarth, symbolizing joy and renewal. Smoke represented protection; fire, purification; water, blessing. Together, they formed a triad of natural forces reflecting a worldview where nature and spirit were deeply intertwined.

And yet, for all its depth and beauty, Thaanasarth is slowly fading. Urbanization, rising religious conservatism, and cultural amnesia have pushed it to the margins. Today, it lingers mostly in isolated villages and the fading memories of elders.

Still, it remains a vivid window into how rural Moroccans once viewed and interacted with the world. Thaanasarth was never just about fruit, herds, or fire. It was about gratitude—gratitude for what the land gave and trust that life’s cycle would go on. It was, in essence, a symbolic handshake between humans and the earth.

In an age when we lean on screens, sensors, and spreadsheets to understand the world, the wisdom of Thaanasarth offers something elemental: a communal, sensory, and intuitive bond with nature. Perhaps it’s time we stopped brushing aside such traditions as mere folklore and started seeing them as archives of ecological, spiritual, and cultural intelligence.

We may no longer light the same fires or chant the same prayers, but the spirit of Thaanasarth—the call to honor the land, live with gratitude, and draw strength from community—remains as vital as ever. For when we lose traditions, we don’t just lose practices—we lose our compass. And that’s why, in whatever form it takes, we must safeguard our intangible cultural heritage—and keep the smoke rising.

Moroccan Tea: A Journey Through History and Identity Noureddine Boutahar

2025-06-28T11:34:00.000-07:00

In my home, tea was never just a drink—it was a quiet ceremony, a moment of pause, a thread that wove people together. I remember my grandmother brewing it with reverence, the scent of mint filling the air long before the first glass was poured. In Morocco, there's a saying that

captures its essence perfectly: “There’s tea for peace, tea for sorrow, and tea that tells of empty pockets.” This bittersweet tonic is steeped not only in leaves but in memory, ritual, and emotion.

Writing about Moroccan tea is, for me, a return journey—back to childhood mornings, afternoons and evenings, family gatherings, hushed conversations, and laughter swirling like steam above a silver teapot. It’s a story kept alive, generation to generation, like an heirloom too precious to be lost. Its history is inseparable from our own, echoing the resilience, reinvention, and quiet pride that define the Moroccan spirit.

Tea first set foot on Moroccan soil in the early 18th century (1721), arriving from England after a long voyage along the silk routes of the East. At first, it was less a refreshment and more a medicament. The earliest documented Moroccan to taste its warmth was Zidan, son of the mighty Sultan Moulay Ismail. A Christian doctor, concerned by the prince’s harmful affection for wine, prescribed this Eastern elixir as a healing swap. In time, even the Sultan himself developed a taste for it, and tea began its slow, dignified seep into the royal household.

Under Sultan Mohammed ben Abdallah, tea’s popularity spread like rapid wildfire on dry grass. It graced elite gatherings, appearing like a silent guest of honor among nobles, celebrities, and scholars. Yet for many years, it remained the privilege of the powerful—confined to palaces and the plush homes of high society. It wasn’t until the 1830s that tea began to trickle into the homes of merchants and townsfolk, then steadily reached rural Morocco. By the early 20th century, tea had woven itself into the fabric of daily life. Still, in remote regions, the ornate silver, porcelain, and crystal glass tools of tea-making remained markers of affluence, gleaming symbols of hospitality and grace.

Traditionally, it is the male connoisseur—often the head of the household—who helms the tea ceremony. The ritual unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance: rinsing, re-rinsing, brewing, then pouring the tea into a glass and back into the teapot—sometimes three times over. Each motion is deliberate, unhurried, and framed by spirited conversation, storytelling, jokes, and the sharing of news. The tea tray becomes a miniature stage for life itself.

This symbolism echoes in Nass El Ghiwane’s soul-stirring 1976 song Essiniya (The Tea Tray), where the humble tray becomes a metaphor for hardship, changing times, and the ache of nostalgia. The lyrics offer a plaintive “Ah, Tea Tray,” mourning those quiet, communal moments once shared around the warmth of a teapot—a sigh for the disappeared laughter, the absent guests, the missing sense of simplicity, and the vanished certainties of life.

Tea’s journey was not immune to political polarisation. During the colonial era, it became entangled in a web of fierce economic rivalries. Britain tightened its grip on Morocco’s tea trade, while France, Germany, and Belgium jostled for control over sugar imports. Trade tensions simmered, culminating in an 1885 agreement that left echoes in Moroccan popular culture. One Amazigh folk song from the time laments: “You get headaches from missing your tea? Then drink oleander now—Germany has denied you your tea.” These were years of scarcity, where sugar and tea were sometimes absent from the market. Families adapted. Herbs replaced tea leaves and honey and dates sweetened the brew. My grandmother often recalled these lean days with a mix of sorrow and disbelief, especially when facing today’s overstocked shelves.

