Thanks to Tlaxcala, the International Network of Translators for linguistic diversity, the misdeeds of Mounir Majidi, private secretary of king Mohammed VI of Morocco, are now exposed in 5 languages:

English

The Majidigate: a textbook case of corruption in Morocco

Translated by John Catalinotto

العربية

 الفساد الكبير هو الحاكم الفعلي في المغرب

Translated by  Ahmed Benseddik (for lakome.com)

أعمال الماجيدي : مثال نموذجي للفساد في المغرب

Translated by Insaf Ftouh, edited by  Mokhtar Ben Hafsa

Español

La corrupción reina en Marruecos con poder absoluto

Translated by  Guillermo F. Parodi  and  María Piedad Ossaba

Deutsch

In Marokko hat die große Korruption die absolute Oberhand

Translated by Michèle Mialane, edited by Fausto Guidice

See also the original French versions:

La grande corruption règne en maître au Maroc

Majidi business : cas d’école

OF BEING AN ARAB SECULARIST

In this keynote address for Canada’s Couchiching Think tank, the blog’s author discusses the challenges faced by Secularists in “post-Spring” Arab World.

Excerpts from the summary (long version here):

Across the Arab world – despite laws prohibiting everything from premarital sex to alcohol consumption – a powerful sub-culture practices these activities while suffering from a overwhelming sense of guilt for not living up to the religious ideals encoded in Arab laws.

So how does a culture live with these contradictions? Ahmed Benchemsi answered that it is done through an “insane internal dialogue by which Islam is not the defining paradigm of Arab societies – hypocrisy is.”

From Benchemsi’s experience, the best way the Arab world can overcome this schizophrenic internal monologue is by authentically describing the present – he describes this concept as “secularism from within.” In other words, they should describe the lives they live, expunge the guilt felt for breaking and disobeying unrealistic rules, and adopt the label of secularism to cultivate the individual freedom that is inextricable from democracy.

He concluded that secularism from within is really honesty from within. He believes that is what young secular Arabs should begin practicing, for “a society based on lying and cheating is not sustainable in the long term”. Honesty is a revolutionary force. If secularists can label and practice honesty, who knows? They might win.

L’incroyable légèreté de M. Benkirane

«  عفى الله عن ما سلف، ومن عاد فينتقم الله منه.” هذه فلسفتي في القضاء على الفساد، وأعتز بها” »

(« “Dieu pardonne ce qui est passé, et si quelqu’un récidive, Dieu se vengera de lui” Telle est ma politique de lutte contre la corruption, et j’en suis fier  »)

Voila donc ce qu’a déclaré le chef du gouvernement marocain Abdelilah Benkirane, citant un verset du Coran (Al Ma’ida, 95), sur Al Jazeera le 25 juillet 2012.

En soi, permettre à ceux qui ont pillé les caisses de l’Etat de s’en sortir à si bon compte est choquant. Difficile d’instaurer la culture de la reddition des comptes quand on amnistie d’emblée tous les corrompus…

Mais si on peut être contre l’amnistie générale (c’est mon cas), ce principe n’est pas totalement absurde non plus, et il n’a pas été inventé par M. Benkirane. C’est une politique qui, parfois, dans d’autres pays et d’autres contextes, a donné quelques résultats.

Son principe :

1. Se doter d’un arsenal de « law enforcement » solide, incluant notamment une Justice forte, indépendante et rétive à tout passe-droit;

2. Une fois cet arsenal fonctionnel, c’est-à-dire prêt à être mis en branle instantanément et de manière implacable, annoncer l’amnistie générale assortie d’une politique ferme de zéro tolérance à partir du moment où l’amnistie est prononcée;

3. A partir de ce même moment, se tenir prêt à punir tout nouveau contrevenant avec rapidité, sévérité, et sous médiatisation maximale. Objectif : faire des exemples marquants très vite, pour démontrer à l’opinion que l’amnistie était une mesure de réconciliation et d’apaisement social, pas une marque de faiblesse de l’Etat.

On le voit, l’amnistie générale est une pratique qui a ses règles, et sa logique. On ne peut la prononcer sans y être solidement préparé.

Or, qu’a fait le chef du gouvernement marocain ? Il a décrété l’amnistie générale, comme ça, au détour d’une interview, avec pour unique argument… un verset du Coran ! Ce qui ne peut fonctionner qu’en tant de politique d’Etat mûrement réfléchie et minutieusement préparée est devenu, dans la bouche de M. Benkirane, une figure rhétorique—pire, un happening oratoire—à connotation religieuse.

L’interviewer d’Al Jazeera n’en croyait pas ses oreilles. Il a interrompu le chef du gouvernement, insistant sur le fait que le Maroc était « le seul pays de la région à adopter la politique de l’amnistie générale ». On aurait pu croire qu’en entendant cela, M. Benkirane allait se réveiller, réaliser soudain que l’amnistie générale est bien « une politique », et non une formule à l’emporte pièce qu’on lâche dans une interview sans en mesurer la portée…

Mais non. Crâner fait aussi partie de la personnalité de notre chef de gouvernement. M. Benkirane a donc persisté, en tordant les plis de sa bouche en signe de défiance méprisante, comme il sait si bien le faire : « Oui Monsieur, c’est dans le Coran : Dieu se vengera ». Message subliminal à tous ceux qui vont critiquer cette saillie : « Quoi, vous ne croyez pas en Dieu ? »

Plus que le principe de l’amnistie (qui demeure discutable même si ses trois règles sont appliquées), c’est l’incroyable légèreté de Abdelilah Benkirane qui m’a réellement choqué. Cet homme se rend-t-il seulement compte de ce qu’il dit ? Réalise-t-il que sa spontanéité gouailleuse, qui a fait son succès quand il était dans l’opposition, est aujourd’hui totalement inappropriée vu la fonction qui est la sienne ?

Quand on est chef du gouvernement, M. Benkirane, on ne dit pas n’importe quoi. Surtout sur un sujet aussi grave que la corruption. Le Maroc a suffisamment souffert de ce fléau, pas besoin d’y ajouter une dose de ridicule.

Ahmed Benchemsi

Seen from afar, Morocco’s 2011 events are the pitch-perfect tale of street protests with a happy ending: after huge pro-democracy demonstrations broke out, the government complied without firing a bullet and a reformed Constitution was approved by popular referendum. Then the street movement gracefully faded, giving way to change in the polls: a few months later, free elections resulted in a severe defeat of the incumbent government and the spectacular rise of a fresh political party—one that was never associated to government before.

Yet this rosy narrative, though built on real facts, doesn’t quite reflect the reality. In truth, what happened in Morocco in 2011 was a war of position and speed involving underground activists, maverick political groups, and a subtly resilient royal administration. It was also a conflict of generations, pitting twenty-something wholehearted newcomers against old school, wily politicians. Finally, it was a case study of political tactics and stratagems—ones that made the national balance of powers shift twice in a year.

From the palace to the outskirts

Flashback to January 2011. The central player in Morocco’s political game is, of course, the king. Mohammed VI, 23rd ruler of the over 350 years-old Alaouite dynasty, enjoys absolute power by dint of the Constitution. He appoints the prime minister and cabinet members at will, has the power to dissolve parliament for any reason, controls judiciary personnel and justice is rendered in his name. Even though he keeps a tight leash on the 3 branches of government (executive, legislative, and judiciary), he still has the power to bypass them by taking personal executive steps, issuing laws, and pardoning convicts. He is also the military commander-in-chief and the religious commander-of-the-faithful.

The royal authority is relayed by a power structure known to Moroccans as the Makhzen (1), an unofficial network of patronage and allegiance-based relationships built around the king. It includes the royal court (Mohammed’s family, friends and former schoolmates, advisers and secretariat), the ministry of Interior, the armed branches (from the nation’s “royal” army to intelligence agencies, police forces and “royal” gendarmerie), and high ranking civil servants, appointed by the king and/or sponsored by his cronies.

