The Tale of the Bridge

Once upon a time there used to be a wild moody white sea in the hearth of the blue planet. On the north coast of the sea there was the kingdom of Eurapia, a kingdom of infinite green fertile lands and hard working people. On the south coast of the sea however, was situated another kingdom, the kingdom of Arapia, a land of endless charming sand and generous people. Eurapians never saw any Arapians in their life, and Arapians only heard about Eurapians from the stories reported by the sailors. Yet, every night both people would sit in front of the sea to watch the lights coming from the other shore and tell stories of monsters, ogres and tyrants living on the other side.

The Land of Eurapia has witnessed many wars in order to get united and lost many young men and women. Therefore, the kingdom needed workers to cultivate the soil and harvest the land otherwise the wheat fields will be spoiled. On the other part of the sea, drought hit the lands of Arapia for years and its numerous populations started facing the danger of starvation. Both kingdoms started thinking about solutions to avoid the misfortune that came to perturb their peaceful lives in the White Sea, but were unable to find sustainable solutions.

The Eurapian king had a beautiful and wise daughter called Sofia who came to him one day and said: “The wheat fields are getting spoiled and the only solution is to hire Arapian workers to save our kingdom”. The king turned red in anger and said: “How you dare to say that! Arapians are barbarians they invaded our land in the past, they imposed their Gods and stole our treasures. These people are backward bloody creatures who cover the faces of their women and kill with their swords whoever wants to approach them.” Sofia was chocked by her father’s reaction, and said before living the royal hall: “I hope that you will not let prejudice blinding you, and sacrifice your people for your fears”.

The Arapian king also had an intelligent lovely daughter called Hikmat, who tried to convince her father that the only way to save Arapia from starvation is to trade with the northern neighbors, but the king screamed in rage: “I don’t want to hear this subject anymore. Have you forgotten what their ancestors did to us? They attacked our lands, killed our men and separated our tribes. These people are arrogant greedy creatures who let their girls run naked and enslave who ever go to their lands.” Hikmat felt very sorry for her father’s attitude, and said in bitterness: “I know you are a wise king, so don’t let your stereotypes influence your judgment”.

Sofia and Hikmat sit each on her shore morning the fate of their people and picturing the obscure future of their dear lands. After hours of tears and sending smoke messages to each other as they used to do since they were kids, the two girls decided that it is high time to take action, so they started sailing with their small boats against the deadly waves of the sea until they reached the midway between the two kingdoms. However, before living to the unknown the princesses left a note to their people saying: “Beloved people, we decided to scarify our lives and to sail until the midway between the two kingdoms and remain there without food or water because we trust in our common future and that we can’t survive without getting together with our neighbors. If you want to save us and save your selves, you will have to build a bridge across the White Sea each from your side as a prove of your will to overcome your mutual prejudice and go further together”.

Two days have passed and the two kingdoms gathered all their wise men, armies and councilors to find a solution and save the princesses, but the two armies were tired of endless wars and the wise men weak because of the lack of food, so they both decided that they have nothing to lose and that they should take the risk of trusting the other and finally building the bridge between Eurapia and Arapia.

