Think Forward.

Lifestyle

Going Forward: An Exercise in Focus. 149

GiANTS Game Philosophy, 14 h.
- Lifestyle - Philosophy -
1.8 min read.
It has been half a year since finishing the design and “publishing” my first modest game. Find the link to the actual game at the bottom of this article. It's free, no download necessary. The aftermath of Creating this game can be summarized simply: I still play and enjoy my game. Nobody else plays it since I didn’t go to any lengths to advertise its existence. Which doesn’t bother me at all. But it does go deeper than that. The exercise of creating the game, writing down the rules and having people test it, along with the task of building upon the feedback with refined iterations of the rules, it all forced me to make a choice between my comfort zone and what lies outside of it. I very much had the option to keep a functioning game recorded exclusively in my mind, and to keep to myself about it (or maybe blog about it). But instead I disciplined myself to produce a product that others can experience in their own way and on their own time. There are two main take-aways from this choice: 1) Regardless of whether others do play the game or not, I have created something that can “be pointed at.” Something tangible, observable and measurable. This feels like hopping over a fence; I had made nothing before, and now I have made something. Going forward from here, this fact will not change regardless of what course of action I choose next. 2)I have felt the feeling of reaching outside of my comfort zone and subsequently expanding it by the smallest increment. Which means that going forward from here, while I may have unfamiliar territory ahead of me, the act of crossing into unfamiliar territory is becoming familiar. This is a great personal improvement overall and just like the first point, regardless of what I choose to do next, this will not change. The next highly uncomfortable step for me at this time will be to promote and maybe even market something of my making. I do have a batch of ideas in that regard that are just waiting to be put into action: - “try before you buy” weekly evening events at one of my local board games shop, which have the kindness of allowing people to self-promote their homebrew games. - Attempt to contact Mark on YouTube (Riffle Shuffle and Roll) to see if he’d be willing to feature Bully Takedown on his channel. - Another game I’m working on (ooh secret project) could be packaged as a prototype and pitched at conventions. - The secret project could be, gasp, pitched to a publisher once it’s finished and packaged as a prototype. - Eventually maybe I could even start posting on some socials, wincing merrily along the way. Any of these steps are unspeakably uncomfortable for me. Maybe that’s appropriate for pitching to a publisher or at a convention, but the others seem more accessible despite the disproportionate feeling of discomfort regarding those options. This is where it all becomes an exercise in focus. Clearly anxiety is hijacking my imagination and taking me into mental headspaces I have no business being in. As a wise fictional character in an animated movie once said: “focusing on what I can control here and now” will be the key to going forward. I will be starting a dev log soon for the aforementioned secret project, to keep track of the creation of such a thing as a prototype. Let’s call it Project Contraption for now. As for the game I published, here it is below. It's called Bully Takedown.
medium.com/@giantsgamedesign/bul...

​🏰 Sandcastle🏰 356

Boucharfou, 2 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.2 min read.
​It often happened to me that I would draw my dreams on quicksand which ruthless waves, crashing upon the shore, came to destroy to erase all hope and preserve my setbacks Yet, I was naive and unaware My pretensions vanish and disappear in a few moments My apprehensions resurface nonetheless Consequently, I remain distraught for a long time and cry over the ruins of the quicksands ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights are reserved Agadir, November 18, 2025

Being a doctor...in my generation! 382

Boucharfou, 2 d.
- Society - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.3 min read.
Medicine was an art practiced without flaw by a rare horde of people dedicated to their lauded work, who often remained stuck in the hospital to be that lifeline of oxygen and life. We remained clear-headed. We weren't greedy at all. Our medicine, whatever anyone said, and in all honesty, brought honor and happiness. It was our reason for being. Without it, we would be nothing but poor people, ultimately given over to doubt Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved

Growing Older: A Joyful Perspective 665

Boucharfou, 4 d.
- Society - Lifestyle - Health -
0.9 min read.
​Growing older is not a pain in the ass. No offense to the late Bernard Pivot. Growing older is hilarious. I would even go further: Growing older is exciting, it is soothing, it is marvelous, it is fantastic, and it is rather reassuring. Growing older is a boon and an unprecedented opportunity to watch your children grow up and grow old... ​Growing older is a gift from heaven and a blessing from God to enjoy your grandchildren by playing with them, having crazy fun with them, and almost becoming children with them... ​Growing older is marvelous and simply fascinating to keep seeing your childhood friends, to persist in joking with them, and to share memories and adventures experienced together... ​Growing older is an ideal opportunity to discover other cultures, to travel, and to treat yourself again and again... ​Growing older is becoming wise, it is sharing experiences, it is advising the younger and the less young... ​Growing older is helping your neighbor, it is assisting others... ​Growing older is the time to meditate, to dream, and to pray for this world that is becoming crazier and crazier... ​Growing older is expecting nothing from others but responding to the expectations of others... ​Growing older is being serene and confident in the future and never fearing what lies ahead or the bad tomorrows. Growing older is being optimistic and always seeing the glass as half full. ​Growing older is having faith and believing in the goodness of God, who alone programs all things. ​Growing older is defying age and its wrinkles and its share of weaknesses, illnesses, and crises... ​Growing older is facing life and its uncertainties... ​Growing older is waiting patiently and serenely for the sound of one's own knell (or funeral bell)... ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb May 8, 2024 All rights reserved

The Value of Authenticity 855

Boucharfou, 5 d.
​This is our problem. 👌 ​What value does friendship have without sincerity? What value does reading have without understanding? What value does writing have without evoking emotions? What value do words have without meaning? What value does discussion have without logic? What value does a smile have without pure intentions? What value does a commitment have without loyalty? ​Too often, we make friends without being sincere, we love without being faithful, we talk a lot without acting, and we promise without keeping our word. ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Agadir, November 15, 2025

Complaints to God 1642

Boucharfou, 12 d.
- Politics - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.5 min read.
​💔 Complaint to God ​O, you who struck me with arrows of betrayal And want me to understand the cause of the harm You think the wound has been bandaged And that I have moved past the injustice And forgotten that its puncture is still bleeding? The heart still weeps from its burning pain Despite the passing of years and seasons. How astonishing she is, and her audacity, How she narrates delusions, And how life increases its smiles for her, And how her eye finds comfort in sleep, And enjoys dreams, And thinks she is receiving blessings, While she is the one who humbled stature and nations. So, to the Lord of the Kaaba, I pray and complain of injustice, For her injustice was a bad omen, Not blameworthy, For she is an ill omen that does not deserve a word from me, Not even a greeting, nor peace. So, to God I complain and plead for a judgment, For Glorified is He, He is Wise and All-Knowing. ​Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved October 28, 2025