Thirty-four political parties operate legally in Morocco. While a handful have historic roots stemming from the fight for independence, the majority were created under former king Hassan to act as political minions of the Makhzen. Yet, whether they are plain puppets or not, 30 parties (including the Islamist formation known as Party for Justice and Development, or PJD) abide by the Makhzen’s rules and do not challenge—or even dare question—the king’s absolute supremacy.

The remaining four parties constitute what is known as the radical left. They do oppose the Makhzen (2), and three of them demand what they call a “parliamentary monarchy”: a system where an elected government would be fully in charge, leaving all but symbolic powers to the king. In 2007, these three parties joined forces and created a common group called “Democratic Alliance of the Left” or DAL. The same year, they offered joint lists of candidates for parliamentary elections, yet ended up winning just 1% of the parliament’s seats altogether. The most prominent of these three parties—in terms of historical roots and territorial extension—is the PSU (3).

The fourth and last legal party opposing the Makhzen, Annahj Addimocrati (4), is the most radical one. Its hardliner Marxist-Leninist members want the end of the monarchy, but consider themselves unable to speak out about their republican views under the current balance of powers. Until “working masses rise up”, they say, their strategy is to boycott everything related to the Makhzen—including elections.

On the social side, Morocco’s civil society has long impressed foreign observers. It is a very large network made of thousands of NGOs scattered around the territory, achieving often-outstanding grassroots work:  microcredit, community organization, social development projects, etc. But when it comes to politics, the circle narrows down to a handful of human right groups, the most influential of which is AMDH (5). Anti-globalization groups who denounce price rises also enjoy some popularity. The most active is ATTAC (6).

The last—but certainly not least—group of political significance is Al Adl wal Ihsan (7). A semi-clandestine Islamist organization (8) focused on social work and religious education, it is concentrated in the outskirts of major cities, and its members do not recognize the king’s legitimacy as a religious leader. One of their mottos, “la malika fi-l islam” (no king in Islam), even suggests they reject the monarchy altogether—yet their leaders are unclear about what should replace it. (9) Even though a “political circle” (a replica of the legal parties’ political bureaus) was created in 1998 to bring out its brightest leaders, what really holds Al Adl’s members together is the cult of personality devoted to “general guide” Abdessalam Yassin, 84, a man widely believed to have psychic powers. In 2006, Yassin’s “vision” of an impending mass uprising set the agenda for his supporters and for other actors in the kingdom—not the least of which, the security services and the press. Ultimately, nothing happened and the ageing leader lost credibility. That probably explains why he has been increasingly less visible in the media since then, yielding to younger cadres of Al Adl. Still, the organization is believed to have around 100,000 listed members (10)—which makes it, although not formally legal, the biggest political group in Morocco.

Back in January 2011, none of the above-mentioned groups was strong or willing enough to confront the Makhzen head-on. DAL parties were going through an internal crisis, many of their members depressively questioning their own “political utility”; Annahj underground republicans were as secretive as always; AMDH and ATTAC were involved in routine human rights and social activities; and Al Adl leaders were quietly focusing on social work and educational activities, as if the goal was to re-consolidate the group’s cohesion after Yassin’s failed prophecies…

Two months forward, a coalition of the very same groups would corner the Makhzen so implacably that king Mohammed would hastily take to the airwaves, promising “comprehensive constitutional change”! What enabled such a dramatic turn of events is of course the Arab Spring’s contagion, but also—and more importantly—the sudden burst of a new player in the game, one that no one was expecting: young, secular Internet activists. In fact, their emergence had been playing out for years. Yet strangely, very few identified them as a meaningful trend, even though their “founding act” had drawn enormous attention.

Meanwhile, on the web…

In September 2009, a group page named “Alternative Movement for Individual Freedoms”, or MALI (11), was launched on Facebook. In order to “open a debate on freedom of conscience”, its two female administrators—a journalist and a psychology intern—called a daylight picnic during the month of Ramadan, when Muslims can eat only before dawn and after dusk. (12) On D-day, only 6 persons, all in their twenties, showed up at the scheduled time and meeting point with sandwiches in their backpacks. They found themselves surrounded by a hundred policemen, also warned by Facebook and determined to stop the MALI action for the sake of “preserving public order”. The failed picnic made page-one news for days, resulting in a national scandal.

The conservative uproar against MALI’s initiative was so vociferous that the rare supportive voices went almost unheard. Human rights organizations (notably AMDH), a handful of weekly magazines and some leftist activists publicly backed the young secularists. On the web, hundreds of youngsters signed in MALI’s Facebook group to continue the debate. According to many leaders of what later became the February 20th movement (13), the MALI affair was “a catalyst event”—the “pretext” hundreds of young Moroccans were waiting for to engage in political activism.

Though their backgrounds and life experiences differ, Morocco’s web activists are mostly middle-class students or recently graduated (14), in their early twenties, born to politically-engaged families, living in a big city such as Casablanca or Rabat. Many of them already experienced political advocacy in leftist parties’ youth sections or civil society organizations. But while doing so, they also experienced frustration over those structures’ limits: bureaucratic rigidity, lack of inventiveness and, to various extents, leaders’ blasé attitudes.  Yet what brought them together was not their sense of belonging to the same socio-political circles, but, they say, the supple, hierarchy-free organizing tool: Facebook.

Starting early 2010, successive small events contributed to firming up this elusive virtual community. Mounting talk about the nepotistic El Fassi family (15) spurred the creation of a Facebook group titled “All against bequeathing public positions”. A protest march was discussed but never held. Another group titled “All for justice: the minister’s son should stand trial” was created after a minister appeared on a YouTube video, ordering a policeman to discharge his handcuffed son who had assaulted a man in public. More than 800 supporters joined the Facebook group. This time, a real sit-in ensued, allowing 40 virtual activists to meet “in real life”, for the first time.

Months later, a young mason, Fodil Aberkan, was reportedly tortured to death in a police station over a routine interrogation. Confronted by press coverage, police officials denied mistreatment. A Facebook group named “All for disclosing the truth on the Fodil Aberkan affair” attracted thousands of members and led to a structured action: while some net-activists designed leaflets explaining what happened and announcing a forthcoming sit-in, others raised money from AMDH and DAL parties to have the leaflets printed. Then a third group distributed the leaflets in the victim’s neighborhood and campaigned for the sit-in, which ended up attracting 400 participants. Serious press coverage ensued, and the policemen were finally charged with mistreatment.

The Aberkan action was a tangible success to the credit of the virtual activists—plus it was widely advertised through mainstream media. It gave a boost to the rising virtual movement. Discussion groups mushroomed on social media platforms and tens of thousands of Internet users joined in. From individual freedoms and the defense of human rights, the debate broadened to liberal ideas, and then to democracy at large. In January 2011, tens of thousands of Moroccans were passionately discussing various topics on abundant politically engaged Facebook groups. The Aberkan affair had given the virtual activists a sense that they could have significant impact if they were to export their activism to real-life. In other words, the mobilization tool was ready; it just needed a catalyst event. That would be the Tunisian revolution.

Of hundreds of Facebook groups, one in particular would make history: “Moroccans converse with the king”, as it was called, invited the public to address Mohammed VI with questions, concerns, and comments. On January 14th, just days after the group was created, president Ben Ali fled Tunisia. The news electrified Facebook users, who filled the group’s page with daring claims addressed to Morocco’s king. As days passed and revolutionary fervor spread like wildfire in the Arab world—thanks, notably, to the 24/7 Al Jazeera coverage—the demands grew bolder. The group’s members were now asking the king to change the Constitution, fire the cabinet, dissolve the parliament, put “those who steal public money” on trial, etc.

