Morocco: ink flows

I was arrested on March 17, 2015. Since 2009, I was a program director with the Moroccan Association for Investigative Journalism (AMJI). The association had established a network across about ten cities, providing training programmes and scholarships, and facilitating collaborative work. This was unsettling for the authorities. However, what truly led to my arrest was an investigation into the electronic surveillance of journalists and activists. One evening, I made a discovery that confirmed my suspicions of governmental cyber surveillance. I was arrested the following morning.

There had been warning signs. For instance, I was violently attacked about six months before my arrest. I had also experienced intimidation, harassment, and attempted hacking. As journalists, we are accustomed to such things; it’s part of the job. I thought these were mere intimidation tactics that wouldn’t escalate further. I believed I understood the regime, but I was mistaken. We often said things in Morocco don’t happen like in Syria, as Moroccans like to point out. We argued it wasn’t like Egypt either, that the authorities didn’t resort to aggression or murder. I never expected such violence from the police or the lies and Machiavellian tactics of the system as a whole.

My trial was a farce. All sense of morality, gone.

I spent two days in police custody before being taken to prison, where I was placed in Block D, known as zebbala (“the dump”) by incarcerated people: it was reserved for violent or repeat offenders. There were also dissidents there whom the regime tried to humiliate.

People incarcerated in Block D called themselves “the microbes.” I became a microbe during my time in that block. It’s neither derogatory nor flattering, but it illustrates that prison is a dump that turns you into a microbe. Each cell housed between 40 and 60 people, although they were meant for 15. Life was impossible in such conditions; it inevitably led to violence. Even among friends or family, violent fights would erupt within days. There was hardly any room to walk due to the overcrowding.

We slept crammed together, hygiene was appalling, and insects were everywhere. The noise was almost constant; you had to shout to be heard. It was torture for someone as solitary as I am. And above all, there was no air. Between the stoves and cannabis, I was suffocated by the smoke and could hardly breathe.

I only spent a month in that block. Fortunately, otherwise, I wouldn’t be alive today. I was transferred to wing M1, where the living conditions were somewhat better, with only seven or eight of us per cell. But in reality, within the first month—if not the first few days—the authorities had managed to touch something within me. They had already shaken me. They opted for a brief yet insidious action, the consequences of which linger to this day.

To cope, I remained true to myself. In prison, you sometimes have to make decisions in seconds or even milliseconds. A judgment error can happen quickly. Luck may have played a part: I didn’t try to act like a seasoned prisoner; I told myself I had to stay true to myself. To escape, I read and wrote.

My first moments in detention were marked by a mess of emotions. I was angry about everything that had happened, but a part of me also celebrated a kind of victory. I thought the authorities were making a huge mistake by imprisoning me, especially in Block D. It was a mistake to place me in an environment that allowed me not only to tell the story but also to see it with my own eyes.

At first, I didn’t think I would write a book or even an article. I just wanted to adapt, pass the time, and learn how to survive. I had always kept a journal and felt the need to reflect by putting words on paper. The idea of the book came gradually. It was born out of a desire to document my memories and share others’ stories.

I’m not a sociologist, but I love interviews. As I knew nothing of this world, I had countless questions. Those who were incarcerated with me found me a bit naïve, which amused them. Once I gained their trust, they were happy to answer me. It was a unique exercise for them. After a few months, I began accumulating piles and mountains of information. I realised there was much to explore.

Slowly, I began to truly investigate. I started by collecting and compiling information, without really hoping to understand the system; if I had, I wouldn’t have started. I noted everything, trying to absorb as much as possible, like a camera or a recorder. After a few months, I began to reread and analyse. That’s when I saw the bigger picture and realised the extent of corruption and the trafficking economy. I set out to delve deeper into drug trafficking, phone smuggling, pricing, and other small scams.

I aimed not only to conduct an investigation, but also to focus on narratives—what people had to say about society, religion, the political landscape, and violence. I was very curious to learn more about the people imprisoned alongside me. Plus, as I had no intention of returning to prison anytime soon, I knew I had to make the most of this opportunity.

I was fortunate because, in general, no one prevented me from writing. The prison administration didn’t find it suspicious that I read or wrote. I did, however, take certain precautions. For instance, I would smuggle my notebooks by hiding them in dirty laundry my relatives collected during visits. I avoided taking notes visibly or conducting interviews in front of others like a journalist. I would chat with people casually and wrote afterward.