The Lost Necklace 1679

Boucharfou, 13 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
The Lost Necklace ​How beautiful is your dentition Which sparkles like a necklace of diamonds ​So Desirable and appetizing ​When I kiss you and embrace you ​With fervor and grace ​I savor your saliva like such fine milk ​Where musk and wine mingle ​O apple of my eye O gift from the heavens ​It is you I love and desire ​Your presence is a true pleasure ​What must I do to attract you and please you? ​When you fled My insomnia deprived me of your smile ​Suddenly the gleam of the necklace eclipsed ​And I found myself sick and lost ​To the great dismay of my messenger ​Will you return one day? ​Will you keep your promise? ​Who will transmit my poetry? ​Perhaps one evening the South wind ​Will bring you my message ​Which confesses my feelings and my pledges ​My sorrows and my misfortunes ​And the slender hope ​Of seeing the gleam of your dentition in the dark one day ​Dr Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by an Andalusian music poem Quoddam El Hgaz El Kebir November 8, 2025

​The Ultimate Dance 💃 ​ 1826

Boucharfou, 14 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
​The Ultimate Dance 💃 ​He whispers to me during our waltz Words and beautiful phrases He holds me tight in his arms And takes me into extraordinary dreams ​And the tears from my eyes... As if by magic, illuminate earth and sky ​He carries me to all corners of the dance floor In this sweet evening between music and choristers ​And I, like a child in his hands Like a feather in a trance to the rhythm of the refrains ​He offers me the stars and the moon and his hand He hums hymns for better tomorrows ​He offers me the sun He offers me summer and its warmth He promises me years of happiness ​He tells me that I am unique And that I am worth more than all the stars and Sputniks That I am a treasure The best picture on board ​His words intoxicate me To the point of making me lose the rhythm of my steps Words of love that I don't know ​Which restore my implacable femininity He builds me a sandcastle That I inhabit for a few unforgettable seconds ​Then I return... I return to my table Just with memorable words ​Dr Bouchareb Fouad All rights reserved November the 6th, 2025

Dreams 3384

Boucharfou, 27 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
Dreams Every morning when I wake up I remember my dream I think I saw it in my dreams I'm caught in a fear that eats away at me And my heart is beating with fear and desire. Unfortunately, the unfolding of my dreams is unremarkable A collection of illogical events All my memories with her fade like autumn leaves who yield to the caresses of the breeze And they ended up washing up on the ground wet with my tears Witnesses of my misfortunes I sailed against the winds and tides Looking at the horizon In search of a country that would inhabit me But in vain A kind of forward flight It doesn't bode well What memories born in pain I apprehended happiness I hoped with glow I waited patiently But it's been a long wait Very long Feeling the storm approaching I hung on the mast And then I landed at the first port of oblivion I fell into alcohol and its alchemy And suddenly my dreams resurfaced I was shaking and not standing there anymore And nightmares haunt my targeted nights And replaced my shattered dreams Dr Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved October 24, 2025

He thinks 3611

Boucharfou, 29 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
He thinks.... He thinks that in his nailed hands I'm nothing but a toy. I don’t think I’ll go back to him. Today, everything has changed — As if nothing had ever happened. And with the innocence of angels from the skies in the look in his eyes, He tells me: I am the keeper of this place, And that I am his one true love. He brought me flowers. How could I not accept them? And all the naivety of youth I found again in his gentle smile. I no longer remember... the fire in your eyes. How did I find myself in his arms? I laid my head on his chest, proud, Like a child returned to their father or mother. Even my long-abandoned dresses danced at his feet, all of them. I forgave him… and asked how he had been. And I cried for hours under his armpit. And without thinking, I gave him my hand, So it could sleep like a bird in his. And I forgot all my hatred in a fraction of a second. Who said I held a grudge against him? How many times did I say I’d never return? And yet I came back. My return is wonderful. To my first love. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Toulouse, May 29, 2025

The judge of love 3709

Boucharfou, 30 d.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
Oh you judge of love Be merciful to me Don't condemn me until you've listened to me I am a victim as always I swear it out loud She's the one who makes me sing And play tricks on me As before and always And pretends to be up Mr. Judge Believe Me And before you say and to judge me with your law Remember, yes remember That you too were mistreated By your lover many times And you felt what I feel Despite your good faith So be merciful to me And do me justice for once Otherwise in your law I will lose my faith I was what you are, you'll be what I am Dr Bouchareb Fouad June 4, 2024 All rights reserved

Palace of the Kasbah 4516

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
Malaga, Palace of the Kasbah Each time I wander there, a strange phenomenon occurs it seems I can hear the murmur of another age, an extraordinary idyll, from a past not so distant, suddenly extinguished, leaving a feeling of the unfinished, of an era that left its mark, of which Arabs and Moors still speak, and nearly every spirit recalls those of noble souls and proud Iberian Spaniards. In the gardens, I seem to hear melodious songs, of lovers and beloveds sharing cups of wine, pure juice of the vine, and mugs of beer, behind stone walls as if it were yesterday sole witnesses of a past they hold dear, hidden from the envious eyes of pawns, to the great dismay of spies and the curious. Suddenly rises the voice of a singer, sweet and marvelous, healing the wounds of every broken heart that no physician, however wise, had ever managed to cure. O Andalusia, land of a glorious past, of wondrous tales and shining episodes! The Palace of the Kasbah still stands proud, rising high through time, faithful to its noble heritage, awaiting the resurrection of its Caliph and his courtiers. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb The Palace of the Kasbah Malaga, September 16, 2022 All rights reserved

Love! 4968

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
Love! (Inspired by Jalal Eddine Rumi) Love is destiny. We hardly ever choose the moment to love; It happens one evening… or one morning. It comes by pure chance, Leaving you confused and dazed. The day you expect it the least, You never saw it coming from afar. It strikes in the blink of an eye, Without an appointment, It makes you gentle, It makes you lose your reason. It makes you flee your home. Like fire, it burns with passion. Love at first sight is common— Each will have their share, their portion. Without logic… Yet it’s beautiful, despite all we endure. It’s a pure feeling, When it is sincere. It’s magic, It’s fantastic. Despite its pains and sorrows, Its sleepless nights until dawn, It is life’s elixir, Ecstasy without end. It comes to you as if by magic, Lifting you away from everything, Besieging you from everywhere, Taking over your soul… And driving you mad, sooner or later! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Médano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 All rights reserved

