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Abdelwahab Doukkali, or the Nobility of a Morocco That Sings ... 411

Aziz Daouda, 1 d.
- Art - Society - Lifestyle -
2.6 min read.
Abdelwahab Doukkali, or the nobility of a Morocco that still sings; that has always sung and will sing forever. There are artists we admire. And then there are those we love deeply, because they end up becoming part of our own intimate memory, of ourselves simply. Abdelwahab Doukkali belonged, and will belong until the last breath, to this rarest of categories for many people among us. With his passing, Morocco loses more than a great singer. It loses a voice of civilization. A way of being Moroccan with elegance, depth, modesty, and grandeur. He had a unique way of making the modernity and the soul of this Western land that is Morocco dialogue with the so-called Arab East, without ever betraying either one. Doukkali was not just an interpreter. He was a fine architect of emotion. In him, every note seemed thoughtful, inhabited, almost meditated. He sang as one recounts a noble wound, a sincere love, a burning pain, a bittersweet nostalgia, with that restraint that characterized the great artists of his generation. Those who knew that power lies not in excess, but in mastery and sincerity. I will always keep in memory a moment of rare human intensity. One evening, almost intimately, he sang me أغار عليك (“I Am Jealous”). Few artists could give such emotional depth to this piece. He was surprised that I knew such a rarely performed work. For another, this song would have been simply beautiful. For Doukkali, it became a sentimental vertigo. He told me how, on the road back from Marrakech to Casablanca one day, he had the genius to add a word to such a beautiful poem whose potential he didn't know how to unlock. A little word added to lyrics spoken by a woman… قالت (“She said”). Thus, he gave himself the right to sing jealousy on the edge of madness; the obsession that only women hold the secret to, transforming pain into sublimated romance. His voice did not just sing the words. It gave them a second life, the Abdelwahab Doukkali life. And how can we not mention this other artistic feat, that of having sublimated مرسول الحب (“Marsoul L’hob”)? Was Tayeb Laalej aware of what his lyrics, composed in his car, would become... Many interpret, many compose, many sing. Few improve the note, the word, the melody, the emotion. Doukkali did so with that musical intelligence belonging only to the very greatest. He instinctively understood where to place the breath, where to suspend the silence, where to let the orchestra fade before pure emotion, where to place a word, sketch a smile, address the audience. That is genius. Modern Morocco owes so much to men like Abdelwahab Doukkali. A generation that carried Moroccan culture throughout the Arab world and beyond. One day, he found himself singing in French… Go ask him why he sang *Je suis jaloux* with dignity and refinement. This generation that produced cultured, elegant, rooted, and universal artists at once is almost gone… Cursed be this year that took Belkhayate and Doukkali from us… Thank you, Fès, for giving us these two and so many others… Today, listening to his songs again, we also measure what our era has lost: artistic patience, the choice of poetry and words, respect for the public, the cult of work well done. Abdelwahab Doukkali belonged to that time when Moroccan song was a work of art and not a product. His passing brings immense sadness to all who knew him, loved him, or simply listened to him one day with the heart. But great artists have this mysterious victory over death: they continue to inhabit our lives long after their departure. As long as in Morocco a voice hums أغار عليك, as long as a heartbroken lover discovers كان يا ما كان, Abdelwahab Doukkali will never truly leave this country. Madly in love with this land, he built there forever a rampart… That of fine taste with ما أنا إلا بشر (“I Am Only Human”). There goes Doukkali to rejoin friends: Tayeb Laalej, Nizar Qabbani, Abderrahim Sekkat, Ahmed Chajai, Lamghari, Abdelhay Skalli, Mohamed Fouiteh, Abdelhadi Belkhayate, Naima Samih. The others will forgive me for not naming them. In this moment of pain, it's a bit complicated. Tonight, Oum Kaltoum, Farid El Atrach, Abdelhalim Hafid, El Mouji, Baligh Hamdi, Mohamed Abdelwahab, Riad Sounbati... will welcome him. Artists of this caliber do not die. They become national memory. As good Muslims, let us simply say: “We are to God and to Him we return,” and pray. Pray for Doukkali to rest in peace. Those who pass not far from his grave will surely hear him humming this or that song they adore from him.

The International Judo Federation should change its name and leave Judo alone 5656