My Blue Passport

In a traditional café in old Amman we were a band of friends laughing around apple chicha and lemon mint juice. The conversation is about identity and local dialects and each one of the Moroccan, Lebanese, Egyptian, Turkish and Palestinian friends are making jokes about how classical Arabic is becoming sterile in expressing our emotions and our changing identities, until Karim, an Egyptian film maker, took out his green Egyptian passport and tears off a page and start writing on it all the funny jokes we were making. What Karim did was a symbolic action that made me think about my identity and question the notion of reducing all what I am in a miserable travel document. I set on my bed yesterday gazing at my green passport, remembering what Karim did and searching in every single line and shape for my identity, but was unable to find it. How could my name, my place of birth and my age determine who I am. Am I just a number in the lists of the Moroccan ministry of interior and the Schengen database. Is it said anywhere in my passport that I am a big dreamer, that I spend my nights whispering to the polar star, that I love Sufi songs or that I hate onions? So how could my being be summed up in this miserable travel document, and why do I need all the visas and the stamps of the world to move into a Mediterranean apace to which I belong? For a Moroccan like me it’s even more problematic, since I don’t feel very Arab, very European, very Muslim, very Jewish, very Berber, very Andalouisian, very African, very Maghrebine, and at the same time I feel belonging to all of these groups. So the only Identity which unites all these pieces of me is to say that I feel Mediterranean. I deal everyday with noble concepts like dialogue of cultures, mutual understanding, or restoring trust. Therefore, even if I am one of the deepest believers in a north-south dialogue, I feel that the Euromed partnership is a chained pigeon as it doesn’t guarantee the freedom of movement for the people from the South of the Mediterranean. The mental barriers can’t collapse as long as the geographical barriers are being enhanced with electrical wires, exaggerated visa procedures, and endless checkpoints. The concept of Union for the Mediterranean itself is very problematic. Let me start by asking the simplest question: Why they didn’t call it Union of the Mediterranean? The simplest answer would be because the Mediterranean is made up of different contradicted blocks: Europe, The Maghreb, The Mashrek, Turkey, and Israel. The word Union assumes egalitarian relationships for a common cause, hence, a perception of a Union based on dichotomies of North/South, developed/undeveloped, Christian/Muslim, or European/Arab is nothing but the continuation of Edward Said’s orientalism in a modern terminology. The Euromed or the Union for the Mediterranean are geopolitically speaking a form of ‘’imagined geographies’’ to follow the new social and political shifts which acquired after World War II. This methageographical invention is a very positive one for the people of the Mediterranean sea, since it’s their common fate to live together as it was their common past to move once and forth in the Mare Nostrum within the same civilizations. The continual exchange in terms of culture, goods, human beings is a process which no political or ideological circumstances succeeded in stopping throughout the centuries, thus, it’s a clever move to institutionalize this exchange within a framework which could tolerate even the most controversial component of the region: Israel. From a purely realistic point of view, it is true that the nation state has the right to protect its interests by closing its borders for security reasons. Nevertheless, a humanistic project like constructing a new common civilization based on the Mediterranean shared heritage requires reconsidering the notion of the nation state itself and trying to construct a community based on common values while favoring diversity within elastic political borders. The enterprise of constructing a Euromed identity should pass through the process of imagining the Euromed community. According to Benedict Anderson 1983 “a nation is a community socially constructed, which is to say imagined by the people who perceive themselves as part of that group”, Anderson argues that states are created from different symbols that we attribute to it. Consequently, the members of a community construct a mental image of their affinity even if they are an heterogeneous group in reality. The “imagined community” is gradually constituted by inventing common symbols such as: the flag, the national dish, the national anthem, the official holydays, the national dressing codes… etc Applied to the Mediterranean Anderson’s theory can really be an efficient way to construct a common identity by working on the mental images and highlighting different common symbols that we will not even spend a long time to find since they already exist. For example we can invent a flag for the Mediterranean, declare olive oil and tomatoes as an official dish, and foster academic research on our common anthropological and historical heritage. Anderson’s theory explains how what he calls “print capitalism” helps in consolidate the common mental images, accordingly, focusing our efforts towards producing printed press and publications will support the quick construction of our Mediterranean identity. After spending hours meditating about the essence of identity I realized that I feel proud of my Moroccan identity with all its diversity, but I decided to put a blue sticker on my passport which reminds of the color of the Mare Nostrum saying: Mediterranean Citizen, because that’s how I feel!

