On the evening of March 15, my mother called me from Casablanca, curious to know if Rachida Dati had won the election. Although she may not fully understand the role of the Mayor of Paris or the political party Dati represents, her interest stemmed from her identity—she is Moroccan. This connection compelled her to follow the election results with the same enthusiasm as if it were her own daughter running for office. She is not alone in this sentiment. Countless Moroccans residing in Morocco were glued to their phones, televisions, and WhatsApp groups, tracking elections that, while not officially relevant to them, resonate deeply within their lives.
In Saint-Pathus, a small town in Seine-et-Marne with a mere 3,200 residents, the atmosphere was electric. On the morning of March 15, an unexpected line formed outside the polling station, catching even the incumbent mayor off guard, as he believed he knew his neighbors well. Among the voters were men in traditional djellabas, women in hijabs, and entire families who approached the voting process with the same excitement one would reserve for a family celebration. In the smallest communes of France, often overlooked and lacking journalists or public transport, something significant unfolded on that day—something that polling data fails to capture accurately. The Moroccan community in France turned out in droves, their presence unmistakable and their engagement palpable. Some individuals did not just participate; they were on the campaign posters, like Fatna Lamir, a 46-year-old Franco-Moroccan from Les Mureaux, who has served as a municipal councillor since 2020. She opened her campaign headquarters seven days a week starting in December, fully aware that every moment counted. As she distributed flyers in the streets where her father may have arrived with a cardboard suitcase in the 1970s, her campaign, titled 'Les Mureaux Nouvelle Génération', signified a commitment to building a future rather than merely fixing the past.
In contrast, municipal elections in Morocco often evoke indifference, with participation rates frequently hitting rock bottom. Moroccans back home have long established an unspoken agreement with their electoral process: there is a lack of genuine belief in its efficacy, leading to a passive acceptance of the status quo. Trust in local institutions has waned due to unfulfilled promises, imposed candidates, and predetermined outcomes. However, for their relatives in cities like Vénissieux, Trappes, Saint-Ouen, or Les Mureaux, belief in the electoral process remains steadfast. They engage in discussions, follow the elections closely, and this sentiment extends not only to those living in France but also to those who remain in Morocco. For millions of Moroccans, France is not a foreign land; it is a familiar and almost intimate space. Every Moroccan family has connections across the Mediterranean—brothers, uncles, childhood friends—some have buried their fathers or baptized their nephews in France. Consequently, they closely monitor these elections from cities like Casablanca or Fès.
This dynamic evokes a long-standing joke circulating in Casablanca cafes: a Moroccan, smiling broadly, claims that Morocco is a democracy. The proof? "We criticize Mitterrand, and no one says anything to us." The room erupts in laughter, tinged with bitterness, revealing a deeper truth. France symbolizes more than just familial ties; it represents a lesson learned from afar about the significance of a ballot. Historically, France has been a nation that absorbs, digests, and transforms. Before the arrival of Moroccans, there were Poles, Italians, Spaniards, and Portuguese who eventually became French. The Maghribis began arriving in the 1950s and 60s, drawn by factory jobs and reconstruction efforts, and their children were born here. Today, their grandchildren are running for office, in both large cities and obscure towns. This ongoing evolution reflects a France that reinvents itself with each generation. In communities where names like Mohamed, Larbi, or Fatna were once absent from ballots, they now stand as candidates, leading lists, and even serving as mayors. These individuals carry the memories of a homeland where skepticism towards voting is prevalent, alongside the knowledge that a vote can wield power in a different context. Between these two worlds, they have made their choice—one that is evident in the bustling streets, the spirited debates at local cafes, and the civic-mindedness that fills Sunday mornings. While the bakery in Saint-Pathus was closed, the polling station was alive with activity. Somewhere between this village and Casablanca lies a lingering question: why does hope still thrive there, while it seems to dwindle here?
As reported by maroc-hebdo.com.