Religious voices also weighed in. Certain religious figures warned against the growing affection for this foreign infusion viewing it as a troublesome luxury that drained purses or tainted the soul with hints of ritual impurity. Some jurists even took a harder line, likening the steaming amber liquid to wine—both in the elegance of its presentation and the ornate vessels in which it was served. They feared it might cloud the spirit, lead the faithful astray, or even gnaw at the body’s well-being. Sheikh Kettani of Zaouia Kettania, for instance, branded tea a colonial seduction and called for its boycott, viewing it as a sugar-coated threat. But once tea took root in Moroccan soil, the Rubicon was crossed. It became more than a drink—it became a symbol and a ritual of belonging.

Today, Moroccan tea is the fragrant greeting that graces every threshold. It is poured at births, engagements, weddings, Eid celebrations, and even funerals. It marks the ritual beginning and graceful conclusion of every gathering, flowing like a river that nourishes connection. Pouring it from a height, to create a delicate crown of foam, is both an aesthetic flourish and a gesture of generosity. Served with fragrant sweets—almond biscuits, sesame chebakia, or Kaab Ghzal—it turns a simple moment into a celebration.

Its preparation is nothing short of sacred—a ritual passed down like a whispered prayer. Green tea leaves, a rolling boil of water, sprigs of fresh mint, and generous spoonfuls of sugar are the essential quartets of this cherished brew. Yet, like the changing winds, the herbs may shift with the seasons and the drinker’s taste: wormwood, pennyroyal, thyme, sage, or the calming notes of verbena might take mint’s place. Old sayings capture these choices with a poet’s flair: “If there’s no wormwood in the tea, give it to the dog,” or “Tea without mint isn’t worth drinking at all.” Such phrases aren’t just words—they’re cultural commandments. For many, this tea is more than a drink; it’s a lifeline, a daily anchor in a world that spins too fast. My mother, like countless Moroccans, cannot imagine a day without it. Miss a cup, and the headache that follows bites harder than thirst in the desert.

This love for tea has poured itself into proverbs and folk wisdom:

1. Oh master, if you please, pour me a cup that is infused with mint meant to sooth with ease. (Amazigh song)

2. A glass of mint tea is better than a rich man’s dinner.

3. A full teapot of good tea is better than a barn full of grain.

4. Good tea doesn’t need spring—it’s perfect on its own.

5. Evening tea is better than roasted beef.

6. Well-made tea is better than a whole roasted lamb.

Even in the age of electric teapots and fruit-flavored infusions, the soul of Moroccan tea remains untouched. While tools and tastes may evolve, the spirit of the ritual—hospitality, reflection, and shared warmth—holds firm. Yet beyond the shifting styles lies another layer of tradition, shaped not by fashion but by necessity. A refined sliver of society may still sip tea like aged poetry—savored leisurely after hearty meals or during intimate family gatherings—but they are but a drop in the teapot. For the broader public, “bread and tea” is no indulgence; it is a cornerstone—an everyday sustenance that anchors the day and keeps hunger at bay.

It’s also pertinent to mention that the Amazigh in Morocco have long believed in maximum sweetness when brewing tea—so much so that a common invitation might be phrased, "Will you join me for a cup of sugar?" rather than a cup of tea. This playful turn of phrase communicates volumes: the sweetness of the tea mirrored the warmth of the gathering, promising not just a drink, but a sweet and convivial moment shared. However, the mold has been broken. The tide is turning in modern Morocco, as people grow more health-conscious and increasingly aware that an excess of sugar sends blood glucose soaring, paving the way for diabetes and other ailments. As a result, many today—myself included—prefer to sip our tea as it is, plain without sugar, savoring its natural bitterness like a quiet truth once masked by sweetness.

Owing to its global significance, the United Nations has designated May 21st of each year as International Tea Day—an homage to the world’s most sipped beverage after water. More than just a brew, tea is a crucial source of income for millions of impoverished families across less developed nations and holds deep cultural significance in numerous societies, including Morocco. There, tea is more than leaves, water, and sugar—it is a mirror of the Moroccan spirit: resilient, rooted, and always ready to welcome a guest with a steaming glass and an open heart.

