Teaching and Culture

What is the nature of the liaison held between TEACHING and CULTURE? For most Pedagogues and practitioners, when you are teaching a language, you are, willy-nilly, teaching a culture. But this is not my utmost concern behind writing this essay. In fact, the question that often exhausts me is the following:  which one has the impact on the other: TEACHING or CULTURE? In other words, is it teaching which determines and/or shapes culture or the other way around? 

In an attempt to answer this exhausting question, I will start by defining separately teaching and culture before putting them together. In fact, both terms (teaching and culture) are elusive and contested. Both terms' definitions defied consensus amongst both pedagogues and sociologists in terms of their specific meaning and broad content. 

One highly acclaimed definition of culture was given in 1889 by the famous British anthropologist Edward B. Taylor. Though offering a broad definition, yet still his definition is considered to be the guiding framework of any cultural study or research. Culture, for Taylor, is “that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society.”  Personally speaking, this is my favourite definition, even if there is approximately around 150 definitions, according to one study.

Nest of Rest Doesn't Exist???

     Once upon a time, and a dark time it was, there was an old man living in a metropolitan city. Though living in such a city and having a high-rank profession there, the old man still never felt at ease. Unable to know why he was so, he was always at the low of his ebb; for he had never found his phycholigical  rest. Till a day, it was a holiday, one of his intimate old friends invited him to his diamond wedding, so to speak. The old man in the city did not even know about his friend's wedding ceremony, let alone his diamond wedding!!!

    All that he knew was that his friend was appointed years ago somewhere in an unknown town. Unhesitatingly, the old man in the city accepted the invitation and took the road early next morning. He was there at around 5:55 pm. the sun was about to set; the old man's heart was about to cease throbbing, for he could not believe his eyes. The scene defied description. For he, the first time in his life, had ever felt so calm or, say, phlegmatic. Everything in the town was tacitly but warmly welcoming and inviting him; his mind went tabula rasa. At the time nothing occuppied his mind; his heart went pit-à-pat as though a new blood had been injected in it.

Bray or Pray!!!

Isn't the donkey's loud sound, bray, as musical and artful as other animals?!

Just because you don't like it means that the bray is not musical or worthing listening to! In our culture, Moroccan and Muslim, the donkey's loud sound is socially and religiously unaccepted-- or as it is referred to "monkar". Sheer nonesense. Even in the holy Quran, the unacceptedness or the state of being "monkar" refers to the loud sound of the donkey, not the donkey itself.

For me,

The Kitten's Mystery

As a matter of habit, I always wake up on birds' chirppings, regardless of how much I stay  late. But on that day (sunday), and as a matter of exception, a kitten's mews disturbed my peace of sleep.  Yelling, screaming and shouting was she producing repetitively.

She, the kitten, was running to and fro, producing the very same rescuing sounds on and on.  "What can I do to help such a helpless cute baby- kitten? Maybe she's

I was About to Forget

He filled the petrol tank. He skimmed through the car papers. He put oil. He checked the tyres. He got on his car, then he fastened the seat-belt. 

Sure, he is now travelling and the speedometer does not exceed ninety kph. All of a sudden, a sharp ring penetrated his eardrum. He very quickly tried to pick up the "instrument" from his trouser pocket; but as soon as he pressed the button <yes>, it dropped down and disappeared. He searched for it; and having found no trace of it, he bent down seeking out for

Which is Which?!

A radically different world is suggesting itself forcefully, mercilessly, and persistently. I thought it had been what I just yearned for formerly. 

A change of the wokplace does not necessarily engender a change of mind-- my state of mind.

Seclusion is Integration!!!

“How come that seclusion is integration! That’s hodge-podge”, a reader might say. I will show you, dear confused readers who judge a piece of writing from its title, in what way seclusion is per se integration. This essay is an attempt towards questioning the true and real meaning of integration as a cardinal part of any modern society through casting the light on, not integration, but seclusion. This essay also aims at unveiling the pros of seclusion that work for the promotion and efficient materialisation of integration.