On January 25, as Egyptian people started gathering in Tahrir square, the Facebook page administrators (16) took new steps to benefit from the growing momentum: they changed the page name to “Freedom and democracy now”, and sorted the commentators’ demands by recurrence, keeping only the 7 most popular ones. (17) Then one of the admins posted a video of himself online, wearing a beret and a Palestinian scarf and reading the demands, his clenched fist raised. The video would turn viral, the young man would be dubbed the “Che Guevara of Salé” (18), and the claims would become the protesters’ official platform. Also, in order to “take the action to real-life” (19), the group members decided to publish a call for nationwide protests on February 20th. (20) As it turned out, the short Facebook post would trigger the biggest national protests since the country’s independence.

Bubbling up to D-day

The following days, multiple Facebook groups were created to urge the citizens of tens of Moroccan towns and villages to take to the streets on February 20th. No real coordination happened between the groups, save for sharing the “Freedom and Democracy” platform and agreeing on a common time—10am—for the protests to start on D-day. On February 8th, a second video was released: with a classic piano background sound, 13 young web-activists appeared in turn, each declaiming one line starting with “I am Moroccan, and I will go out on February 20th because….” (followed by reasons stemming from the platform). That video far overshadowed the first one: within ten days, it got half a million hits on YouTube. Public media smear campaigns to discredit the movement’s 13 new “faces” only resulted in generating more publicity for the upcoming protest. Whether to support or discredit the protest, the press was talking about nothing else.

Meanwhile, Tunisia’s and Egypt’s revolutions were boosting the morale of civil society and leftist groups. The Moroccan Committee to Support the Masses, a group initiated by AMDH and including DAL parties, Annahj and ATTAC, organized a sit-in on February 12th to salute the ouster of President Mubarak. Sitting on the Parliament’s sidewalk, 500 people chanted slogans in support of fellow Arabs… and quickly diverted their focus to the February 20th manifestations. Before the sit-in was called off, all the present organizations decided to issue a joint communiqué supporting the “Feb20 youth movement” (that was the first time the expression was ever used), to host its spokespersons in AMDH’s headquarters for a press conference, and to join together to print promotion leaflets for the upcoming protest. There started the convergence between web-activists and traditional anti-Makhzen political groups. (21)

The above discussion describes the dynamics that played out in Rabat, the kingdom’s capital city. But the platform claims impersonated by the local “Che Guevara” and, more decisively, the 13-actors video clip, did inspire people throughout Morocco, prompting tens of thousands to “go out” on February 20th. For that reason, the Rabat group would always be credited with a certain “moral leadership” over other local Feb20 groups. Yet this prevalence would never translate in concrete, hierarchical terms. Depending on the city, things would bubble up in different ways, involving different kinds of activists, political and civil society groups, and featuring varying forms and levels of interaction.

In Casablanca, it all started on February 6th with a casual meeting in a bar between two twenty-something web-activists and four senior left party members. The agenda was to discuss the “Freedom and democracy now” Facebook page activities, including the call for a protest on February 20th. A decision was taken to extend the discussion to a larger audience by organizing a public meeting. On February 12th, around 50 persons, representing two generations of activists from various leftist groups, convened in the Casablanca headquarters of the PSU for a conference titled “The meeting of hope: the youth and the protest movements”. After a couple of senior politicians explained the basics of popular protests—“in quite a pontificating way”, one of them later admitted (22)— younger activists were invited to take the stage. Within minutes, they swept the audience away with passionate arguments in favor of the February 20th protest and platform. When the meeting ended, impressed PSU leaders placed their offices at the young activists’ disposal, vowing to “help but not interfere” with their future action. That was the starting point of the Casablanca Feb20 coordination.

Six days later, a “Founding General Assembly” held in PSU offices attracted more than 150 young activists. About half of them were members of left parties’ youth sections and civil society organizations, while the other half was made of independent bloggers and Facebook activists. Some of the latter took an audacious step and invited Al Adl Wal Ihsan youth leaders to attend. A behind-the-scene discussion ensued between the Islamist cadres and the General Assembly organizers. At the latter’s request, the former accepted to instruct their followers to avoid gender segregation and religious slogans during the protest. Every group—that would soon become a national rule—would have to put its specific agenda to one side and align behind a unique collective banner: that of the Feb20 movement.

In Marrakech, no political group sponsored the Feb20 dynamics. Only Internet contacts led to a meeting in a café on February 14th, in order to discuss the platform shared on Facebook. Out of the 22 persons who attended, three fourths were either independent activists or members of the Amazigh movement (23)—the last fourth being leftist university students. Inspired by the Rabat 13-actors YouTube video, they decided to make one of their own, raising more local concerns (forced re-housing of 4000 families because of a real estate project, sexual tourism, ill-equipped local hospitals, etc.) This resulted in a violent reaction of local police; some Amazigh activists were beaten during brief arrests. This, more than the video, became the talk of the town and prompted Marrakchis to take to the streets on February 20th.

The way things played out in Tangiers is very different from what happened anywhere else in Morocco. There were indeed local young web-activists, who created at least one “Feb20 Tangiers” group on Facebook. Yet their influence could not compare to that of the city’s senior political activists, generally in their forties, who had a history of efficient inter-partisan collaboration. Left parties, Islamist organizations, and labor unions had started to coordinate in 2003, in order to mount protests against the US invasion of Iraq. They later went on to organize common protests in support of Palestine and, alongside alter-globalist groups like ATTAC, common sit-ins against rising prices. Smooth collaboration on specific issues is very unusual in Morocco among otherwise-ideologically opposed activists. Yet in Tangiers, they found a common ground in labor organizations, whose local leaders rule through careful consensus. Another—quite peculiar—facilitating factor was the Laasri brothers: while Khalid is a top local leader of Al Adl, his sibling Jamal is a top local leader of PSU. Both are respected, and trusted to act in the best interest of their respective organizations. Thus, many inter-partisan conflicts in Tangiers were settled with the resolution “let the brothers sort it out”.

By mid-February, talk of a tentative protest had spread in Tangiers like everywhere else in the country. Yet the inter-partisan coordination did not take Facebook too seriously. Moreover, it was busy supporting ATTAC, whose activists were at the time mobilizing big crowds for daily demonstrations against the city’s water and electricity supplying company, accused of unjustified price raises. On Feb 17th, after an ATTAC sit-in was called off, a group of hooligans set a bank agency on fire. Worried that an unsupervised Feb20 demonstration would turn to chaos, local leaders of ten different groups decided to hold an urgent meeting on February 18th. Within two days, a start-to-end itinerary was commonly decided, banners, megaphones, stewards and other logistic needs were addressed, and a joint communiqué was written, signed and published. In terms of organization, no other local Feb20 group would ever rival Tangiers’.

As seen, every branch of Feb20 grew organically, drawing on local specificities. Yet a general lesson can be learnt: the deeper the coordination between the two generations of activists (on the one hand) and the various political groups in the city (on the other hand), the stronger and better organized the Feb20 group. In other words, this is a concrete illustration of the conventional wisdom “Unity is strength”. Yet, if present to varying degrees inside Feb20’s local branches, unity was still totally inexistent on a national level. A few days before February 20th, the only common feature of all local groups was the seven-demand platform shared on Facebook. On February 18th, Al Adl wal Ihsan published a communiqué stating that its youth section members would join the protest throughout the country. That gave the nascent Feb20 movement an ultimate boost before D-Day.

People fear no more

In a press conference given February 21st, the Interior minister said a total of 37 thousand Moroccans had taken to the streets the day before. Adding numbers provided by Feb20 local groups, Mamfakinch website (24) said the “February 20th youth” claimed a total turnout of 300,000. The website went on to provide its own “reasonable” estimation of 122,000. (25) Yet what all parties agreed on was the number of cities—53—where protests were held. Never since the country’s independence had so many demonstrations been held simultaneously. That the government readily admitted the number tells a lot about its state of dismay back then.