I had no trouble communicating with those who were imprisoned with me. It was more difficult with the prison staff, who were wary. Everything said had to be filtered and verified. The most interesting information I obtained came from listening in on discussions rather than being an active participant. People tend to be more talkative when in groups, so I preferred to let them steer the conversation. There was no point in forcing discussions in a certain direction, as it would only lead to mistrust. I had to accept entering unfamiliar conversations, sometimes with pleasant surprises, sometimes not.

The night before my release, the others convinced me not to shower. They claimed it would bring bad luck, that I should take the dirt of prison out and leave it outside. I ended up showering anyway because I wanted to be clean when I saw my family. A few days earlier, I had already distributed my possessions: when someone leaves, their belongings go to those who stay in prison.

On the day of your release, you never know when the guards will wake you. Incarcerated people typically leave around six or seven in the morning, but my case was different: I was released at three. The authorities wanted to avoid any public manifestation that would indicate I was indeed a political prisoner.

I feared the police would come to pick me up right as I stepped outside, as I was still being pursued, this time for “threatening internal state security”. The others had told me about the procedure: you finish your sentence, pass through the prison gates, are handcuffed, taken to the police station, held in custody for two days, and then return to prison. That genuinely frightened me; it’s the worst punishment. Fortunately, I was released on bail and thus not re-arrested.

I wanted to leave the country that same day, but I could only find a flight for the following morning. I went to Tunisia, where I stayed for three months, then on to Poland, and finally France. I wanted to leave the country. My only regret is having left my family behind. But the departure felt very natural.

In the Heart of a Moroccan Prison was published in France in 2022. It was my first book, and I didn’t expect it to be so well received. It isn’t officially banned in Morocco, but no bookstores stock it. Many activists buy it in bulk and distribute it personally. However, those who can read it are part of the elite who understand French. I would love for it to be translated so that my mother, imprisoned people, and the entire Moroccan populace can discover it.

I still work as a journalist today. There are always pressures and threats, but I accept that. My experience in prison taught me that the worst thing is being prevented from doing your work. After all, I could have been kept from ever being released or not allowed to write at all. There’s an Egyptian proverb I like: “If you’re afraid, don’t say anything, don’t speak. If you’ve said something or spoken, don’t be afraid anymore”. I’m not saying that attacks and slander don’t affect me, but I remember there are tougher things. The hardest part has been not being able to express myself, defend myself, and make my voice and the voices of others heard.
I am now a journalist for Orient XXI. Three years ago, with about fifteen exiled journalists, we also created two media outlets, of which I am the editorial director: Hawamich, meaning marginalities or peripheries, and Hounna, a media platform dedicated to women in the Maghreb, founded by journalist Hajar Raissouni, who served time for abortion. We are a group of journalists supporting one another. A third of us are in exile.

Today, the situation is worse than it was a few years ago, particularly for journalists. In the end, I think I was lucky regarding both the accusations I faced and my time in detention. The authorities have refined their strategy since then. They no longer just accuse you of adultery, as was the case for me. Now the charges include money laundering, rape, and human trafficking. This creates complex situations. If a woman claims to be a victim of rape, you can’t just support your colleague because he’s a journalist. But you know these accusations might be fabricated for political reasons. There’s a lot of distrust and reluctance. It’s difficult to explain to the public that one can defend a journalist while respecting the victim’s rights and the journalist’s presumption of innocence,and calling for a fair trial. The regime has understood the twisted effectiveness of this strategy, which is very damaging to the feminist cause, as it discredits testimonies.

Sentences are harsher than before, ranging from three years to over fifteen years. For example, Taoufik Bouachrine was sentenced to twenty years in prison, despite everyone knowing he was innocent of the official charges of rape and human trafficking. The detention conditions have become tougher, the accusations have escalated, and the sentences have lengthened. This reflects the political situation in Morocco, and I don’t see how it could improve. I was fortunate to have significant personal support, and now that there have been several cases, new individuals can benefit from the prior work and testimonies of others. However, writing has become much more difficult. After the release of my book, the authorities began to prevent incarcerated journalists from writing. For instance, they stopped Omar Radi and tore up Souleiman Raissouni’s manuscript.