Grandma: The Towering Beacon of my Childhood Noureddine Boutahar

On the 8th of March, I was driven by an undeniable urge to pen down these cherished memories, a heartfelt tribute to my grandmother, a truly remarkable woman, whose influence shaped my character, instilling within me a profound sense of appreciation, respect, care and love for all women.

In the vast expanse of my childhood, Grandma was the towering beacon of my life. She wasn't just my guardian; she was my closest friend, teacher, and partner in navigating life's twists and turns. Her bedtime stories fueled a burning love for books as I journeyed through the landscape of growing up.

My childhood nights back in the late 1960s and early 1970s held a special enchantment that I eagerly looked forward to. My family gatherings over dinner with my siblings and cousins were about more than just the meal; they were an occasion for good-natured banter, playful teasing, and the occasional sibling rivalry. Nevertheless, the zenith of these evenings undeniably belonged to my grandmother's captivating stories. Her storytelling was nothing short of an art form, her narratives transcended mere tales; they were intricate voyages through time and the realms of imagination. With each story she spun, she effortlessly captured our complete attention. What truly set her apart was her gift for adorning her stories with unexpected twists and vivid details, rendering them all the more enthralling. On occasion, she would revisit the same story, but with a completely different tone, style, and voice, leaving us in rapt fascination with her storytelling versatility. These nights, brimming with laughter and wonder, were indelibly etched into our memories, weaving themselves into the rich fabric of our family's customs and togetherness.

There were nights when the cozy embrace of my grandmother's storytelling would lull me into a peaceful slumber even before the end of her captivating tales. Drifting into the realm of dreams mid-story was a common occurrence. However, the beauty of it all lay in my beloved grandmother's unwavering readiness to resume the narrative where she had left off on the following evening. She possessed a wellspring of patience and affection that she poured generously into her stories.

The nights my grandmother began her narratives became a ritual, a communal gathering around the story telling hearth where every eye was transfixed on her. In those moments, the world outside seemed to dissolve, leaving us immersed exclusively in the captivating universe she wove for us. The way she brought her tales to life, with that twinkle in her eye and the cadence of her voice, was nothing less than magical.

As the stories unfurled, time itself seemed to blur, and fatigue would occasionally catch up with us. One by one, in a gradual succession like falling dominos, the heads of my siblings, cousins, and myself would nod and eventually surrender to the sweet call of slumber. It was a testament to the power of her storytelling, its capacity to captivate our thoughts while guiding us with a gentle touch into the realm of dreams. This enabled us to bask in the warm familial unity until the dawn of a new day.

My grandmother was a remarkable storyteller who effectively acted as my first novels, especially since we had no books at home.

However, Nanna, as we used to call her, was not only a fable-teller but also a culinary magician who could whip up any delectable delight my heart desired. She would not only prepare savory dishes tailored to my whims and cravings, but she also had a fascinating talent to conjure up the most mouthwatering sweet treats. Being naturally tall and slender, she indulged me with her culinary delights, always insisting that I needed to eat heartily to become stronger.

Grandma’s love knew no bounds so much so that she was embraced and adored by the entire community. Her kind-hearted nature and the multitude of roles she fulfilled in our village endeared her to everyone. She donned the hats of an experienced midwife, a trusted advisor to women in their marital issues, a competent traditional healer offering herbal treatments for a variety of ailments to women and children. I always found joy in accompanying her in her house calls to neighbors or relatives because, as a guest, I was always treated to the most delectable pastries and the choicest roasted chicken piece, usually a chicken thigh.

In the days when I couldn't accompany my grandmother on these visits, there was a heartwarming tradition she held dear. She would often return home with a succulent piece of chicken enveloped in a slice of home-made bread soaked in the aromatic stew. She always wrapped the treat in a white piece of cloth she habitually carried with her for just such a purpose. My ritual was always to start with the juicy meat before relishing the soaked bread. What an exquisite treat it was, and what a cherished memory that remains etched in the treasure grooves of my heart.

