The Struggles of a Grieving Mother
The recent vicious attack on Aunt Zuleikha, the mother of peaceful protest icon Nasser Zefzafi—currently imprisoned—echoes the sentiments expressed by my friend Khaled Bakkari in his article titled “The King as Seen by the Flatterers.” This incident reminded me of a Friday evening during Ramadan in 2020, a time when we were confined under strict health measures due to the pandemic. My colleague, Suleiman Raissouni, was writing the editorial for the weekend edition of "Akhbar Al-Youm," which was being published in a free digital format, following the trend set by daily print newspapers during those challenging times.
That day’s article focused on a recent royal pardon, the context of which I cannot recall, but it notably did not include the detainees from the Rif Movement, a fact that many had hoped would change. The hope for their release was palpable in 2020, persists today, and will continue as long as there are mothers, fathers, children, and comrades knocking on the doors of justice, with a king who has repeatedly shown his willingness to listen and take action towards amnesty and rectification.
At that time, I received a call from a senior government official, one of the individuals we had been in contact with during the turmoil surrounding "Akhbar Al-Youm," aiming to lift the imposed restrictions, and to advocate for its continued operation, emphasizing that it was merely fulfilling its journalistic role, devoid of any ulterior motives. The official’s voice was filled with anger and discontent, hinting at the editorial in the new issue. I paused him and asked for clarification regarding his displeasure, as I had read the article multiple times and felt it contained no elements of “exceeding bounds.” He expressed that the article criticized the issuance of a royal pardon that excluded the Rif detainees, equating that critique to a direct assault on the king. He insisted that such commentary was inappropriate, particularly since they were trying to assist us in keeping the newspaper alive.
As I often did, I tried to convey my understanding of the official's viewpoint while gently expressing my disagreement, reinforcing my belief in the validity of what we published, as it did not contain any disrespect or breach of decorum towards the king.
The Plight of a Mother
Today, following the anguished cry of a mother who has been deprived of her son for over nine years due to a socio-political case, and who has recently lost her husband, I have yet to see any official voice raised in protest against those who attacked Aunt Zuleikha. No one has reminded those critics that they are crossing ethical boundaries when discussing the king.
Who truly disrespects the king? Is it the mother who mourns her son and prays for justice against those she believes have wronged him, or is it those who hastily drag the king into the mire of slander, shamelessly making him a party to the confrontation with a grieving mother? Aunt Zuleikha was not addressing a political assembly, nor was she drafting a political statement, orchestrating a conspiracy, inciting discord, or declaring war on anyone. She was simply a mother. This fact alone is sufficient. She is a mother overwhelmed by loss, worn down by waiting, and ravaged by the years that have taken their toll on her body and spirit. She finds herself in yet another holiday season without her son, without her husband who has passed, and without a convincing answer to the longstanding question we share with her: why has this wound remained open for so long?
Those who do not comprehend the anguish of a mother cannot claim to understand anything about politics, the state, or the nation. Throughout literature and human memory, there is no image more profound than a mother waiting for her child. The story of Prophet Jacob, a strong man, whose eyes turned blind from sorrow over Joseph, despite his deep understanding of patience, is a testament to this agony. And the mother of Moses nearly revealed his secret when he was cast into the sea, if not for God reassuring her heart. Across the heritage of all peoples, from the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina to the mothers of the detained and the missing in every exile and prison, the mother, once deprived of her son, transforms into a conscience walking the earth, not a political opponent towards whom we direct the artillery of derision.
A mother does not need a lesson in protocol to weep. She does not require a linguistic advisor to scrutinize her prayers before she utters them. She does not need permission from anyone to declare that her heart is broken. To ask Nasser Zefzafi's mother to weigh her words with the scales of authority, to confine her sorrow to a cold bureaucratic form, to name entities as dictated by others, and to remain silent about what her heart cannot bear is essentially to demand that she cease being a mother.
The issue does not lie with Aunt Zuleikha; rather, it rests with a certain breed of sycophants who can only see the king through the prism of their interests. They believe they are defending him, while in reality, they are tarnishing his image. They claim to protect his reputation while dragging him from a position of governance into one of opposition. They think that every social outcry, every anguished prayer, every political critique, and every inquiry about amnesty and justice must be transformed into an attack on the royal institution, as if the monarchy can only be upheld by silencing mothers and humiliating the afflicted.
Have they forgotten that King Mohammed VI has, through a significant and expressive personal decision, removed the sanctity surrounding himself? Have they overlooked that he himself asked, in a famous speech, “Where is this wealth?” Have they ignored that he spoke about the growth fruits that are untraceable in his travels across the kingdom? Have they failed to recall that he acknowledged the failure of the development model and called for its review?
Those who truly disrespect the monarchy are not those who seek forgiveness and justice but rather those who turn it into a cause for slander. It is not the ones who call for healing the Rif wound but those who want it to remain open, so they can thrive on its suffering.
More than nine years have passed, a duration that for a mother is not merely a number. It represents incomplete celebrations, empty notebooks, and phones waiting for a call. It embodies nights without sleep, and a door that opens without the son entering. It is news of illness, death, old age, and postponed consolation. Each year in prison is measured by days for the prisoner, but by heartbeats for the mother.
Thus, the phrase “celebrate only among yourselves” is a mother’s cry, asking us all: how can you expect me to be joyful when my son is absent on this holiday? How can you expect a household to hang festive decorations while their hearts are imprisoned?
Because the plea is sincere, it frightened them. A genuine word can be more terrifying than a lengthy discourse. A mother’s prayer, when it emerges from genuine anguish, reveals what official statements aim to obscure. Therefore, they did not engage with her but instead attacked her. They did not hear her pain but searched for an interpretation that would drag the king into her supplication.
Aunt Zuleikha does not seek our pity. She requires respect, justice, and for us to clearly state that her dignity is part of our dignity, and that any violation against her or the mothers of the detainees affects our collective honor. The mother who has carried the weight of her son’s pain for all these years is not a marginal figure in this issue; she is its moral heart.
The case of the Rif detainees no longer warrants further obstinacy. Time has stretched long enough. What could have been offered as measures at one point has now become a heavy burden on the image of the state, on trust, and on the meaning of justice.
Granting amnesty to these young men is not a sign of weakness. Closing this file is not a defeat for the state. The real defeat is leaving a mother to cry for nine years and then asking her to silence herself.
States do not grow by oppressing mothers. They do not stabilize by transforming pain into crime. They do not protect their dignity by allowing sycophants to invoke the king’s name in every sordid battle.
Thus, all solidarity with Aunt Zuleikha is necessary. Not merely because she is Nasser’s mother, but because she is a Moroccan mother who has endured the harshest trials any mother could face. She has the right to question, to mourn, and to pray. It is our duty to tell those who attacked her: have some shame.
As for the king, the greatest insult to him is not a mother’s cry, but rather a sycophant who seeks to turn that cry into an enmity against him. The greatest insult to him is for cowards to hide behind his name while they attack a grieving widow.
Aunt Zuleikha has expressed what all mothers say when the earth becomes too constricting for them: "My Lord is Great." This simple phrase is more powerful than all the speeches of sycophants.
Aunt Zuleikha does not seek revenge; she seeks justice. She does not wish to topple a nation; she desires to reclaim her son. She does not insult the king; she exposes those who misuse his name to humiliate the people.
As reported by thevoice.ma.