The Neighbor of the Valley 5073

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.8 min read.
The Neighbor of the Valley (Inspired by the song of Fairouz — “Ya Jarat al-Wadi”) O neighbor of the valley, O joy, O turmoil of my soul, Your memories and dreams haunt me still, Calling me, claiming my whole. In my dreams as in my waking mind, Your love remains, ever near; And the memories softly resound, Echoes of a past still clear. I passed again by the gardens, So green, so full of life — There where I once met you, Upon that sunlit hill. Faces and eyes smiled upon me, And in their breath I sensed your scent. My weary soul revived at once, She who had mourned her fate Since the day you went. Never before had I known The sweetness of a lover’s embrace, Until the day I gently held you close — You, the red-haired grace, Whose supple form bent softly in my hands, Like a slender branch swayed by the breeze, And whose cheeks, out of modesty, Blushed with tender unease. The language of words fell silent then, Yielding to the speech of eyes; Mine spoke to yours With the passion love implies. The stars and the heavens, our only allies, Bore witness to us before the skies. And when night came, I held you again, Caressed and kissed you Until the breaking of dawn — Before we drifted apart, forlorn. Since that day, there has been no yesterday, No tomorrow, no day after, No time thereafter. The flow of time has ceased forever, And was condensed into that one day — The day I basked in all your favor. Dr Fouad Bouchareb Rabat, October 11, 2025 All rights reserved

The One Tormented by Love 4269

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.6 min read.
The One Tormented by Love He whom love is nothing but torment and cries, Whom sleep abandons and flees, Whose endless tears touch all who see him suffer. His wounded and tortured heart knows no respite, And his bruised eyelids remain open forever. The leaves tremble beneath his sighs, And the stone melts under the weight of his groans. He speaks to the stars, Telling them of his misfortunes, His cries and his sorrows… In vain. He ends up tiring them, They slip away and abandon him, Leaving him motionless and weary, Yet awake, gazing beyond. Yet every tearful admirer Would dream that her hands could brush him, Touch him, Behold him, And love him. His eyes denied the blood he shed; Would his face deny his pain as well? When his witnesses of love left him without honor, He displayed his cheek so that it could bear witness in their place. Between her and him, love is a solid bond, Impossible to break or tarnish. Why then so many reproaches That open to him the door of oblivion, Only to slam it forever in his face? Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by the song of Mohammed Abdelouhab "مضناك جفاه مرقده" All rights reserved – October 10, 2025 https://youtu.be/-GHCmtjiygw?si=Qpt_iVR9hWrdSqK8

An Illusory Return 4333

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
An Illusory Return The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. If she truly comes, it will be at noon At least, that’s what she told me. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Could it be a premonition? Will she really come back to me? Or is it a pious wish, A dream of a time long gone and faded? Yet everything seems to foretell her return On this break of day: A blue sky, bright and clear, A sun rising early, strangely so, Majestic unusually radiant. The moon takes its leave discreetly and all the better for it. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. I tremble and waver in my corner like a child, I cry out in enchantment, I can no longer keep still I lose all sense. A swallow lands upon my balcony, As if to show me its sympathy. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Time stops it feels like eternity. The ticking of my watch falters, losing its rhythm, The hands seem frozen, stretched apart. I hold my breath, I can hardly breathe, I’m suffocating, Sweat pouring from every pore, My head spinning, my sight blurred. The morning breeze foretells the return of my beloved, After leaving me for so many years. Suddenly, the morning breeze ceases. I sense that she is not yet ready. The sun vanishes like a sorcerer, Hiding behind the clouds. The moon peeks through now and then, As if to mock his retreat. The ticking of my watch resumes its old rhythm, The clock hands blend together enchantingly. I catch my breath again, Regain my composure, Put my jacket back on, Recover my reason, And stop asking questions. I am convinced she will not return today She has not kept her word, as always. I shall wait for another breeze, On another morning, That will once again announce her return. Until then I’ll go out for a walk. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Rabat, October 26, 2022 All rights reserved.

He thinks.... 4381

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.6 min read.
He thinks.... He thinks that in his nailed hands I'm nothing but a toy. I don’t think I’ll go back to him. Today, everything has changed As if nothing had ever happened. And with the innocence of angels from the skies in the look in his eyes, He tells me: I am the keeper of this place, And that I am his one true love. He brought me flowers. How could I not accept them? And all the naivety of youth I found again in his gentle smile. I no longer remember... the fire in your eyes. How did I find myself in his arms? I laid my head on his chest, proud, Like a child returned to their father or mother. Even my long-abandoned dresses danced at his feet, all of them. I forgave him… and asked how he had been. And I cried for hours under his armpit. And without thinking, I gave him my hand, So it could sleep like a bird in his. And I forgot all my hatred in a fraction of a second. Who said I held a grudge against him? How many times did I say I’d never return? And yet I came back. My return is wonderful. To my first love. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Toulouse, May 29, 2025

The Parental Home 4256

Boucharfou, 1 mon.
The Parental Home My parents’ house is permanently closed. The doorbell remains curiously silent. There is no longer Mom to welcome me with open arms and her wonderfully legendary smile. There is no longer Dad to tell me about his many travels, to share his famous jokes and give me advice about my job and career. There are no more magical smells coming from Mom’s kitchen, making my mouth water in anticipation of a good feast and delicious dishes of which only she knew the secret. My parents were so proud to see me become a doctor. They had no idea that once they became ill, I would be the one watching over them and their unfortunate fate! Since their passing, the peaceful atmosphere that reigned in our home is gone. There is no more joy of living. And, so to speak, even the hands of the wall clock have stopped moving. And the swing has ceased its endless back and forth. No more tick-tock, no random music. There are no more heated debates between my brothers and sisters, debates that only Dad had the art of settling with wisdom, favoring no one. He taught us how to discern things, to compose poetry, verses, and prose. He amazed his audience with his funny stories. Now, there are no more guests in the house. A divine silence reigns, like a sacred communion. Time first suddenly stopped on October 3rd, 1996. It froze forever on December 5th, 2018. From now on, I am left only with prayers, that their souls may rest in peace. Dr. Bouchareb Fouad Agadir, August 21st, 2022 All rights reserved

My Street 4017

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.2 min read.
My Street It belongs to me It’s part of my daily life It’s a kind of identity and bond I love the name of my street, and that’s fine It wasn’t named for nothing My street is called Hablmlouk And it’s not just any name Yes, it’s called Cherry Street 🍒 It’s beautiful and exquisite It reminds me every moment of Sefrou My hometown With ancestral roots It enchants me from all sides And for me, above all That’s enough It’s better that way Dr. Bouchareb Fouad May 18, 2020