As the police backed off everywhere in fear of sparking a violent snowball effect, the triumph of the protesters spurred a wave of exaltation throughout the Kingdom. Thousands of fired-up comments on the Makhzen’s corruption suddenly popped up on the Internet. Café customers started discussing the king out loud overnight. A Moroccan immigrant in the US created a sensation by filming himself addressing Mohammed VI with a crude and populist tone—within a few days, his video received more than half a million hits on YouTube. Astonishingly, the wall of fear that had paralyzed large segments of the population for decades had fallen apart in one day.

On February 23rd, the National Council for Support of the Feb 20 movement, aka “Support Council”, was created in Rabat by 40 political and civil society groups including DAL parties, AMDH, ATTAC, Annahj and Al Adl. All committed to the rule that the Casablanca Feb20 branch had spontaneously set days before: no distinctive features, slogans or banners would be tolerated for any political group. Everyone would line up behind the Feb20 banner and accept the youth’s slogans and overall guidance. Said the Support Council’s Secretary general: “Aside from instructing our members to join the protests and helping with providing logistical means, we political groups were taking great pains in not looking directive or intrusive. Otherwise, the kids would have been wary of us. We had to win their trust before anything else.” (26)

During the euphoric weeks that followed February 20th, the youth movement’s General Assemblies became the place-to-be in every city of the kingdom. Word was quickly out for the next national day of protest, set to happen on March 20th. Neither the government’s hastily granted economic perks (the minimum salary and civil servant wages were raised by 15 to 35%, the budget of the equalization fund—which holds down the prices of consumer staples—was almost tripled) nor the public media’s change of tone toward the protest leaders (some of them were even invited on live TV shows) was able to sooth the excitement of the youth.

Nothing seemed able to stop the growing momentum when, on March 9th… the king took to the airwaves unexpectedly. In a very dramatic speech, Mohammed VI promised a spectacular constitutional reform featuring the “rule of law”, an “independent judiciary” and an “elected government that reflects the will of the people, through the ballot box”. The media and the public opinion were flabbergasted. Forcing the head of state to make such bold concessions, moreover in such a short time, was unprecedented in Morocco’s modern history. Undoubtedly, many observers said, the Feb20 movement had scored a major victory against the monarchy. In fact, the game was just starting…

As it quickly turned out, the king’s promises were more a clever preemptive move than a genuine intent to implement change. To be convinced of that, one only needs to examine the constitutional reform committee that Mohammed VI appointed the day after his speech. Made of 18 loyal civil servants and presided over by a scholar with a history of condoning autocracy (27), it was unlikely to produce meaningful change. Still, the monarchy had successfully reversed the momentum by seizing back the initiative—a perfect “offensive action” as defined in Clausewitz’s “Principles of war”. By launching new reform dynamics, however spuriously, the king was forcing Feb20 leaders to position themselves according to his agenda, not the other way around. In other words, he was taking the helm out of their hands.

The Makhzen strikes back

Indeed, the trap was well set. In a seemingly democratic move, Mohammed VI ordered the reform committee to “undertake vast consultations with all political groups and the nation’s lifeblood”. This means the Feb20 movement was also invited to give its propositions on ought-to-be constitutional changes. Yet whether or not these propositions would be given any special consideration remained far from clear. Few weeks after the king’s speech, the press reported, members of the royal commission contacted “100 young Moroccans, 45 of whom are members of different Feb20 local coordinating committees” to engage in constitutional talks. No details were provided on the selection criteria. Feb20 local groups declined the invitation one after the other, arguing that the commission was “appointed and not elected” and a “democratically elected constitutional assembly”. Had this demand been raised prior to the king’s speech, it would have sounded more credible. But as a political riposte, it sounded “unconstructive”, as pro-Makhzen media immediately pointed out, questioning the youth’s “true commitment to democracy”.

Maybe the noble democratic excuse for not producing a constitutional draft of its own was hiding something more pragmatic: the protest movement’s intrinsic difficulty to produce a common position on anything. This brings us to Feb20’s coordination techniques, and how they quickly became the movement’s major weakness. Except in Tangiers, all Feb20 local groups relied on weekly, open and pretty chaotic “General Assemblies”, during which everyone spoke in turn without a time limit. After hours of talk—sometimes, it would take all night—decisions would be taken according to the “general trend”—a method the activists favored over voting because, they said, “alienating minorities with majority votes could result in a split of the movement” (28). Consequently, decisions taken would almost never go beyond “let’s demonstrate”.

Narrowing down the decision circle by electing structures and leaders was the obvious solution. But the activists took pride in Feb20 being an unstructured, leaderless movement. Because, they said,  “structures are a target for the government, and leaders eventually get arrested, or corrupted”, and also because “electing leaders would mean allowing an ideological current to prevail over the other ones, which would mean the beginning of the end of the movement” (29). The problem was, not electing representatives also consisted in condemning the movement to strategic paralysis, since no one could make decisions in the movement’s name, and no clear group decision could be taken by too-large-to-manage general assemblies. Indeed, this system was unable to produce any agenda—let alone constitutional reform propositions— beyond “Down with absolutism!” slogans.

Yet until late April, sloganeering seemed enough. Even in the absence of reliable statistics, it is widely believed that the second and third day of national protests attracted a turnout that was at least twice as large as that on February 20th. What is confirmed is that more cities were involved—63 on March 20th, 110 on April 24th. (30) The first reason behind this mass enthusiasm was the Arab Spring ripple effect. With breaking news on Al Jazeera several times a day, January-May was the most eventful period of 2011 in the Arab World. That certainly helped to maintain the protests’ momentum in Morocco. Another explanation is that, devious as it was, the royal promise of a constitutional reform first appeared as a bold concession, thus as a recognition of the people’s power. That boosted the protesters’ morale and encouraged them to turn out in important numbers.

Yet the overall ambiance eventually switched. By mid-May, the Arab Spring fervor was tempered by civil war in Libya and ruthless crackdowns in Syria, Yemen and Bahrain—repression had even resumed in Egypt despite President Mubarak’s ouster. All of that certainly contributed to decreasing the general revolutionary fever. Besides, Moroccans were somehow getting used to protests—and maybe bored by their apparent pointlessness. (After all, the Constitution was being reformed, wasn’t it?) By mid-May, protesters started turning out in fewer numbers. That is when the government grew tougher.

May 22nd was the date of the first nationwide crackdown on protesters. Truncheon beating and police roundups happened across the country. Dozens of activists were wounded and one of them died, which spurred unfavorable reports in European media outlets. That might have been a core reason behind the authorities’ sudden change of strategy: violence against the protesters would continue, but it would be outsourced to unofficial police auxiliaries. To that effect, the ministry of the Interior began mobilizing pro-regime thugs, Morocco’s version of the famed Egyptian baltagiya (31). Unlike the Feb20 activists who vowed to remain non-violent, their opponents were armed with stones and clubs, openly looking for fights while the police looked elsewhere. Each time a Feb20 local group would announce a protest venue, “resident associations” would suddenly mushroom there, pledging to “defend” their neighborhood against “extremists” and “troublemakers”.

The draft Constitution was released at the peak of this tense atmosphere. As expected, it featured all but cosmetic changes. Behind an elaborate rhetorical smokescreen (32), the monarchy was still tightly controlling the three branches of government and had firmed up its grip over security forces and the religious sphere. In a televised speech on June 17th, the king disclosed the constitutional draft and urged Moroccans to approve it through a referendum scheduled for July 1st—that is, no more than 2 weeks later. The rushed course of events was obviously intended to take full advantage of the new pro-Makhzen momentum, leaving insufficient time for the opposition to organize.

