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| 7 Oct 2024 | |
| Written by Laila Bouchamama | |
| Morocco | |
| Teacher Tales |
_ When it comes to the teacher, my language trembles and my words go back, between the thumb and index finger of his blessed hand with the traces of chalk, my alphabet grew, and the roots of my knowledge grew, he is the womb that taught me letters and taught me manners and morals, how can he not have credit when I remember him every time I knock on the door before entering any place, and every time I turn right and left before crossing the road, how can he not have credit when the echo of his voice still orders me to remove harm from the road, throw the garbage in the garbage buckets....
The smell of books perfumes me every time I see him, he lives between the lines of the texts of the reading book and in mathematical problems and historical events.
_ All debts are paid except for the debts of the teacher, ..... May God protect all teachers and bless their work.