18 Km

He has no name, because people like him don’t want to have the same identity they were born with any more and decided to burn all their identity papers. He has no family, because he preferred to kill his heart and forget the voices and the faces who gave him birth. He has no fear, because he prefers throwing himself in the cold and pitiless Mediterranean Sea in a small wooden boat with other nameless shadows. Yet, he has a story which I will tell you in this post. He studied philosophy and spent his college years between experiencing different kinds of love and defending his ideals as the head of the student union in his university. He never imagined that after his bachelor with honors and his orator talent to motivate the crowds he will end up jobless. He fought hard: went on strikes in front of the parliament to get a job, went to that IT classes he never understood, he even convinced his mother to sell her golden bracelets to open a phone shop. None of his efforts was enough to make things go better, even though he never asked for the impossible. All he was dreaming about was a job, a wife, and a small shelter to live happily. After two years of unsuccessful fighting against the harsh reality, the passionate and energetic young man he was became a motionless and depressive zombie who refuses to go out of bed. On day, while he was busy dreaming after an overdose of weed, he heard noise in the neighborhood of a car and women laughing. He went down to see what’s happening, since he can never give up his Moroccan habit of being curious about neighbors’ lives. He saw Said the neighbors’ son who immigrated to Europe 2 years ago going out of a Mercedes accompanied by his blond European wife in the middle of his family’s yoyos and joy. Said saw him and came to say hi and told him: “if you want to get out from this situation and live like a king you must immigrate to Europe instead of losing your time here”. Then he wrote the name and the number of the person who helped him pass clandestinely to the Spanish shores. To Immigrate! Maybe that was the solution to all his pains, and if Said who has no degree or special skills can succeed why not him. Here he is in the city of Tangier sitting on the sand and watching the lights of Europe glowing on the horizon. He started asking himself these kinds of philosophical questions he loves so much to escape from the reality. Why I was born on this shore of the Mediterranean and not in the other side? It’s only 18 Km away from here, so why they are developed and we are backsword? Why in the first place the Gods of Olympia asked Heracles to separate Africa from Europe, if Heracles didn’t separate us from this same spot called Tangier we would have been the same land? Off course his questions had no answer, so he just decided to smoke his last cigarette and burn all his identity papers to go meet the man who will pass him to Europe late during the same night. In the small boat they were 30 pale faces, some Moroccans and many sub-saharian Africans, men, women and even a baby, all sitting tight and watching the passer maneuvering in the wild sea. He was heading towards the unknown, but still confident that if he cross that 18 Km he will find hope. He was imagining himself giving a speech in front of thousands of people staring at him and applauding each single word he says. He saw his marvelous blond wife coming at the end of the speech to congratulate him. At the moment when she was going to kiss him, suddenly, the weather changed. The strong wind slapped him and the first drops of rain swiped his illusion. The boat was becoming not stable, and the people started to panic. In few minutes he realized that they were sinking in the freezing water and that his dreams were sinking to sinking to. After 45 minutes of fighting against the high waves, there were no crying sounds any more, he looked at Morocco from one side and Spain on the other side, they both looked grey and far with the fog, and he screamed: I don’t belong to none of these places; I prefer dying and immigrating to heaven.

Wine Sector in Islamic Morocco

MEKNES, Morocco – On paper, wine is ‘haram,’ or forbidden to Muslims, but Morocco has become one of the largest winemakers in the Muslim world, with the equivalent of 35 million bottles produced last year. Wine brings the state millions in sales tax, even though Islam appears to be on the rise politically

The gently rolling hills planted thick with vineyards are an unlikely sight for a Muslim country set partly in the deserts and palms of North Africa. Yet the grapes, and the wine they produce, are thriving in Morocco despite Islam’s ban on alcohol consumption.

Morocco has become one of the largest winemakers in the Muslim world, with the equivalent of 35 million bottles produced last year. Wine brings the state millions in sales tax, even though Islam appears to be on the rise politically.

“Morocco is a country of tolerance,” said Mehdi Bouchaara, the deputy general manager at the Celliers de Meknes, the country’s largest winemaker, which bottles over 85 percent of the national output. “It’s everybody’s personal choice whether to drink or not.”

The Celliers have flourished on this tolerance. The firm now cultivates 2,100 hectares of vineyards, bottling everything from entry-level table wine to homemade champagne and high-end claret; its Chateau Roslane claret is aged in a vaulted cellar packed with oak barrels imported from France. The winery now dwarfs virtually any other producer in Europe.