Tariq Daouda, 1 mon.
- History - Lifestyle - Sports -
1.8 min read.
Judo has a deep tradition: the gentle way. Judo is an extremely refined and sophisticated system of wrestling based on a deep understanding of momentum, leverage and body mechanics. Judo has answers for any type of situations, any body types, any types of matching. This is fundemental to Judo and a hallmark of any true martial art, it transcends physical power and gives the lighter, weaker, shorter party a chance. But Judo goes beyond that, it's name literally means the "gentle way". It is a physical representation of the ideals and values of Judo values. The practice of true Judo provides not only ways of neutralizing stronger opponents, but also to do so in a way that is gentle and respectful. A good Judoka is in control of the situation, and through years of practice controls even the landing of the adversary, allowing him to exercise restraint and gentleness in what otherwise would be dangerously chaotic situations. In 2010 the IJF (the body controling Olympic Judo) probably dealt the biggest blow to Judo in Judo's history: they banned leg grabs. While historical bans of techniques have focused on safety. The justification for this one was that leg grabs made Judo look too much like wrestling, and made it less visually appealing. An absurd vain reason, leg grabs are fundementals of Judo, older than olympic wrestling, or even modern olympic games. Leg grabs are half of standing Judo, leg grabs are essential to meaningful counters. Leg grabs are essential when dealing with taller and heavier opponents. It is true that around that time going straight for the legs had become a staple of certain styles. Overshadowing sometimes the beautifully impressive throws unique to Judo. However, banning them is the less Judo answer imaginable. A total negation of Judo's philosophy and martial roots. Judo has answers to leg grabs, this was a beautiful opportunity to have Judo grow, become bigger and demonstrate its high versatility. Instead the IJF made Judo smaller. Yesterday, I realized that most of the current generation of Judokas has never seen a single leg grab. As a result, they constantly make mistakes, exposing themselves to major counters. Their movement vocabulary is severely reduced, they spend more time pushing and pulling than using momentum and balance. Their understanding of balance is off, they spend more time crouched and less time standing straight. A straighter stance being a hallmark of Judo and the way to most of Judo's spectacular throws. In summary the IJF decision completely backfired it made Judo less impressive, less interesting, more physical and more like wrestling: less gentle. This is probably the biggest betrayal to Judo's root and traditions. The saddest thing of all, modern Judokas are vulnerable in front of wrestlers, this never was the case before. Thankfully, leg grabs have be reinstated in competitions in Japan in a slightly limited way (no diving for the legs). The result is that Japanese competitions are the best and the exciting Judo competitions to watch. Another backfire to the IJf decision. After my yesterday's realization of the loss suffered by the latest Judoka generation. I believe that the IJF should change it's name. The IJF has invented a sport derived from Judo, but IJF-Judo, is not Judo.

Paradoxical Ramadan: Piety, Irritability, Overconsumption and Slumping Productivity... 9065

Aziz Daouda, 2 mon.
Every year, Ramadan settles in Morocco as a form of collective breathing space. Daily rhythms change or are inverted, habits are reorganized or fall apart, nights come alive and days slow down. A sacred month par excellence, it is first and foremost a time of fasting, contemplation, piety and solidarity. But it is also, increasingly, a national paradox: intense spiritual fervor coexists with heightened social irritability, massive food waste and a noticeable drop in productivity. Ramadan, as it is prescribed and recommended, is a time of inner discipline. Fasting is not just abstaining from food; it is self‑control, restraint, patience. Religious scholars and schoolteachers insist on the moral dimension of fasting: refraining from anger, insults and injustice. In short, putting aside all forms of deceitfulness. Yet in contemporary Moroccan reality, the holy month sometimes seems to produce the opposite effect. It becomes the month of unjustified social tension. In large cities such as Casablanca, Rabat or Marrakech, if the mornings are relatively calm, late afternoon turns into a critical moment. Traffic is saturated, impatience is palpable, and road altercations become more frequent. Emergency services and police stations traditionally observe an increase in minor conflicts and aggressive behavior at the end of the day. There is also a rise in cases handled by gastro‑enterology and other specialties… People eat too much, and poorly. Fasting, combined with lack of sleep due to long evenings after iftar and waking up for suhoor, among other things, affects physiological balance. Irritability, reduced concentration and chronic fatigue become commonplace. In a country where emotional regulation is already under strain in everyday life, Ramadan acts as an amplifier. This nervousness is by no means a religious inevitability; it is a sociological consequence of how the month is organized, in a way that has gradually drifted away from its original spirit of moderation, self‑mastery and day‑and‑night contemplation. The immediate consequence is a slump in productivity. On the economic front, the impact is tangible. Administrative working hours are reduced, offices empty out in the afternoon without valid reasons, and construction sites run in slow motion. In some sectors, the drop in activity is accepted; in others, it causes structural delays. Ramadan excuses and explains everything. People shift the burden of their disengagement onto the community without the slightest embarrassment. Morocco aspires to accelerate its growth, attract investment and improve its competitiveness. Yet for nearly one month every year, the economy runs in degraded mode. The private sector adapts, but at what cost? The drop in productivity is not only quantitative; it is also qualitative: decisions are postponed, meetings cut short, projects delayed. The public administration and its staff amplify all this. It would be caricatural to place the blame on religion. The problem is not Ramadan; it is the absence of a culture of performance that is compatible with spiritual requirements. Output and accountability ought to be part of the values of the holy month. Another major contradiction is the paradox of food waste. While fasting is supposed to remind us of the hunger of the poorest, iftar tables are overloaded. Multiple soups, an abundance of pastries, redundant dishes. Markets are booming, food spending rises sharply, and a significant part of what is bought ends up in the trash. Wallets empty out and suffer. This phenomenon reveals a cultural transformation that may be surprising: Ramadan has partly become a social and consumerist event. Large retailers post their best figures, advertising intensifies, and TV channels compete with special programming to capture a deliberately captive nocturnal audience. At the start of the month, national channels record more than 70% of total viewership, a share they are far from reaching under normal circumstances, as Moroccans are very fond of foreign channels. The month of frugality paradoxically turns into a month of overconsumption. One can then ask: is this authentic spirituality, or a social ritualization? It would be unfair to reduce Moroccan Ramadan to its excesses. Thousands of solidarity initiatives emerge. Associations, mosques and volunteers distribute meals and aid to the most vulnerable. Families come together, intergenerational ties are strengthened. The mosque regains a vibrant centrality. The issue, therefore, is not to criticize Ramadan, but to question its contemporary practice. Are we faithful to its spirit, or prisoners of cultural habits that distort its meaning? If the holy month becomes synonymous with chronic fatigue, road rage, weakened productivity and waste, then there is a gap between the spiritual principle and its social translation. It is certainly time to advocate for a Ramadan of responsibility. A calm national debate is needed: how can we reconcile spiritual requirements with collective performance? How can we preserve the sacredness of the month while maintaining the efficiency of institutions? How can we turn fasting into a lever for self‑discipline rather than a pretext for slackness? Ramadan could be a laboratory for positive transformation: learning self‑control, optimizing time, rationalizing consumption, structuring solidarity. It could become a month of moral and professional excellence. Morocco, a country of deep religious tradition and clear economic ambition, has every interest in taking up this challenge. Because beyond productivity statistics or scenes of urban irritation, the real question is this: are we turning Ramadan into a simple collective ritual, or into a genuine exercise in inner and social reform? The answer, each year, is played out in the streets, offices and homes, and above all in each person’s conscience. We have a little less than two weeks left to think about it… seriously.

