Reflections on Moroccan History and Leadership

I had just turned twelve and a half,

1975. Around mid-November.

The march. The King gave a speech, and they sent it to us on cassette.

And we cried.

It got in. It was in our blood, it got in. It entered Morocco through our blood.

And my king is in his palace now because he's ill.

I'd give him anything, even die for him. I swear to you, by God.

He would cry and laugh at home. Because our king is dear to us.

And Hassan II, may God have mercy on him. They

used to call him awful and racist. Now his words

have finally reached them. He used to tell the truth we've come to.

About our neighbors. About every country. About our land. About our homeland.

Whatever it is, there's no country like ours. Whether they fly or land.

By God, they won't catch up to it. And if they do, I'll be the first to say so.

My mother asked me, "What will you do?" I told her, "I'll set up for the soldiers and cook for them."

I couldn't run.

I swear, you wouldn't believe it. Whenever they called me,

whether it was for soap or scrubbing, I did the washing. At twelve

and a half, I used to scrub laundry by hand. There was bread. And there was firewood.

I used to pull weeds and make hay. I used to harvest chickpeas.

Fifty. Almost 50 years now. And I'm in Holland.

They won't take Morocco away from me. Whoever comes, even if they throw me into a valley.

I only leap like lions. Long live the King. God,

homeland, King. May God have mercy on Hassan II.

If we want to kiss his hands, we'll kiss his hands and his feet, and we'll kiss his head and kiss

whatever we want. Those are pictures of our farmyard.

If it weren't for the pictures causing a stir, the beasts would keep devouring us.

Leave him, even if he gives us nothing, even if he does nothing for us, our country has brought it close to countries they

could never reach.

reach.

That's all I'm going to say. I've talked a lot. Another time, God willing.

God bless you, and thanks to...