Feb20 local groups and the Support Council immediately called for a boycott, complete with nationwide protests against the “imposed constitution”. This triggered violent clashes with hordes of pro-regime thugs who thronged the streets, bawling that Mohammed VI was their “only king”. Meanwhile, State-controlled mosques and mass media were mobilized to preach nothing but the constitution’s virtues—which was evidently unfair. On Election Day, fraud reports flooded the Internet. A video posted on YouTube showed officials rummaging in an open ballot box. Another featured a polling station staffer revealing that his manager had ordered him to manipulate voter listings. Scores of voters testified that their identity had not been checked—which enabled wide ballot stuffing… Finally, the ministry of Interior claimed Ben Ali-esque scores: a turnout of 73% and an approval rate of 98.5% for the new Constitution.

Despite the blatant fraud, the general perception was that the Makhzen had severely defeated Feb20. Not only was the plebiscite a stinging disavowal of the protest movement, but it also appeared as a renewed, massive tribute to the monarchy—or at least, for those who did not trust the results, a spectacular demonstration of how much the Makhzen remained in control. Either interpretation might explain why Western governments rushed to congratulate the king, saluting the constitutional referendum as “an important step toward democratic reform” (US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton), “an exemplary process” (French president Nicolas Sarkozy) or a “demonstration of political maturity” (Spanish Foreign Minister Trinidad Gimenez). As for global media, they broadly applauded the kingdom’s “peaceful” reforms. Whatever the objections of Moroccan oppositionists, their situation wasn’t as bad as Libyans’ or Syrians’, was it?

Drowning in the swamp

Despite the summer season, which coincided in 2011 with Ramadan—traditionally a month of religious contemplation and socio-political apathy—Feb20 coordinations local groups kept on calling protests every Sunday to denounce the “Makhzen’s masquerade”. But the turnouts dwindled visibly all over the country. At least at face value, the movement’s most important demands had been met: the Constitution was reformed, the parliament would soon be dissolved and the government dismissed, upon forthcoming legislative elections. “Why protest now?”, many citizens thought.

For its part, the Support Council was paralyzed by internal conflicts. As long as common activism consisted of chanting anti-Makhzen slogans alongside fired-up kids, unity could be preserved among otherwise ideologically opposed groups. But after the constitutional sequence, denouncing absolutism was no longer sufficient. The Makhzen had engaged in a strategy, which required in return a counter-strategy. Following this moment, unity could no longer be found among the members of the Support Council. Whereas DAL parties called for a radical reform of the monarchy (in order to strip it from its powers and make it purely symbolic, à la European style), Annahj and Al Adl quietly wished for its demise (yet with two opposed replacement plans: a proletarian republic for the former, and an Islamic State for the latter). There was no way to reach a compromise between these two options: either the monarchy is maintained (under whatever form) or it is not.

As for the Feb20 local groups, all of them (except Tangiers) got eventually bogged down in swampy ground. As time passed by, the General Assemblies became venues for venting frustrations—which grew even as the Makhzen was successfully reversing the momentum. In the absence of legitimate leaders who could play a moderating role, the loudest and most vociferating activists tended to monopolize the debate. Anyone who proposed taking a step back to look at the big picture, or consider even slight tactical compromise with the Makhzen, would be immediately accused of treason. As a way to showcase their uncompromising spirit, the most radical activists obstinately continued to propose weekly protests, even though such recurrence was visibly alienating the people. But since the most vociferous activists were now dominating general assembly discussions, the “general trend” was always in their favor. Gradually, this method led to a general radicalization of the movement.

In Rabat, the creative web-activists who used to call the shots were gradually shoved aside in favor of radical activists. While a lot of time was once devoted to conceiving original slogans and arty banners, when the autumn came, the protesters went mostly empty handed, chanting outdated mantras—which rang hollow, now that the political atmosphere was altered by imminent legislative elections. The same thing happened in Casablanca, with one twist: the dead-end dispute over the political demands (radical reform of demise of the monarchy?) led to… abandoning political demands! After a heated General Assembly, the “general trend” concluded that the only way to avoid a split was to let politics aside and focus on slogans denouncing poverty, unemployment, etc. This move definitely altered the image of the Feb20 Casablanca group: what used to be a movement claiming change and raising hope became perceived as a group of bitter, angry persons. The protests’ attendance diminished consequently.

In Marrakech, no compromise could be reached to ease the conflict between the two dominant local forces: university students from Al Adl and the “Basists” (qa’idiyin)—an extreme-left group some of whose members define themselves as “Stalinists”. The two groups have a history of violent clashes on university campuses, involving knives and even artisanal swords. (33) After they infused General Assemblies with militant rhetoric, thus creating a vacuum in the Feb20 group, Adlists and Basists faced off and ended up “fighting with chairs”, as a frustrated local activist put it. Pretty small crowds have attended Marrakech’s protests ever since.

At the other end of the spectrum, Tangiers’s demonstrations have long remained the most crowded ones in Morocco—and the local Feb20 group, the country’s best organized and most efficient one. Even though they eventually created a “youth branch”, mainly for communication purposes, the disciplined party cadres (from DAL parties, Annahj, Al Adl, AMDH, etc.) remained firmly in command. The thing is, disciplined party cadres abide by the party’s strategic options—which are set in the party’s central headquarters in Rabat. Thus, as well organized as it was, Tangiers’s Feb20 branch was condemned to the same strategic paralysis as the Support Council’s—because of its members’ ideological discrepancies, notably on the fate of the monarchy.

The quest for revival

It is within this context that the parliamentary elections were held on November 25th, 2011. Feb20 and the Support Council called once again for a boycott, but the participation rate turned out higher than they expected. (34) More importantly, the electoral winner was the Islamist Party for Justice and Development (PJD). The PJD never challenged the Makhzen; on the contrary, it had always sought cooptation. Yet, having an Islamist cabinet was unprecedented in Morocco—a novelty remarkable enough to prolong the impression of change given by the constitutional reform. Even though his powers are technically very limited, the newly appointed premier, PJD’s Abdelilah Benkirane, enjoys a high approval rate (35)—if only because of his and his party’s political virginity. Calling him “another servant of the Makhzen”, as Feb20 did, was probably not the smartest move.

With a reformed Constitution and a fresh government, the general impression on December 2011 was that the people of Morocco were granted a new political deal. That Feb20 and its last diehards were still unhappy and willing to protest seemed incomprehensible—and quite annoying—to the majority of the public. That explains the very low turnout of some sit-ins, where only tens of protesters showed up compared with former turnouts of thousands. The protest movement’s crisis deepened on December 18th. In a surprising twist, Al Adl wal Ihsan proclaimed through a communiqué that it was “ending its participation” in Feb 20—an announcement immediately put to effect in all local Feb20 groups. Said Fathallah Arsalane, spokesman of the Islamist organization: “Going on protesting in the streets every Sunday with repetitive slogans is pointless and leads nowhere. The movement is a victim of its internal blockages (and ideological discrepancies,) therefore, we don’t see any more margin of progress within it.” (36) In other words, the Islamist organization was OK to coalesce with its secular foes as long as their coalition rocked the Makhzen’s boat. But now that this was not working any more, it saw no point in continuing this unholy alliance.

The Islamists’ secession, however, may turn out a good thing for Feb20. Re-focusing on its original, secular dimension could enable the protest movement to successfully cater to middle-class constituencies (the latter had been neglected when Feb20 had started focusing on working-class neighborhoods, which are either pro-Makhzen or full of Islamists). Secularism and individual freedoms are highly polarizing concepts in Morocco since the independent press started to raise them in the Mid-2000s (37). In other words, both their adversaries and supporters are fervently passionate about these concepts. Yet, while the former—namely, the Islamists—do have political structures of their own, the latter—the secularists—are not politically represented. Filling that gap might turn out a good political redeployment for Feb20: it would enhance the movement’s commitment to democracy in a way that is consistent with its MALI origins, and also affirm its newfound ideological independence vis-à-vis the Islamists. In a public speech delivered on January 6th, 2012, the Support Council’s vice-president (also a top member of AMDH and Annahj), urged Feb20 activists to add “gender equality” to their fundamental demands. An indirect blow to Islamists, this claim fits with the “secularist redeployment” direction explained above.