Wine is haram on paper

On paper, wine is “haram,” or forbidden to Muslims. But Bouchaara said the firm’s distribution is legal since it only sells to traders authorized by the state, who in turn officially sell exclusively to non-Muslim tourists.

Statistics, however, show that Moroccans consume on average 1 liter of wine per person each year, and the Moroccan state itself is the largest owner of the country’s 12,000 hectares of vineyards.

The paradox illustrates Morocco’s delicate balancing act. The rapidly modernizing country thrives on tourism and trade with Europe, but its people remain deeply conservative. Morocco’s ruler, King Mohammed VI, is also “commander of the believers” and protector of the faith. Islamists authorized to take part in politics are the second-largest force in Parliament, while support for non-authorized groups is believed to be even larger.

Despite this uncertain setting for wine culture, the Celliers’ owner, Brahim Zniber, is among the country’s richest people. His group employs 6,500 people, nearly all of them Muslim, and revenues rose to 225 million euros last year. Its three biggest sources of income are wine production with the Celliers de Meknes, hard liquor imports and Coca-Cola bottling.

Zniber’s latest ventures, in addition to a new Moroccan champagne, include plans to build a luxury hotel offering the country’s first “vinotherapy” spa resort, with health-care creams and baths based on grape products.

But the group has also tested the limits of the gray zone it operates in. The wine festival it helped promote in 2007 caused protests in nearby Meknes, a deeply religious city of 500,000 run until recently by an Islamist mayor.

“The festival was an unnecessary provocation,” said Aboubakr Belkora, the former mayor who was slammed by his own Islamist group, the Justice and Development Party, for halfheartedly authorizing the gathering in the center of town.

The ex-mayor said that “for religious reasons,” he uprooted about 100 hectares of vineyards from his own fields but has no qualms with others making or drinking wine.

Others feel there is some hypocrisy to the practice.

Hassan, a restaurant manager, said he wasn’t allowed a license to serve alcoholic drinks because he is Muslim. “But everyone knows we serve wine with our food,” he said, pointing at the restaurant’s patrons, both foreign and Moroccan, sipping their wine over dinner.

Another owner in Meknes, who also requested anonymity because of his practices, said he serves wine in tinted glasses, keeps bottles out of sight, and tells clients to say they were drinking soft drinks if questioned. “Police rarely come, and if they do they never look inside the glass,” he said.

These practices reflect a much more lenient culture than in other Muslim countries.

27 million bottles per year

Within Morocco’s more favorable context, the Celliers winery sells 27 million bottles per year, mostly inside the country. Two million bottles head to Europe or the United States and the firm is planting another 800 hectares of grapes to meet new demand from China, said Jean-Pierre Dehut, a former liquor-store owner in Belgium hired as the Celliers’ export manager.

By the size of the huge new bottling plant it is building and the 450 people it employs, the Celliers is more on-par with the new, industrial-scaled wine businesses in Australia, Chile or California than with Europe’s often family-owned domains. But Dehut stressed that Morocco has made wine for at least 2,500 years, since the Phoenicians colonized its coast. “This country exported wine to Rome during the Roman Empire,” he said.

Winemaking soared during the French colonial era, which lasted more than 50 years until the country’s independence in 1956.

By then, hundreds of vineyards planted with French vines Ğ mostly centered on the sunny plateau around Meknes in northern Morocco Ğ churned out some 300 million hectoliters each year.