Rest in peace, Nanna. You were truly unparalleled, a cut above, the epitome of excellence. I'll cherish your memory in my heart for as long as I walk this earth.

Magpie Chase Noureddine Boutahar

 Growing up in the countryside granted me a wealth of blessings: a tranquil rhythm of life, the embrace of nature, invigorating air, an unwavering sense of freedom, and a community so closely woven it felt like an extended family. Despite the meager population density of those bygone days, familiarity thrived – a world where everyone knew everyone, where assistance, love, and support flowed freely. In this close-knit haven, the ethos was one of selfless sharing, a collective fortitude that weathered the storms of country life together.

Agriculture stood as the backbone of my rural homeland, where the majority of inhabitants were farmers, agriculturalists, and shepherds. As children, we were embraced by the collective care of our community, where each adult member shouldered the mantle of responsibility for our education and moral compass as if we were their own children.

My grandfather held a revered position as one of the most respected figures in our countryside. His
integrity, sagacity, and firm principles set him apart, earning him both admiration and, at times, instilling fear in those who veered off the right path. Unfazed by the prospect of parental reproach, he did not hesitate to discipline any mischievous village child. Boys and girls held both love and trepidation for him, recognizing that his corrections, admonitions, or critiques were always motivated by their best interests.

Amidst the ubiquitous fig trees that embellished our village, we cultivated a charming haven of our own – a petite vineyard and a flourishing vegetable garden. Brimming with tomatoes, green peppers, potatoes, zucchini, gourds, calabashes, pumpkins, and a myriad of delights, it served as a vital source of sustenance for our household. Beyond our own needs, we generously shared the bounties with neighbors and cherished close relatives.

Yet, our lush haven faced a relentless foe, none other than the mischievous avian troupe comprising magpies, blackbirds, and sparrows. This winged menace posed a never-ending threat, especially to our precious tomatoes and grapes, a source of perpetual frustration for my farm aficionado grandfather.

One day, in a bid to safeguard our precious harvest, Grandfather, a genuinely popular green-fingered man, devised a plan reminiscent of Mao Zedong's "Smash Sparrows Campaign" from 1958 to 1962. Rallying the village youngsters, Grandpa issued a call to arms, urging them to embark on a mission to thwart the feathery invaders. Magpies, known for their early-morning raids on our tomatoes and grapes, found themselves facing an unexpected challenge from the resolute village youth. It was a scene remindful of ancient battles, but in this case, the prize was not just victory but also the safeguarding of our delectable fruits and vegetables.

Our humble garden transformed into a battlefield, where young defenders, armed with various slingshots, rocks, sticks, hardened mud clods, and enthusiasm, stood guard against the avian marauders. They chased them up and down the whole valley which harbored oleander, thorny blackberry trees, caprifigs (male fig trees), and occasional other bushes. Some children ran barefoot, some sprinted bare-chested, while a few managed to lose their shoes, or tear their old pants or shirts in the fervor of the chase. As the youngest among us, I found myself standing beside my grandfather, a towering and robust figure. With fervor, he encouraged and shouted at the magpie chasers, urging them to pick up the pace. Each young soul sought to please him by presenting him with a bird or two.

The clash between the innocent mischief of birds and the determined spirit of village kids unfolded like a whimsical tale of rural warfare. The warriors killed a few magpies, but the clever ones that managed to escape or hide never dared to revisit, leaving our trees and garden in peaceful serenity.

Ultimately, Grandfather's strategic move evolved into a legendary tale, echoing throughout the village as proof enough to the resilience and resourcefulness of a small community united against the caprices of nature. However, the question remains: was Grandpa correct or mistaken? I will never ascertain the answer. It stands as a million-dollar question, considering his frequent perception of nature as half friend, half enemy. Though he waged this relentless struggle against the feathered creatures encroaching on his precious crops, the ethos of eco-conservation coursed through grandfather’s veins.