Still, what Feb20 needs first and foremost is organization. At least among the original nucleus of web-activists, there seems to be a growing awareness that structure, hierarchy and leadership are indispensable to the movement’s revival, if there is to be any. (38) How exactly these things will be implemented remains unclear. There is some talk about transforming the movement into a regular political party, but it seems a daunting challenge given the statuses of Feb20 local groups, and also given the lack of interconnection between them. Another solution would be to join an existing political party. The PSU, who sided the activist movement since its onset, seems the most appropriate choice. During its December 2011 convention, the left party adopted an openly secular platform and offered one-fifth of its congress seats to Feb20 activists. Many of them, notably in Casablanca, seized the opportunity and joined the leftist party. Yet this falls short of soaking up the movement’s lifeblood. More efforts are needed to integrate the maximum members of Feb20.

At the time of writing (March 2012), the freshly appointed Benkirane cabinet still enjoys a honeymoon with the people. This may last a few more months, maybe a year. But then what? The sources of the 2011 revolt are still in place. Corruption, a major factor for discontent, is at peak level. Morocco’s position on Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index has been worsening for years, going from 52nd in 2002 to 80th in 2011. Unemployment is also higher than ever, especially among university graduates (the official rate is 19% in 2011 (39)). Given the depth of these problems and the profound structural reforms that they require, the odds are small that Mr. Benkirane and his government assuage popular anger quickly enough.

With months passing and the economy degrading, in the absence of democratic freedoms developed enough to act like a safety valve, serious street protesting is likely to resume. The question is whether the next round of popular anger will be channeled; and if so, by whom and whether or not this will be done properly to seize the momentum and maintain it while exerting efficient—and this time, focused—pressure on the Makhzen. The PJD cannot play that mobilizing role anymore, now that it has been closely associated to the Makhzen. The remaining activist movements that can do the channeling are Al Adl Wal Ihsan or, maybe, a reformed Feb20-like coalition—provided Morocco’s democratic and secular activists learn lessons from the 2011 fiasco and manage to build a real grassroots movement with an identified and appealing agenda.

Will this ever happen?  The answer depends on the ability of Morocco’s liberals to overcome their divisions, build effective unity and rally behind legitimate national leaders—ones who are able to balance charisma and strong convictions with political wit and strategic finesse. That such people exist, however, is yet to be proven.

Ahmed Benchemsi

This article is a short version of a book chapter from “Taking To The Streets: Activism, Arab Uprisings, and Democratization”, a forthcoming collection co-edited by Lina Khatib (Stanford University) and Ellen Lust (Yale University), to be published in 2013 by Johns Hopkins University Press. 

Imaginez que le chef de l’Etat français soit aussi, dans le même temps, propriétaire de la plus grosse holding privée du pays. Difficile à envisager ? Attendez, cela ne fait que commencer. Imaginez aussi que le secrétaire général de l’Elysée soit le PDG de cette holding. Imaginez que cet homme, ainsi devenu l’homme d’affaires le plus puissant de la République, possède par ailleurs une ribambelle d’entreprises en son nom propre, qui décrochent des concessions ou marchés publics à tour de bras. Inconcevable, dites vous ? Ce n’est pas fini. Imaginez maintenant que le premier ministre prévoie, par décret officiel, d’investirdes millions d’euros d’argent public dans une société privée appartenant au secrétaire général de l’Elysée… Et enfin, le coup de grâce : imaginez que la société en question soit une entreprise fantôme sans locaux ni personnel et qui présente — le pompon — de faux chiffres en guide de plan d’affaires !

Si seulement le dixième de tout cela était vrai, le président français tomberait immédiatement, entraînant le gouvernement, voire la cinquième République dans sa chute. Mais ce qui n’est pour la France qu’une fiction invraisemblable est la réalité crue du Maroc, un pays ami et allié.

Pour ceux qui l’ignorent encore, le roi Mohammed VI est en effet l’actionnaire majoritaire du groupe SNI, qui comprend entre autres la plus grosse banque privée, le plus gros opérateur minier et la plus grosse chaine de distribution du royaume. L’homme qui dirige ce conglomérat tentaculaire, dont le chiffre d’affaires équivalait il y a quelques années à 8% du PIB, s’appelle Mounir Majidi, et il occupe en même temps la fonction de secrétaire particulier de Mohammed VI.

A ce titre, il est le plus proche collaborateur du souverain puisqu’il aménage son agenda, organise ses rencontres, filtre les informations qu’il reçoit, etc. Cette double casquette fait de M. Majidi l’homme le plus détesté par les milieux d’affaires marocains. Forcément : il leur livre, au nom du roi, une concurrence aussi impitoyable que déloyale, vu son influence démesurée sur des organismes financiers comme la Caisse de dépôt et de gestion, le ministère des finances, l’administration des impôts, etc. Mais l’homme d’affaires de la monarchie n’oublie pas ses propres intérêts. Egalement propriétaire de plusieurs entreprises opérant dans divers secteurs, M. Majidi n’hésite pas, pour défendre ses affaires personnelles, à tirer sur les leviers étatiques dont il dispose.

Révélée il y a deux semaines sur le blog de l’auteur de ces lignes, l’affaire BaySys illustre jusqu’à la caricature la mécanique implacable du “Majidi business”, aujourd’hui au cœur de la corruption d’Etat au Maroc.

Ce qu’il faut en retenir : en 2010, le secrétaire particulier de Mohammed VI entre en contact avec BaySys, un équipementier aéronautique américain à la recherche d’un partenaire financier pour le tirer d’une mauvaise passe. Plutôt que sortir son propre chéquier (il en a pourtant les moyens), M. Majidi oriente l’équipementier américain vers Royal Air Maroc (RAM). C’est donc la compagnie aérienne publique qui devra débourser les quelque 25 millions d’Euros dont BaySys avait besoin, en ponctionnant l’argent du contribuable… mais non sans que M. Majidi n’en profite au passage. A cet effet, le Secrétaire particulier du roi crée en août 2010 BaySys Morocco, une coquille vide sans locaux ni personnel qu’il contrôle à 100% via deux sociétés écrans.

Quelques mois plus tard, un décret officiel du Premier ministre marocain Abbas El Fassi autorise la RAM à prendre des parts dans BaySys Morocco. Mieux encore : les prévisions qui justifient cet investissement sont particulièrement fantasques. Il est ainsi prévu que la société de M. Majidi réalise un chiffre d’affaires de 45 millions d’euros et un bénéfice net de 4,3 millions d’euros… dès sa première année d’exercice, et sans qu’aucune hypothèse de calcul n’étaye ces chiffres incroyables ! Le plus aberrant est que ces prévisions peu crédibles ont traversé, sans changement, cinq niveaux de vérification supérieurs de l’Etat marocain : la RAM elle-même, puis le ministère des Finances, la Primature, le Secrétariat général du gouvernement et enfin la Banque Centrale, qui a publié les mêmes chiffres quelques mois plus tard, tels quels, dans un document interne. Les hauts fonctionnaires marocains seraient-ils tous incompétents ? Bien sûr que non. Seulement, à partir du moment où le tout-puissant Secrétaire particulier du roi est impliqué dans une procédure, les commis de l’Etat, aussi haut placés soient-ils, signent ce qu’on leur demande de signer sans poser de questions.