The Radiance of a Lady 10015

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

Ramadan: When Morocco Gets Moving Between Devotion and Caution.. 10726

Aziz Daouda, 3 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle -
2.1 min read.
Every year, at the start of the holy month, a discreet but massive phenomenon transforms the streets of Moroccan cities. In Rabat, Casablanca, Marrakech, Tangier, or Fez, the corniches, parks, and local pitches fill up as iftar approaches. Clusters of walkers flood the boulevards, groups improvise soccer matches, gyms are packed, and beaches are overrun. The paradox is striking: while fasting imposes abstinence from food and drink from sunrise to sunset, physical activity surges dramatically. For many, Ramadan becomes a month of getting back in shape. People seek the benefits of aligning body and mind with natural discipline. Fasting structures the day, fixed schedules, visible excesses. This discipline fosters commitment to a sports routine. Many use this regularity to build habits that elude them the rest of the year. Indeed, physical exercise enables metabolic improvements, provided it is practiced moderately during fasting, by stimulating: - fat oxidation; - insulin sensitivity; - weight regulation; - reduction of oxidative stress. Walking 45 minutes before iftar or doing a light workout 1 to 2 hours after can promote better fat mass management and limit the weight gain often linked to lavish evening meals. Many people pack on pounds during Ramadan. Cardiovascular benefits are also significant. Brisk walking, light jogging, or cycling improve heart health, lower blood pressure, and boost endurance. Ramadan thus becomes an ideal time to introduce sedentary people to exercise and psychological and physiological well-being. Physical activity and sports during Ramadan also act as emotional regulators: - reduction of irritability from deprivation; - improved sleep quality; - sense of accomplishment; - social cohesion: neighborhood matches, group walks. In a month marked by spirituality, physical effort becomes an extension of moral striving. However, potential risks cannot be ignored, as the body has its limits. Crossing them can be seriously harmful. The sports fervor is not without danger, especially when improvised, poorly controlled, or excessive. The main risk remains water loss. Severe dehydration is never far off. Running in late afternoon under spring sun, without drinking, can cause: - dizziness; - hypotension; - muscle cramps; - concentration issues; - even fainting. Those pushing beyond a certain intensity are particularly prone to hypoglycemia. Intense effort while fasting can trigger a sharp drop in blood sugar, leading to: - tremors; - cold sweats; - blurred vision; - extreme fatigue. Diabetics or prediabetics, in particular, must exercise extra caution. There are also many risks of muscle injuries. Dehydration reduces muscle elasticity. Many dive into explosive soccer matches or intense weight sessions without gradual preparation. Result: strains, tears, ligament ruptures, lower back pain. Overloading the heart is another major risk if you ignore your body's signals. For the untrained or those with undiagnosed cardiovascular issues, intense fasting effort can be dangerous, even fatal. Thus, golden rules must be followed for a healthy sports-focused Ramadan, to maximize benefits and minimize risks: - Prioritize moderate intensity: brisk walking, light jogging, gentle strengthening. - Choose the right timing: 30 to 60 minutes before iftar, to rehydrate quickly; or 1 to 2 hours after iftar. - Strategic hydration between iftar and suhoor: sip water steadily, avoiding excess caffeine. - Balanced nutrition: proteins, fibers, complex carbs. - Listen to warning signs: dizziness, palpitations, unusual weakness. Beyond health, this activity surge reveals an intriguing reality—a sociological phenomenon: Ramadan acts as a collective catalyst. It creates an atmosphere conducive to behavior change. Where the rest of the year brings dispersion, the holy month provides structure, purpose, and motivation. Friendships and interest groups come alive again. The central question remains: why doesn't this momentum last after Ramadan? Perhaps because, more than a simple month of fasting, Ramadan is an accelerator of intention. It pushes everyone to become a better version of themselves, spiritually and physically. The challenge now is to transform this seasonal energy into a permanent culture of movement, physical exercise, and sports. If the body can fast, it must never stop moving, and thus living.

