It read: “Some souls know each other from previous times; ours seem to be family.”

It is a blessing to cross paths with people whose souls seem to recognize yours instantly, as though you have known each other long before you actually met. It is an even greater blessing when those encounters bring you closer to the most authentic version of yourself.

I had not realized (or perhaps had refused to let myself realize) how many flaws and how much baggage I was still carrying from my early twenties. It took these new friendships to make me confront just how significantly my values, and even my politics, had shifted.

I have always taken immense pride in the female friendships I nurture. Those women have carried me through some of the darkest and most difficult periods of my life. For a long time, however, I was equally convinced that men were neither worth my time nor my friendship, largely because of the disdain I had developed toward them.

That disdain was not born out of nowhere. I am deeply aware of the trauma that shaped it, and I know many women can recognize themselves in that experience. But understanding where something comes from does not necessarily mean it is serving you well. Over time, that disdain had placed me on a lonely path; one that was slowly pulling me further away from my own community than I ever intended.

One night, after spending time with these new friends, I sat with my own thoughts and realized just how preachy I had become.

How could I criticize men for refusing to hold themselves accountable while refusing to do the same myself? How could I pride myself on my understanding of gender, social issues, and politics, while simultaneously refusing to make room for the lived experiences and perspectives of the very people I claimed to understand?

And, perhaps most uncomfortably: how was my disdain for these young North African men, whom I could now call my dear friends, any different from that of a white woman?

For years, I actively avoided engaging with men altogether, not only the men who had harmed me, but also the men who might have challenged me, taught me something, or simply stood beside me. Somewhere along the way, my feminism had become so shaped by online discourse that I had begun collapsing an entire gender into a single category.

I joked that men should all die. I repeated slogans that felt empowering within certain digital spaces. At the time, I did not think much of it. But eventually, I began noticing something deeply uncomfortable: the same language I had used as a form of feminist catharsis could be weaponized by people who had no genuine investment in the liberation of women like me or in my community at all.

Fear of potential danger had caused me to lose sight of something equally tangible: allyship within my own community.

That was my turning point.

I began to recognize that the language I had adopted could easily become ammunition for people whose criticisms of North African men had little to do with justice and far more to do with racism, prejudice, and control. My criticism of the men in my community had always come from a desire for change. The criticism of North African men by white feminists, however, can emerge from an entirely different framework. One shaped by prejudice, paternalism, and, at times, a kind of fetishization.

Somewhere between the countless evenings spent sitting on patios, talking for hours, and the seemingly insignificant ice-cream runs, I began to wonder whether these friendships had entered my life precisely to force me to grow. More specifically, through them, I was being made to interrogate my own relationship to men, to confront the version of myself that had spent years avoiding them altogether.

Making room for dialogue outside of digital misandrist spaces does not mean abandoning criticism. Quite the opposite. It means remembering that accountability is relational. It is built through proximity, conversation, and the willingness to remain in the room long enough to understand one another.

It also means recognizing that men who have been shaped by the same colonial structures, the same Islamophobia, and the same cultural expectations of masculinity are not a monolith. Some perpetuate harm. Others resist it, question it, and actively try to build something better.

And so, in my attempt to become a more authentic version of myself, to challenge my assumptions rather than simply defending them, I went out into the world and sought answers from the very people I had spent years fearing and distrusting.

After all, the sense of community I had been craving with my own North African peers was never going to come from another online debate.

It was going to come from conversations with the men themselves.

How do you define رجولة ( masculinity in Moroccan Darija)?

Z

My personal definition of rojola is that a man without his word is nothing. A man must be respectful, dutiful toward his parents, his siblings, and his neighbours. Whatever he says he will do, he must do, and he must always stand by his word. He cannot go back on the promises he has made to others. In today’s world, men tend to talk more than they act. A man without his word is nothing and cannot truly be anything.

For you, what is a Moroccan man’s role within our community and/or society?

A

That is precisely why I am not a fan of the definitions I previously gave you, because they are too limited to a man’s role in society. We often judge men exclusively through that lens. I find it unfortunate because we lose the opportunity to define masculinity in a way that may be more aligned with Islamic definitions. I would rather define men in the absolute, rather than only through their role within society. I have always interpreted masculinity through how a man carries himself: through his relationship with Allah, his interactions with others, and his sensitivity.

Z

There are obviously, in Morocco, many opinions about how a man should or should not behave, but I do not concern myself with these social definitions. What others have to say about you will never make you or them happy; you cannot please everyone. What matters to me is not what others think about my masculinity, but whether my parents, my siblings, and my loved ones are proud of the man I am. Ultimately, only their opinion of me and Allah’s regard for me truly matter.

AA

Moroccan society expects a man to embody what we call a rajel. He needs to be the pillar of the family: courageous, active, and, most importantly, hardworking. He needs to be able to handle everything and know how to deal with any situation, whether he is naturally skilled or not. Ultimately, the expectation is that he provides for the family. Personally, I try to distance myself from these expectations, not because I necessarily disagree with these roles, but because I believe everyone should be able to become who they truly want to be, beyond cultural or societal expectations.

Do you think there is a difference between how you define رجولة compared to how your friends or other men in your life define masculinity?

A

Absolutely. The way masculinity is defined today has been heavily influenced by toxic and incel-like perspectives. A lot of these definitions are based on degrading women, whereas I prefer to define masculinity independently, rather than through how men are expected to treat women, especially because these conversations have become increasingly derogatory. I believe these discourses exist globally, but I do not align myself with them as a man.

Do you think red-pill culture was always present within our culture, or do you think it has only flourished recently?

A

I do not think it is new. I think it is a movement that has simply given vocabulary to ideas and attitudes that were already present among older generations. We cannot hide the fact that, as Moroccans, there are negative definitions of how a man should behave with his wife, for example. I think these behaviours are shaped by one’s environment. Personally, I believe my circle allows me to develop healthier perspectives, but disagreements can still happen between friends.

I cannot say that I have friends who speak in those negative ways, but sometimes you need to find ways to have conversations with people in order to better understand them. It requires dialogue.

Z

There is, globally, a rise of red-pill culture, but what stands out in the Moroccan context is the male entitlement component. It is the idea that we are owed things simply because we are men. This exists globally as well, but what I am trying to emphasize as a Moroccan is that what we criticize in others, we also need to recognize within ourselves. Male entitlement cannot have a place. Whatever you ask of a woman should also be something she can see reflected in yourself. Otherwise, it makes no sense.

AA

I think our society was already influenced by red-pill ideas before the movement even became popular. We find similar rhetoric in masculinist spaces as we do in our streets, our neighbourhoods, and among some men around us. Ultimately, I think it is also something we need to reflect on ourselves. These ideas exist within our culture and our everyday lives.

It could potentially come from misinterpretations of Islam, but I would say that red-pill culture has mainly given new vocabulary to beliefs that were already culturally present.

There is traditionally a lot of ego linked to Moroccan manhood. Would you say this is relatively positive or negative?

A

I agree that there is a lot of ego connected to Moroccan definitions of manhood and rojola, but I have a problem with the entire concept of ego. I can understand that it can sometimes be a form of motivation, but I believe men should seek motivation elsewhere. Ego is too unstable and emotionally driven for me.

I do not see myself building my identity as a man on something so fragile. I define ego as something negative, so I do not think it should be the foundation of how someone behaves toward others.

If you want to act with respect, you must seek motivation from something equally respectable, and I do not believe ego is where that comes from.

Z

I would definitely agree that there is a lot of ego attached to Moroccan manhood. I would say that it is mostly negative because there is an aspect of this ego that comes from something deeply toxic. However, I believe this is partly the result of moving away from the exemplary behaviours of our Prophet PBUH. As a society, we need to reconnect with our cultural roots and our Islamic teachings if we want to move forward. Without that, nothing meaningful awaits us.

AA

Personally, I do not think ego is ever positive. It blinds us, whether toward our actions, ourselves, or even our personalities. For me, it is an obstacle to personal development. Once we become blinded by ego, we stop holding ourselves accountable, and therefore we lose the opportunity to learn and grow.

