If the techniques and customs of Fez’s artisans evoke the 13th century, the University of Al-Qarawiyyin reaches even further into the past. This prestigious institution, renowned throughout the Islamic world and growing in reputation, offers purely theological education, much like the Sorbonne of old.
Nestled in the shadow of the Karaouiyine Mosque, a rich and mysterious sanctuary, the university remains inaccessible to non-Muslims, as in Morocco, foreigners are not permitted to enter mosques.
Yet, Al-Qarawiyyin is no stranger to us. Built at the heart of the city, near the shrine of Moulay Idriss, and open to the streets through numerous doors, glimpses of its splendor—dazzling white courtyards, rows of colonnades, and blue-tiled fountains bubbling with water—appear and vanish as one passes by. Arab poets have sung of its majesty, its capacity to hold 20,000 worshippers, and the refreshing coolness it offers on summer days. One poet famously wrote:
“Mosque of Al-Qarawiyyin, sitting beside your flowing fountain in the great heat, I feel blessed. And if this water were ever to dry up, my tears would bring it back to life.”
But beyond being an oasis of tranquility and a house of prayer, Al-Qarawiyyin is a Sorbonne—thriving and deeply Moroccan. Last year, it had 150 professors and 700 students, yet it operates without entrance exams, formal cycles of study, or official diplomas. Any student (Tolba) may enter at will, as long as they have memorized the Qur’an. They choose their professors freely, following personal preferences and academic trends, as some teachers are more “fashionable” than others. There are no fixed study durations—students leave when they believe they have learned enough.
Perhaps this is why the more one learns, the less one considers oneself knowledgeable. Or maybe because student life is simply pleasant, many find it hard to part with their beloved Al-Qarawiyyin. It is common to find students who have studied there for 12, 15, or even 20 years, still spending their days under the cool arches of this ancient university.
Their lives are joyful, filled with ritualistic pranks reminiscent of Rabelaisian humor. Every spring, for example, students elect a mock Sultan, who reigns for eight days, indulging in a fictional sovereignty that serves as a pretext for endless satirical jests against the government. For eight days, there are feasts and celebrations, with the same jokes repeated year after year—like our Carnival traditions, which, despite their predictability, never fail to provoke laughter.
Yet, a Tolba lives in great poverty. They reside in bare, often decrepit cells within the Medersas—student seminaries that are magnificent yet crumbling masterpieces of 14th-century Hispano-Moorish architecture. Each day, the city provides them with a ration of bread, which is enough for a believer, as asceticism is seen as a sign of wisdom.
The Teaching Method
Lessons take place in a simple yet profound way. The teacher chooses a corner of the mosque, sits on the ground in a circle with his students, who crouch in the same manner. Some distinguished professors are granted a chair, a rare privilege—the greater the merit, the taller the chair.
There are no books, no notes, and no writing tools. Only one student, the teacher’s chosen assistant, holds the book being studied, reading aloud as the professor interrupts and begins his commentary—offering extensive exegeses, citing by memory Islamic scholars from across centuries, proving his vast knowledge.
This is the essence of Al-Qarawiyyin’s education: commentary, interpretation, and theological debate. There is no history, geography, or exact sciences—only theology and law, which sharpen logic, dialectical reasoning, and the art of debate. At most, a little astronomy is included, as it is deemed sacred. But why look beyond the Qur’an? In this worldview, all truth is contained within its verses, and knowing it—both literally and intellectually—grants an understanding of the entire universe.
The Recitation Schools of Fez
Occasionally, in the dark alleys of Fez, a passerby might hear a continuous, melodic murmur rising from behind small, carved wooden awnings. These are the Quranic schools, where young Fassi children learn to read.
They have only one book—the sacred one dictated by God to the Prophet. Their small fingers trace the verses as they chant in a rhythmic sway, rocking back and forth in unison, following an age-old tradition. The schoolmaster, cane in hand, recites the first words of the verse, leading the older children, who in turn guide the younger ones. Even toddlers, barely three years old, sway along, lost in their oversized embroidered robes.
The entire school moves like reeds bending in the wind, while their voices rise in hymn to the Lord.
A Philosophy of Education
How can one observe these ancient pedagogical customs without recognizing the timeless wisdom beneath them? It is an education built on idealism, valuing the ultimate purpose of knowledge—wisdom—over its practical applications, which modern societies so desperately chase.
It is also an ascetic education. Tolbas do not seek wealth or career advancement; the title of Ulema or Doctor, earned through years of study, brings no material gain—only honor and respect. Some graduates join Islamic administration, but many live humbly, upholding the esteem reserved in Islam for those who master divine law.
Higher Islamic education is, and remains, in the hands of the poor. These scholars embody the spirit of “joyful poverty,” which Proudhon once described as the hallmark of true culture.
A Lesson in Wisdom
M. Alfred Bel, director of the Medersa of Tlemcen and a special envoy to Fez, once recounted a story from the early days of the war.
He had been tasked with a mission: the Protectorate planned to reform Islamic higher education, including the creation of a Dean of the University. M. Bel sought out the oldest master of Al-Qarawiyyin, a scholar revered in Fez as a saint.
After much difficulty, he located the aged Ulema’s home—a dark, humble chamber, where the eighty-year-old scholar lived on mint tea, surrounded by books.
“France offers you the title of Dean of the University,” Bel told him. “You will oversee professors and students. All respect and love you for your great knowledge and piety.”
He then revealed the salary attached to the position—an astounding 12,000 pesetas per year, a fortune for the elderly scholar.
The old man simply shook his head and replied:
“I have never commanded anyone, nor have I ever been commanded by anyone! And now, you ask me not only to rule over the Ulemas and Tolbas, but to obey ministers, the Grand Vizier, and the Sultan? Your gift would cost me too much. No, thank you.”