Why doing more makes life worst? 10482

Safaa Ouahid, 3 mon.
- Lifestyle - Philosophy -
1.1 min read.
it is strange how 'busy' has become the default answer to 'how are you?'. Somehow, being overwhelmed turned into a sign that we are doing something right. But beneath that there is often a quiet exhaustion we do not talk about. But productivity, in itself, is not the problem and setting goals and working toward them can be meaningful and energizing. The problem begins when doing more becomes the only way we measure our worth or value. When a day without an achievement feels wasted or when we cannot watch a movie, take a walk, or just sit in silence without feeling guilty for having a rest or thinking about what else we should be doing. We start treating our lives like projects that need constant optimization. Every task and every hobby must be useful, every hour must be efficient. Even self-care becomes something to perfect. Instead of asking whether we are happy or fulfilled, we ask whether we have done enough. And the definition of enough keeps expanding.. There is also something deeper happening. Sometimes, staying busy can become a way of avoiding ourselves. When our minds are always occupied, we don’t have to sit with uncomfortable thoughts or unanswered questions. and productivity can feel like control. As long as we are achieving something, we don’t have to face the fear that we might not be enough without it. that is the issue. But maybe life is not a performance review. Some of the most important parts of being human cannot be measured in output. They do not show up on a checklist. They require time that is not optimized and moments that are not productive. So doing less does not mean giving up on ambition. It means remembering that achievement was never meant to replace living. Sometimes the most radical thing we can do in a world obsessed with output is to pause without guilt. Not because we have earned it, but because we are human.

The Radiance of a Lady 10136

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 9701

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Fantasy -
0.4 min read.
The Radiance of a Lady ​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 8896

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The radiance of a lady 8879

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
The Radiance of a Lady ​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

Moulay El Hassan's Style: Elegance, Humility, and Sovereignty of Gesture... 10034

Aziz Daouda, 5 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
2.9 min read.
Sometimes, a moment transcends the event that made it possible. The opening ceremony of the 35th edition of the Africa Cup of Nations, hosted in Morocco, will undoubtedly remain in memories not only for its technology, beauty, thematic relevance, and unprecedented quality in Africa; not for its sporting and diplomatic importance, but above all for the silent, almost choreographed performance of Crown Prince **Moulay El Hassan**. Under pouring rain, in a packed stadium and under the crossed gazes of Moroccan and international audiences, the Prince surprised the uninitiated. Not through ostentation, but through sobriety. Not through distance, but through proximity. That evening, Morocco offered Africa and the world far more than a football tournament: a lesson in style, behavior, and hospitality through the elegance of gesture and nobility of demeanor. Without an umbrella, advancing calmly onto the soaked pitch of the **Stade Moulay Abdellah**, Crown Prince stops, warmly greets a charmed, enthusiastic, fervent crowd, and heads toward the referees and players with disarming naturalness. The images speak for themselves: smiles, simple exchanges, a friendly and deeply human tone. No heavy protocol, no rigidity. Just the evident poise of a man at ease in his mission, with presence and class. When he asks the referee which side to kick the ball from for the symbolic kick-off, the gesture becomes almost metaphorical. That of a throne heir who knows that true authority need not be imposed, but is exercised through respect, affection, and listening. The ball is struck with elegance, without emphasis. The message, however, is crystal clear. Joy is evident. Morocco is host and common home to an entire continent in the making. The Prince proves it. As a true Moroccan, Crown Prince masters this ancestral art: that of receiving and putting guests at ease. The nations present at the CAN are Morocco's guests. And, at a deeper level still, they are the guests of all Moroccans, led by His Majesty King Mohammed VI, may God assist him, as the president of FIFA **Gianni Infantino** and that of the CAF **Patrice Motsepe**, South African as a reminder, delight in repeating. By presiding over this ceremony and representing his august father, Prince Moulay El Hassan embodied not only institutional continuity. He embodied a culture: that of a Kingdom where hospitality is a cardinal value, and where sovereignty is also expressed through courtesy. Seated in the Royal Box alongside the President of the Comoros, **Gianni Infantino**, **Patrice Motsepe**, and the president of the FRMF **Fouzi Lekjaa**, the Prince followed the match with visible attention, reacting to key moments like any football enthusiast, expressing sincere joy and shared emotion. When **Ayoub El Kaabi** scores his splendid acrobatic overhead kick in the 74th minute, the Prince's joy is spontaneous, sincere, almost contagious. It is not a calculated joy, but that of a young man proud of his team, his country, and the historic moment the Kingdom and Africa are experiencing. At that very instant, he turns and respectfully greets his guest: the President of the Comoros. Relations and cooperation with these sister islands, though distant, are special. Nearly all the high officials of this brother nation, including the president himself, were trained in Morocco's great schools and universities. This ability of His Royal Highness to shift seamlessly from protocol to emotion may be one of the most striking traits of this performance. It humanizes the role without ever weakening it. It recalls the royal solicitude at Marrakech hospital: His Majesty leaning over a hospital bed and embracing a Sub-Saharan injured man who thanks him wholeheartedly and seems to have forgotten his misfortune. There, in Rabat, on this evening of December 21, the rain is a symbol: between gratitude and destiny. That evening held another dimension, subtler, almost spiritual. After seven consecutive years of drought, this abundant rain falling on Rabat at that precise moment took on particular resonance. The princely gesture, performed without protection amid a downpour, appeared to many as a form of silent gratitude, a thanks to divine mercy. Long live the abundant rain and snows on the peaks of the Atlas. In a monarchy where the long term, symbolism, and the sacred matter as much as the media instant, this image has marked minds. It reminded that power in Morocco is rooted in historical and spiritual continuity, that of the world's oldest reigning dynasty. That of the Commander of the Faithful. Did not the late Hassan II thank God, traversing Khemisset standing with arms raised, through a long-awaited downpour? The Prince is an exceptional man in the making: brilliant student, insightful doctoral candidate, resolute Moroccan, convinced Muslim, determined African, erudite humanist. The final victory of the Atlas Lions (2-0) merely capped off an evening already rich in meaning. But beyond the score, it is Crown Prince's behavior that will remain one of the highlights of this CAN opening. Through his humility, elegance, and mastery of codes, **Moulay El Hassan** showed that he is not merely a blood royal heir, but an heir to enduring values. And that may be where the respect, love, and admiration of the Moroccan public, and the surprise of the international one—lie: in having seen, under the rain, the portrait of a future great leader who understands that greatness often begins with the simplicity of the gesture.