Ego is systematically negative for both men and women. Even though I recognize that I can sometimes become egotistical, I try my best to detach myself from it so that it does not control my actions.

Speaking of emotions, why do you think it is difficult for some Moroccan men to admit to their friends or to women in their lives that they feel insecure, unwanted, or lonely?

Z

There is definitely a barrier when it comes to speaking openly and expressing how we feel, especially because of how we fear being perceived. I think it depends on your circle. If you have a close friend you can speak to, then there should not be any issue opening up. Why not? Life is difficult; it can consume us. Genuine friendships between men are necessary. Real friends support you through both the negative and positive moments of life.

How much of a Moroccan man’s life is driven by what others might say (known as حشومة / hchouma)?

A

In my opinion, the concept of hchouma is mostly associated with how women’s behaviour is perceived. I am not sure it applies to men in the same way. The perception of others is extremely important in our culture, so I think it influences how we interact with society.

For me, being a man is more introspective: it is about how you act, how you define yourself, and how you carry yourself. However, I remain attentive to how others may perceive my behaviour because this is something deeply ingrained in how we were raised as Moroccans. It follows us, and I think it plays a major role in how we define ourselves culturally.

Z

That is a very good question. I would say there is a strong hchouma culture in Morocco.

Does it impact men? Yes and no; it depends on the context. This concept controls women’s lives much more than men’s. Men are socially allowed to make mistakes, but women often are not. Men and women are equal, so it cannot continue this way. We cannot restrict something for one gender while allowing it for the other.

What is one piece of advice you would give to another young Moroccan man when it comes to these kinds of introspective discussions?

A

If you want to be a true Moroccan man, you must first be proud of being Moroccan without shame. You cannot allow colonial history to break you down. To me, being a real man means never compromising your religion, your culture, or yourself. We cannot forget who we are. We must refuse to bend down. We must resist daily within our culture without diluting ourselves. Be a provider if that is what you choose, but understand that being a man is also about pride, values, and convictions.

A real man stands strong in his beliefs and his culture.

In Quebec, many people were quickly made to feel ashamed of their identity, but as adults, it is our responsibility to embrace who we are with pride. Our culture is a treasure; it represents thousands of years of history. We cannot allow the West to redefine us. It is essential.

Fear can flatten the world until every man begins to resemble a threat.

That flattening is dangerous in its own way. It leaves little room for accountability, nuance, or community. More importantly, it can prevent us from recognizing the difference between men who reproduce harmful systems and those who are actively interrogating them within themselves.

I am not interested in romanticizing men, nor am I interested in abandoning the political consciousness that taught me to recognize the ways gendered power operates. What has changed is my understanding of what accountability requires. It does not require isolation. It does not require suspicion without end. And it certainly does not require me to abandon the people who share my culture simply because some members of that community have harmed me.

So, if I could offer one piece of advice to young women like me, it would be this: do not let fear become your politics.

Go outside. Speak to people. Build community.

Especially in a post-colonial context, our liberation cannot rest solely on resistance to patriarchy. It must also include the ability to recognize, listen to, and stand alongside the people within our own communities who are already questioning it. We cannot dismantle oppressive structures while reproducing the same instinct to flatten people into categories, whether those categories are shaped by gender, race, culture, or our own wounds.

Perhaps that is what these friendships have taught me most: that solidarity does not require sameness, and accountability does not require dehumanization.

I am grateful to Anis, to Yanis, to Reda, to Younes, to Nawfal, to Aymen, to Achraf, to Zubair and to Haitam for not only allowing me into their already busy lives but also for unknowingly pushing me to listen where I once dismissed, to question where I once assumed, and to understand that building a more liberated community also means learning how to see one another as whole people.

Because ultimately, the work is not simply to resist patriarchy. It is to build something better in its place.

Although not a mother myself and not yet ready to be one, I have always viewed children as أمانة (amanah), a gift of life that one must take care of. In Arabic, أمانة (amanah) represents a sacred responsibility towards God, family, and/or society. Children are a form of أمانة - it is our spiritual duty to make sure they are loved. Be it emotionally or physically, any torment we might cause them will be levied against us, and we will, as Muslims, have to answer for their pain. The same can be said about animals, about nature, and about any other vulnerable being we share this realm with.

I pride myself on being the cool aunt to my friend’s children. I view it as an honor when little ones ask to see me again or to hang out with me for a tiny bit longer. To be a safe space for them is such a fulfilling feeling.

I can understand the toll it might take to be surrounded by children: after all, they remain troublemakers at times. But if we do not have it in us to show them mercy, how can we move in this cruel world expecting mercy to be shown to us, as women?

The saying goes: " It takes a village to raise a child."

And it does. A child needs its parents, needs its aunts, needs its mother’s friends, needs women around to never feel the weight of the world - not until it is ready to bear it.

So, this current TikTok-ified obsession with making them the center of every joke is getting heavy and truly unfunny. It pains me to see other women think that their autonomy is linked to hating children. We are actively being tricked into believing that our freedom shall come at the expense of theirs. I currently do not want to be a mother: I do not have what it takes to be one as we speak. That does not mean I get to belittle children simply out of spite. Why would anyone hate on innocent beings, punishing them for something they cannot grasp yet? Are we quick to forget we were once those same angels we now throw stones at?

Capitalism has a cruel way of belittling us to our capacity to produce. Of course, under such a brutal system, children will be rendered a nuisance. The same has been and continues to be done to women as well. Or, are we, again, quick to forget what belittlement feels like? I, for myself, have not forgotten.

Our duty, as muslim women, needs to detach itself from these capitalistic chains. We must be the bearers of safety to these small amanahs that Allah has sent our way.

There are already too many sins I will have to answer for; I cannot let capitalism trick me into adding another one to my plight simply because I cannot distinguish between gimmicks and actual freedom.

My bodily autonomy as a woman lies in my own choice, not in the expenses of others.

Patriarchy is what has negatively reshaped motherhood, not children. White Men in power are the ones to blame, historically, for building systems that only benefit them and leave us bearing the physical labour of giving life on top of the emotional one, not children.

Let us collectively make sure we never lose sight of the real enemies.

And let us remember that Paradise lies under the feet of mothers, and that children are our shared spiritual responsibility from the Divine.

I do not have it in me to be joyful on International Women’s Day.

How can I be when elected politicians spew hate-filled statements daily, like: “They could have very well decided to take off their religious symbols during working hours. They decided not to do that. They decided not to respect the law. And therefore, it’s their decision, and unfortunately, they have to bear the consequences of their own personal choice.” ?

How can I be when at least 165 schoolgirls were killed in Iran by the imperialistic monsters, under the guise of a so-called “fight for the freedom of oppressed women”?

There is nothing for me to celebrate today as I witness many women like me in warzones, in mass graves, in a man-created Hell. On March 8th, all I feel is rage.

I am enraged to be reminded, once again, that to be a woman is to be anything but what a woman decides to be. Must I be robbed of my femininity for my choice to refuse to comply? The (alleged) choice is always the same: either a docile, obedient motherfigure to my fellow muslims of the opposite sex or a liberated, hair-showing, hijab-removing free woman for the non-muslim counterparts.

But, ain’t I a woman? In the way I take care of my plants, in the way I nurture my loved ones, in the way I love life. Ain’t I a woman?

Or, is femininity only awarded to those we deem fit for the title?

This hurt I carry resurfaces every year, like clockwork, on March 8th. It’s like my body keeps the score from all the times I have been denied my right to womanhood. Too tall, too loud, too opinionated, too covered, … At what cost must I continue to carry this weight while others get to be just as they are?

White feminists and misogynistic Muslim men have more in common than they might think. Both of them are working overtime to dictate the ways we, muslim hijab-wearing women, should behave. Both are just as obsessed with “saving” us from the other; both speak over us, and both are just as idiotic as the next.

On March 8th, I do not need saving. Not from another woman, not from a man. On March 8th, I need to be treated like a fucking lady because I am one.