AP

Cultural Letter to My Western Friend

Dear Western Friend, I would really want to initiate an effective dialogue with you and build common projects together far from our mutual stereotypes and fears from each other. If you would like to understand me, you should understand my culture from my point of view, that’s why I’ve decided to write this letter to explain how I’ve been educated and how my society sees certain important issues. First of all, they teach you since kindergarten how the individual is important for the society and that you should relay on yourself and be independent. So according to your culture if the individual is strong the whole community will be strong. In my culture it’s the opposite, they teach us that “we should help our brother whether he is right or wrong”. We learn to act as a group because for us if the group is strong the interest of the individuals can be protected by the community. For you it’s impolite to eat from other people’s plates and it’s always proper to leave some food in the dish. For us it’s impolite to eat alone, and it’s more proper to eat all in the same big plate and finish the whole food, as we think that sharing food it’s a form of alliance. Your children are more independent and try to build a separated personality from their parents from an early age, whereas, we can’t take any decision without our parents’ permission and the more we resemble to our elders the more proud we are. You’ve had special sexual education courses and have learned to appreciate the curves of the human body as a piece of art. The only sexual education I’ve got is my biology classes and for my culture the human body is beautiful and precious that’s why we shouldn’t exhibit it as a insignificant piece of meat. We are not as frustrated as some may describe us; Islam even gave sexual advices and celebrated the physical union of women and men. It is just that nowadays educational systems and Medias became more conservative than Islam itself and don’t know how to communicate about sexuality in tribal societies. You defend women’s rights and gender equality as a pillar of democracy. In my culture, we don’t even need to defend women because they have greater roles in the society than men according to Koran. Unfortunately, Koran was designed for an ideal society not the patriarchal ones we all live in today. You can separate the state from the religion, and most of you can choose to be religious or not without being judged by the society. In schools you can choose having religion courses or not and taking your children to worship places or not. In my culture the state can’t exist without religion. Religion is the constitution and the rule according to which we can choose our leaders. It is more than a dogma; it’s an ethical code and a collective reference for the society. We cannot choose being religious or not because we can’t choose being cultural or not, and for us religion is cultural. Religious places and religious traditions are more than simple rituals; it’s a way of living, an art, a celebration, and a heritage. The aim of this letter is not to prove who is right or wrong, my purpose is to know you and allow you to know me better, far away from stereotypes and misunderstandings. Because only I can tell you about those grey spots you can’t understand about me, and which we call: Culture. I will be expecting soon a similar letter from you to explain to me the grey spots I can’t understand about you!

Sorry Nasser, I Speak Darija

“Labas ki dayrin? twahachtkoum bazaf” that would be the Moroccan way to say “how are you? I miss you so much”, and that’s the sentence I would like to say to my friends in the Egypt whenever I meet them, but I know they will not understand me. My friends in the Middles East assume that Morocco is an Arab and Arabic speaking country, what they don’t know is that we’ve been doing so many efforts to understand their dialects for the sake of Arab Nationalism and Unity, and that now that the notion of Umma Al Arabia is old fashion, it’s their turn to do some effort to understand my language: Darija. Morocco is a special mixture of cultures, languages, and races. We are probably one of the most African Arab countries, not only because of our geography, but also because it was Morocco that introduced Islam to West Africa thanks to its traders, monarchs, and Sufi brotherhoods. Morocco is probably the most Western Arab country as well, since, when other countries were colonized by one European power, my country endured the colonization of France and Spain together with city of Tanger as an international colony where all super powers had representatives there, whereas contrary to all the MENA countries, we’ve never been colonized by the Ottoman Empire. Arab Andalusia was a Moroccan project, and after the fall of Andalucía most if Spanish Arabs, liberal thinkers and Jews came to settle in Morocco. In addition, the Moroccan Kingdom was one of the first countries to recognize the US in the 18th century and to send diplomatic missions all around the western world. Morocco is also Arab, Berber, Roman, Jewish, Mediterranean, Sahraouian etc. My country’s history rich of interaction and openness ended in giving birth to a typical language called Darija. In reality a variety of different languages are spoken in my country. In the northern Rif people speak Tarifit which is a Berber Saxon dialect formed from the interaction between Saxon Viking settlers and other Berber tribes. In the Atlas people speak Tamazigt, which is the typical dialect of the original inhabitants of the Maghreb, which are supposed to be Gaulois according to the French anthropologists. People in the Souss Valley, southern Morocco speak Tachelhit. Whereas, the Sahraoui people speak Hassaniya, Andalucians in Fes, Rabat or Tetouan speak Andalucían Arabic, and educated people would rather speak French and English. In the midway between all these varieties of dialects and languages, Darija is the language that unites all this diversity in one tongue. It’s the language of interaction between people, of trade, and the one you will hear in the street. I remember in Journalism School, in Arabic classes that I never wanted to speak classical Arabic. My teacher would get angry and remind me that it’s our language, and I would always answer in Darija “Arabic it’s not my language, I would like to write in the newspaper in Darija and present the news on TV in Darija. Saying our language is Arabic is killing identity with hypocrisy”. Nothing changed since then, Arabic is still the language of the Kingdom according to its constitution, TV, newspapers, Education Manuals, political speeches are still in classical Arabic. If it’s a matter of religion, I really don’t think we’ll be less Muslim if we admit that our language is Darija. Iran, Pakistan, and Indonesia are strong Muslim countries though they don’t speak Arabic! If it’s about our ties with the Middle East, a Moroccan would still look ridiculous trying to speak classical Arabic with a band of Middle Easterns confident about their dialects. Two Months ago, I was with one of my Egyptian friends in Cairo, and I was answering him in English whenever he was asking a question, until he said “Why you Moroccans want to destroy the Arabic Unity Nasser built. We are one nation and Arabic is the thing that unites us”. I fixed him right in the eyes and said in proper Darija “Sir goul l Nasser dialek désolé 3lawed ana tanhdar bi Darija”, translation “Go tell your Nasser sorry, because I speak Darija”.