Love 3916

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
Love! Love is a destiny We hardly choose the moment to love It happens one evening or one morning It happens by pure chance It leaves you confused and haggard One day when you least expect it You didn't see it coming from afar It happens in the blink of an eye... Without an appointment... It makes you soft... It makes you lose your mind... It makes you run away from home Like fire, it burns you with passion Love at first sight is legion You'll get your share, your ration Without logic... But it's beautiful despite everything we endure It's a pure feeling When it's sincere It's magical It's fantastic Despite its pains and sorrows, its sleepless nights Until morning It's the elixir of life It's endless ecstasy... It happens to you by magic... Content in loving takes you away from everything... It besieges you from everywhere! It takes over! It will drive you crazy sooner or later!!! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Medano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 Inspired by a text by Jalal Eddine Erroumi Arabic and Arabic All rights reserved

The Alleys of Marrakech 3869

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
The Alleys of Marrakech Whether on foot or by carriage They are magnificent, the alleys of Marrakech. What a pleasure to wander through these shaded paths, Changing my route each time I pass. I mingle with the crowd, The atmosphere is lively, the spirit proud. The Marrakchis are funny, always cool, Full of charm, they follow no rule. The Spice Square feels like a spell, From the terraces above, the view is swell. It leaves romantics lost in dreams, Where everything is more than it seems. Herbalists sell their fragrant spices, Pets abound, with no disguises. Once at Jemaa el-Fna, everything bursts in color, Scents rising everywhere, one after the other. Different dishes with countless flavors Are served here, to everyone’s favors. A true delight, A magical sight, A festival of culinary art, From a millennial cuisine with heart. The snakes taunt the curious who stare, Cobras bare their fangs to the air. Only the flute’s enchanted sound Can soothe their ardor as it floats around, Amusing eyes that watch with glee— The charmers’ dance, their mystery. Mischievous monkeys, bold and sly, Beg for peanuts or coins to buy. They leap, they spin, they clown around, Acrobats playing for the crowd. Fruit juices please the wandering souls, But as for me—I love the snails. The tooth-pullers draw in the reckless, With makeshift pliers, their work is merciless. Molars and canines, pulled without care, No anesthesia, just cries in the air. A pitiful trade, For those betrayed They’ll return again someday, Hoping dentures will ease the pain away. The café terraces all around Are filled with life, night and day bound. Different melodies blend and collide, In the square, a noisy tide. The clamor echoes, wild and strange, A soundscape that never seems to change. And when I head back, my mind still rings, With the echoes that this city brings. I know tomorrow I’ll return again, On foot or by carriage, it’s all the same. To these mythical places, where magic flows, Marrakech, your charm forever grows. Dr. Bouchareb Fouad Marrakech, March 17, 2023 All rights reserved

Age Is Just a Number 3964

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
Age is nothing but a number, Just the count of candles burning bright. On this fourth day of December, Sixty-eight flames light up my life. They melt away like gentle magic, Their wax flowing quietly down the candlesticks. Shy as maidens, they reveal themselves, Casting soft shadows Across the four walls of my room— Choreographing the loveliest of dances To the rhythm of a tender melody, As I sway with them in every direction. They awaken my journeys, The memories of the film of my life— Moments of joy once savored, And painful chapters overcome. Sixty-eight candles still shine upon me. But how many remain in the treasury of my years? One? Two? Ten, or twenty? Only God holds the answer. They say age is just a number. Yet the further we go along life’s path, The more we sense the day when all will cease. For me, only the present moment counts. Eternity is not mine to claim— Only God is eternal. What matters is guarding the wealth of health, And taming the burdens of illness. Sixty-eight candles brighten my world, And I choose to savor this moment Now, and only now. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Wednesday, December 04, 2024

Narcissism at its Extreme 3941

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Poetry -
0.5 min read.
How handsome he is, the man with the hat! A true Sagittarius, one of a kind, dignified and bold, fantastic, funny, extravagant, enigmatic, mysterious, curious, a dreamer, gentle and rebellious at the same time. For his family, he is an idol, for his colleagues, he is kind and witty, for his friends, a center of gravity. His days overflow with activity. He defies every law. A piercing gaze, commanding respect and regard. Sociable, and rather helpful. A sly smile never leaves indifferent those who cross his path. Some admire him, those who fight him end up retreating. His beauty can be seen from afar, though faded in certain corners. Beneath his bright hat he conceals secrets, mysteries, dreams, and desires. His charisma is real, a gift from heaven. His elegance envies no rival. A hidden strength, a star that sings in the heart of a lost night, a love song from the past that defies infinity— and it is better this way. Other stars, dazzled and amazed, in a serene sky, repeat their refrains while awaiting the break of dawn, the rising of the sun, and the warmth of its rays, one after the other. His kindness is legendary, his friendship exemplary, his reputation crosses borders and rivals his peers. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved Agadir, July 17, 2025

The Barefoot Doctors 4072

Boucharfou, 2 mon.
- Society - Lifestyle - Health -
1.4 min read.
A French text left a lasting impression on me during my first year of secondary school at Lycée Moulay Ismail in Meknes. It was even decisive in my early choice to pursue medical studies. My French teacher, Mr. Rossetti, had assigned us to summarize an article entitled The Barefoot Doctors. I was deeply fascinated by the story of these Chinese practitioners, so named, who tirelessly traveled across their vast country to provide care to local populations. They braved harsh living conditions but fulfilled their mission with remarkable dedication and selflessness. They never complained, nor did they ever ask for money in return for their services. Their practice was one of proximity, modest in its means, but essential, effective, and invaluable for vulnerable communities—poor, yet dignified and grateful. Their working days were long, often exhausting, and the climate conditions harsh and extreme. After completing my medical studies, and following a brief experience in the private sector, I chose to embrace a career in public health. I too wanted to become one of those barefoot doctors. My decision had been made long before, and my dream finally came true on November 8, 1983, just after the commemoration of the glorious Green March. For me, it was a sign of destiny. During more than thirty-three years of service in public health, I had the privilege of working alongside many wonderful doctors who, like me, had chosen this path. Several were from my cohort at the Faculty of Medicine in Rabat—an exceptional class—others were older, and still others were younger colleagues who later joined our ranks. These physicians were the true barefoot doctors. They chose to serve Moroccans in remote areas where living, housing, and working conditions were extremely difficult. Salaries were meager. Yet greed and corruption had no place. The rare deviations were quickly identified and corrected by peers. Absenteeism was forbidden, and leave was short. Very soon, a relationship of trust and symbiosis developed between the doctors and the local populations. Many lived for years in these remote regions without ever considering leaving. Some of them took part in health campaigns and medical coverage operations without ever requesting compensation. Many died in total anonymity, fighting epidemics—the Covid-19 pandemic being a striking example. Others live today in modest, sometimes precarious retirement, but remain dignified and proud of the duty they fulfilled. It is precisely this kind of practitioners that our country lacks today. These are the doctors Morocco needs: the barefoot doctors. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb Former Senior Official, Ministry of Health Rabat, September 25, 2025 All rights reserved