An enraged, obnoxiously loud, intelligently opinionated, muslim one. And you will address me as such because, like I said: ain’t I a fucking woman?

I had departed from my identity when I was younger and only surrounded myself with non-muslims to compensate for the hurt our community has caused me. What I failed to realize then, was just how lonely it would eventually become.

Being the only hijabi, the only non-drinker, the only non-smoker eventually weighted heavy because I could sense the burden I was becoming to some.

Those friendships eventually fell through and I was left both physically and emotionally alone, wondering how to navigate my 20s without my core friendgroup I had built in my teen years.

And then, my prayers were answered.

I was blessed with new friendships, blooming out of scars the past thorns had left behind.

I was once so certain I would remove my hijab but I was blessed enough to meet women who would constantly remind me, through their kindness and beauty, that my true worth cannot be defined by external judgments.

I was once so certain I would never be good enough of a muslim for our community until I was blessed enough to have my very own community of muslims who are just as hardworking as I am - who seek to be good, wherever they go.

All the certitudes I once had vanished the moment I was embraced by these muslim women whom I now call my companions in this dunya. How beautiful is it to find someone who asks for nothing but your company?

As I start my 27th year, I pray for these friendships to remain with me, help me and accompany me to my grave. I pray they are the light I’ll need in darker times and I pray I can be an iota of the woman all my friends are to me.

In a world constantly scrutinizing us, studying us like preys, analizing our every single move: nothing gives peace the way friendship does. Everything I know about love I have learned through my girl friends.

May this new year of life be filled with flowers, love and girl friends who remind me of Allah through their kindness and beauty.

The price of loving too much is that one eventually gets to never have them in their life anymore.

I was so happy, the happiest I have yet to be. I envisionned a life and a future and all of it with no conclusion. I saw laughter ahead, I saw arguments, I saw mundane tasks shared together. What I did not foresee was heartbreak. When it all ended, my heart broke in such a way I thought I would fall sick or, worse, die.

And then I loved once more. I got back up and witnessed yet another sunset. I travelled. I tasted all of life's blossoms. After all the tears, I finally smiled.

With heartbreak still looming around, I'm scared of loving just like I used to because old habits do not die.

I still, habitually, ask about his day. I still, habitually, get worried sick when I notice him having a bad day. I still, habitually, tell him to get some rest and make sure to not catch a cold. I become overbearing and oversensitive. I then remember that, for all I know, there is someone else taking care of him in the ways I wish I did. If not now, eventually. And then I also remember the heartbreak. I carry it like a battle wound. I carry its weight around to remind myself that what once did not work could never work again.

It is pessimitic but at least it saves me the trouble of having to love. Twice.

I finished reading Pride & Prejudice recently. What was once the greatest love story in my eyes is now starting to look like a mirror, which is horrifying.

I am self-aware, hyper self-aware even. I know myself to be very egodriven, and I know I can be resentful. I know my pride gets the best of me. But will these flaws be loved even in the most violent days? How does one meet someone and allow themselves to be a disappointment to the other? Mr. Darcy’s cold lack of communication and Elizabeth Bennet’s emotional bursts of pride got in their own ways more than once. Am I also getting in my own way?

These are questions my once-beloved-fictional-love-story has now added to my daily routine of spiraling overthinking.

I have been a people-pleaser for the longest time, unbeknownst to my consciousness. Subconsciously, however, my body kept the score. It remembered all the times I had to read a parent’s body language, it remembered all the times I had to interpret a lover’s silence. My body kept a tally of it all, as a way to punish myself for causing conflict.

I’ve only recently started re-thinking my relationships. I cannot say that I know what I am doing; I do not. What I am aware of, though, is that conflict now makes me uncomfortably fond of someone.

To be able to argue with someone, to be able to have them be disappointed in me and tell me so, to be able to understand that they love me enough to tell me that I am behaving selfishly is now a blessing I do not take for granted anymore. Because to love someone is to argue with them.

It is a tough pill to swallow, but we must realize that the moment they no longer feel the need to address what has caused them pain is the moment they just do not care for you to change or for you to better yourself whatsoever.

I haven’t always been this optimistic about confrontation.

If I was aggravated, if I was annoyed, if I was angry: my main focus was the said element that had caused such emotions. Instead of mentioning them, however, I have always swallowed my feelings. Ego leads to resentment, and resentment is much easier than showing up authentically for someone.

I have allowed my ego to get in the way and ruin something great for me before; I refuse to let that pattern show up again and repeat itself. It’s absolutely unfair to resent someone for something they aren’t even aware they have caused. After all, that is exactly what people-pleasing is: I do not want to go through the discomfort of arguing, so I would rather show up for you in the exact way you need me to and show up for myself in the ways I resent you for not doing.

But is it true love to say that you and your partner barely argue? The most intimate moments come from confrontation. We are talking about two uniquely created souls trying to merge. Is it even feasible to do so without any hiccups?

Sisterhood is the best example of such a complicated concept.

I love my sister so much that it pains me horribly to love her. When we argue, my whole nervous system gets overwhelmed. I have cried out of rage, and she and I have had screaming fests; she has called me out on behaviours my selfishness would not allow me to admit to. But we have continued only to grow closer and fonder of each other thanks to those arguments.

To be able to say: I love you so much that I am willing to kill my own ego to show up for you as you need me to, is not an easy task. I do not know if it is one I am ever going to be able to say that I have succeeded at.

I am therefore more than willing to argue with him for as long as we need to if it leads to true companionship. If I can be authentically myself with a man who has been authentically himself, then that would be the best of love stories. One that would shame even Darcy and Elizabeth’s.

Until then, though, my main focus will be on showing up lovingly, in all my flaws, and without ego because love shared is never wasted. Even in its most confusing, disappointing days.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all of us flawed lovers trying our best to amend hearts we have broken and those we might eventually break.

My grandmother was unable to read, never having set foot in a school. That is why she encouraged my mother to get the highest education she could offer herself.

My mother was unable to read the colonizer’s language, never setting foot outside her homeland. That is why she encouraged me to speak their mothertongue better than they do, until I can use it against whoever dared to speak ill of our people.

I have learned everything I owe this life through books. Reading has allowed me to find God. In every page I flipped, I heard His decree: read.

ٱقْرَأْ بِٱسْمِ رَبِّكَ ٱلَّذِى خَلَقَ.

Reading is a privilege I do not take lightly, especially as a Moroccan woman. It is a privilege that other women in my family have fought for me to hold. It is a privilege I cannot ever allow myself to throw away, in homage to the sweat the women before me have put forth to make this miracle happen.

Reading has allowed me to find love: within Jane Austen, within Maya Angelou, within James Baldwin. It has allowed me to find rage: within Ghassan Kanafani, within Malcolm X, within Françoise Verges. But more importantly, it has allowed me to find selfishness and greed; qualities often robbed away from us, women.

Every penny I earn is spent on a book - be it thrifted or bought new. I continuously add to my home library. I move homes and get rid of essential furniture, but never my prized books.

This is precisely the greed they speak of in biblical lessons.

Greed was introduced to me at a young age: when I would refuse to respect the limit my mother would impose on us during our trips to our local library. If she told me to only get two, I would get five and finish them all (out of spite) just so I can prove that I deserve to get more.

Selfishness welcomed me back into her arms pricesely as he came back into my life.

He, an avid reader, would update me about all the books he read. I, a selfish one, would use his love of literature as a pretense to keep him in my life. I would call to ask him where he is with his reading. I would pretend to only have books in mind, but what I truly meant to know is if we can give each other another chance within this lifetime. I would listen intently as he recalls Tosltoi or Brontë's chapters, but would soon realize he has turned ours away too. I would let him speak without ever cutting his train of thought off because I would rather have him in my life speaking to me only of books than to cut him off by speaking these selfish thoughts out loud and risk losing the only person I think of when I think of painful papercuts. Because I would rather have him as a fellow reader in my life than a lover in somebody else’s.

Books have taught me greed.