Uncle Boujemaa’s Souk Treats Noureddine Boutahar

 The spirit of the 1960s and 1970s Moroccan countryside was epitomized by a culture of selfless sharing and collective caring. Within this close-knit community, characterized by a profound sense of unity, cooperation, and genuine humanity, the prevailing sentiment was that someone else's children were, in essence, everyone's children—a sentiment vividly illustrated by the memories that follow.

Much like the typical experiences of youngsters in the Moroccan countryside, my days revolved around both school and the responsibility of tending to the family livestock, comprising sheep, goats, and cows. During our leisure hours, my siblings, cousins, and I reveled in the expansive grazing pastures, where abundant grass served as the backdrop for a plethora of traditional games. From tag and hide-and-seek to catch, five stones, skipping-rope, hopscotch, blind man’s bluff, racing, leapfrog, wrestling, tug of war, sack race, sling games, congkak with sheep pellets and beyond, our days were filled with joyous camaraderie.

The highlight of our week undoubtedly was Souk (open-air marketplace) day. When the sun reached its zenith, we would herd our livestock toward the main road leading to the Souk. This strategic and intentional move allowed us to intercept the returning Souk-goers and partake in the distribution of their delightful treats. These treats ranged from sweets, raisins, dry figs, dates, and roasted chickpeas to an orange that we ceremoniously peeled and portioned out among us segment by segment. Occasionally, those without such treats to offer would present us with turnips, carrots, or other vegetables. In return, we would express our gratitude with kisses on the hands of the generous givers, acknowledging the sweetness of their offerings. Their blessings and words of advice on good behavior and kindness echoed in our hearts.

Among the cherished treat-givers, Uncle Boujemaa held a special place in every child's heart. Despite not enjoying economic prosperity, Uncle Boujemaa unfailingly ensured that no child left empty-handed. His arrival from the market, side-saddled on his big brown donkey, was a sight that filled us with excitement. The donkey, accustomed to our greetings, would pause without needing a command from Uncle Boujemaa. With a warm smile, he retrieved a treasure trove of treats that he had already placed on the surface of his panniers, ready to gift us with. We graciously accepted his treats before politely requesting to express our gratitude by kissing his hand, as was the custom with the elderly in our village at that time.

Uncle Boujemaa was familiar with the names of every child in the village, both young and old. His knowledge extended to various aspects of our lives - from those who had experienced illness to those boys who had undergone circumcision, and even those who had just begun school or Quranic School. He would playfully tease us about these details, but his advice was always delivered in a more fatherly earnest tone.

Uncle Boujemaa's kindness was akin to the sweetness and delight of the goodies he generously bestowed upon us. The warmth of his gentle demeanor and the simple joy of those shared moments have left a lasting impression in the memories of every child in the countryside.

The loss of Uncle Boujemaa cast a shadow of sadness that resonated deeply with us during our idyllic childhood days. I vividly recall the day when the echo of someone's voice, calling from the summit of a distant mountain a couple of miles away, reached our ears, carrying the weight of heart-rending news. It was as if the very earth beneath us hesitated to accept such an unpleasant reality.

I stood frozen, unable to fully understand the depth of the loss we had just encountered. How could the Souk days ever be the same without Uncle Boujemaa's presence? The memories of his benevolence lingered like a comforting embrace, but his departure left a void that seemed impossible to fill. In those moments, disbelief gripped my senses, refusing to let go.

Uncle Boujemaa was more than a family friend; he was every child's second father. His generosity knew no bounds, his kindness a guiding light, and his unassuming personality a source of comfort for all who knew him. May this man, whose influence surpassed the confines of time and touched the very core of our collective childhood, find eternal peace.