Political Participation in Morocco, Crisis of Representativity, and the Emergence of New Forms of Protest 3582

Aziz Daouda, 2 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
3.1 min read.
As Morocco prepares for a major electoral milestone in 2026, announced by His Majesty the King who wishes it to be exemplary, the political landscape appears deeply shaken and even disconnected from reality. A recent report from the Moroccan Center for Conjuncture reveals that 91.5% of Moroccans do not identify with political parties and 94.8% do not trust them. They rate their performance poorly, a striking indicator of an unprecedented crisis of trust and representativity. Regarding Parliament, 89.5% of citizens evaluate it negatively. This dissatisfaction rate is close to that recorded for the government: 87.3% strongly criticize its performance, while only 1.1% express a positive opinion about it. Even more worrying, financial compensation tops the list as a motivation to vote for one candidate or another, while affiliation to a political current represents only 13.7%. This is a troubling finding. The turnout in previous elections already constituted a revealing index of a true political disengagement. The current situation is in fact nothing but a prolonged expression of distrust toward the political system. This distrust, which is not new, has probably intensified considerably. Rejection now goes beyond simple disinterest in voting. It is a "global rejection" of the partisan system, perceived as incapable of responding to the real expectations and needs of citizens. Having experienced various political trends without meaningful results, they increasingly trust only His Majesty the King and express this loudly. The rupture is fueled by structural problems: youth unemployment rate reaching 36.7% in 2024 according to some sources, growing social precariousness, and a feeling of abandonment in rural and remote areas. What is new today are the increasingly numerous voices rising outside the ballot box and the political calendar as provided by the Constitution. Disinterest in parties does not mean total disengagement. On the contrary, new forms of political participation are emerging locally. In Aït Bouguemaz, in the High Atlas, as in many villages and hamlets, inhabitants no longer hesitate to demand essential infrastructure and take over roads to make themselves heard. Everywhere, often driven by youth, people mobilize to denounce exclusion and lack of economic prospects. Some demand access to drinking water, others express a diffuse unease, a form of dissatisfaction not always clearly articulated. The urban environment is no exception. In Agadir, gatherings have raised alarms about the crisis in the health system and failures of a hospital that was once a flagship of public health. It has even been reported that demonstrations are banned in front of some other hospitals in various regions. When these actions, escaping traditional electoral frameworks, express a spontaneous will for citizen engagement, they are very welcome and legitimate. But when demands are tinged with ideological language, nihilistic expressions, or manipulated by populism fueled by some politicians or by improvised self-appointed pundits armed with a phone or microphone, the situation becomes more worrying. It should also be noted that disconnected appointments, the detachment of many officials from reality, and the inefficiency of often costly programming do not help. In response, the population expresses itself in its own ways: in public, on social media, during football matches or cultural events. Some even question the strategic choices of the State, denounce World Cup projects or the TGV, and draw critical parallels between their region and the more favored areas of the country. These claims are generally perceived as legitimate and receive strong popular echo. The general feeling is that the balance Morocco has always sought between freedom and equality no longer satisfies. The demands reflect a malaise and a disavowal of public policies, both among entrepreneurs who create wealth and those who claim more equality, often implicitly meaning taking more from those who have to redistribute. Those who contribute, rightly so, already feel they give a lot. As for civil servants, whose salary is guaranteed every month-end, they are also dissatisfied as their purchasing power deteriorates year after year. Official political discourse and reassuring information no longer suffice. Citizens demand concrete results, at home, in their regions, in their villages. The key word is "tahmiche": this feeling of exclusion often rightly experienced, although in some cases citizens are also responsible, whether through their vote for incompetent people or their lack of initiative. Welfare policies play a significant role here as well. Most concerning is that youth seem to oscillate between disillusionment due to frustration and innovation in their modes of expression. They project an image of themselves claiming rights but not always considering their duties. The rejection of the traditional system does not mean a total withdrawal from the political sphere. This new generation, connected and aware of national and global issues, favors more direct and creative forms of action. However, this marginalization of traditional institutions is a warning sign: if no concrete reform is undertaken, the gap between the governed and the governors is likely to widen further. The 2026 elections thus become a crucial milestone. They constitute a major test for Morocco. Faced with rising abstention and extra-institutional protest, they could either confirm the crisis of trust or initiate a renewed participation. For this, parties and institutions must go beyond speeches and establish genuine dialogue spaces. They must also respond to local demands with concrete measures, demonstrating that politics can change daily life. Without a strong and credible response, these elections risk being nothing more than a meaningless formality, further deepening popular disenchantment. Morocco finds itself at a delicate turning point where society politically reinvents itself outside traditional parties. The challenge of the coming elections is therefore much more than a simple vote: it is the reconquest of trust and authentic representation, to finally engage the country on the path of confidence, lasting stability, and cohesion.