I cannot allow myself, despite current social trends, to belittle my thirst for knowledge. I am aware it has never been appreciated to be disgustingly educated as a woman. Being pretty, being delicate, being quiet has always been the setting tone for what is deemed acceptable for our gender. Rebelling against those patriarchal norms starts with picking up a book, beyond the realms of oversexualized-borderline-pornographic depictions of, otherwise known, sexist tropes (ie; violent sex deemed regular, traumatizing men rebranding as mysterious, small-tiny-dainty women in love with big-beastly-broad men, etc).

I deserve to know more about this world, more than any other man knows; that is what reading has taught me. I deserve to write letters and hymns and prose to speak of how light his presence makes me feel; that is what reading has taught me. But most importantly, reading has given me a power my grandmother sought to have, and my mother crossed the Atlantic for me to safeguard. Reading was a divine decree, so who am I to refuse myself this God-given spiritual experience?

Read. Pick up a book and find yourself, in all your flaws, in it. Allow yourself to be selfish and greedy and underappreciated, difficult women. As long as you read, nobody can ever imprison you in a cage. No husband, no father, no brother. Read, comrades. Read.

We shall be readers before we are ever obedient wives.

I have always felt a little jealous of people who were born in a place that saw them grow old. Having moved almost every year of my childhood, I was never accustomed to a forever home. In our household, it was a given that you mustn’t grow too fond of a place because you might be leaving it very soon.

Part of me resented my parents for this habit of theirs, but another part now feels sad knowing that they left everything, expecting better. And yet, ended up missing home more than a child misses their mother.

Every new year, my resolution remains the same: to ensure I spend my mileage on international tickets and visit new countries. And every year, I end up in the same scenario: I spend my money and mileage on last-minute flights home.

It’s like a toxic relationship where I bid farewell to my lover and yet, as soon as the heart is distant, it instantly grows fonder.

At first, I thought it was the nostalgia that kept me coming back. Then I wondered if it was an identity crisis. But, I now realize, it’s a deep love that I haven’t felt elsewhere. A love for myself and for the potential I could have had if my parents never left their motherland.

Maybe, I would have been another version of myself: quieter, more feminine, prettier? Maybe I would have been just the same. Maybe I would have hated my hometown and looked for ways to leave it.

In all cases, the grass is always greener on the other side. And I remain a victim of this complex.

I wish for a world where I could have both: the current outcome of my life’s decisions, but also all the other variables that could’ve been dealt to me. I wish for a world where I could run home, although an ocean away, whenever life was too much to handle. I wish for a world where I did not miss my hometown friends whenever I was around new people in Montreal.

But there is only so much wishing one can do.

Until the imagination runs dry, and the wallets re-open. With all my miles and money spent on last-minute flights home.

Because I miss home, but I also miss who I am whenever I am at peace, in the city that saw me come to life. In the motherland that saw me come back to it, seeking more life.

After almost 20+ years living in a northern country, I’ve come to enjoy our Canadian winters.

I’ve realized that all you truly need is a seasonal routine to help with the usual lethargy that hits during the colder months: first step is to stack up on all my winter fruits, second step is to make as minimal plans as possible so I can stay at home instead and, last step, but not the least, is to spend as much time as I possibly can outdoors.

My mother made it a point to teach us all the winter basics as kids, so we never had to stay locked up in the city during Christmas break. From skating, to snowshoeing, to sledding - we have tried it all. She never phrased it as assimilation or a Canadian trait to adopt: she always simply told us that winter allows us to do new activities, and we should make sure we’re able to do them.

Now that I am much older, I realize she probably simply raised us like she was raised.

Being from a small town near Ouarzazate, she always told us about the tales of her younger brother, who would go up the mountains and spend days there until his mind told him to come back. That young boy, now my favourite uncle, still does the same to this day. Whenever I am back in town, he takes me up the mountains with him. A part of me thinks he does that to humble me because all the other boys of the village hike in sandals and with their pijamas on, while I’m in my Salomons (like the lame diasporic kid I am). But witnessing those young boys laughing at my gear is exactly what has made me realize that hiking has never been a “white people” thing.

Our ancestors have always sought refuge in the mountains; our own Prophet (PBUH) has done so as well.

Nothing makes me feel as minuscule as being surrounded by nature. I realize just how vast, beautiful, and perfect the world is when I get to witness Allah’s creations. Hiking has always allowed me to recenter myself and remember that there is more to this world than capitalistic productivity.

But if we continue to mock these very natural hobbies of ours and only allow White People to keep the monopoly on them, we will lose sight of all the fun we could potentially have.

I understand that we are simply caricaturing and joking, but there is a double-edged sword to doing so. Without realizing it, we are constantly labeling healthy things as “white people shit,” yet we never label violence or individualism or lack of empathy as white people shit. There is some unlearning to be done here, and I believe that allowing ourselves to reclaim what was always ours to begin with is a fundamental step forward in the process.

Lest we forget, the Moroccan resistance fought the Spanish and French colonizers from the peaks of our Atlas Mountains. The mountains were ours, they always were.

Hiking has always been a spiritual experience. It has been our way to meet Allah’s creations; it has always been our way to remember that there is more to life than what we witness on this Earth. Just because some white people have hijacked the concept doesn’t mean it’s not ours to partake in.

Go out there and hike, set camp. Allow yourself to reconnect with your own Moroccan roots, one mountain at a time.

“have i spoken to you about my sister?”

“oh yeah, my sister told me about that”

“i think my sister would love this actually”

everything links back to her because i am nobody if i am not her sister.

i can truthfully say that life could end now for me, and i would be pleased because i was blessed enough to have her as my sister. but if i could be allowed to be greedy, then i would beg to be the first to leave.

i am too selfish to live life without her, i do not think i could bear the loneliness.

i remember life before her, i was alone then. but ever since she held my thumb on a night of december, she has been my only soulmate. and i do not know what life is if it is not spent by her side.

she is an answered prayer: shy and obediently quiet as a kid, i was always wishing for a partner in crime.

she will forever be the only soul on this Earth that i am willing to jump through fire for. she will forever be the sun to my very gloomy days. i sincerely wish and hope and pray that i will, one day, be able to give her back an ounce of the blessings she has brought to my life.

i am aware that it is a debt far too big to pay but i am willing to carry the weight until my grave, as long as i get to call her my younger sister in this lifetime and the next.

because i am far too flawed and my only redeemable quality is that i am my sister’s sister.

Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul. (Imam al-Ghazali)

That is where my solace comes from. Being strict with myself has taught me to love myself through it all, the light and the darkness. And that is precisely why I believe that running a strict program is a prerequisite to earning the right to call yourself a true lover.

I have gotten so used to the love and comfort I bring myself that I have stopped seeking external appreciation. As of this past summer, though, I have forced myself to agree to meet potential partners. Be it over coffee, over dinner, or just in a park, it has allowed me to learn even more about myself.

I fell so deeply in love with my ability to easily let go.

The moment I start to wonder if I’m loving too much/if I’m being too clingy, I detach myself completely. There is no such thing as being too much. I love deeply, be it a family member/a friend/a lover, because that is what comes naturally to me.

And I fell so deeply with my ability to admit that there is not one bone in my body that is nonchalant about anything.

My deep love isn’t transactional; it’s simply natural. I was raised by two parents who embodied love and were deeply, youthfully, in love. I was raised by an extended family that never allowed the Atlantic Ocean to stand against their love for me. And you expect me to be anything but loud in the way I show my love? I come from love, I am surrounded by love, and so it is only natural for me to show that same loud, visible, heavy, all-bearing love to everyone in my life.

If I am being disrespected, however, or if I feel like my time is being disrespected, the only right thing to do (as a lover) is to call for the curtains. Making an exit isn’t dramatic; it’s what I must do out of love. That is how much I value love in our mundane lives. That is how much I value myself in my very own eyes.

It was difficult to deal with my own soul, and it continues to be. But, oh, how beautiful it is to know that nobody will love a flawed soul like mine as much as I do!

All thanks to the Creator of All Worlds, who has given me the ability to feel the Universe’s stars in my heartbeat.