Let us first of all limit our imagination to the following people: writer, poet, prophet, athlete, boxer, student, and sufist. Each one of these people undubitibaly do contribute in one way or another to the integrativeness within their communities, either locally or globally.  Regardless of their interests, leanings, social status, or creed, those people do seclude themselves so as to make a change in their societies, achieving the so-called integration. The latter is achieved by means of the former; i.e, seclusion. I will elaborate more on that.

A Body for Sale

The clock rang 10:00 pm. The pub was empty. She majestically loomed out of the entrance, dressed in a jewelled-like red coat, headed straightforwardly towards the ladies room. Exactly after quarter an hour, she appeared out again in an almost-naked dress. Too different; too sexy!

Secluded in a corner, I was impatienty waiting for her appearance. She was the star of that samedi soir. Many men strived to have a seat close to her, yet not all of them could easily achieved this goal. It seemed that only foreigners-- non-Moroccan speakers-- could gain the neighbouring seat of the "lady". In my secluded corner was I still binocularing  her moves: the way she caressed her hair, the professional way of holding the cigarette, her grimaces, her sipping of wine, and her putting off of the fags.

Seeing or Believing?!

One gargantuan part of every human being’s life is the duality of SEEING/BELIEVING. Unlike other creatures (at least the ones we could see, not those we believe they could be), the human being’s life “fluctuates” between two extremes: SEEING and BELIEVING.

Do we have to see things so that we can later believe in them? And which should come first: SEEING or BELIEVING ? In fact, I posted this very same question on Facebook, and I received an interesting comment which did incite me to write this short essay in favour of my standpoint that you, my dear readership, would discover line in line out.

ثاني موقف سيجاري

من عادتي أن أتناول سيجارة بين الفينة والاخرى، خصوصا خلال فترة الاستراحة، التي غالبا ما تقدر بزهاء عشر دقائق. في يوم من الايام، وأثناء فترة استراحة الساعة العاشرة، تناولت سيجارة  بمعية كأس شاي بنكهة الزعتر؛ كنت جالسا وحدي كعادتي، أدخن   السيجارة وأمعن النظر في بعض الوجوه متأملا و مستحضرا بداعة و براعة الصنع و الصانع معا. في الجانب الاخر من الممر يجلس بعض زملاء العمل، يتناولون و يتبادلون القيل والقال بصوت أقرب من صوت الأحمرة في حالة الارتماء و  التمرغ على الأرض.

أول موقف سيجاري

حدث ذلك لما أردت شراء علبة سجائر، كان يوما ممطرا

.غابت فيه الشمس؛ ناولته المبلغ، فناولني العلبة

،ابتسم صاحب دكان التبغ بملء شدقيه

مناولا إياي

الأربعينية

مرت السنون و مازادتني إلا  الحزن و الشجون بعد فراق الأب الحنون، فلازلت أذكر جيدا الكيفية التي تلقيت بها خبر وفاة والدي. ورغم أنني لم أستطع حضور لحظة وضع جثمان والدي في مثواه الأخير، إلا أنني أتذكر بقوة ما حدث بعد مرور تسع و تلاثين يوما. إنها الليلة رقم أربعين؛ ليلة مميزة ولافتة للانتباه. ففي تلك الليلة ، حيث توافد الأفواج من الناس من كل حدب و صوب، بغية تقديم التعازي مجددا، 

وافتراس ما لذ و طاب من الأطباق المسيلة للعاب و المجحظة للعيون. 

                                                                                                           

في حقيقة الأمر، ما يهمني ها هنا ليس تذكر اللحظة ذاتها، وإنما التوغل ولو سطحيا في دلالاتها، خصوصا إذا تعلق الأمر بالرقم المصادف لليلة العزاء الثانية. إنه الرقم 40.   رقم عجيب و غريب: عجابته و غرابته تتجليان في   كونه—أي الرقم 40—يتكرر في مواضع خاصة، غاصة بالغموض، لكن مثيرة للاهتمام.                                    