Public Property in Morocco: Between Legal Mandate and Selective Enforcement Noureddine Boutahar

2025-06-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

Recently, Morocco has launched extensive campaigns to reclaim public property, targeting illegal construction and unauthorized occupation of sidewalks, streets, and urban spaces by shops, street vendors, cafés, and various artisans. These efforts, which include the demolition of unlicensed structures and the removal of makeshift markets, have gained visible traction, particularly in anticipation of global events such as the Africa Cup of Nations 2025 and the FIFA World Cup 2030. But while these campaigns have sparked broad public approval, they also raise troubling questions about past inaction, selective enforcement, and the long-standing normalization of urban disorder.

It would be intellectually dishonest to oppose efforts aimed at restoring the integrity of Morocco’s public domain. Sidewalks that were once swallowed up by cafés, makeshift kiosks, and concrete barriers are finally being freed for pedestrian use. Randomly erected shanties and unauthorized extensions to homes and shops, many built without permits, are being torn down. This process is undeniably necessary and, one might argue, long overdue.

However, the critical question remains: why was such blatant encroachment on public property tolerated for so long by authorities and elected officials? For years, massive structures went up in broad daylight, while minor home improvements by ordinary citizens were met with swift punishment. The absence of early intervention is a glaring example of administrative leniency—or worse, complicity. And now, suddenly, with the pressure of upcoming global events, bulldozers are rolling in as though decades of negligence can be erased with a few months of action.

This shift raises the specter of opportunistic governance. The timing of the current campaigns—closely aligned with Morocco’s preparation for international sports events—suggests that what is now treated as a national priority was long viewed as an inconvenient truth, better left unaddressed for electoral or political expediency.

Perhaps most disheartening is the selective nature of enforcement. While some street vendors are chased away for blocking a few meters of sidewalk, large enterprises with steel or glass barricades occupying vast swathes of public space have long been overlooked. Such inconsistencies not only breed public resentment but also erode faith in the rule of law.

The essence of justice is equality before the law—yet the reality on the ground suggests otherwise. As the saying goes, “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” but in this case, certain geese appear to be more equal than others. Ordinary citizens face swift penalties for minor violations, while powerful figures or well-connected businesses seem to operate with impunity.

This double standard undermines the legitimacy of the campaign and casts a shadow over otherwise laudable efforts. The credibility of public initiatives rests not just on their outcomes, but on the fairness of their implementation. If transparency and equality are not guaranteed, then these campaigns risk becoming mere theatrics—a façade of order hiding the rot of favoritism.

A closer look at the institutional framework reveals a complex web of responsibility. According to Law 57.19, local councils hold the legal authority to regulate temporary occupation of public property. Yet, in practice, it is often the Ministry of Interior—through its local representatives such as pachas and caïds—that initiates action. This duality of power has led to inertia, finger-pointing, and missed opportunities.

There have been repeated instances where proactive municipal councils have seen their decisions undercut by passive local authorities—and vice versa. In other cases, both parties have turned a blind eye, either to avoid conflict or to protect vested interests. This dysfunction has turned what should be a shared governance model into a fragmented and ineffective approach.

Worse still, the administrative failure to enforce regulations over the years has allowed illegal behaviors to become normalized, and even aquired rights. The occupation of sidewalks by vendors, for instance, is no longer seen as a violation but as a fact of urban life. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” seems to be the motto. This normalization is more than a societal adaptation; it is a symptom of systemic breakdown.

One of the most visible and contentious aspects of urban disorder is the explosion of informal vendors—known colloquially as farrasha. Since the Arab Spring of 2011, their numbers have surged across Moroccan cities, peaking during religious holidays and especially during the holy month of Ramadan, and on Fridays around mosques.

While the informal economy offers a lifeline for thousands, it also deprives the state treasury of billions of dirhames of taxes. Even worse, it disrupts daily life in profound ways. Residents complain of noise, waste accumulation, and the complete hijacking of sidewalks. Shoppers navigate mazes of handcarts and shouting vendors. The situation has even escalated into legal disputes, with some formal business owners considering lawsuits against municipalities for failing to protect their livelihoods from unfair competition.

The government did try to intervene by creating “model markets” to house these vendors in organized spaces. Yet many beneficiaries rent out their spaces and return to the streets, where they can earn more without paying taxes. This is a classic example of a policy that fails not because of bad intentions, but due to lack of enforcement. When rules exist but are not applied, chaos fills the vacuum.

Cleaning up the streets and demolishing illegal structures may offer immediate aesthetic and functional benefits, but they do not address the deeper structural issues. How will local governments ensure that public spaces remain respected after the dust settles? Will new urban policies be crafted to balance economic necessity with legal obligations? Will there be real consequences for officials who fail to act?