The Moroccan Paradox: Between Tangible Progress and Social Disenchantment... 10002

Aziz Daouda, 5 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
2.8 min read.
Macroeconomic and social indicators paint the picture of a Morocco in profound transformation. Today's Morocco bears little resemblance to that of the early post-independence decades. Life expectancy, which stagnated around half a century in the 1960s, now exceeds three-quarters of a century. Policies on electrification, drinking water access, schooling, and healthcare coverage have yielded visible results, even if pockets of fragility persist. The country has gained nearly thirty years of life expectancy and significantly reduced poverty. Consumption patterns have diversified, domestic tourism has grown, and leisure practices have spread. Social behaviors are gradually aligning with those seen in upper-middle-income countries, if not beyond. Yet, this overall positive situation coexists with a diffuse sense of malaise. Pessimism persists, coupled with growing distrust of political institutions, manifesting as civic disenchantment. How to explain this gap between measurable, tangible progress and a collective sentiment sometimes marked by self-deprecation? Economically, despite exogenous shocks, pandemic, repeated droughts, geopolitical tensions, imported inflation, the trajectory remains broadly upward. The boom in infrastructure, development of export industries (automotive, aeronautics, phosphate and derivatives), the rise of services, and progressive integration into global value chains are regularly praised by international institutions, which are unanimous on the country's resilience and advances in human development. Urban planning and beautification are simply stunning. By the data alone, life is indisputably "better" in Morocco today than twenty, thirty, or fifty years ago. Yet, this objective improvement does not mechanically translate into a sense of well-being. Well-being is never measured in absolute terms. It is built through comparison: with yesterday, with others, with what one perceives as possible or legitimate. As society progresses, expectations rise, diversify, and become more demanding. Citizens no longer settle for access to basic services; they aspire to quality, recognition, and dignity. The widespread access to information and social networks has amplified this hall of mirrors. Western living standards, globalized consumption patterns, and lifestyles of local or international elites are constantly on display. The frame of reference no longer stops at the neighboring village or previous generation but extends to far wealthier societies or privileged minorities. This imagined gap between what is and what is seen, sometimes fantasized, fuels frustration that can coexist with real improvements in material conditions. Thus, the sense of downward mobility reflects less an objective regression than a mismatch between rapidly expanding aspirations and economic, social, and institutional responses progressing at a pace deemed insufficient. Progress does not mask persistent fractures. Gaps between urban and rural worlds, coastal regions and hinterlands, socioeconomic categories are narrowing but remain stark in perception and feeling. The middle class feels it is navigating a zone of uncertainty. It enjoys a higher standard of living than the previous generation but feels vulnerable. Even with positive macroeconomic indicators, many households' difficulty in projecting serenely into the medium term—planning projects, anticipating social mobility, securing retirement—feeds a diffuse anxiety. Uncertainty, more than poverty in the strict sense, becomes a central factor in the malaise. This unease extends beyond the economic or social sphere. It finds a powerful amplifier in the crisis of trust toward political actors. Opinion polls show growing distrust of parties, elected officials, and mediating institutions. Achievements are not sufficiently explained or embodied by credible leaders, and many citizens feel inequity, pinning their sentiment on politics. Politics is often seen as a closed space, dominated by careerism and clientelism. Expectations in electoral alternations are regularly disappointed, leading to frustration spilling over the entire political field. Politicians become symbolic receptacles for a malaise that far exceeds their actual actions. This phenomenon is reinforced by the temporality of public policies. Many reforms, educational, social, territorial, produce long-term effects, while citizens demand quick, tangible results in daily life. Lacking pedagogy, transparency, and collective narrative, public policies remain abstract, their benefits invisible or attributed to other factors. Moroccan pessimism does not necessarily take the form of radical contestation. It often manifests as "gentle nihilism": electoral abstention, associational disengagement, retreat into the private sphere, rise of irony and cynicism in public debate, self-deprecating discourse about the country itself. This climate erodes confidence in the collective capacity to transform reality. This nihilism is ambivalent. It coexists with strong aspirations for individual success and international recognition of the country. It does not signal rejection of progress but doubt about the system's ability to offer prospects to all, not just the usual beneficiaries. The challenge for Morocco thus goes beyond the economic or social dimension. It is also symbolic and political. How to ensure tangible progress translates into a shared sense of collective advancement? How to reconnect individual trajectories with a clear, credible vision of the future? Without a shared narrative, even positive figures struggle to convince. The Moroccan paradox is not that of a stagnant country but of a society in motion, traversed by constant tension between real progress and hopes. It is in the ability to transform this tension into reform energy that the future largely lies. The CAN, with circulating videos conveying foreign satisfaction and astonishment at Morocco's progress, could be the hoped-for turning point. Life is good in Morocco.

