On August 20, 2026, the official gazette published the law regulating the legal profession, marking the end of one of the most contentious battles within the justice sector in recent years, at least from a legal perspective. This law came into effect following months characterized by protests, strikes, and intense negotiation dynamics, especially after the constitutional court found itself unable to reach a decision on the referral made by the President of the House of Representatives.
However, the real tragedy stemming from this struggle transcends the mere enactment of such an important law without the requisite consensus and dialogue that it rightfully deserved. Despite various criticisms and concerns expressed by lawyers regarding specific provisions of the law, it remains a legislative text that can be revised in the future as political dynamics shift, new governments emerge, and the balance of power evolves.
The true catastrophe lies in the heavy price all parties paid in the latest round of this high-stakes conflict. This price encroaches upon the constitutional realm, an area that should remain unaffected by political squabbles and underhanded tactics. The constitutional court's involvement in this scenario, particularly in the last month of this saga, represents a concerning development for me. It pulled an institution meant to remain above political conflicts into the fray, making it a subject of doubts, interpretations, and calculations that could have been avoided.
Based on the information and insights gathered from various sources during my investigation into this issue, the primary responsibility for this outcome does not lie with Justice Minister Abdellatif Ouahbi, regardless of his provocative defense style and the criticisms leveled against his approach to dialogue with lawyers. Instead, the foremost accountability rests with Prime Minister Aziz Akhannouch.
Ironically, lawyers chose to place their bets on the wrong advocate when they relied on Akhannouch during a critical moment of their struggle. They seemingly believed that he would be their ally in extricating their concerns from the hands of Abdellatif Ouahbi and salvaging what they could of their professional law. However, the outcome was entirely the opposite. A sensitive professional and legislative file was removed from its natural arena and entangled in broader political calculations, particularly as the country approached the pivotal elections on September 23.
One could argue that lawyers began losing their battle the moment they met with Prime Minister Akhannouch in February 2026, ultimately forming a special committee to discuss points of contention with the Justice Minister, which led to a temporary halt in their protests. The issue here is not the principle but the ramifications of such decisions.
Before Akhannouch's intervention, it was tactically reasonable for lawyers to aim at prolonging the legislative timeline, pushing the project to the end of the term without completing the issuance process, especially since consensus with the Justice Minister seemed impossible. This was a well-defined professional and political pressure tactic. However, once the Prime Minister entered the equation, the matter transcended mere legislation. Every concession became a victory for one side and a defeat for the other, transforming the negotiation space into a battleground.
Moreover, Akhannouch's decision to intervene so forcefully and remove the file from the Justice Minister, who was originally tasked with overseeing this domain, placed him squarely accountable for the outcome. If the disagreement with the Justice Minister had reached a level that rendered him incapable of managing one of the most significant texts of his term, a clear political choice lay before Akhannouch: either allow the minister to remain responsible for his domain and his project, or he should bear the consequences of pushing the disagreement to its institutional limits and seek the King's exemption.
However, to politically remove the file from the minister without relinquishing governmental responsibility, only to orchestrate a parallel battle behind the project, epitomizes the kind of petty political maneuvering that ultimately leads to collective losses. And that is precisely what transpired.
The Parliament ultimately approved the law on July 6 and 7, 2026, in both the House of Representatives and the House of Councillors. Coincidentally, Akhannouch was in the city of Oujda conducting party-related activities linked to the election preparations. During this time, he re-engaged with the President of the Bar Association in Morocco, Hussain Zayani, before contacting the President of the House of Representatives, Rachid Talbi Alami, to forward the law to the constitutional court.
It became evident that lawyers perhaps had indeed chosen a misguided advocate for their cause. This was not due to the referral of the law to the constitutional court per se, but rather because the manner in which it was handled led to an outcome that seemed absurd: the issuance process was stalled by the King, the file reached the constitutional court, and after a month of anticipation, it was ultimately discovered that the court had not received the document it deemed essential for conducting its review—the final version corresponding to the original law as approved by Parliament.
The court's decision issued on August 10 was explicit on this matter. The referral letter was accompanied by a report from the Justice and Legislation Committee in the House of Councillors, which included the draft law as approved by the House of Representatives on July 6. However, it lacked the final text of the law as ratified on July 7. Consequently, the court stated that it could not fulfill the required oversight as the legal basis for its examination was unavailable. This raises significant questions.
The court did not simply discard the referral from day one. It initiated the process, identified the relevant law, communicated with the authorized entities to provide feedback, and the House of Representatives received correspondence from the court in this regard on July 13. The court also received comments from the Prime Minister, the President of the House of Councillors, and members of Parliament.
How, then, did it arrive at the conclusion that the text itself was legally unavailable for review after nearly exhausting the full timeline? Did the court genuinely fail to obtain the final version of the law? Did it request it from the referring body, namely the President of the House of Representatives, without receiving it? If it did request it, why did the President of the House of Representatives not respond to such a critical and straightforward request? Was the House of Councillors, which must have the version ratified on July 7, willing to provide the court with it, or did it take a different stance during the feedback phase?
Moreover, why was the court able to access the final version of the civil procedure law a year prior, despite it not being accompanied by the referral letter, while the absence of this document became a barrier to oversight this time? There may be a legal and technical explanation for all of this, and the court may have applied a more stringent understanding of its jurisdiction on this occasion. I have no basis to judge the intentions of its members or their deliberations, nor do I need to.
However, the issue runs deeper. Did the constitutional court unwittingly involve itself in petty political games in reaching this outcome? Was it, due to the manner in which the referral was handled and the surrounding stakes, positioned as a party expected to resolve a political battle that had commenced beyond its walls? Did Akhannouch harbor a preconceived notion that the court would replicate its actions from the civil procedure law, intervening in the text and extracting unconstitutional provisions, even in the absence of specific complaints from the referring body?
Who shaped this preconceived notion? The memorandum submitted by the Authenticity and Modernity Party to the court devoted a central portion of its arguments to what it termed "white referral," meaning a complete law referral to the court without specifying particular provisions claimed to contradict the constitution, nor outlining the nature of these contradictions. The memorandum went so far as to consider this type of referral a danger to the nature of constitutional oversight, as it obliges the court to search for constitutional flaws itself, potentially placing it in a political position that contradicts its judicial function.
Did all parties ultimately request the court, each in their own way, to refrain from engaging in the subject? Did everyone, including the Prime Minister, reverse their stance on the path they initially embarked upon and leave the court and its president alone with an incomplete referral, devoid of a final text and specific constitutional objections?
These questions do not seek to judge the constitutional court but to politically scrutinize how the file reached its doorstep. Therefore, if there was any victory in this battle, identifying its owner is challenging. Abdellatif Ouahbi did secure his law, indeed. The lawyers lost a substantial bet they placed to halt it. Aziz Akhannouch intervened to "rescue them," resulting in the law being published in the official gazette. Meanwhile, the constitutional court emerged from this narrative surrounded by questions that could have been avoided. Thus, I assert that the catastrophe lies not within the law itself, for those who sought to topple the lawyers' law ultimately found themselves endangering the very dignity of the constitutional protection mechanisms.
Those who sought the Prime Minister as their political advocate in confronting the Justice Minister belatedly discovered that their advocate had not only lost their case but had also transformed the courtroom itself into a wreckage.
As reported by thevoice.ma.