Moroccan Souk: Childhood Joys and Haircut Woes Noureddine Boutahar

 As a Moroccan Gen Xer, the Souk (open-air marketplace) held a special place in my childhood, serving as a vibrant hub where the spirit of our community thrived. It was a space where adults sought their necessities, while I sought out enjoyment. Each week, this open-air market came to life, with vendors proudly displaying their diverse array of goods and services under canvas white tents, transforming a designated space into a bustling spectacle.

In this vibrant gathering, our country folks unveiled their treasures with flair – wheat, barley, peas and broad beans neatly packed in sacks and panniers, enticing buyers with the bounty of their harvest. Meanwhile, the Souk's lively tapestry expanded to include a menagerie of livestock: sheep, goats, donkeys, and mules, all contributing to the bustling energy of the market.

The Souk, a meticulously orchestrated symphony of commerce, showcased impeccable organization. Each section had its designated space, contributing to a harmonious flow. A corner was exclusively reserved for the vibrant hues of fresh vegetables and fruits, while another boasted the earthy tones of grains and cereals. There existed a dedicated space for blacksmiths and farriers, and another for artisans crafting donkey panniers. Further along, a designated spot catered to skilled haircutters, and a lively locale housed the butchers. Beyond the bustling market, a fence stood where farmers securely stowed their pack and draft animals—the unsung heroes and sole modes of transportation in those bygone days—all under the vigilant gaze of a watchful guard, earning a few coins in return.

Accompanying my grandmother, I made occasional visits to the Souk, often timed with the reluctant need for a haircut. Though the idea of trimming my fair, straight hair wasn't appealing, it was the sole reason I was permitted to join this bustling spectacle. My parents, wary of hygiene concerns, frowned upon letting my hair grow too long, deeming it a breeding ground for unwelcome guests like lice, which were very common in those days.

Yet, amidst the haircuts and clippings, what I cherished most about the Souk were the breakfasts at the charming tented cafes. There, we indulged in hearty meals – mint tea sweetened generously, scrambled eggs drizzled with olive oil and tomatoes, hot whole-wheat flour bread, and the pièce de résistance, Sfenj, traditional Moroccan yeasted donuts, airy and soft on the inside and crisp on the outside. Its aroma wafted through the entire Souk, a scent that lingers in my memories.

Another highlight was encountering relatives amidst the vibrant chaos. Amidst greetings, teasing, and expressions of familial affection, a small piece of money would change hands. This ‘windfall’ became my ticket to delight, spent on candies and chewing gum, turning the Souk into a playground for my sweet tooth.

The haircut sessions, conducted by a family friend doubling as the barber, were less enjoyable. His tools were weathered, and makeshift solutions were common. The absence of chairs meant that we had to sit on the ground, on old sacks, or on the donkey packs of other customers, patiently waiting for our turn. Despite my requests for a longer haircut, my parents insisted on a short crop, leaving me dissatisfied and occasionally frustrated. While everyone complimented my hair, a sentiment I also shared, my heart leaned towards the enchantment of long strands. The transformation to a shorter haircut rendered me completely different and less handsome, and subjected me to teasing from my peers.

Exhausted from the day's adventures, having had my fill of playtime and satisfied my sweet cravings, I would often doze off on the way home on muleback. To prevent any mishaps, either my grandmother or my father would place me in front of them on the mule, ensuring a safe journey back, where dreams of the lively Souk lingered until the next visit.

There is a Moroccan proverb that goes, "Those who benefit from the Souk applaud its merits." I stand among those who have reaped the Souk’s rewards, albeit not in material or economic terms. Instead, my gains were intangible, catering to the needs of a young child seeking fun as well as exploration, experimentation, and transformation. In the bustling marketplace, I discovered not only goods but a realm of experiences that shaped my journey of growth, offering the currency of curiosity, joy, and the ever-changing fabric of life.

My Horseback Adventure. Noureddine Boutahar

I spent my childhood in the enchanting countryside, surrounded by donkeys, mules, and horses. My proficiency in riding was such that I earned the privilege of training these magnificent animals. However, not every tale from those days unfolded smoothly, as the following incident illustrates.