With love and prayers,

May the love you show others come to find you when you need it most. May it accompany you in the Hereafter. And may it light up your winter, today and tomorrow.

Every single time, my only crime has been that I was hanging out outside.

What will it be: if you, a brown or black kid, cannot afford to buy expensive coffees downtown, you must stay home at all costs? In a city where young boys are shot in broad daylight for daring to hang out outside as a group, we have to start wondering who gets to be seen on the streets and who doesn’t. Do third places even exist for us, or is the concept exclusive to white people only?

I will always remember my CEGEP’s board of directors’ rage when I posted a clip online of a teacher clearly being Islamophobic towards me. They called my mother in, myself, and all the other white Quebecois directors to provide me with an Internet code of conduct and remind me that, I quote: cannot grant myself justice like it’s the jungle, there is a process to go through.

This bureaucracy is the only thing the White Man can hold onto when seeing his precious privilege slipping away from his reach. He gets to be violent, the White Man gets to step on you but you should never grab the saw and cut his leg off. That is defiance, that is resistance, that is resetting the balance. And the White Man cannot allow for the balance to be equal - if he does, the blood in our mouths will feed us for decades, and we will have to ask for reparations. All the violence we have seen and never forgotten will finally boil over to the top, and at last, the pendulum will swing back. If he allows the score to get equal, all the violence he has inflicted upon us will come back to his doorstep. Hence, it is much better to hierarchize the processes. Let them seek justice through a set of rules, let them ask for help through loops. Let them walk in circles until they tire: then, we will hear them out. But only if they remain peaceful.

If the White Man has bureaucracy, his female counterpart has her tears. My first recollection of White Women’s Tears dates back to my teen years: a white woman hates the sight of my friends and me hanging out in a park together a little past sunset and hurls that we are being violent in her peaceful neighborhood. She calls the police and tells them we are becoming violent under the influence. What she forgot to check before her little phone call: all of us are underage, with half of us being Muslim. It is now a funny memory, all thanks to her idiotic, illogical thinking, but it was once a sour reminder that we were merely lucky not to have been killed. Far too many times, white Quebecois women call the police on groups like my friends and I. Far too many times, our young boys get killed because of these White Women’s weaponized victimhood. Let us not forget that the police get to shoot us because White Women get to cry wolf. They are just as guilty, if not more.

When politicians in Quebec constantly feed Islamophobic rhetoric through their electoral campaigns, it emboldens cowards. It gives consent to view us as violent; it gives consent to kill us in broad daylight if it means the State’s white streets get to remain white. This is the only reason why white women call the police on us and why we are then reported, at the hands of mainstream media, as violent before we are ever named victims.

Every time I hear of a young boy killed, in my city, by a police officer, I am inahbited by immense grief. It could have been me, it could have been another one of my friends. And then, the grief makes room for rage.

While the media paints us as perpetual villains and politicians leverage our deaths, untrained, anxious little losers get to carry guns in this city. Every ounce of anxiety that is carried in their bodies gets triggered whenever a young muslim, brown, or black boy intimidates them. They mistake our fear for defiance and their uniform for authority. Before you know it, we have a city run by little anxious gun-holding freaks who have their fingers on the trigger, ready to go at whatever inconvenience might come their way.

I have seen too much violence to believe in the White Man’s bureaucratic peace. I have attended too many funerals, I have seen too many blue and red lights, I have been spat at too many times, and I have witnessed too much.

This rage that fills all of us does not come from nowhere. It comes from years of witnessing the SPVM killing our young boys, it comes from having to sit through lessons from my mother on how to “safely” get pulled over when driving, and it comes from screaming at the top of my lungs to make sure my male North African friends hear my voice rather than the slurs the officer is yelling. It comes from the very ashes of the fire your white ancestors left behind after stealing these unceded lands.

When the State kills young muslim boys routinely, it is diabolical to turn around and point us as violent. Shall we keep a tally? Shall we remind you whose words emboldened a coward to shoot us in a mosque, only attacking us from the back instead of facing us? Shall we remind you who sent troops to our homelands, only attacking us through distance-launched bombs instead of facing us? Shall we remind you of all the evil that runs through your history?

If you want peace, we want justice.

Bring back the young muslim boys you have killed. Bring back the young indigenous girls you have left stranded and missing. Bring back the young black boys you have killed. Bring back the elderly you have left unattended and mistreated. Bring us back the tears we have cried because of you, bring us back the blood we have shed because of you.

Unless you do so, we will not move.

My eyes might be teary and bloodshot, but they do not waver. My objective has never been clearer: justice today. If not, like Baldwin famously wrote, fire next time.

“I'm terrified at the moral apathy, the death of the heart, which is happening in my country. These people have deluded themselves for so long that they really don't think I'm human. And I base this on their conduct, not on what they say. And this means that they have become in themselves moral monsters.”

James Baldwin

Whether within friendships or in how we engage with the world around us, there is a disturbing rise of je m’en foutisme, which, personally, terrifies me. Everything has become transactional, down to our own emotions. I am expected to never “cave in” to others unless I gain something tangible in return, as if everyone is an enemy to my well-being. Care is conditional, concern is performative, and vulnerability is weakness under this new wave of shrugging, numbed indifference. For the few who still love the world enough to want to see it change, to quote Baldwin once again, carrying that weight is exhausting.

Since when has it been “too much” to hold yourself or others to a set of ethical standards?

We should all be terrified by the way empathy is now mocked as naïveté. It’s almost embarrassingly delusional to express moral clarity or conviction nowadays.

A striking example of this moral degradation can be seen in the way we now engage with art and culture: we no longer hold space for valid discussions around the music or the books we spend time engaging with, and instead prefer calling it “content to consume.” Music, literature, and cinema were once portals into the human condition and reflections of the times within which they existed. Today, everything is “content”: mere items on a conveyor belt of consumption. There is no time to metabolize what we just ingested, and frankly, we are not expected to. When consuming, you’re simply required to engulf hastily what is in front of you and move on to the next just as quickly. All that is asked of you is your attention, never anything more. This capitalistic approach to art has made us illiterate and also inept at constructively criticizing what we engage with, birthing a consumerist detachment from culture, which reflects a broader ideological shift. Everything is now a binary. There is no room for nuance, for partial agreement, for internal contradiction, because genuine care doesn’t feed the algorithm, and it doesn’t generate engagement.

This flattening of discourse gives rise to phenomena like virtue signaling, where appearances are valued over substance. Everything is about how things look, not what they are. But if we constantly shape-shift our values based on social trends, performance replaces principle. And if we allow our sense of morality to be dictated by optics, then who, or what, is actually guiding our ethics? This is precisely why we end up in cultural moments where the valid criticism of a singer like Sabrina Carpenter is dismissed outright. It’s not because the critique lacks merit, but because challenging her brand feels inconvenient. It’s much easier for most to ignore the fact that her aesthetic and performance choices are reinforcing regressive tropes, especially within media marketed to teens, than it is to question our own relationship with such topics. We avoid discomfort by deflecting it with phrases like: “It’s not that deep,” even though it actually is that deep.

Capitalism has manufactured us into docile participants in our own disempowerment by rewarding apathy and normalizing numbness.

This apathy personifies itself even more vividly during times of political unrest. We have witnessed it with the current situation in Palestine, but even more so with the anti-ICE protests in California and the local tourism boycotts in Hawaii. The same phrase is always reused in these instances: “What does that have to do with me?”

Little do we realize that it has everything to do with us, although capitalism tricks us into believing otherwise.

It’s intentional. If we understand oppression as fragmented, we don’t feel moved to act. But systems of violence are never isolated: one close look at the systems currently set in place to oppress one minority group, and you will realize they oppress all of us, to different degrees. The same North American police that brutalize our Indigenous, Black, and Brown populations here in so-called Canada are working with the likes of the NYPD from the United States, who are themselves sent to be trained by IOF genociders. It is a repeating loop, and unless we willingly stand up to realize how interconnected everything is, we will continue to live in silos like trained hamsters. The loop of capitalistic “productivity” will keep us trained, apathetic, and disillusioned into believing that the cage we live in is freedom.