Moroccans’ Relationship to the Law: A Great Misunderstanding… 4151

Aziz Daouda, 2 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
3.2 min read.
The relationship between Moroccans and the law reveals a profound ambiguity, fueled by a build-up of paradoxes and historical, cultural, and political contradictions. It cannot be explained solely by a lack of communication or pedagogy, but by a deeply rooted perception in which the law is not seen as a collective framework to be respected out of conviction, but as an external constraint, often imposed and rarely internalized. First, one must highlight the ignorance—sometimes deliberate—of the very existence of many laws. In numerous cases, the Moroccan citizen only discovers a text when it is opposed to them in a conflictual situation. This reactive, rather than proactive, relationship with the law generates paradoxical behaviors: resigned acceptance when it imposes itself forcefully, but also recourse to excuses, justifications, or feigned ignorance whenever its application becomes restrictive. To this lack of knowledge is added an ambivalent attitude: the law is respected not out of moral adherence, but out of fear of sanction. Road traffic provides the clearest illustration: the presence of a police officer results in scrupulous respect for the code, while their absence unleashes anarchic behavior. In other words, authority substitutes for civic conviction. But the problem does not lie solely in individual behavior. The legal framework itself suffers from a lack of updating and adaptation. Many Moroccan laws are inherited from a bygone era, conceived in another social context, and struggle to address today’s realities. The legislative process, too slow and often opaque, widens the gap between texts and citizens’ aspirations. Public debates on bills are rare, if not nonexistent, and civil society finds only a marginal place in them. This democratic shortfall is compounded by the chronic passivity of political parties and the decline of union membership, depriving the public arena of genuine contradictory debate. The situation is also aggravated by the language issue: when debates do take place, laws are written, discussed, published, and applied in a language that is not the everyday language of Moroccans. Added to this is the perception of institutional inefficiency: a parliament marked by a lack of competence and seriousness, a political elite sometimes disconnected, and local authorities unable to translate citizens’ needs into effective texts and decisions. Thus, some laws appear disconnected—or even foreign—to social realities. They sometimes criminalize harmless behaviors that harm neither the individual nor the community, but instead reflect the imposition of a conservative morality at the expense of individual freedom. Religious morality is never far away. Hence the crucial question: where does law end and morality begin? And above all, what place should ethics have in the governance of a country in transition, a country aspiring to development and modernity and making colossal efforts in that direction? Faced with these gaps, citizens develop strategies of adaptation, sometimes of survival. The law becomes flexible, respected or not depending on the situation, depending on the eye of authority. Respect is no longer a conviction but a calculation. But can one demand respect for a law perceived as illegitimate, useless, or unjust? Can texts be maintained in force when the majority of citizens systematically bypass them, and even the agents charged with enforcing them transgress them individually? This ambiguous relationship is built from childhood, in the transmission of social norms. A child learns at school that alcohol is forbidden out of respect for religion and the law, but at home or nearby sees it consumed casually. They are taught respect for the traffic code, but their father runs red lights whenever the police are not around. This contradictory education creates lasting confusion between proclaimed values and lived practices, reinforcing the idea that the law is not a universal rule but a contextual constraint. Thus emerges a sense of fear rather than respect for laws, a belief that they are meant for others and not oneself; a perception that the law is imposed rather than serving to protect everyone’s rights. Social networks and certain public voices, as YouTuber Maysa recently did, contribute to exposing these inconsistencies. In a video, she highlighted the multiple Moroccan laws that, although still in force, are almost never applied. This illustrates an implicit permissiveness that undermines the credibility of the rule of law. A law that exists without being enforced becomes a mere symbol, even an instrument of arbitrary selectivity. It should at the very least be revised. Law is not meant to be a mere tool of control, much less an end in itself. It must enable social harmony, protect freedoms, and regulate collective life. It must evolve with its time, reflect society’s aspirations, and avoid imposing outdated modes of thought. Today, Moroccans have changed, their lifestyles have evolved, but the legal framework and collective mentality remain frozen in old representations. Many openly speak of “social hypocrisy,” denouncing the double language between words and deeds in public, between official discourse and actual practices. Breaking out of this ambiguity requires a twofold shift: on the one hand, a bold legal reform that adapts laws to social realities and contemporary values; on the other, an effort of awareness-raising and education to reconcile citizens with the law. This transformation can only succeed if Moroccans agree to break with the social ambivalence and split personality that corrode daily behaviors. Reflection on the relationship between Moroccan citizens and the law thus opens a broader field: that of ethics, social evolution, and modernization of the legal framework. A state of law cannot thrive without collective adherence, and a society cannot be built on rules that everyone strives to circumvent. Restoring the law’s legitimacy and credibility is to lay the foundations for a more coherent, just, and respected coexistence. Judging from the clashes around the *Moudawana* and other legislative projects—between the Minister of Justice and certain parliamentarians of a political current that sees itself as guardian of the temple—it seems difficult to move forward at the necessary speed in today’s world.

Back to School: Economic Burden for Families and Multiple Uncertainties 5636

Aziz Daouda, 3 mon.
At the dawn of a new school year, an immutable reality haunts the many families concerned: the exorbitant cost of supplies and services related to education. They prepare to spend sometimes unreasonable amounts even before their children step through the school door, at all levels. The rising cost of back-to-school goes beyond just notebooks and textbooks: it extends to a set of essential or superfluous items that significantly increase the bill. There is a consensus around the financial burden of the school bag, a real headache. The average budget allocated per family for school supplies often exceeds 1500 dirhams. This figure rises even more when including uniforms, when required, transport costs, registration fees, and tuition for private schools. In some large cities, the total cost can exceed 3000 dirhams per child, a considerable economic weight for many families. But the problem is not only the high cost. The heaviness of the school bag, often cited, illustrates inflation not only financial but also material. Children’s backs and developing musculature are put under strain, raising many health concerns. Beyond the essentials—notebooks, pens, calculators, etc.—the supply lists frequently include superfluous items, often imposed by schools for unexplained reasons. These excessive demands weigh down the school bag and complicate students’ daily lives without real educational justification. In reality, we also face a system out of sync with parents' expectations and, by extension, the country’s. Some school content is outdated and problematic. Textbooks, another major expense, fail to evolve at the pace of the modernity that parents and children themselves aspire to. The modernization the country aims for is also undermined. Many families denounce persistent errors, mistakes, and content poorly adapted to modernity and their aspirations. Announced reforms, generally poorly conceived, have no impact and have always been ineffective. Criticism abounds both pedagogically and substantively: teaching materials struggle to engage students in stimulating and innovative learning. This is a major reason for the large dropout rates observed every year, and for a long time. Another recurring flaw is that, once again, the school start will be unequal: luxury for some, sacrifice for others. Officially, the school start often looks like an idyllic photo album where everything seems perfect. Yet, for the majority, it is far from a moment of excitement as it should be. Faced with an overly large educational budget, difficult choices must be made: pay rent or tuition, buy textbooks, or ensure family sustenance. These contradictions reflect a profound social divide. In short, Morocco at two speeds, denounced by His Majesty the King in the 26th Throne Speech. For many parents, school remains a theoretical right, sometimes without interest, especially in rural areas. In reality, it begins with debt that weighs heavily on daily life and sometimes jeopardizes the children's very future. This paradox, far from resolving, repeats every year, without significant measures from public authorities to lighten the burden, except for measures such as distributing school bags with a short lifespan and very meager financial aid. The quality of teachers has also increasingly raised concern for several years, especially since the so-called contract-based recruitment among unemployed degree holders was "invented," often struggling to find stable employment elsewhere. This situation has led to a qualitative decline in teaching, where many teachers are more occupied with union and social claims than with their primary mission: to instruct and transmit knowledge. The number of strike days is staggering. This contractual dynamic, far from improving the educational system, sometimes fosters instability and demotivation. Moreover, it is regrettable to note increased politicization among some teaching circles, with ideologies infiltrating beyond the pedagogical framework. These trends, often aimed at the systematic contestation of the established order, harm a serene school climate and compromise the necessary neutrality of any teaching. Children bear the cost. Thus, more than a simple issue of training or skills, the challenge posed by the quality of teachers in Morocco highlights the need for a global and courageous reform, combining improved recruitment conditions, serious academic and ongoing training, and a clear separation between politics and education. Without this, Moroccan schools risk losing even more effectiveness and credibility, to the detriment of students and the country's future. Education should not rely on the financial endurance, patience, or indifference of families, but on a coherent educational and social policy. A policy based on a clear projection of what the Moroccan citizen should be at a precise horizon. It is essential that the State and sector actors collaborate to limit costs imposed on families: reviewing supply lists to eliminate the superfluous, improving the quality and relevance of textbooks, further developing support for low-income families, deducting school-related expenses from taxes, without evading the issue of content and teacher competencies. The "price" of this school start is measured not only in dirhams but in the social divide it deepens, in the inequalities it maintains. The real obstacle to education lies in teacher competence, in curricula, and at the bookstore checkout where families must pay for their children to have even a chance to succeed. The school start is a serious matter requiring collective awareness and concrete actions to ensure that every child, regardless of family income, can access a dignified education. The time is for reform in practice, not just in speeches and postures. School is the only tool to reduce differences, guarantee social ascension, and ensure a bright future for the entire country, at a single speed.