Growing up in a bustling household with my parents, grandparents, and skilled horseman uncle, equestrian performances, known as Tbourida, were a regular feature during celebrations like weddings, festivals, and competitions. Our stable housed a variety of splendid horse breeds, born from our mares and expertly trained at home, primarily by my uncle, who had a profound love for these majestic creatures.

One day, we welcomed a striking black Barb pony into our midst. My uncle, seizing the opportunity, showcased the pony's debut at a fantasia performance during a neighbor's wedding, marking the beginning of its training journey. After a day of spirited galloping, my uncle entrusted me with the task of riding the tired and calm pony back home. I succeeded, proud of handling an untrained pony, and expressed my eagerness to gentle it the next day.

The night preceding the anticipated event was sleepless, fueled by thoughts of proving my maturity to everyone. The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, my uncle saddled the horse, attached the spurs, and hoisted me onto its back. These horses, known for their fiery nature and sensitivity under the saddle, responded to the slightest cues.

Upon mounting, I felt the pony's shudders but hesitated to convey my unease. A few steps later, I unintentionally jabbed the excited animal with my spurs, triggering a rapid gallop that almost threw me off. My uncle's calls to pull the bridle were futile, and I found myself in a fast, uncontrollable ride.

Fearing the worst – a potential fall into a well or abyss, or a collision with the looming fig trees – panic set in. I attempted to redirect the horse up the mountain but it refused to heed my pulling. Left with no other choice, I made a split-second decision. I leaned to the left, removed my feet from the stirrups, and leaped to the ground.

Upon regaining consciousness, pain coursed through my entire body. Bruised, swollen, and cut, I spent the next fortnight under my grandmother's care. Her expertise in healing involved massages, warm washcloths, and various herbal concoctions.

Despite the setback, I wholeheartedly agree with Rolf Kopfle's sentiment: “There are many wonderful places in the world, but one of my favorite places is on the back of my horse.' This rings true, for as the legendary American cowboy and actor Roy Rogers wisely said, 'If you tumble off a horse, the only way forward is to rise again. I'm no quitter.' Life's mishaps are but fleeting moments. So we need to embrace the lessons they bring, rise resiliently, and ride forward with a renewed determination to savor the journey ahead.  

Mediocracy is Today's Flavor du Jour. Noureddine Boutahar

In this comically absurd world, there is an abundance of the intellectually challenged, the blinder-wearers, the unwitting pawns, and the brainwashed sheeple. These individuals are moved, controlled, and exploited by the unseen hands of  manipulations, social media, and “the mysterious divinities hidden behind the tabernacle”, in Gustave Le Bon’s words. Political, economic, media and academic arenas are transforming into absurd spectacles led by these mediocre mentalities, steadily advancing to seize more platforms and jeopardize the presence of discerning minds.

According to Oxford Languages Dictionary, mediocracy is defined as "a dominant class consisting of mediocre people or a system in which mediocrity is rewarded," where the absence of authenticity, creativity, and value is noticeable, and exudes an air of insignificance, contempt, and baseness. Its champions aim to weaken our values, beliefs, cultures, and traditions, leading societies to blindly embrace the appeal of the capitalist market economy through backing, approval, widespread dissemination, and media influence.

Socrates articulated it eloquently back in the days when he remarked on a man who confidently strutted, showcasing his clothes and stylish flair: "Speak, so I may see you." This implies that genuine value is not contingent upon external beauty or style. It does not rely on the mediocre content lacking depth, accuracy, and originality that individuals post on the Internet. True value lies in the substance of one's words, the authenticity of one's ideas, and one's streadfast attitude.

Today, however, mediocracy has taken hold of people's daily lives, claiming a significant share of their mental energy. The mediocre dedicate substantial time to debates over trivial matters like fashion trends, accessories, food, and the appeal of public figures. Global television and social media discussions further amplify these frivolous topics, engaging in debates about a dancer's legs, a singer's earrings, or a model's eyelashes. The mediocre have morphed into revered role models, "paper tigers" in Mao Zedong's words, posing a looming threat as mediocracy tightens its grip on the world.