Au final, l’investissement n’a pas eu lieu car l’affaire a capoté pour des raisons qui restent à éclaircir (malgré de multiples relances, les responsables de BaySysInternational sont restés muets). La manière dont tout cela a été goupillé, néanmoins, renseigne sur la nature réelle du régime marocain : un système où les conflits d’intérêts règnent et où le trafic d’influence bat son plein, au plus haut niveau de l’Etat et avec la complicité des autorités élues. Abbas El Fassi, chef d’un parti politique et ancien premier ministre qui a signé le décret BaySys, est aussi, incidemment, le père de Fihr El Fassi, ancien DG de l’une des sociétés de M. Majidi. La société en question, FC Com, domine le marché de l’affichage au Maroc grâce aux conditions extrêmement avantageuses accordées par les municipalités et offices publics. Salaheddine Mezouar, autre chef de parti et ancien ministre des Finances qui a cosigné le décret BaySys, est aussi un des obligés de l’entourage royal. Il a récemment été épinglé pour s’être accordé des primes mirobolantes, au prix d’un échange de faveurs avec Noureddine Bensouda, actuel trésorier général du royaume, ancien directeur des impôts et autre membre de la Cour. Et ainsi de suite…

L’année dernière, pourtant, le Maroc avait lui aussi vécu son “printemps arabe”. Confronté à des manifestants réclamant la démocratie, Mohammed VI avait faitpromulguer une nouvelle Constitution sensée instaurer la “bonne gouvernance” et la “reddition des comptes”. Une réforme qualifiée alors d’“exemplaire” par Nicolas Sarkozy et d’“historique” par Alain Juppé. Jugez plutôt : l’article 36 du nouveau texte fondamental interdit expressément… le trafic d’influence ! —un délit par ailleurs puni de 2 à 5 ans de prison par l’article 250 du code pénal marocain. Mais au Maroc, la théorie est une chose et la pratique en est une autre. Quel procureur serait assez fou pour enclencher des poursuites contre Mounir Majidi, ou en général contre les membres d’une clique couverte par le roi en personne ? Jaafar Hassoun, un juge qui s’était essayé à titiller des proches du monarque, s’est retrouvé en 2011 radié de la magistrature, interdit de se reconvertir dans le barreau et harcelé pour abandonner toute velléité de se lancer en politique.

En l’absence de contre-pouvoirs fonctionnels, la grande corruption s’épanouit librement au Maroc, face à l’apathie grandissante d’une opinion publique désabusée par tant de duplicité. Naguère rugissante, la presse indépendante n’est plus que l’ombre de ce qu’elle était, vaincue par une décennie de harcèlement judiciaire et économique. M. Majidi, également le premier annonceur publicitaire du pays, a démontré sa capacité à boycotter des journaux jusqu’à les acculer à la faillite. Aujourd’hui, les titres de presse les plus courageux peuvent encore épingler des seconds couteaux comme MM. Mezouar ou Bensouda. Mais dès qu’on approche du premier cercle royal, silence général. Il est révélateur que l’affaire BaySys, alors même qu’elle “buzzait” intensément sur Internet et lesréseaux sociaux (elle a même engendré le hashtag #MajidiGate sur Twitter)… n’ait pas été mentionnée par un seul journal marocain. Quant au gouvernement islamiste de Abdelilah Benkirane, élu sur la promesse de lutter contre la corruption, il est tout aussi silencieux. Et pour tout dire, simplement hors sujet.

Ahmed Benchemsi

Cet article a été initialement publié dans Le Monde du 25 juin 2012 sous le titre “La grande corruption règne en maître au Maroc”

ENQUETE EXCLUSIVE. Comment une compagnie publique marocaine prévoit de dépenser l’argent du contribuable dans un projet privé du secrétaire particulier du roi… avec la bénédiction du gouvernement. 

C’est le quotidien L’Economiste qui le dit : « la période comprise entre 2009 et 2011 a été la plus difficile de toute l’histoire de la Royal Air Maroc » (1). Fin 2010, la RAM a en effet enregistré un déficit abyssal de… 930 millions de dirhams ! Pour sauver la compagnie publique de la faillite, l’Etat décidera en septembre 2011 d’y injecter 1,6 milliards de dirhams en augmentation de capital. Dans un effort de pénitence publique, le PDG Driss Benhima s’engagera à réaliser les économies les plus drastiques: licenciement de 1560 salariés (2), vente de tous les « actifs non stratégiques »… La compagnie aérienne va désormais « se concentrer sur son cœur de métier » (3), jure son président.

Un an plus tôt, l’ambiance n’était pas du tout la même. Malgré le déficit historique qui se précisait, la direction de la RAM était encore d’une humeur aventureuse. A l’issue d’un conseil d’administration tenu le 14 septembre 2010, la compagnie décidait en effet d’acquérir 24% de Baysys Morocco, filiale d’une entreprise américaine… d’aménagements aéronautiques de luxe. Plutôt éloignée du « cœur de métier stratégique » de la RAM, cette niche industrielle très étroite consiste à « customiser » des avions pour le compte de richissimes clients, en y installant de salons luxueux, des salles de bains tout confort, des équipements high-tech, etc. Outre les 24% de la RAM, précise le PV du conseil d’administration, le capital de Baysys Morocco sera détenu à 51% par BaySys International, la société-mère américaine, et à 25% par une société marocaine privée du nom de New Assets.

New Assets est une SARL au capital de 100.000 dirhams. Elle appartient à 100% à la société de gestion de portefeuille FC Holding, laquelle appartient à 100% à… Mounir Majidi, secrétaire particulier du roi Mohammed VI et l’homme le plus redouté, courtisé et détesté par les milieux d’affaires marocains. Mais que vient faire l’homme d’affaires de la famille royale, à titre privé, dans le secteur aéronautique ? On le savait dans l’affichage publicitaire et la promotion immobilière, mais d’où vient son nouvel intérêt pour les équipements d’avions de luxe ?

Mounir Majidi. L’homme d’affaires de Mohammed VI n’oublie pas ses intérêts personnels.

L’histoire remonte à 2010 quand, dans des circonstances qui restent à déterminer, Mounir Majidi entre en contact avec Steve Walton, PDG de BaySys International LLC, équipementier aéronautique américain opérant en Virginie. De l’aveu même de M. Walton, « (Baysys International est) une compagnie à visibilité réduite. Nous faisons entrer des avions dans un hangar, nous fermons les portes, et personne ne sait ce que nous sommes en train de faire » (4). Cette propension au secret s’explique par la nature confidentielle des commandes, souvent passées par des dirigeants d’Etats du tiers-monde qui préfèrent rester discrets sur leurs dépenses somptuaires. Au moment où elle noue contact avec le secrétaire particulier de Mohammed VI, la compagnie américaine est en train d’achever, dans un hangar qu’elle loue à la Nasa, le réaménagement intérieur d’un Airbus A-340 (« sur le modèle d’une tente bédouine ») pour le compte d’un Emir du Golfe.

L’équipementier américain, à l’époque, est en grave crise financière. Après le décès en juin 2009 d’un gros client, le dictateur gabonais Omar Bongo, ses successeurs avaient refusé de régler une facture de 10 millions de dollars. BaySys International avait été contrainte de licencier 60 employés et de réduire de 20% les salaires des rescapés. Même si le contrat de l’Airbus du Golfe lui redonne un peu de souffle, la compagnie américaine est encore en sérieuse difficulté. Le loyer du hangar de la NASA, en particulier, grève ses comptes d’une manière exorbitante. La compagnie doit impérativement se redéployer, et son PDG le déclare clairement : « Nous avons besoin de deux choses : un hangar et un partenaire financier » (5).