فما هي إذن دلالات هذا الرقم و متى يتحقق؟

In commemoration of my father's death

That white drop -- dives deep

Into being brings me

Screaming, yelleing -- I stop

Till a drop

As white as the first

Passes down my oesophagus.

She 

As white as milk

As smooth as silk

Frees me -- away.

But again -- into another swaddle

As white as the first

I am wrapped.

And -- to this life

Come back -- never.

(with my father (bearded) and uncle (mom's brother).

My first English poem when I was a high school student

The Welfare of the Past

Glorious times, when birds warble

Love, happiness were glittering

All the moments had been enjoyable

Day by day, I feel suffering.

sorrow, depression and night

Are my only best friends

Nothing could be evident and bright

But friendship is the real funds.

I was captured and kept in chains

Each one caused by friends

My life has become a juice of pains

Where are brothers let alone friends.

One questions surrounded by gloom and fear

Where is freedom?

Many conventions and pledges, but none hears

everything at random.

Hypocrisy is  truth

Deception is faith

Life is being upside down

To be sly is faithful

To be straight is sinful.

I call out the welfare of the past

But nothing can come  back

We should live the fact

And confess

The past faded away and won't come back.

The Suspicious Numbers

Without making her aware of it, I erased --with a touch of my finger-- all the suspicious numbers from my mobile phone; then I put it in a place where she can easily see it. Acting as if I were not aware of it, my extremely jealous girlfriend secretly took my mobile and-- with quivering touches of her fingers-- she fumbled for the suspicious numbers. So refgretfully, she gave me the mobile, warmly hugging me and apologising for what she had done. So cunningly, I shoved her away then

The Ostrich Policy

"Since no one has seen me, I can do whatever I like and I'm on secure ground."

How many of us, how many times, happen to "soliloquize" and echo the very quoted sentence?

I bet every  breathing human being does utter it, on different situations and ages. As a child, when breaking a vase, one can just put his/her hands on the face and then s/he secure. Or maybe the child goes into hiding behind his/her mom's apron, then security is well-achieved. In a classroom, students  artfully search for hiding places  whenever asked to do a roleplay or, say, "show and tell" activity. More interesting is the fact that most students of different levels compete for the seating chairs most unseen  so that their eyes could not meet those of their teachers.

Politicians, too,

Why Seven?!

We were together, lying on a typically Moroccan settee. With her head pillowed on my right thigh, she was merrily watching an American animated film. Meanwhile, I was questionably enthralled by the sort of the spell that seven-year-old girl fell under. A spellbinding tale, indeed! I still remember very well every single shade of that fairy tale, and I can feel the spell under which my niece fell. She, as if by magic, was taken to another world, her body still and her eyes sparkling.

As for me, I too was spelled but differently. Out of the blue, a never-thought-about question  suggested itself; it was the title of the fairy tale, not the animation, which really pushed me to pen this article.

The Fiasco

I cannot remember when it was exactly...... but that was one night, inside a dark, still and gloomy operating theatre. A man laid down on a surgery table, surrendering to a very painful headache. In a trice, a surgeon entered the theatre, anaesthetized the patient and then shed the powerful searchlights upon him. Special rays broke into the filing cabinet of the patient's brain, detecting the following:

Enegmatic Dichotomies!!!

I was alone, all alone, doing nothing. In a twinkle of an eye, I felt it travelling throughout my body, penetrating my digestive system, having grasp of me. I suffered and I tranced. I remembered everything and I forgot all the things. It was part and parcel of me; it was overruling me. Uncontrollably, my eyes smilingly shed some hot tears. I very hard tried to stop them, but my eyes disobeyed me. I wanted to forget all of it, yet I found myself

The Winds of Change in Morocco

   “ I would bet every euro I possess to invest and settle in Marrakesh for once and all”, a foreign friend of mine once told me.

    Morocco has become a dreamland for foreingers as well as for Moroccans. A dream so dear and queer!!!

    Let us go back a little into history and try to rapidly survey the main reasons behind such a dream.