Moreover, Morocco must resist the temptation to treat this moment as a one-off. The reclaiming of public property must not become another “hit-and-run” campaign—visible during international spotlight years and forgotten the next. Citizens have seen this movie before: authorities act under pressure, only to retreat once the pressure fades. It is a cycle as predictable as the tide, and just as relentless.

The battle to reclaim Morocco’s public spaces is as symbolic as it is practical. It signals a choice between order and chaos, equity and privilege, legality and complacency. But to win this battle, Morocco needs more than bulldozers and camera-friendly demolitions. It needs consistent, transparent governance rooted in the rule of law.

Let us not forget the idiom, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” The current momentum must be seized to institutionalize practices that have been ignored for decades. Selective enforcement must give way to systematic reform. Policies must be designed not for headlines, but for the people who walk the streets every day—the elderly woman navigating a crowded sidewalk, the child playing in front of their home, the shopkeeper struggling to stay afloat amid unfair competition.

The streets and sidewalks belong to all. It is time Morocco ensures that this is not just a legal fact, but a lived reality.

The Whistle Cricket: A Forgotten Marvel of Morocco’s Natural Heritage Noureddine Boutahar

2025-06-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

During my frequent journeys to Boukashmir—my ancestral village tucked near the famed bottling town of Oulmes in the heart of the Middle Atlas Mountains—I’m often met with an unexpected yet familiar sight that pulls me straight into the embrace of childhood memory. As I near the edge of the forest, I instinctively slow down, anticipating the appearance of a large, spiny insect calmly making its way across the road—unhurried, yet with quiet intent. I never miss the chance to snap a few photos, once again captivated by its strange elegance and enduring presence.

This “curious insect,” to borrow a phrase from Carl Linnaeus, is Eugaster spinulosa—a species endemic to North Africa’s arid and semi-arid zones, especially Morocco, and to a lesser extent, Algeria and Tunisia. Despite its formidable size and striking appearance, it remains a largely obscure figure in both public imagination and scientific literature. Few researchers have studied it; most references are footnotes in dusty monographs. Yet this bush-cricket, colloquially known in English as the "whistle cricket," is a remarkable creature with a story worth telling.

Belonging to the Tettigoniidae family, Eugaster spinulosa is flightless and cannot jump. Instead, it navigates the world on sturdy legs, relying on a suite of defenses rather than speed. Its spiny, horned thorax and smooth, barrel-like abdomen give it an intimidating appearance, though it is entirely harmless to humans. Its coloration ranges widely—some specimens are jet-black with crimson-tipped spines, while others wear a checkered tapestry of earthy browns and beiges. Only the males possess small, hidden elytra for sound production. When threatened, the insect doesn’t bite or flee—it reflexively “bleeds” from its joints, a vivid crimson fluid that startles predators and evokes awe in onlookers.

What makes the whistle cricket even more captivating is its place in Amazigh folk culture. In some regions, we Amazigh call it bougrir; in others, wagnim—names whose linguistic roots are now lost to time. One of the few well-documented uses of this insect is practical and poetic: herdsmen would dry its body, remove its legs, and turn it into a whistle—hence the name "whistle cricket." Scientists have also noted an oddity in its reproductive life: after mating, the male becomes infertile for ten days—a peculiar quirk that only deepens its mystery. Local beliefs, passed down through generations, claim that the reflexive bleeding has medicinal value, treating certain skin conditions.

Despite its ecological and cultural significance, this ground-dwelling, herbivorous insect lacks a widely recognized common name in either English or French. It is usually referred to by its Latin name, though in Arabic sources it may appear as الجرادة الشوكية (thorny locust) or الصرصور الجبلي (mountain cockroach)—labels that fail to capture its uniqueness and charm.

To me, this insect is more than a natural curiosity. Each time I meet one on the road to or from Boukashmir, I instinctively veer aside, giving it safe passage. My reasons are simple, yet deeply felt. First, because every creature deserves its place under the sun. Second, because it is stitched into the fabric of my rural childhood, when our elders used its blood to treat skin fungi. And third, because it has become alarmingly rare—perhaps a victim of worsening droughts or the vanishing flora it depends on for food and shelter.

In an age when we are increasingly detached from the land and its lesser-known inhabitants, this humble cricket offers a quiet reminder. Small though it is, it carries within it a forgotten thread of Morocco’s natural and cultural tapestry. Insects like the whistle cricket are not mere oddities—they are silent witnesses to our changing world and living archives of indigenous knowledge. Its story deserves not only to be told—but to be remembered.