The Educated Prostitute

On that morning, I was heading to the newspaper with no new stories or article projects in mind when my editor-in-chief called me to ask whether I’ll be interested in interviewing a very special person, and to publish her memories on a daily basis in the newspaper. This very special person was a young student who became a professional prostitute. The editor-in-chief of course was only interested in raising the sales, because the golden rule in journalism is that “When there is no news, you should create the news”. And what’s better than dealing with one of the society’s prime taboos to make the news. I only had one answer to give: I’ll do it! Morocco has the reputation of having a significant number of young prostitutes. Maybe this stereotype other Middle Eastern countries have about us is a bit exaggerated, but still, Morocco has very well structured prostitution webs, which transform innocent girls to mighty night creatures, and even export them to work outside the country. What most people ignore is that prostitution was a very prosperous activity in pre-Islamic Morocco. Native Berber tribes used to set tents on the roads after the harvest season to offer “entertainment” to peasants after a year of hard work. Prostitution then, was a social service which allowed money circulation among all the tribe’s members. Islam couldn’t change much in the anthropological habits of local people. In my opinion, the high prostitution rates among young Moroccan girls can be explained by the extreme openness to the west and the cultural predisposition to this kind of activities. For me it was very difficult to write about the subject. Should I feel pity or contempt, compassion or disgust towards this young girl with a university degree who decided to sell her body to make a living? I’ve just decided to play the role of the objective pen, which describes what it hears and sees without the interference of any subjective feelings. Though, it was hard not to make a comparison between me and her. We were both Moroccan girls, born in the same year, listening to the same music, and with university degrees. Yet, each of us chose a different path, or maybe that path chose her. Her name was Aïcha. She was very blond, very tall, and very beautiful, the kind of the 1960s American films’ beauty. Aïcha had to move after high school from her small town called Lhajeb to study English Literature in Meknes’ college. “My parents didn’t prepare me to live alone in the city. I come from a poor background where talking about sex is a taboo”, she told me while gazing at the horizon. In the girls’ dorms, Aïcha learned how to dress, to put on make-up, and to talk like a woman. It is also in the university dorms that she was tempted to make some pocket money to pay for the pretty clothes which can make her look like city girls. The first step to the abyss was going out incognito with older men who invited her to good restaurants, and make her discover her charms and feminity. The deadly stab was when she discovered that she had to pay with her body for the few bills to realize her late adolescence fantasies. Once Aïcha graduated, it was difficult to leave her well-paid night life for miserable desk work or to abandon the lights of the big city for a small house in Lhajeb. She told me with a bitter voice “When I was studying it was just to make pocket money. I didn’t realize that I am a prostitute until it became my full-time job after graduating”. Aïcha is still now living in the city and working as a prostitute to send money to her family and pay for her charges. Her education and beauty make very rich and well-known men from over the world pay for her services. After filling four, 120-minute tapes and finishing the interview, the young girl looked straight into my eyes and said “I fast every Ramadan and pray five times a day for Allah to forgive me, but when the night comes I realize that I have to go work for the money.” Today, whenever I drive across the girls’ dorms of the university, I wonder how many Aïchas are there waiting to be tempted by the big city’s illusive and misleading lights? How many would resist and how many would fall?