The Radiance of a Lady 9715

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Movie of My Life 9270

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.8 min read.
​I have lived among the Wealthy I have walked alongside the Poor I have approached those without a home. I have challenged intellectuals and faced the illiterate. My past was surely atypical, often tumultuous, but fantastic— At times extravagant, at others, wretched. With highs and lows, And riddled with missteps. Full of exploits, A source of satisfaction and joy. I never let anyone dictate their law to me; I was always that rebel, Mixing courage with zeal. I have faced dead ends, Bearing scars and traces That could have been fatal. Fortunately, I made it through miraculously, against all odds. I have known the joy of encounters And the sadness of partings, again and again. But I am proud of what I have undertaken so far, Even if my work seems unfinished. The time I have left to live Bodes for a promising future. I remain attentive to thoughts, Filling my days with jokes and laughter. I stay serene and confident, for the best is yet to come. Helping my neighbor helps me hold on And gives meaning to my life. Listening to people, Understanding their setbacks, Solving problems and giving hope Is, for me, the definition of joy. At the twilight of my life, And at my age now, I would not change my style or my way of life for anything in the world. Otherwise, I would no longer be who I am, And that would be a betrayal of this "dog of a life" of mine. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by a text from my Master, Pr. Hakam Tazi Moukha January 20, 2024 All rights reserved

The Radiance of a Lady 8889

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 9195

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

Waking Up in the Dark: School Schedules Adapted to Morocco's 21st-Century Child... 9324