The Begging Industry: Morocco’s Hidden Crisis Noureddine Boutahar

2025-05-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

Wherever you go in Morocco, it's hard to take more than a few steps without encountering outstretched hands, tearful pleas, or heart-wrenching tales of sorrow. What was once a rare and pitiable sight has become a daily intrusion. Begging has mushroomed into a full-blown social menace—one that drains public sympathy, erodes communal values, fuels deceit, and chips away at the nation’s collective conscience.

Let’s not mince words: while some beggars are truly in need, far too many are exploiting both the system and our goodwill. Walk through any city, and you’ll find children at intersections, elderly women huddled outside mosques, and young men weaving through traffic with desperate faces and dramatic stories. But scratch beneath the surface, and the reality is often more calculated than tragic.

Most disturbing is the growing exploitation of children in this sordid trade. These kids aren’t merely poor; many are pawns in the hands of adults who should be protecting them. Organized rings operate with alarming efficiency, placing children in high-traffic areas to elicit sympathy and loosen wallets. It’s not just immoral—it’s criminal. While Moroccan law prohibits such exploitation, enforcement remains weak and inconsistent.

The deception doesn't stop there. Public trust continues to erode as stories emerge—sporadically, but credibly—of beggars leading double lives: destitute by day, but returning to comfortable homes by night. Some own property, drive fancy cars, and stash money in bank accounts, pillows, or mattresses. These are not people on the brink—they are opportunists exploiting compassion, wolves in sheep’s clothing. For some, begging has become more profitable than honest work, with earnings surpassing those of teachers and civil servants.

I once spoke with a taxi driver in Khemisset who shared a story that left him—and later, me—stunned. He had seen a man he personally knew as a street beggar park a sleek 4WD on the outskirts of the city before heading into town to beg. It was a moment that truly gave me pause.

In today’s digital age, the hustle has moved online. Social media platforms are teeming with fabricated tales of misery: strangers pretending to be sick individuals, desperate mothers, or displaced families. Even worse are the influencers who openly ask their followers for money. In both cases, with a single click, well-meaning citizens donate—often unaware they are being duped. It’s emotional blackmail, pure and simple—and it works.

Let’s be clear: this epidemic mocks real poverty. It blurs the line between genuine need and theatrical manipulation. A person with a limp or a disabled hand? We’ve often encountered individuals pretending to be handicapped to deceive others. The “stranded traveler” who needs bus fare? He’s told that story to a dozen others just that morning. The beggar who asks for food, only to return it for cash? That’s a rehearsed con. The veiled girl claiming to care for her cancer-stricken mother and seven siblings? That tale has made the rounds across the country for years.

Meanwhile, the working poor—the ones who labor honestly—remain invisible. They struggle in silence while street performers in rags collect coins with a few well-timed sobs. It’s an insult to every Moroccan who chooses dignity over deceit.

My grandmother once told a story that still lingers in my mind. A young man from a noble family fell in love with a beggar’s daughter. The girl’s father agreed to the marriage—on one condition: the young man had to join him in begging for one week. The smitten youth agreed. But when the week ended, he refused to stop. The message was clear: once someone tastes the easy life, it’s hard to turn back. Despite his noble roots, he discovered that begging was both effortless and profitable. It’s a timeless cautionary tale about a very human weakness: the lure of the path of least resistance.

This shift in values is especially visible in the countryside—at least where I come from. In the '60s, '70s, and '80s, field workers and shepherds were plentiful. Today, many have abandoned their posts for what they see as an easier life in the city, sustained by handouts of bread, yogurt, and coins. Farmers now reduce their livestock or leave their fields fallow because finding laborers has become a near impossibility.

I remember an old man who once sold vegetables in Khemisset, hauling them in by donkey from a nearby village. People paid extra out of sympathy. Over time, he gave up the trade and turned to begging instead. I also knew three little girls who begged around town—closely watched by a lurking man, perhaps their guardian, perhaps a predator.

A friend shared another story: his acquaintance offered a beggar in Meknes a job on his farm, repeating the offer several times. Eventually, the beggar declined and confessed: he visited nearly 300 cafés daily and rarely left without collecting between one and ten dirhams—not to mention free food. He earned more than many doctors and teachers. This chilling reality shows just how profitable begging has become.

Let’s not ignore the cultural and religious context. Islam certainly encourages charity—but it also upholds values of self-reliance, dignity, and personal responsibility. Blindly giving to strangers in the street often feeds the beast, not need. As the old saying goes: “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day; teach him to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.” True charity uplifts—it does not enable. Islam also places great emphasis on helping one’s relatives, strengthening familial bonds and ensuring assistance goes where it’s truly needed.