Sidi Ifni: The Truth

A lot of things were said about what happened in Sidi Ifni in the national media, the International one, the positions of the officials, the positions of the civil society… Here I suggest to have a look at a neutral bloger’s eye. This alternative source of news can very effective sometimes to transmit the TRUTH and nothing but the TRUTH.

The Movement Of All Opportunists

The Movement of All Democrats became the Movement of All Opportunists during the communication meeting held by Fouad Ali Hima and his team in Rabat in the 17th May 2008.

“Information is Holy, and Comment is Free”

25 Moroccan youth and 25 American youth met in the POMED and AID conference, “Find Your Voice: A Cross-Cultural Forum on Political Participation and Civic Activism”, which took place in The Moroccan Capital Rabat last Month. I was asked to share my experience as a young English-speaking blogger with the participants? So I’ve decided to tell them my story through 3 verbs: To Inform When to the Moroccan Journalism School for the first time, the first thing I saw was a banner in the entrance wall with sentence “Information is holy, and Comment is Free”. This sentence haunted me for my 4 years in that school, until it became a part of who I am. Unfortunately, in everyday’s journalistic practice all the editors-in-chief I’ve worked with were hammering on me that my opinion doesn’t matter, and only pure information matters. After some years of swallowing my voice, I started believing that “Information is free” but “Comment is not free”. Therefore, I started looking for a way to express my voice. To Express In 2004, during one of the first blogging conferences in Morocco by Rachid Jankari, the first Moroccan blogger, I finally discovered the way to express my voice. That night I came home very excited, and created my first blog. It was the kind of blogs where you write your diaries and post poems and abstract photos. In 2006, I started my official blog “Words for change”, because I believe that my only weapon is my words and that by spreading the word it may change the world. Maybe I blog out of narcissism, maybe I blog out frustration, maybe I blog because I would like to share my thoughts, and tell the rest of the world about the place I live in and the problems people of my age face. In all cases, I think that blogging gave me back my voice and completed the other half of that old sentence “Comment is Free”. We are 30 000 Moroccan bloggers today. Some blog in French, and they are stereotyped as being bourgeois blogging kids who went to French schools. And some blog in Arabic, and they are stereotyped as being Islamist radicals. In between there is some youth who blog in English, including me, who are stereotyped as being American spies. Well, the reality our diversity is a capital that make our strength, even if we aren’t organized as a community yet. Rachid Jankari described the Moroccan Blogosphere as being in its “Adolescence”, which make it unable to compete with classical Medias, and somehow unable to educate. To Educate Few months ago, I became a youth ambassador within the Middle East Youth Initiative, which gave me the chance to act as a peer-educator with my blog posts. The MEYI was initiated by the Wolfensohn Centre for Development at Brooking and the Dubai School of Government, as to promote economic and social inclusion of youth in the Middle East by creating an international alliance of academics, policymakers, youth leaders and leading thinkers from the private sector and civil society. With the MEYI, I realized how it’s difficult to educate, especially that I’m just a 23 years simple girl from the region. My work as a Youth Ambassador is about sharing my little experience as a young journalist, as a youth activist, and as a human being. And that’s the best part of it, because as human beings, my readers may reach a self-identification status, and that’s what may educate. That’s my story. The story of a blogger who believes that words may bring change, so “spread the word, it may change the world”. That’s how I’ve found my Voice. I hope you’ll find yours!