Love 5771

Boucharfou, 3 mon.
Love! Love is a destiny We hardly choose the moment to love It happens one evening or one morning It happens by pure chance It leaves you confused and haggard One day when you least expect it You didn't see it coming from afar It happens in the blink of an eye... Without an appointment... It makes you soft... It makes you lose your mind... It makes you run away from home Like fire, it burns you with passion Love at first sight is legion You'll get your share, your ration Without logic... But it's beautiful despite everything we endure It's a pure feeling When it's sincere It's magical It's fantastic Despite its pains and sorrows, its sleepless nights Until morning It's the elixir of life It's endless ecstasy... It happens to you by magic... Content in loving takes you away from everything... It besieges you from everywhere! It takes over! It will drive you crazy sooner or later!!! Dr. Fouad Bouchareb El Medano / Tenerife August 24, 2025 Inspired by a text by Jalal Eddine Erroumi Arabic and Arabic All rights reserved

Ibtissam, please : Allah is Allah... 6535

Aziz Daouda, 3 mon.
- Politics - Society - Lifestyle -
3.2 min read.
Recently, Ibtissam Lachgar, who calls herself an activist, wore a T-shirt of no value, except that she deliberately intended to insult millions of Moroccans and undoubtedly many believers, Muslim or not. God is the omniscient Creator, regardless of religion or rituals. Madam found it clever to display a T-shirt with a strange inscription, not at all amusing: an offense to the divinity. No, madam, Allah is Eternal without beginning or end, beyond time. He is Almighty, and His power is infinite and absolute. He is Merciful, full of compassion and kindness towards human beings, including you. What did you have for breakfast that morning, madam? By this useless act, you seem to have forgotten that faith is also a fundamental right. Americans, whose modernity cannot be denied, claim it to the point of engraving it on their dollar bill. Belief in God, in Allah, is a fundamental, universal, immutable pillar. To say or imply mocking or even simply disrespectful words towards what is sacred in the collective consciousness is to hurt deep sensitivities. It is an affront to the spirituality of billions of people. Yes, it is important to remind that everyone is free to live their life and love whom they want. However, there is one condition: not to unnecessarily offend others. Inventing an impromptu epithet for Allah goes far beyond personal debates linked to sexual orientation: it harms the deep faith of billions of people, including the 36 million Moroccans. This provocation cannot be considered a mere wit or a brave claim: it is a misstep that threatens harmony and social cohesion. Indeed, God does not need anyone to defend Him, much less my humble self, but admit that God is everywhere, simply present in every believer outraged by your lowly stylized statement, which is not freedom of expression but a qualified insult. It is billions of believers you insult with your superfluous act. Moroccans who strive to make their country a state of law also want social peace and cohesion to be fully preserved, within necessary limits to freedom of expression. This freedom can be neither absolute nor without red lines, and this is a genuine protection. Elsewhere, where the state is less protective, a provocation like yours would have caused far worse consequences for you. My generation, and those that followed, have fought extensively for freedom, notably the freedom to express oneself, develop ideas, and help society evolve and emancipate within a civic framework. But madam, yes to freedom, but within respect for laws freely chosen by the majority. This is the foundation of democracy: adopting the will of the majority, even if very narrow. In 2011, it was broad enough to set supreme rules and strives to respect them at all costs. You must understand that freedom does not mean unlimited license. Democracy is based on a constitution and laws adopted by the people themselves. These laws define what is acceptable in public space. Your supporters, Mrs. Lachgar, often foreigners or fringe elements, must understand that it is Moroccans who decide on their laws, according to their history, culture, and values. It is not up to minorities, even vocal ones, or foreigners to this secular context, to redefine the rules of coexistence in a sovereign country. Yes, activism is vital and contributes to progress and the pushing of boundaries, but not sterile and counterproductive provocation such as you have just committed. It is also fair to acknowledge that Morocco has tolerated peaceful advances in favor of sexual minorities. Some of your acquaintances know this well. Debates, demands, and defense of individual rights are permitted, within legal and social frameworks. But when a public figure—as you are with your MALI—takes a "step too far" with a shocking gesture against the very essence of religion, this constitutes an unnecessary provocation, all the more serious when occurring in a sensitive period. You are a declared repeat offender who has so far gotten away with it. This shows a tolerance, albeit relative, but tolerance nonetheless, towards movements as marginal as yours. Minorities have always existed and always will, but you should understand that cohesion is a heavy responsibility of the state, and it is unacceptable to play with such a sovereign prerogative with multiple facets. Your arrest or administrative detention should not be seen solely as a sanction but rather as a protective measure. Would you have taken a few steps in public space with your T-shirt without becoming a target for a probable violent extremist, ready to resort to illegality? On the very day of your counterproductive gesture, police services uncovered yet another vehement extremist, ready according to his ideology to restore a "perfect world" where people like you have no place. It escapes you that Morocco firmly fights all forms of extremism, religious or ideological, and is an ideal target precisely because it accepts differences and diverse orientations, because it does its best to leave room and space for everyone. Freedom to think and live is precisely the opposite of extremism, whatever form it takes. Protecting social peace also means protecting those who sometimes unconsciously or knowingly contribute to destabilizing it, as you do. You may not know, but in France, a mayor had to suspend the screening of the film "Barbie," which promotes homosexuality, under pressure from some inhabitants of his municipality. This shows that even further north, there are still hostile reactions to your orientations. Morocco is a nation rooted in strong historical, cultural, and religious values, with certainly some hypocrisy. This is not a flaw but possibly a true asset. Individual freedom must be exercised within the framework of respect for democratically defined values and laws. Your mistake was to cross these boundaries, thus shaking one of the indisputable foundations of Moroccan identity. It is up to everyone, Moroccans and residents, to respect the country's tranquility and allow everyone the freedom to live in peace, without provoking or dividing.