Morocco must draw a line in the sand. Our cities cannot continue to serve as open-air theaters of staged misery. Stricter enforcement of anti-begging laws is essential—especially to protect children from exploitation. But enforcement alone isn't enough. We need to channel compassion intelligently, directing support through transparent, accountable organizations that address real social needs.

Begging is more than an eyesore; it’s a corrosive force undermining public trust, social order, and moral responsibility. It's time to reject both guilt-driven giving and and turning a blind eye to the shameful phenomenon. True solidarity means making informed choices: saying “no” when appropriate, backing legitimate social programs, and holding both the state and civil society accountable for long-term solutions.

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

2025-05-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Ahmed Boukmakh, a Pioneer in Planting the Seeds of Enlightened Education Noureddine Boutahar

2025-04-17T11:18:00.000-07:00

Given the current attacks on teachers, and at this critical moment for education, I have chosen to pause and reflect on a cornerstone of Moroccan heritage that has stood the test of time: the iconic Iqra’ schoolbook series, crafted by the esteemed educator Ahmed Boukmakh. I will begin by offering a glimpse into the historical backdrop of this remarkable series—one that weathered the tides of commercial textbook publishing—and then share brief summaries of a few of its enduring tales, along with the timeless moral lessons they impart.

Although many of today’s younger generations may not recognize his name, Ahmed Boukmakh remains a familiar figure to most Moroccans who attended public school in the early years following independence or during the 1970s. His journey led him from the worlds of theatre to the primary school classroom. There, he made lasting contributions, having laid some of the foundational stones of Morocco’s post-independence educational system.

Ahmed Boukmakh was born in Tangier in the 1920s, during the tumultuous period of the Rif War. His mother passed away when he was just eight years old—a tragedy that marked a difficult childhood. From a young age, he worked in his father’s store, which sold both groceries and consumer goods on one side, and books and novels on the other. It was in that unique space, balanced between labor and literature, that Boukmakh’s character was forged.

At the age of eighteen, he became an active member of the Shoura wa Listiqlal (Consultation and Independence) Party. His political involvement had unfortunate consequences: his father was later imprisoned in Rabat after colonial authorities found pro-independence banners in the family’s store. During that difficult time, young Ahmed found himself the de facto head of the household, tasked with caring for his younger siblings and managing the store.

His creative spark was lit even before the Iqra’ series, as he began writing plays in the 1940s. These early works are still referenced in the literary collections of the renowned scholar Abdullah Gannoun, who was Boukmakh’s mentor, teacher, and spiritual guide. Boukmakh’s plays, often performed at the historic Cervantes Theatre in Tangier—a beacon of translated works by Shakespeare and Molière—sought to instill patriotism and civic values in the youth and theatregoers.

After one of his friends was abducted, and as political tensions plagued the party he had joined, Boukmakh eventually chose to withdraw from political activism. His marriage around the same time gave him reason and space to focus on a new mission: writing and publishing educational books. With the invaluable guidance of the eminent Abdullah Gannoun, he embarked on a creative journey that culminated in the legendary Iqra’ series, skillfully weaving together narratives adapted or translated from the works of great international novelists from both East and West.

The idea was born out of a desire to provide Arabic-language textbooks that could be easily taught in primary school classrooms. At that time, nearly all available educational materials were in French—the language of the colonialist. The first edition of Iqra’, printed in 1954, became one of the earliest foundational texts for the primary education system in Tangier—and later across Morocco.

The Iqra’ series comprised five textbooks designed to be taught over five academic years. Upon completing the final volume, students would earn the highly regarded Shahada—a "Certificate Diploma" that often brought honor to families and even access to civil service jobs. Boukmakh later expanded the collection to include Fus’ha (Classical Arabic) in five volumes, as well as Arriyadiat (Mathematics) and Al-Qiraa Liljami’ (Reading for All), a literacy education series. These books combined captivating stories with vivid illustrations and images to stimulate student curiosity and strengthen their visual memory. He collaborated with leading Moroccan artists such as painter Ahmed Chabaa and caricaturist Ahmed Chentouf.

Boukmakh's writing was defined by short, impactful sentences and a concise style. This directness made his schoolbooks perfect for young learners. He knew that to speak to a child’s mind, you don’t knock on the door—you slip in through the window. His language was simple but never shallow. With a few well-chosen words, he managed to light up young imaginations while slipping in a moral or two when no one was looking.