Aziz Daouda, 5 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
2.9 min read.
What inspired these lines is a letter published by a father on social media, which states in essence: "I am writing to you as a concerned parent, but also as a citizen exhausted by a government choice that, year after year, ignores common sense: maintaining a schedule where our children wake up when it's still pitch black to go to school. Every morning, it's the same absurd scenario: wake-up at dawn, children torn from sleep, eyes still closed, bodies tired, forced to go out into the darkness, sometimes in the cold, to reach their school. Sleepy students in class, weakened concentration, growing irritability. How can we talk about quality learning in these conditions?" Beyond fatigue, there is danger. Many parents lack the means to accompany their children. These children walk alone on streets still shrouded in darkness, exposed to risks of traffic accidents, assaults, or incivilities. This fact alone should question the relevance of this schedule. Yet the government persists in defending this choice in the name of economic or energy arguments, without ever weighing the well-being, health, and safety of our children against them. We are not asking for the impossible, only a return to a human rhythm, adapted to the reality of our society. Through this letter, I hope this debate will finally be opened seriously. Our children are not adjustable variables. They deserve a normal wake-up, in daylight, and a school that respects their fundamental needs." It lays out the ordeal experienced by children and parents and challenges the school rhythm imposed on our children. In fact, current school schedules are based on an organization largely inherited from the early 20th century, designed for a society with more stable temporalities, not at all connected and less exposed to constant stimulation. However, scientific studies have converged for some time on a single observation: there is a growing gap between these institutional frameworks and the biological, cognitive, and psychosocial needs of the contemporary child. Even better, the 21st-century child evolves in an environment marked by the omnipresence of screens, the multiplication of digital interactions, and the porosity between school time, family time, and leisure time. Research in chronobiology clearly establishes that exposure to artificial light, particularly blue light emitted by screens, delays melatonin secretion, the key hormone for falling asleep. This late-night exposure permanently disrupts wake-sleep cycles in children and adolescents, making early bedtime biologically difficult, regardless of the educational rules set by families. In this context, maintaining very early school schedules amounts to instituting a chronic sleep debt in the child. Yet, the role of sleep in learning is now solidly documented. Neurosciences show that sleep is essential for memory consolidation, emotional regulation, and the proper functioning of executive functions such as attention, planning, and cognitive control. Regular sleep deprivation is associated with decreased academic performance, increased irritability, and attention disorders that can exacerbate learning difficulties. North American studies provide particularly instructive insights: delaying the start of classes, associated with improved sleep time, leads to better academic results, attendance, mental health, and a reduction in road accidents involving adolescents. The American Academy of Pediatrics explicitly recommends later school schedules for adolescents, in line with their naturally shifted circadian rhythm. Lacking precise studies in Morocco, let's look at what is said elsewhere. Research shows that during adolescence, the biological clock physiologically shifts toward a later bedtime. Forcing a very early wake-up thus directly conflicts with a normal biological process. Ignoring this well-established data undermines the very conditions of learning and well-being. To cognitive fatigue are added issues of safety and social inequalities. The early schedules still imposed in Morocco expose many children to travel in darkness, increasing road and urban risks. For example, OECD studies emphasize that learning conditions extend beyond the classroom: travel time, accumulated fatigue, and family context strongly influence academic trajectories. The most modest families have less leeway for adaptation in accompaniment, secure transport, and educational compensation, turning school schedules into an indirect but real factor of inequalities. Economic, organizational, or energy imperatives cannot justify the status quo. Several international analyses show the exorbitant long-term costs of sleep deprivation: in terms of school dropout, anxiety disorders, reduced productivity, and health problems. These cumulative costs far exceed the adjustments needed for a reform of schedules. The OECD regularly insists on the importance of investing in student well-being as a condition for the effectiveness of education systems. Rethinking school schedules is therefore neither about comfort, laxity, nor whimsy. It is a rational approach, grounded in robust scientific data. Pedagogical effectiveness is not measured by the number of hours spent at school or the earliness of wake-up, but by the quality of attention, the cognitive availability of children, and the engagement of students and teachers. This reflection must fit into a comprehensive approach. Experts emphasize the need to coordinate school schedules, screen time management, workload, balance between family and educational life, and mental health. A high-performing education system is one capable of integrating scientific insights and evolving with the society it serves. In the era of permanent connectivity, persisting with rigid patterns institutionalizes fatigue from childhood. Taking into account the needs of the child, rather than the constraints of the adult world, is not a pedagogical utopia. It is a scientific, social, and ultimately political imperative. Morocco has all the means to undertake a genuine reflection on the issue and should initiate it as the basis for a true education reform.

The Radiance of a Lady 9063

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 8504

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

The Radiance of a Lady 8474

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.4 min read.
​Your love illuminates my heart, And you have forbidden me to reveal this honor. How can the light of your brilliance be dimmed When it radiates from everywhere? It shines like a sapphire, a diamond, or a jewel, And dazzles everyone with your blonde beauty. You do not believe in my love, In turn, While I can love no one else but you; This is my destiny, this is my faith. You are my heart and my soul, You are my destiny, you are my law. I cannot bear it when you are far away, beautiful woman, You who soothe my heart in flames. In you, I find all my vows, You who make my days happy. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music piece, "Bassit Ibahane" December 13, 2025 https://youtu.be/wlvhOVGyLek?si=5tt6cm0oChF1NQJJ

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan) 8058

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.7 min read.
​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan) 8022

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.7 min read.
​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

Kaftan Evening (Soirée Kaftan 7823

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.7 min read.
) ​In a Kaftan evening's glow, Colors compete in vibrant show, And tales of ancient times they sow. They blend within the multi-hue, Granting the festivity its view. The lovely ladies each embrace their dance, To music's rhythm that puts them in a trance. ​Each region of Morocco, for its kaftan, must innovate, The Sefrioui kaftan, adorned with cherries, is great. It pleases me and makes my head spin, The Queen of Cherries is full of grace, She is beautiful, she has class. The yellow Fassi kaftan is sublime, The pink Marrakchi kaftan is intimate. The green Oujdi kaftan is simply top-tier, The red Meknassi kaftan extremely pleases me here. The multicolored Berber kaftan leaves me dreaming and pale, The beige Soussi kaftan I adore and hail. The Sahraoui sky-blue kaftan seduces me as well, The Rifian royal blue kaftan charms like a spell. The red and green Casablanca kaftan is magical, The Rbati kaftan is fantastical. The white Tetouani kaftan is lordly and grand, The pistachio Tangerois kaftan brings emotion to the land. The Chefchaouni kaftan leaves me astounded and mute, The Moroccan kaftan is simply royal in its pursuit. The Safi sky-blue kaftan is very beautiful, From Tangier to Lagouira, It perpetuates since the dawn of time the style of a tailoring, a witness to a great culture's spring, Whose secret and honor only the Cherifian Kingdom keeps, To the great dismay of the envious and the thieves. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved December 11, 2025

My five witnesses of love 8310

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
Of this love that I have for you I have five witnesses: My frail body which has lost its plumpness! My hot tears despite your good care!! My hands that tremble when you are far away!!! My poor heart beating very hard in its little corner!!!! And the hope of meeting you, one day, a few minutes…. at least !!!!! ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights are protected