Capitalism falsely turns silence into virtue and compliance into “maturity.” We are taught that speaking up is rude, that discomfort is impolite, that disruption is counterproductive, but none of this is natural. Lest we forget that stoicism is not a moral default, it is a cultural conditioning designed to uphold power, and apathy is not a neutral state; it is an ethical failure.

We are not born individualists; we are shaped to be. We are taught to prioritize the self, even when our liberation is collective by nature.

What’s the point of existing if not to care, loudly, stubbornly, and all the way through?

For all these reasons and more, we should absolutely aim to ruin every conversation. We should absolutely allow shame to be brought onto every being who refuses to engage with this World. So, this is why I take pride in being *that* woke friend (whatever that even means). I will always believe in the necessity of being disruptive. I will always argue that we should bring discomfort to the dinner table, to the group chat, to the public forum. Silence is a luxury. Complacency is a privilege.

If speaking consistently about injustice, if refusing to infantilize myself or my friends’ capacity for discourse, if refusing to lower my moral standards is what will make me less likable, then I will gladly opt out of the social circle this city has to offer. It is laughable to suggest that a life revolving around blind consumerism, celebrity worship, and self-obsession is a meaningful one. I’ve often been mocked for supposedly not knowing how to have fun, but if that is your idea of fun, then I have bad news: it’s not that “shit doesn’t have to always be deep” for you, it’s that you are simply dumb. After all, dumbing ourselves down does help us live “easier” lives. The saying did claim that ignorance is bliss.

For me, though, a life well-lived is a life spent knowing all the pain this World carries and yet consistently making the active decision to find beauty in this madness and seek it. When you are aware of all the evil being perpetuated, and yet refuse to become nihilistically individualistic, it makes the angels seem closer. It makes the whole spiritual realm we live in more meaningful, and it just reminds you that to exist is to love, and to love is to care for others.

I strive to always be the yapper at the table. I strive to ruin every conversation. And I strive to be *that* woke friend in all social settings. Jaden Smith was right: bro, can we talk about the political and economic state of the world right now?

"You must love toxicity, huh?"
"Girl, are you okay?"
"Why would you ever do that to yourself?"

That joke stereotype ran its course in the early 2000s; it no longer makes anyone laugh in 2025. Because when we take a moment to unpack it, all it is is a series of generalizations that not only belittle but vilify our men. Don’t twist my words: I am not here to “Not All Men'“ the discourse. But I am asking us, as Moroccan women, to have an honest conversation about this.

Why is it considered backward or regressive to refuse to date white men? What made us come to resent our own?

My feminism is rooted in the belief that we must dismantle white supremacist, patriarchal norms everywhere. If I want to be a free woman, then I must want that freedom for my people, too. So why would I believe the lie that our men are incapable of love? Why would I let Western nihilism define my perception of Moroccan Muslim masculinity?

I refuse to rob myself of the deep, all-consuming love I know exists, simply because the West wants me brainwashed enough to believe the only people worthy of love live are from everywhere but our home countries.

The tired tropes lose their grip when I witness how our men continue to love the world, even though the world insists on hating them. I refuse to let that love go unrecognized. I refuse to let them fool me into believing only white standards of love are worthy. That only white men are human.

Growing up during the Bush era, every portrayal of Arab* masculinity was negative. And as a francophone, I saw how that portrayal extended across social class lines in French, Québécois, and Belgian media. Our North African boys were constantly depicted as violent, fatherless, angry, emotionally stunted beasts. That depiction has only grown more aggressive over time, and it’s largely to blame for the lack of fair, balanced portrayals of Moroccan love stories. The books and movies I consumed never showed two Moroccans in a healthy, loving relationship. The only stories with a happy ending for us required a white character to “save the girl.”

That is, until my sister sent me a Google Drive link to a random Norwegian show where the two protagonists were not only Muslim, but Moroccan, and deeply in love. From that moment on, I never looked back (thank you SKAM). Every piece of media I consume since has had one consistent requirement: it must show us happy, loving, caring, and, most importantly, real. Because that’s how we deserve to be seen.

Having made that switch in my early teens, my 20s were a blissful dating experience. I was blessed to have women around me who never shamed me and loved to talk to me about all the crushes I had and the boy trouble I was in. My aunt, to this day, giggles as she hears my crash-outs.

"Ma kntch bagha ntzawwj, knt ghi bagha howa."
("I never wanted to get married, I just wanted him.")

When moving back to Morocco in 2024, I roamed the streets of Rabat with my aunt as she was retelling me all the romantic dates my uncle took her on. Walking down Oudayas, getting her a taxi by Cinéma Renaissance, picking her up at the gate of Chllah. She would recall the memories and remind me, always: I’m not telling you this so you can run and get married. I never cared for the idea of marriage. I just loved being with him. The blessing to have my aunt’s love story as an active daily depiction in my life has motivated me to seek it out as well.

Her stories became living, breathing examples in my life. It showed me that we can be more than just “strong women.” We can be cherished. Soft. Loved.

Thanks to her, the only two men I have purposefully dated were true lovers. I gave myself the chance to experience that kind of love, knowing it was possible, because I had seen it. Yes, these traits aren’t exclusive to Moroccan men, but the care I felt from them remains the deepest I’ve ever known. Even though we eventually parted ways, what we shared, the intense mutual understanding, the emotional fluency, shaped me forever.

To be loved passionately, truly, and Moroccan-ly.

Romance is a Moroccan verb. And until you’ve been loved that way, you can’t understand why I defend it so fiercely. I wish all my Moroccan girls the chance to be loved by their own.

And I thank the men that have raised me, the men that have loved me as well as the men that have befriended me for the softness they brought into my life, especially in a world so determined to harden us.

This elitism naturally breeds a collective sense of delusion, born from the compulsion to present ourselves as modern, advanced, civilized. Anything but barbaric. After all, we cannot bear the thought of our former colonizers pointing fingers at us. God forbid we become the bad Moroccans they constantly speak of.

After all, bad Moroccans are violent, bad Moroccans can’t speak proper French, bad Moroccans wear Nike tracksuits, and bad Moroccans are meant to be neither seen nor heard. We must, at all times, avoid the caricaturized Moroccan. We have built an entire culture around avoiding it. We must mock each other, we must call each other names, and we must drag each other away from that caricature. We must do everything in our power, as long as we remain the good Moroccans. Because good Moroccans listen to Western music and good Moroccans are well-versed in the Western arts. They couldn't care less about speaking their language or paying to see their own people’s crafts.

This fabricated shame is actually an insecurity, one that was carried through Morocco’s diasporas, leading to violent assimilations, but which originated in the motherland.

Could this be why our artists are rarely respected at home? Is this why El Grande Toto sparks so much controversy?

Africa is currently birthing alternative music genres that the rest of the world has yet to fully recognize. From Rema to Wegz, the sounds of Benin and Alexandria resonate across this new African musical wave. And yet, these artists seem to find fame outside before they ever get accolades on their soil. How come? The cliché lives, but the truth is simple: they are ahead of their time. Like all greats before them, these African artists are bothering. They are hard to ignore.

In the case of El Grande Toto, he is speaking from a Morocco we have forever tried to hide; from tourists, from colonizers, from the white Western gaze. We prefer our Morocco to end at Casablanca’s pilates studios, designer malls, and gated villas. We do not want to hear from the sons of the neighborhoods we’ve abandoned. Could it be that, deep down, we know that hearing them might open the door to guilt? Guilt for the lack of infrastructure, guilt for the lack of educational support, guilt for the lack of job opportunities. If we allow ourselves to hear them out, we risk losing sight of the Moroccan mirage we worked so hard to build. We risk having to sit face-to-face with a youth left to itself, lost in drugs and unemployment.

No, we prefer to censor. It’s much easier to look away. We prefer to let one man shoulder the blame for decades of political failure and budget cuts.