Although his textbooks were gradually phased out in the early 1980s and replaced with newer materials, editions of Iqra’ continued to be reprinted until 2013—and perhaps even today—for use in literacy programs.

We owe a great deal to the stories from these books—stories that students from the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s still remember as though they learned them just yesterday. Boukmakh’s work helped shape what many now nostalgically call the "golden generation" of Moroccan education. The writings of the late teacher Ahmed Boukmakh emerged at a significant turning point in Morocco’s history: the transition from colonial rule to national independence. His texts consistently promoted values of citizenship, patriotism, respect, and ethical living. His stories were both moving and timeless.

Who among us doesn’t remember the cumulative tale of Uklat Albatatis (A Potato Dish)? It's a shining example of how the author understood the value of this storytelling form—a genre built on repetition that not only makes understanding and memorization easier, but also sharpens memory and encourages children to anticipate what comes next. Echoing classics like This Is the House That Jack Built and The Gingerbread Man, the rhythm of Boukmakh’s cumulative tales makes young readers or listeners feel clever and confident, as if they’re reading the storyteller’s mind.

Who among us can forget Hikmat Bustani (The Gardener’s Wisdom)—the tale of the elderly man, eighty years old, still planting date palms beneath the fiery sun? When the king, astonished, asked him, “Do you expect to eat from their fruits?” the gardener responded with the quiet conviction of a man committed to sustainability: “Others planted, and we ate; now we plant, so others may eat.”

Is there a more profound metaphor for generational honesty and responsibility? Have we ever truly stopped to think with such long-sightedness? To safeguard our nation’s treasures—its fertile land, its abundant seas, its vast and infinite skies—not just for today, but for generations to come? To sow trees in the earth, fish in the waters, and dreams in the heavens—dreams powered by science, technology, and innovation?

And who could forget Allah Yarana (God Is Watching Us)—the story of the thief who, under the cloak of night, climbs into a vineyard with his young son to steal grapes? “If you see anyone,” the father warns, “whistle, so I can hide.” As he begins picking the fruit, the boy lets out a piercing whistle. Alarmed, the man jumps down, only to find no one in sight. “Why did you whistle?” he demands. “Did someone see me?” The boy answers, simply and succinctly: “Yes—God, who sees everything.” A heavy quiet descends upon the father, then repentance.

A story as clear as a whistle, sounding through time—a reminder, then and now, to those entrusted with public duty: serve with integrity. Do not loot the nation’s coffers; do not squirrel away fortunes in local and faraway banks. For even in the depths of our withdrawal, God sees all.

Assarrar wa Namla (“The Cricket and the Ant”) is the kind of story that cannot fade into the mist of forgetfulness. In this parable, a carefree cricket fritters away the golden days of summer, strumming his tune and dancing in the sun, while the diligent ant toils from dawn to dusk, stockpiling grain for the lean months ahead. When winter's chill finally bites, the ant sits snug in her burrow with a full larder, while the cricket, cold and famished, comes knocking. But the ant, unmoved by his plight, reminds him that he sang through the harvest—so now, perhaps, he should dance to keep warm. The story delivers its lesson with a sting in the tail: that hard work and foresight are the keys to weathering life's inevitable storms.

And more and more stories of this kind—those that teach and enlighten without preaching—are urgently needed today. They etch values and morals into young minds, gently but firmly. As the old saying goes, “Youthful learning is etched in the mind like stone.” These stories do more than entertain; they shape character, cultivate empathy, and sow the seeds of wisdom early—and etch them deep within young hearts.

Today’s Iqra’ generation—once the rightful heirs of a golden age of learning—now looks with a lump in its throat at what so often passes for education. What was once a sumptuous banquet of stories, rich in meaning and morals, has dwindled into bland fare: lessons stripped of depth, starved of spirit. In days gone by, it was those stories—and the steady, watchful presence of conscientious parents—that shaped young minds. They raised us with the wisdom of old and guided us onto the straight and narrow from our earliest days. So much so that, at the mere sight of a teacher approaching from afar, we would instinctively snap to attention, stifle our laughter behind cupped hands, and freeze mid-play—as though time itself held its breath in their presence. Yes, we feared them—but not with dread. It was a reverent awe, the kind that made our hearts swell when a teacher gently patted our heads, whether in praise or quiet affection. It was both a crown and a blessing.

