The Moroccan Family's Struggle with Technology
In nearly every Moroccan household, a scene has become so familiar that it often goes unnoticed: a small child, no older than three or four years, holding a smartphone in their tiny hands, effortlessly swiping across the screen. No one has taught them how to do this; they have simply learned, much like we adults learn to walk or talk. This raises a fundamental question that is increasingly pressing for families from Casablanca to Oujda and Marrakech to Nador: who is raising our children today? Is it the parents, the grandparents as it once was, or has the responsibility shifted to a small screen that tirelessly engages them?
The Smartphone as a Children's Companion
Many Moroccan mothers confess, sometimes in a hushed tone and with a hint of embarrassment, that a smartphone has become the quick fix when their child cries while shopping or when they need ten minutes of peace to finish a meal or a work call. The smartphone does not tire, does not refuse, and does not demand anything in return. It serves as the ideal companion for a weary father after a long workday and for a mother juggling household and work responsibilities. The issue, however, does not lie with the device itself, since it is merely a tool devoid of intention. The real concern is that we, as parents, have entrusted it with a role we never intended to assign: that of educating our children. A child who spends hours watching short, ever-changing videos learns a specific rhythm of thought, a particular way to cope with boredom, and even a model of relationships and behaviors, all without the guidance or correction of a parent, teacher, or mentor.
Unlike our generation, which experienced boredom and the anticipation of waiting a week to watch a single cartoon episode on Thursdays, today's children do not know what it is like to be without stimulation. The moment they feel boredom creeping in, they instinctively reach for a smartphone, banishing monotony in mere seconds. While this may seem convenient in the moment, it fundamentally deprives the child of a crucial opportunity: the chance to learn how to be alone with themselves and how to confront emptiness without fleeing from it.
Another protective element in Moroccan society used to be the extended family structure, which perhaps still partially exists in some areas. Grandmothers tell stories, uncles joke around, and caring neighbors keep an eye on children. This genuine social network participated in upbringing without formally declaring its role. However, as this network disintegrates in major cities and as everyone becomes engrossed in their smartphones, children often find themselves isolated, even when surrounded by family.
So, what can we do? The solution does not lie in completely banning smartphones, as this is unrealistic and ineffective in our time. Instead, we should aim to restore balance. We need to establish screen time limits just as we set boundaries for meals and sleep. We should sit down with our children occasionally to watch together, not only to monitor them but to understand what they consume and why they enjoy it. We must allow boredom to reclaim its place, letting children experience it without rushing to save them with a phone. Lastly, we adults must remember that our own eyes are often glued to screens more than we realize, and that children learn by imitation long before they learn through conversation.
Ultimately, the question is not just about who is raising our children; it is also about whether we are still the ones making that decision or if we have ceded it to an algorithm that knows nothing of our children and cares little for their future.
As reported by hespress.com.