This backlash, while Willow Smith and her father are invited to the same festival, is a whiplash I did not want to experience. For a people who hate shame and being caricatured, we have allowed her to be paid to stand on our land, despite her family having actively built wealth on the misrepresentation of our Indigenous peoples. Is this not shameful? Is this not a caricature in itself? A family of normalizers who openly defend the neo-colonial, fascist entity currently killing our own comrades. And still, we have invited her and paid her to slap us in the face even more. We applaud her, and we elevate her, but El Grande Toto is where we draw the line. Maybe because we know that his fame could inspire others to stay in Morocco, to aim for local success.

That would risk shifting the balance of power. The status quo could then collapse. The gates of elitism and classism might swing open, letting more voices in. And that terrifies us.

When trying to understand why this artist, in particular, is drawing so much attention (all of this with a less than 2-hour set), I can’t help but compare him to his colleagues who started alongside him. Why don’t Ouenza, Shayfeen, or Morad provoke similar reactions, despite having hits on local charts? The answer, once again, is right in front of us. Morad’s music, though great, largely sticks to diasporic themes. Like Hamza or La Fouine, Morad can be dismissed as detached. He raps about past loves and difficult immigration stories, but those are experiences that aren’t often shared in the streets of Casablanca. So, his Spanish verses don’t resonate deeply enough to truly bother the local audience. Ouenza, meanwhile, jumps on trends to court the mainstream. From TV roles to TikTok OOTD posts, his toxicity is masked behind a polished PR facade. As a result, he doesn’t really unsettle the everyday Moroccan.

Shayfeen remain the only ones I can think of who have sparked similar discourse. Although pioneers alongside the biggest names in contemporary Moroccan hip hop, their disbandment is what slowed their momentum and shielded them from further scrutiny. Had they not disbanded, I believe their presence would have been unsettling, especially in small, untouristic cities. Songs like “Ferga3 L’Flow” were once played in every popular neighborhood, and they helped create a genre of songwriting in Darija that still resonates today. Individually, they do continue to compose music centered on social criticism, but their audience has remained niche and local. Their impact felt, though no longer as noticed or confrontational. (SmallX of Shayfeen has come forward in support of El Grande Toto’s show, claiming it will open doors for many more. This suggests that, had he been subjected to the same level of scrutiny or media attention, he might have faced similar treatment.)

So, we reach the only conclusion possible to reach: El Grande Toto bothers us because he not only represents a class we have worked hard to keep silenced at the bottom, but he also speaks in a language we can all understand. He reflects the experiences of Casanegra while we are busy constructing oriental fantasies of Casablanca to sell to the white gaze. His international success disturbs the mainstream because he refuses to appear docile to Western eyes, a reflex we have all adopted to please our colonizers. And it is that refusal to orientalize himself that bothers us most. Because we fear the influence it might have on the next generation. God forbid Moroccan teens begin to believe in themselves. God forbid Moroccan teens grow up hearing Darija on the radio instead of French.

I cannot condone some of his behavior (especially as a Muslim woman), but I also cannot help but empathize with my fellow Moroccans who grew up with different fates and were dealt different cards. I grew up on American rap and French rap; I understand the social roots of the genre. It would be hypocritical of me to celebrate Western artists and yet refuse to defend my own people’s reinterpretation of that same form. I might not drink, smoke, or personally relate to the way El Grande Toto speaks about his experiences, but one truth remains: I empathize with him, and with every single Moroccan from the poor and working classes.

If El Grande Toto bothers you so much, then fix the problems. Fix the schools that are unfit to host students, fix the job market that is unfit to offer living wages, fix the systems that continue to oppress the poor and working classes of Morocco. Unless those issues are fixed, young boys will continue to see themselves reflected in Moroccan rap. And we will continue to witness crowds flocking to Souissi to see El Grande Toto perform, in Darija.

Over Eid, I was asked the age-old question: When will you get married? This time, it came with a handful of comments like: You’re probably too strict, and: You need to be realistic, followed by the inevitable: We’ll pray you find someone soon.

I wasn’t surprised. I’ve reached that age where people completely unrelated to me feel entitled to my personal life. You can keep your prayer, though. I’m not looking to be saved. The world needs saving, not me. The world needs these men. It needs them to rise, to join the ranks, to read books that go beyond self-help guides on how to become billionaires. I can survive without one. But the world cannot. Not anymore.

For months, we’ve been organizing. And still, it's Arab and North African women who continue to lead, front and center, at every single action. Day in, day out, they show up. They know they are primary targets. They know they risk more. They know their lives are on the line, and still, they show up. In numbers. Relentlessly.

So, one must ask: where are the North African men?

If it’s about watching the Champions League at Olimpico, they’re lining up for seats. But when it comes to protests, to funding bail, to confronting state violence, too many go silent. Why is that? Now more than ever, we must ask these questions, urgently, to redefine North African masculinity.

A select few have learned from their ancestors. A select few have defined masculinity on their own terms, beyond the restrictive categories imposed by white supremacy. These men are now en route to Egypt, leaving from cities across Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and all over the Maghreb. They’ve left with nothing but faith in the world they want to build. A world where Arab-Muslim men no longer have to bury loved ones. A world where they no longer have to lead Janazah after Janazah.

They understood that to be a Muslim man is to stand for justice. Not behind a screen. Not endlessly scrolling between thirst traps. But in the streets. Shoulder to shoulder.

And that is precisely what makes a man attractive. That is what makes any being a pulling force. It is in the rage that drives to change, it is in the love one holds for this world, it is in the passion needed to refuse to abide by the status quo.

So, this coming Eid, don’t pray for me to be less aggressive or more realistic with my dating standards. Pray that I meet a man just as enraged by injustice. Pray that I find a man who will fight with everything he has if it means bringing a single glimmer of light into this world.

That is what rojola stands for. That is what it means to be a North African man. That is where power resides and that, only that, is what will free our men from the patriarchal bounds that leave them chained to white supremacy.

We are only demanding that you love this world enough to want to change it. We are only demanding that you join us outside, that you show up when your comrades are asking for you and that you punch a nazi if need be. If you want to stop feeling small, if you want to stop feeling lonely, then join a protest. Burn a cop’s car. Scare a fascist.

Be a man.

At first, I gaslit myself into thinking I was the problem. Maybe I read too much Mernissi. Maybe I surrounded myself with too many like-minded women, creating an echo chamber. Maybe I was just too far gone.

Turns out? I wasn’t.

There is currently a TikTok trend of young Muslim boys jokingly comparing how they react when a hijabi is around. Although incredibly cringeworthy, this trend is also part of a larger problem that we tend to overlook. Sadly enough, the girlies are in the comments of these men, praising them for objectifying us, because it is all just ‘not that deep’.

So, as your resident woke friend, I’m here to ruin the joke for all of us.

Why This Trend Is a Problem

As a first step, it is primordial to understand the basics.

Muslim women wear the hijab for many different reasons, each personal to the individual. This, however, does not change the overall consensus that a Muslim woman first and foremost covers because Allah has made it a requirement for her to do so. It doesn’t take much to understand that wearing it in the West (especially in today’s political climate) is no easy task. Islamophobia alone is draining enough, but on top of that, we’re also forced to confront patriarchal and misogynistic attitudes within our own communities.

This double burden creates an ongoing identity crisis. A hijabi woman often lives by her own values, but is constantly measured by the expectations of others, both from outside and within the Muslim community. Everything she does, says, wears (or doesn’t wear) is held against her.

This is where the Madonna-Whore Complex comes in play. To fully understand how hijabi women are objectified, we need to unpack this patriarchal binary. In it, a woman is either the “pure, virtuous virgin” or the “promiscuous manipulator.” This binary exists solely to rob women of autonomy and to reinforce male dominance.

In the Muslim dating scene, this complex plays out clearly: some Muslim men will say they’re looking for a “pure and obedient” wife (whatever that means), yet expect her to be fine with their checkered pasts of drinking, smoking, and casual relationships. The double standard is not only exhausting, it’s laughably un-Islamic.