The Jewish Peddler Noureddine Boutahar

2025-04-04T11:02:00.000-07:00

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, life in the countryside of Tizitine followed a steady rhythm, occasionally stirred by moments of excitement—weddings, festivals, weekly markets, and the much-anticipated visits of peddlers. Of all these, nothing thrilled me more than the arrival of the traveling merchants. I would plead, beg, and sometimes throw fits until my mother or grandmother relented, rewarding me with sweets, chewing gum, or a handful of trail mix—roasted chickpeas, raisins, and peanuts sold by these merchants.Yet, among all the visitors who passed through our village, none was more eagerly awaited than the Jewish peddler. He was more than just a wandering merchant; he was a bearer of wonder. With his arrival, the ordinary faded into the background, replaced by a world of small treasures—treats for the body and stories for the soul.

The Jewish peddler was a wandering merchant, traveling from village to village, house to house, selling an assortment of goods essential to daily life. Every month or so, he would set up shop near our home, thriving on bartering goods in exchange for money, silver jewelry—once abundant among Amazigh women—wool fleeces, and grains like wheat or barley. His wares were as varied as they were intriguing, ranging from soap and kitchen utensils to small tools for home repairs, agate bracelets, necklaces, and sewing necessities such as needles and thread. I never knew his real name; people simply referred to him as "the Jewish peddler" or "the leprous peddler," though in conversation, they addressed him as "A'attar," the Amazigh word for peddler.

He was of medium height, likely in his late fourties or early fifties. My memories of his appearance remain vivid: he wore a handwoven Amazigh djellaba, frayed at the elbows, worn thin at the seat, and torn at the cuffs—proof that the road had been his constant companion. Beneath the djellaba, he wore a more refined gandoura, a long tunic. His head was always covered with a small cap, which I later learned was a kippah—a religious garment worn by Jews, not merely protection from the elements. On sunny days, the kippah was crowned with a Moroccan sombrero, meticulously woven from the leaves of the dwarf palm, its wide brim offering shade for both head and shoulders. His feet were encased in sturdy, lace-up brodequin boots, faded but still holding their own, much like their owner.

Women were his primary customers, purchasing everything from small mirrors, agate jewelry, and trinkets to kohl, walnut bark miswak for brushing teeth, and small ceramic pots of rouge to color their lips and cheeks. Shopping with the peddler was not just an errand—it was an event, stretching over an hour as the women admired, tried on, and haggled for goods, their voices rising and falling in animated debate. Time seemed to slow to a crawl—there was no rush for either the ladies or the peddler.

For us children, his visits were the highlight of the season. He always brought small gifts—sweets, trail mix, dates, or dried figs. Some called him "the leprous peddler" because of the visible scars from leprosy on his face and hands, but our parents drummed into us the importance of kindness and respect, reminding us that such names were hurtful and impolite. We never used them. Instead, we addressed him with warmth as ‘aammi,’ akin to ‘unkie,’ just as we called elderly women ‘aatti ’ or ‘khally,’ meaning auntie.

The peddler traveled with a large, sturdy grey jack donkey, the kind bred with mares to produce mules. The donkey carried enormous panniers stuffed with goods, sometimes so full that the animal was almost swallowed up by its load. Yet, there was always space for the peddler himself, who rode side-saddle atop the beast, as though it were a throne from which he surveyed the world.

He often spent the night near our home, drawn perhaps by the warmth and safety my family offered. He would pitch his tent a short distance from our house, stow his goods inside, and then lead his donkey to our well for water. Afterward, he tethered the animal with a thick iron stake and fed it hay from our stack. The Three Musketeers of the family—my brother Abdelmajid, my cousin Hamid, and I—would bicker over who got to bring him dinner, knowing full well that the lucky one would be rewarded with a small gift. More often than not, we all ended up going together, unable to resist the pull of adventure.

The presence of the peddler added a spark of excitement to our nights. After he had eaten, we would linger, brimming with curiosity. Where had he traveled? What had he seen? What were the other children like in the places he had visited? Had he encountered wild animals, stray dogs, or thieves? Sometimes, he would humor us with tales of his journeys, though, truth be told, I preferred my grandmother’s—they had a way of weaving magic into the mundane. Still, his stories brought a welcome change to our otherwise predictable nights.

By morning, he would usually be gone, slipping away before the world stirred. I have no memory of his departures, but we children would scour the spot where he had camped, hoping to unearth a forgotten relic—a hidden treasure or a lost trinket. Once, I struck gold, or so it felt—I stumbled upon a coin, a find that filled me with pride. I rushed to show my grandmother, though I never knew its true worth. She tucked it safely away until the peddler's next visit. When he returned, my honesty was rewarded with a small, wondrous prize—a packet of chewing gum, five individually wrapped sticks, each one a treasure in itself.

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

2025-03-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

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.