The Moroccan Family's Struggle with Technology
In nearly every Moroccan household, there exists a scene so common that we often overlook it: a young child, no older than three or four years, clutching a smartphone, effortlessly swiping their finger across the screen without any formal instruction. It’s as if this child has instinctively learned to use this technology, just as we adults learn to walk or speak. This phenomenon raises a critical question that families from Casablanca to Oujda, and Marrakech to Nador, are increasingly contemplating: Who is raising our children today? Is it the mother or father, the grandparents as it once was, or has the responsibility shifted to a small screen that tirelessly engages their attention?
Smartphones as Childcare
Many Moroccan mothers candidly acknowledge, sometimes with embarrassment, that smartphones have become a quick fix when their child cries in a market or when they need just ten minutes of peace to finish cooking or handle a work call. The smartphone is tireless, non-demanding, and offers no strings attached. To an exhausted parent after a long day, it appears to be the ideal companion, and to a mother juggling the responsibilities of home and work, it seems like a lifesaver. However, the issue does not lie within the device itself, as it is merely a tool devoid of intent. The real problem is that we, as parents, have inadvertently entrusted it with a role we never intended to hand over—that of nurturing and education. A child who spends hours watching short, ever-changing videos learns a specific rhythm of thought and a certain way to cope with boredom, as well as a model of relationships and behaviors, all without the guidance of a parent, teacher, or mentor to steer or correct them.
Our generation, the current parents, experienced boredom. We knew what it was like to have empty time during vacations, to play in the neighborhood, and to wait an entire week to watch a single episode of a cartoon on Thursday. While this boredom felt frustrating at times, it cultivated in us patience, imagination, and the ability to create play from nothing. Our children today do not know this emptiness; as soon as boredom strikes, one of their hands reaches for a smartphone, and the dullness dissipates within seconds. While this may seem convenient in the moment, it deprives the child of a fundamental opportunity: the chance to learn how to be alone with themselves and how to confront emptiness without resorting to distractions.
One protective factor that once existed in Morocco, and still partially does in some areas, is the extended family. The grandmother telling stories, the uncle joking around, and the neighbors watching closely with affection all contributed to child-rearing without formal acknowledgment. Today, however, as this network disintegrates in major cities and everyone becomes preoccupied with their smartphones, children often find themselves truly alone, even when surrounded by family.
So, what can we do? The solution does not lie in completely banning smartphones; such an approach is unrealistic and ineffective in our times. Instead, we should aim for a recalibration of balance. We need to establish screen time limits just as we set boundaries for meals and sleep. It is crucial for us to sit with our children and occasionally watch alongside them—not merely to monitor their activity but to understand what they consume and why it appeals to them. We must also reinstate a place for boredom, allowing the child to feel it without rushing to alleviate it with a smartphone. Finally, we, as adults, must remember that our eyes are also glued to screens more than we realize and that children learn through imitation long before they learn through language.
Ultimately, the question is not only about who raises our children but also whether we are still the ones making that decision or if we have relinquished it to algorithms that neither know nor care about their future.
As reported by hespress.com.