How did the mediocre achieve this? According to the Canadian philosopher, Alain Deneault, “There was no Reichstag fire. No storming of the Bastille. No mutiny on the Aurora. Instead, the mediocre have seized power without firing a single shot. They rose to power on the tide of an economy where workers produce assembly-line meals without knowing how to cook at home, give customers instructions over the phone that they themselves don't understand, or sell books and newspapers that they never read.” Once unknown nobodies and fools now find themselves propelled into the limelight and fame, courtesy of contemporary media and social platforms that provide a stage for mediocracy to emerge, spreading from obscurity.

As Alain Deneault emphasized, mediocracy has become dominant, shaping societal culture with a cohort of mediocre media figures. This normalization has blurred the lines between corruption and innocence to the extent that virtue is seen as a punishable act, and vice is hailed as the ultimate virtue. Kindness is deemed foolish, while malice is paradoxically applauded as brilliance and intelligence.

The danger of mediocracy gaining ground and assembling more followers is that we draw nearer to what the French polymath, Gustave Le Bon, described as the sheep-like mentality of the crowd. Le Bon defined the crowd as a group of individuals united by a common idea, belief, or ideology. The idea which unites a crowd is not chosen by a process of clear reasoning and examination of evidence. Instead, crowds accept beliefs and ideas superficially and utilize them as fuel for revolutionary action. He says, “How numerous are the crowds that have heroically faced death for beliefs ideas and phrases that they scarcely understood.”

In addition, mediocre people are okay with doing the minimum and getting by without putting in enough effort. They avoid pushing limits, challenging norms, thinking creatively, or making extra efforts to achieve goals. They complete tasks but don't aim to stand out or make a big impression. They are content with being average, and as long as things work, they consider it a success. They also anticipate conformity from everyone, expecting individuals to follow the herd without questioning. Anyone who deviates is often unjustly labeled as foolish, a traitor, a turncoat, or a coward.

Another issue with mediocracy is its contagious nature. If one surrounds oneself with individuals who embody mediocracy, negativity, and contentment with average standards, it is likely to influence one to remain at that level. The environment plays a crucial role in shaping the quality and achievements of an individual. Jogging alongside people at one's pace maintains the same speed, preventing any upward movement beyond that average quality and mentality. According to Le Bon, when an individual becomes part of a crowd, he undergoes a profound psychological transformation that, “He is no longer himself but has become an automaton who has ceased to be guided by his will.”

One additional issue with the mediocres is their tendency to go through life wearing blinders. As the movie "Don't Look Up" exemplifies, the mediocre exhibit a lack of concern for matters of public importance. In the film, two astronomers attempt to warn humanity about an impending comet that poses a threat to civilization. Satirically, this warning is met with indifference from mediocre figures in government, politics, celebrities, and the media regarding the impending danger.

It's disheartening that we find ourselves in an era dominated by mediocracy and distraction, a time of deviating away from sound reasoning and higher values. This cultural shift has paved the way for the widespread proliferation of political and social corruption, the prevalence of ignorance, the dissemination of low-quality content, and the erosion of societal standards. There is no magic bullet, secret formula, or quick fix for breaking free from the clutches of mediocracy. It is a collective responsibility, echoing Jean-Paul Sartre's insight: "When we say that a person is responsible for oneself, we don't only mean that one is responsible for one's individuality, but also that one is responsible for all of humanity."

Regrettably, the trajectory towards the rise of mediocracy and the increasing influence of the mediocre provides little reason for optimism, at least in the foreseeable future. Thus, I can only echo the sentiment expressed by the Hadith: "Do as you please if you have no sense of shame."

My Quranic School Experience. Noureddine Boutahar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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