Ultimately, this habit of putting hijabi women on a pedestal stems from a Westernized, almost Christianized, interpretation of Islam. Many of us have been conditioned, consciously or not, to reduce Islam to a checklist of rules, rather than embrace it as a complete, holistic way of life.

To live as a Muslim is to practice the Five Pillars - of course, but it is also to implement an Islamic set of values, an Islamic way to make your income, an Islamic way to be politically and socially invested in your community, etc. And because of that, no one is inherently “better” or more pious by default. There is no room for hierarchies within Islam. We must all represent Islam under the best of lights, and we must all do our best to remind each other to stay focused on the end goal, which is beyond this realm. No matter the gender. It does not start and end with hijab-wearing women.

So Why Are These Jokes So Cringe?

The answer is simple: it’s the hypocrisy of some Muslim men and the endless stream of emboldened boys who grow into entitled, misogynistic men.

Islam has always emphasized that hypocrisy is a serious moral failing. The Qur'an is clear: being two-faced, especially in matters of faith, is not just frowned upon, it’s condemned. So what do you call a man who pretends to be pious just to impress a hijabi? Who curates an Islamic aesthetic for clout or validation? That’s not growth, it’s deceit. And trust me, we see right through it. The performative religiosity, the overdone “deen talk,” the hollow gestures… It’s all painfully obvious. You don’t look devout; you look desperate.

And I’d rather be single than end up with a man so fixated on appearances and so devoid of genuine substance.

but Allah bears witness that the hypocrites are truly liars.

Surah Muaniqin (ch. 63)

At the end of the day, my hijab is mine. I wore it for myself, I struggle by myself wearing it, and I will one day reap the benefits for myself alone - God willing. In no way will it ever atone for a man’s sins. This is not Disney; I’m not here to kiss frogs into Prince Charmings. If a man knows he’s not where he should be spiritually, the solution isn’t marrying a hijabi. It’s doing the work. Once you’ve put in that work? Then, and only then, can you approach someone else’s daughter.

I dress modestly, so I will naturally be drawn to a man who does the same. I don’t drink, so I want a man who also doesn’t drink. It’s not complicated, it’s basic math. Don’t come to me if you can’t even use a miswak, respectfully.

Wicked women are for wicked men, and wicked men are for wicked women. And virtuous women are for virtuous men, and virtuous men are for virtuous women.

Surah An-Nur (24:26)

Let’s not shoot for the stars when you haven’t even trained for lift-off. Stay grounded, stay humble, and most importantly? Stay in your lane.

“The Orient and Islam have a kind of extrareal, phenomenologically reduced status that puts them out of reach of everyone except the Western expert. From the beginning of Western speculation about the Orient, the one thing the Orient could not do was to represent itself. Evidence of the Orient was credible only after it had passed through and been made firm by the refining fire of the Orientalist’s work.”

A Moroccan woman can never be a woman. She must be the witch, she must be the crazy ex, she must be the homewrecker before she is ever seen as a woman. She can never be a victim either. Because deep down, she remains the villain in every story.

This false orientalist narrative haunts us, Moroccan women, relentlessly making us pawns to feed the collective imagination.

Men’s entitlement to sex is not new, it has been witnessed through centuries and societies. When speaking to the Moroccan experience, White Men’s entitlement to our bodies has left its venom in the way we view our womanhood and, also, in the way the modern Arab World views us.

Under Lyautey’s legislation, the French authorities built a walled-off brothel in the early 1920s to appeal to the settler troops stationed in Casablanca. Built on stolen lands, the neighborhood was illegally owned by a French man named Prosper Ferrieu. It is ironic and heavily telling that History does not remember him but rather the darija-fied version of his name, as the local Moroccans phonetically arabized Prosper to Bousbir through the years.

From its inception, Bousbir’s activities played a massive role in crafting the stereotype still attached to Moroccan women today. Disgustingly so, Bousbir became deeply entrenched in the French man’s obsession with orientalized landscapes and all the perverse fantasies he allowed himself to fabricate to further justify the colonization of our ancestral lands.

Famously designed by Edmond Brion, the walled-off neighborhood housed hundreds of Moroccan women who would sell their bodies to profiteers from France. None of the women would be receiving any salary. The only economic semblance of freedom they would get in exchange for the humiliation was mere tips left by some of the settlers. Settlers who all came to witness the “African Arab” prostitute - a fake mirage they built to consume. A woman they believed to be for their eyes only, made from Aladdin-esque samples of belly-dancing, tajines and kaftans.

I feel sick trying to imagine it. Women who share similar features, who probably had similar dreams, who spoke my mother tongue; all engulfed behind colonial walls.

Eventually, Moroccan feminist, socialist and anti-colonialist organizations worked feverishly to get Bousbir closed in 1955. They succeeded, but who remains to celebrate their work? The horrors persist, and the oriental “African Arab” prostitute is forever intertwined with our names.

Neighborhoods like Bousbir came to exist because of this very obsession the Westerner has with power over our bodies. He is obsessed with the idea that he cannot access our bodies unless by force. And so, he forces us to uncover whether through legal abuse (as seen in France, Belgium and Quebec) or through non-consensual fetishization (like the “Beurettes” branding).

And so my question remains: why must Moroccan women continue to bear the responsibility for how foreign men willingly choose to exploit us? Must we be perfect, docile victims just to be worthy of empathy?

Our refusal to buckle is the only answer I can find. Our stubbornness is the only justification I can give. We dare to refuse to fit the mold and therefore, must pay the price: constant villainization. How dare we simultaneously have personalities and hobbies and beauty? How dare we be knowledgeable? We are the “African Arab” prostitute after all - how dare we define ourselves outside of that stereotype?

I am surrounded by Moroccan women who would rather be buried twice than to ever be dependent on any man. So, where does this assumption that we collectively swoon for any men even come from? The answer is in Bousbir’s ghost: orientalist definitions of Moroccan womanhood.

Although sex tourism is no longer solely a white man’s fantasy, it remains a woman of colour’s nightmare. The concept of #PassportBros has broadened this orientalist lie and now dirties our riads in Marrakech with non-Moroccan men from all ethnic backgrounds who think they have a semblance of a shot with local Moroccan women.

If we don’t fit the sex-obsessed, promiscuous, “Islamically liberal” caricature, we’re labeled the opposite: the aggressive, crazy, vengeful witch. In all cases, the man is always the victim, and we are always the temptress.

One must ask, however: is it sorcery, or do we simply have a bewitching personality? Are we aggressive, or have you simply never been held accountable before? There is a big job of introspection to be done here. One that does not require us to answer for anything done to us or said about us.

My aunts and my mother always joked that we’re painted as either the temptress or the witch because men (boys, really) want to believe they are perpetual victims. I used to chuckle and dismiss, but today, I nod in agreement. Incels blame women for their own life decisions. Foreign men blame Moroccan women for their own lack of chivalry.

This is not a cry of lament to pity myself or my fellow Moroccan women. It is a reflection. A demand to understand how we got here. And a warning. The lies spewed on our name have real, tangible consequences that reach far beyond the borders of the Kingdom. And I would rather go crazy than sit idly once again as I listen to non-Moroccans speak for us. I would rather turn into the witch, the villain, the spell-casting Moroccan than to sit through yet another false recollection of a Westerner’s “enlightening” trip to my homeland. Because otherwise we are stuck with balding, ugly, arrogant foreign men flying to Morocco thinking any and every Moroccan woman will fall for them. Because otherwise, we return to the days of Delacroix and Bousbir. Because otherwise we are stuck having to sit through yet another mediocre Arab (so-called) comedian’s joke about how he tried dating a Moroccan but she threw a spell on him and was too crazy.

Because I am far more than whatever your limited imagination can create.

Moroccan women are the most opinionated, headstrong, confident women I know. And if no one will stand up to call you on your racist stereotypes, I gladly will. Because that’s what a Moroccan woman does. And if that makes me crazy and aggressive - then so be it.

Run, before my sorcerous spells catch your misogynistic lies, run.