Reflections on Moroccan Monarchy and Heritage

I was twelve and a half years old,

in 1975, once in November.

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

cried.

It got into our blood, it got in. Morocco got

into our blood. And our King is with us now, even if he is ill, I would

give him anything.

I would die for him. I swear to you, by God.

I would cry, and they laughed at me at home. Because our King is dear to us.

And Hassan II, may God have mercy on him and bless him.

They used to say he was bad, racist. Now his words

have only just come true. He used to speak the truth that has reached us.

About our neighbors, about any country, about our country, about our homeland, about anything.

حاجة. وبلادنا ما كاينش بحالها وخا يطيروا لا

descend, I swear they will not

reach it. And if they do, I will be the first.

My mother said to me, "What is this you are doing?" I told her, "I will set up for the soldiers and cook for them. If I do not finish,

I will run." I swear, I would search. They called me

"Soap" or "Scrubber"... I washed with a scrubber. Twelve

and a half years ago, I used to wash with a scrubber, bake, gather firewood, and uproot.

Grass. We make hay and pull up chickpeas.

Fifty, now nearly 50 years in the Netherlands.

No one can take Morocco away from me. Whoever comes.

Even if they throw me into a valley, I'd pull myself out with my little finger.

Long live the King. God, الوطن, King. May God

have mercy on Hassan II. And if we want to kiss his hands, we'll kiss his hands.

We'll kiss his feet and kiss his head, and kiss whatever we want.

Those are pictures of our shack. If the pictures are gone, the wind took them.

They left us for the wild beasts to eat us. Leave it, even if it

gives us nothing, even if our country does nothing for us, it has nearly caught up with

countries it will never reach.

That's what I wanted to say. I've talked too much, until another time, God willing.

God bless you, and thank you. Whoever...