The Illusion Of Grandeur: Gen Z Wants Morocco To Finally Care About Its People

When I reposted a statement from Human Rights Watch on Instagram, I wasn’t surprised by the reaction — a wave of hateful comments, dozens of insulting messages, and my post was quickly shadowbanned. Many Moroccans believe Human Rights Watch only shares negative news about Morocco. But their job is to report the truth — about Morocco or anywhere else.

The real issue is how deeply we, as Moroccans, have been conditioned to see criticism as an attack rather than an opportunity to improve. We grow up hearing that Morocco is the greatest country in the world. We repeat it with pride, even when hospitals lack basic equipment, public schools crumble, and countless families struggle to survive. Lately, however, a new generation has started asking questions loudly.

IMAGE: UNSPLASH

Members of Gen Z have taken to the streets, protesting not for luxury, but for dignity. Their message is simple: How can we build the biggest football stadium in the world when so many Moroccans can’t even access a hospital or a decent school? The planned Grand Stade Hassan II, expected to seat 115,000, would become the largest football stadium in the world — surpassing North Korea’s Rungrado 1st of May Stadium.

The project, part of the $5 billion in infrastructure spending tied to AFCON 2025 and the 2030 World Cup, may symbolize progress on paper. But for many, it symbolizes misplaced priorities.

“In the U.S., I really appreciate how healthcare works — you get treated first, and the bill comes later. At least you know your life matters more than money. In Morocco, it’s the opposite. Most of the time, they won’t even let you through the hospital doors unless you pay up front. If you don’t, you’re left outside, and people have literally died like that.

Same story with education. In the U.S., there are more opportunities and support for students to actually move forward. In Morocco, good education is basically for the rich. If you can’t afford private schools, you’re stuck with a system that doesn’t prepare you for success. And on top of that, the justice system is corrupt, which only makes things worse.

But what gives me hope is the younger generation. They see all this, they talk about it, and they’re not afraid to call it out. They want better healthcare, better education, and real equality. And honestly, the future is in their hands.”

When the youth take to the streets to demand the most basic rights — education and healthcare — they are met with batons. Instead of planting seeds of hope in their homeland, they are being uprooted. Those seeds now find fertile soil elsewhere, in nations that value them. In Morocco, they are told to leave — or to stay and endure humiliation. How can we ask people to keep loving a country that constantly beats them down? How can we expect hope to grow in the soil of despair?

Everywhere you look, you see pain. A father, crushed by rising prices and unemployment, pushes his cart to feed his family. Then the authorities come and flip it over — destroying his only source of bread. Still, that father dares to dream that his child will one day succeed. But the child, after years of study and sacrifice, finds no opportunity.

So he takes to the streets to demand his right to work — only to be beaten, arrested, or end up in a hospital that can barely treat him. And yet, this same country wants to host the World Cup — to build grand stadiums, to impress the world. But what good are stadiums when citizens can’t live with dignity? We don’t need luxury; we need fairness. We don’t need global applause; we need local justice.

What hurt me the most — and now I finally say it — is this: In Morocco, you can’t even walk outside with a phone in your hand without fearing theft or assault. Yet the day the World Cup announcement came, the government suddenly passed a new law: ten years in prison for carrying a knife. Why wasn’t that law passed before?

Because we, the ordinary citizens, are not the priority. It took the arrival of foreigners for the government to start caring about safety. As the saying goes, “The bread of the house is eaten by the outsider.” We, the true children of this land, are left to starve — not only of food, but of justice, dignity, and hope.

We love Morocco. We have always loved it. We are the ones who work, who struggle, who dream of pushing this country forward. But love alone cannot heal the wounds of corruption and repression. It is time — past time — to say enough, enough of silencing voices. Enough of forgetting the poor. Enough of building stadiums instead of futures. Morocco deserves better. And so do its people.

In my book Sneaky Showbiz, I wrote about the infamous Moroccan living room — that perfectly decorated space that represents exactly how the country works. It’s that room in every Moroccan home where the finest carpets are laid, the most elegant couches are arranged, and the teapot sits untouched — waiting only for guests.

It’s beautiful, spotless, and meant to impress. But no one who actually lives in the house spends time there. Once, an aunt told me something I’ll never forget. She said, “Simo, Morocco is like that living room — the one your mother keeps for visitors.” That line stayed with me because she was right.

Morocco looks like the most beautiful country in the world — the stunning mountains, the breathtaking coastlines, the delicious food, and above all, the generosity of its people. Tourists arrive and think they’ve entered paradise. They leave happy, telling stories of Moroccan hospitality and magic. But for those of us who live here — the people of the house — the picture is very different.

We struggle to move freely, even just to travel within our own borders. Prices are sky-high. Services are broken. If you hold a foreign passport, Morocco rolls out the red carpet for you. But if you’re one of its own, that beauty — that comfort — is locked away behind the door of the living room.

We’ve built a country that shines for the world but hides its cracks from its people. We’ve become experts at maintaining the façade — keeping the door closed and telling ourselves that everything is fine.

But anyone who lives here knows the truth. And those who leave and come back see it even more clearly: Morocco shouldn’t be a showpiece for guests. It should be a home that makes its own people proud. Because if the family isn’t happy, no guest ever will be. And that, I believe, is the real story behind the Moroccan living room.

There’s a heaviness pressing on every Moroccan — something that keeps millions awake at night. It’s the same nightmare, the same sense of helplessness that has taken over our country. I’ve been living in the U.S. full-time for over six years, and I am grateful every day for the ability to walk down the street without worrying about having my phone stolen, to obtain a simple official document without bribery, and to know that no one is above the law.

I’m not saying Morocco has no laws — it does. But the system is corrupt. I refused to live under repression and discrimination. In California, I found respect, peace, dignity, and healthcare.

I found education, rights, and humanity — all the things my own country, painfully, could not provide. And that’s what breaks my heart. Because I love Morocco. I grew up there. I dreamed of building my life there, like any other son or daughter of this land. But dreams cannot grow in soil that refuses to nourish them.

Morocco doesn’t need to be perfect — it just needs to be fair. We don’t need to silence those who speak the truth; we need to listen to them. We don’t need more stadiums; we need more classrooms. We don’t need slogans about greatness; we need actions that prove it. Only then can Morocco truly become what we were always told it was — the greatest country in the world.