Genesis... 9900

Aziz Daouda, 3 mon.
I greatly enjoy looking out windows, any windows. Windows have always offered me a picture of life. A picture that constantly changes, a picture that I alone see before it disappears forever. Maybe that is where my taste for the ephemeral comes from. It is my only certainty. What I am also sure of is that it comes from the fact that as a baby and young child, my mother would place me by the window where I would hold onto a grille. An opportunity to be both inside and outside at the same time and to let her go about her many responsibilities as a housewife. It was a traditional Moroccan grille, typical of ours. Today, I have reused that same grille design on the windows and balconies of my house. I have in fact remained my mother’s eternal child, no doubt like we all remain so, but probably differently, otherwise, uniquely. The window is an escape from the cramped space of the house. In fact, all houses are cramped. The house, paradoxically despite its smallness, is a space of freedom, intimacy, and security. It is also a space that distances the horizon and makes it sublime. The window allowed me to raise my head and look far. As far as this window allowed me to see. The house cultivates the dream; the window waters it. On the evening my mother passed away, I stood by the window. It seemed to me I heard her voice again speaking from afar to reassure me. My mother loved me very much. She did not say it, but made me feel it through the tone of her voice, her gaze, and a slight smile at the corner of her lips. A smile she had a special secret to. My mother’s smile was genetic. I clearly saw she inherited it from my grandmother—Cherifa Lalla Zhour had the same smile. My mother was not expansive. She extended her love to my children later, and I felt it. I was her eldest, her first female experience, her first pains, her first childbirth, the first baby cry to her ears. I owe my mother much: the sensation of a pencil in hand, the touch of the softness of paper before writing on it, the taste for reading and the pleasure of manual work. My mother was among the first classes of the modern school in Fès. My maternal grandfather, Si Ahmed Ben Ali, had the wisdom to send her to school against the opinion of people at the time—family, neighbors, and onlookers. She traveled a long distance from Saqaet El Abbassyine to her school. It was in Fès j’did, a neighborhood of great nationalists, intellectuals, artists, and state clerks: Bahnini, Benbouchta, Moulay Ahmed El Alaoui, Ahmed Chajai, and many others. It is the stronghold of Wydad of Fès. I have many wonderful memories of Saqaet El Abbassyine. From time to time, I go for a walk there to recharge myself. The dilapidation of Bab Riafa, the sad passage by Lalla Ghriba to reach Saqaet El Abbassyine, the continuation by Sidi Hmama to arrive at Qobt Assouk, saddens me every time. So, to soothe my pain and sorrow, I go and sit at Bab Boujloud to enjoy a good glass of tea prepared in a traditional samovar, under the famous mulberry tree. The magic of Fès is unmatched. My father, on the other hand, was affection in the absolute. The exemplary man. The man who forged my pride and committed my life to serving the country. Moroccan at heart, attached to the land of his ancestors. Proud to have been an active nationalist against the protectorate. He spoke of his people’s struggle against French soldiers. He kept fresh memories of the fights of Bou Gafer and the brave battle of his people. He was happy to have served his country but also disappointed with the evolution of some things. He said that we were losing our soul with the decline of our attachment to ancestral values; remembered by all the families of old Rabat who still recall him for having treated their children and eased their pains. He passed away certain that Morocco could have done better. He remained attached to his parents and adored them, attached to his native land that he visited every year, attached to his people to whom he offered land to expand the Sidi Daoud cemetery, his forever village, today swallowed by a soulless Ouarzazate. I am not surprised. My father is a direct descendant of Sidi Daoud, a Sufi Sheikh and great scholar who left many works including the famous *Oumahat Al Wataeq, Al Mountafaa Bih Fi Anawazil*. My father loved Rabat and its beach. It was there he saw the sea for the first time in his life, coming from the other side of the Great Atlas, which climate change is now altering. It was at the Rabat beach that he learned to swim. Today, his grave overlooks that beautiful beach and ocean. His resting place is bathed in the sea air that blows continuously over the hilltop, the final abode of thousands of souls at rest, of lives both rich and less rich, and of memories forever lost. The cemetery tells a lot about the place we give to our dead, and it does not speak well of us. So, like my brothers and sisters—Jalil, Moughni, Rajae, Atika, Abdelmoutaleb, Elhoussein, Soumaya, I am a kind of accident of nature. A father from Ouarzazate marrying a girl from Fès; that was rare. It was 1950. The maternity hospital where my lungs filled for the first time with air and where I cried out announcing my coming to life is still there. It was Tuesday, 11:37 am, May 15, 1951. Each time I pass by, something brings me back to memories I have created from my mother's stories. I see again her pride and my father's joy at my birth. By chance, on the way to bury my mother, and years later my father, we passed along the Almohad wall. The historic maternity hospital of Rabat is just behind. The circle was thus completed. My mother's name was Lalla Amina Makhloufi and my father’s Ahmed Belhoucine El Ouarzazi. The civil registry attendant gave him the surname Daouda, probably because he was born in Sidi Daoud or simply because that person had been influenced by a stay in sub-Saharan Africa...

Being Doctors 12791

Boucharfou, 4 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.3 min read.
Being a doctor...in my generation! Medicine was an art practiced without flaw by a rare horde of people dedicated to their lauded work, who often remained stuck in the hospital to be that lifeline of oxygen and life. We remained clear-headed. We weren't greedy at all. Our medicine, whatever anyone said, and in all honesty, brought honor and happiness. It was our reason for being. Without it, we would be nothing but poor people, ultimately given over to doubt. Dr. Fouad Bouchareb All rights reserved

Moving away from me 9808

Boucharfou, 5 mon.
- Lifestyle - Poetry - Romance -
0.5 min read.
By leaving me you exhausted me, and it's cruel Have mercy on me my beautiful You fucked up my passion But one day you'll find your sanity You cross me carelessly Me who loves you and that's all the difference They were beautiful our lovers' kisses If you don't remember them Ask your lips They are still in fever Our bonds were so strong So much so that when our blood squirts We don't know if it's yours or mine Ask the night why these stars despite their splendor And their glow Are not worth that of your smile O moon, if you accompany me in my loneliness ………and if one day I agonize in the meanders of space Tell the darkness that the martyr of love is dead........ and sprinkle stardust on my shroud Dr Fouad Bouchareb Inspired by Farid Al Atrache's song > https://youtu.be/57Xezl_YR6c?si=JVP_kEQZCY8rZbNF All rights reserved