My Father's Pen 7550

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
​I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell. ​He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. ​This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. ​I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. ​My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. ​My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. ​I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. ​For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

My Father's Pen 7141

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
​I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell. ​He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. ​This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. ​I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. ​My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. ​My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. ​I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. ​For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

My Father's Pen 7491

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
​I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell. ​He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. ​This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. ​I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. ​My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. ​My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. ​I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. ​For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

My Father's Pen 7313

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
​I have known it since I was young. My late father, then a school principal, gave me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966, to replace my dip pen, penholder, and inkwell. ​He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and how to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express my feelings and reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and, subsequently, the choice of the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required a faithful reflection of the recount of events, whether actually experienced or imagined. He taught me to reflect on what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He took all the time for this patiently, never reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my Rs. He knew that by doing so, he succeeded in setting me on the right path for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our staff housing at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. ​This is how I began to write short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. ​I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. ​My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time of my life. For me, it was a way not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. ​My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. ​I had gotten into the habit of writing in one go, without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. ​For me, there is nothing surprising, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

My father's pen 7090

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
​I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. I also kept my personal diary. My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day. I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy. Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

​✍️ My Father's Pen 6737

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Romance -
1.5 min read.
​I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school director, gave me my first pen when I successfully passed my primary school leaving certificate in June 1966. He taught me how to hold it between my thumb and forefinger and how to improve my handwriting, both in Arabic and in French. ​He taught me to choose the best verb, the best sentence to express what I felt and to reveal my emotions of the moment. He instilled in me the art of juggling with the taxonomy of verbs and subsequently choosing the best tense for conjugating them. He never stopped repeating to me that the solemnity of the moment required faithfully reflecting the narrative of events truly experienced or imagined. He taught me to think about what I was going to write before drafting and consulting. ​He had the art and the manner of transmitting his knowledge to me with passion and love. He patiently took all the time for this without ever reprimanding me for a spelling mistake or when I rolled my R's. He knew that this way he succeeded in putting me on the right track for drafting, narration, pronunciation, and written and oral expression. ​I often locked myself in my studio, which was in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I began to write small stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary sweetheart. I also kept my personal diary. ​My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail high school, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me that allowed me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was for me a way not only to distract myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised what I produced in writing from a distance and had the art and the manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital grew day by day. I had gotten into the habit, to this day, of writing in one go without resorting to a draft. ​Now that I am nearing seventy, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, nothing is astonishing, because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an unparalleled teacher and school director who officiated for over forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. ​May he rest in peace and know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025

#1 Exposomics: Lifelong Environmental Exposures and Health Outcomes with Dr. Jacob Galan 7153

Tariq Daouda, 5 mon.
During this conversation we explore the concept of the exposome, which encompasses all environmental exposures a person experiences over a lifetime. The discussion covers how mass spectrometry helps analyze these exposures and sheds light on gene-environment interactions contributing to health outcomes. We examine how environmental toxins are linked to chronic diseases and highlight how cultural and dietary habits shape individual exposure profiles. The conversation also discusses how artificial intelligence is transforming exposomic research, offering the potential for new health insights through advanced analytics. We address the complexities involved in studying exposomics: the significance of protein structures, innovations in biological research methods, and improvements in mass spectrometry that provide richer data for analysis. Challenges such as finding exposomic markers and detecting elusive ‘ghost molecules’ are considered, as well as the interactions between environment and hormonal health—like changes in testosterone levels. They discuss the promising future of exposomics, focusing on integrating AI and biomonitoring to better understand and manage the real-life impact of environmental exposures on health.
youtube.com/watch?v=6L7j8UdTgGA

My father's pen 6762

Boucharfou, 6 mon.
- Art - Society - Lifestyle -
1 min read.
​I have known it since my young age. My late father, then a school principal, offered me my first pen when I passed my primary school certificate in June 1966. He thus taught me how to hold it between my thumb and index finger and to improve my handwriting in both Arabic and French. I often used to lock myself in my studio, which was located in the garden of our official residence at the Sidi Amr school in Meknes. This is how I started writing short stories, poems, and even love letters to an imaginary beloved. I also kept my personal diary. My French teacher in the first year, called the observation class, at Moulay Ismail High School, Mr. Rossetti, encouraged me to write. My pen was a precious tool for me, allowing me to express everything I felt at that time in my life. It was a way for me not only to entertain myself but also to consolidate a gift for writing and composing poems. My father supervised my writings from a distance and had the art and manner of correcting my essays while encouraging me to move forward. My "vocabulary" capital was enriched day after day. I had acquired the habit, to this day, of writing in a single draft without resorting to a rough copy. Now that I am close to seventy years old, I continue to write with a disconcerting ease that surprises those around me. For me, this is not surprising because I possess genes transmitted by my father, an outstanding teacher and school principal who officiated for more than forty years and who, like me and my brothers and sisters, trained hundreds and hundreds of students. May he rest in peace and may he know that his pen is in good hands. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved November 27, 2025