En juin 2010, Steve Walton semble avoir trouvé ce qu’il cherchait… au Maroc. A l’agence de presse Reuters, il déclare que BaySys International a « signé un accord avec un investisseur régional stratégique en vue d’installer une plateforme industrielle à Casablanca (…) en vue d’y exécuter des aménagements intérieurs pour avions de VIP et chefs d’Etat » (6). Qui est ce mystérieux « investisseur régional stratégique » ? Pas la RAM, puisque son conseil d’administration ne donnera le feu vert pour cette opération que 3 mois plus tard. Ne reste que M. Majidi, dans le rôle de « l’apporteur d’affaires ». Mais le secrétaire particulier de Mohammed VI cherche visiblement à garder son identité secrète—notamment vis-à-vis de la classe d’affaires marocaines, qui l’accuse de mettre à profit sa position auprès du roi pour obtenir des conditions et avantages inaccessibles au commun des investisseurs (7). Ce qui va suivre démontre clairement la pertinence de cette accusation : un parfait cas d’école du « Majidi business », avec de forts relents de trafic d’influence.

Le 19 août 2010, une société du nom de BaySys Morocco est enregistrée en toute discrétion au registre de commerce de Casablanca. Dotée d’un capital de 50.000 dirhams, la nouvelle société est détenue à 100% par Mounir Majidi via deux sociétés écrans, New Assets et FC Holding. La SARL, dont l’objet social est « L’aménagement et maintenance des avions »… n’a ni locaux ni personnel. Son siège social est domicilié chez FC Com, compagnie d’affichage publicitaire appartenant à M. Majidi (8), dans le quartier d’affaires Sidi Maarouf à Casablanca. Et son unique dirigeant est un certain Saïd Hassani, 40 ans, par ailleurs administrateur de FC Com. Clairement pas un professionnel de « l’aménagement et maintenance des avions… »

Selon toute évidence, M. Majidi, qui ne connaît rien au secteur aéronautique, s’est contenté de créer une coquille vide qu’il pourra utiliser le moment venu pour toucher des dividendes sur une joint-venture entre spécialistes. BaySys International va apporter ses cadres et son savoir-faire. Mais qui fournira « le hangar et le partenaire financier » dont M. Walton a besoin ? Certainement pas BaySys Morocco, vu sa nature quasi-clandestine et sa sous-capitalisation manifeste. Reste la RAM…

Mais il y a un petit souci : la RAM est une entreprise publique, qui ne peut investir dans une entreprise privée sans autorisation officielle du gouvernement. Début 2011, cette autorisation est encore plus malaisée à demander vu l’état de quasi-faillite de la compagnie aérienne, qui vient de perdre près d’un milliard de dirhams en un an. Ce n’est donc vraiment pas le moment de s’engager dans des fantaisies comme la customisation d’avions de luxe… Un tel projet, pour sûr, serait sèchement rejeté par n’importe quel gouvernement sérieux et comptable de ses actes. Il faut croire que le gouvernement de l’époque ne correspond pas à cette définition… et que M. Majidi a un pouvoir de persuasion hors normes.

S. Mezouar, ministre des Finances, et A. El Fassi, Premier ministre. Au meilleur des cas, ils ne savent pas ce que c’est qu’un business plan.

Le 1^er février 2011, Abbas El Fassi, Premier ministre marocain, et Salaheddine Mezouar, ministre de l’Economie et des Finances, signent conjointement un décret gouvernemental autorisant la RAM à acquérir 24% dans « la société de projet Baysys Morocco SA dotée d’un capital de 1,5 millions de dollars US. » Au moment de la signature du décret, BaySys Morocco n’est encore qu’une SARL au capital de 50.000 DH (6000 dollars US). Comme l’indique l’intitulé « société de projet », l’idée consiste donc, sitôt le feu vert du gouvernement obtenu, à transformer la SARL en SA et à augmenter son capital (en le multipliant par 250 !) par apport des associés. Comparé au volume d’affaires de la RAM, la dépense nécessaire pour contrôler 24% de la future entité n’est pas très grosse, à peine 360.000 dollars (2,8 MDH). Mais la compagnie de Driss Benhima a de l’ambition pour sa nouvelle filiale : un investissement global de 31 millions de dollars (248 MDH) va y être consacré, dont les deux tiers pour la construction du fameux hangar dont M. Walton a besoin. L’investissement total, plus de 250 millions de dirhams, est pour le coup conséquent. Aussi désireux soient-ils de faire plaisir à M. Majidi, MM. El Fassi et Mezouar ont quand même besoin d’un minimum d’arguments pour justifier une telle dépense – surtout si elle doit être consentie par une compagnie publique au bord de la faillite, et pour le sauvetage de laquelle l’Etat s’apprête à débourser 1 milliard et demi de dirhams.

Du coup, le décret officiel qui autorise l’opération présente des justifications… stupéfiantes. On apprend ainsi que Baysys Morocco compte réaliser en 2011, soit dès sa première année d’activité, un bénéfice de 5,4 millions de dollars pour un chiffre d’affaires de 57 millions de dollars… alors que le hangar et ses aménagements, c’est-à-dire l’outil de travail principal de la compagnie, n’existe pas encore ! Mieux : dès 2015, annonce le décret du Premier ministre, le chiffre d’affaires de BaySys Morocco atteindra 249 millions de dollars et son bénéfice net 28 millions de dollars… soit une augmentation continue de près de 50% chaque année ! Ces chiffres astronomiques sont-ils crédibles ? MM. El Fassi et Mezouar ne semblent pas en douter une seule seconde. C’est écrit noir sur blanc dans leur décret officiel (et aussi dans un rapport interne de Bank Al Maghrib, qui reprendra le décret mot pour mot deux mois plus tard) : « La rentabilité de BaySys Morocco est démontrée, tel qu’il ressort de son plan d’affaires ». Même le plus inexpérimenté des chefs d’entreprise vous le dira : il est absurde de prétendre que la rentabilité d’une société qui n’a pas encore démarré est « démontrée »… avec pour unique argument des projections futures dont les hypothèses de calcul sont inconnues.

Le fin mot de l’histoire, c’est que la joint-venture BaySys—RAM—Majidi… n’a jamais été réalisée ! Le PDG de la RAM Driss Benhima, que l’auteur de cet article a pu joindre au téléphone, a parlé de « projet mort-né », tout en rejetant la faute sur les Américains qui n’auraient « pas apporté le volume d’affaires promis ». A l’heure où ces lignes sont publiées, les responsables de BaySys International étaient injoignables.

Reste une question fondamentale : est-ce éthiquement défendable, qu’une compagnie publique au bord de la banqueroute décide d’investir l’argent du contribuable marocain (jusqu’à 250 millions de dirhams !!)… dans un projet privé appartenant au secrétaire particulier du roi, et ce, avec l’autorisation officielle du gouvernement ?

Driss Benhima, PDG de la RAM. L’homme qui ne sait pas dans quoi il investit.

L’auteur de ces lignes a posé cette question clairement à Driss Benhima. Lequel a eu cette réponse surprenante : « Ah bon, la personne que vous citez (NDLR : en référence à M. Majidi) était un partenaire de cette opération ? Première nouvelle ! » Voilà donc le PDG d’une entreprise publique, qui préside un conseil d’administration autorisant un partenariat financier, puis qui envoie une lettre au gouvernement demandant l’autorisation officielle de conclure ce même partenariat… tout en ignorant l’identité de son partenaire ?! « Je ne sais pas qui, chez nous, a envoyé la lettre au gouvernement », s’est défaussé le PDG de la RAM. Confronté à la raison sociale dudit partenaire, il a ajouté : « New Assets ? Maintenant que vous le dites, ça tinte une cloche dans ma tête, mais sans plus. J’ai dû penser que c’étaient des Américains, puisque le nom est en anglais… » On n’est pas obligé, bien sûr, de croire M. Benhima sur parole. Mais même si on le fait, son « manque de curiosité » relève au minimum d’une grave négligence quant à la gestion de l’argent public dont il a la charge…

Même si elle n’a pas abouti, l’affaire BaySys été actée, on ne peut plus officiellement, par un décret du Premier ministre – la plus haute forme d’approbation du gouvernement. Qu’est-ce ce qui en fait une « affaire » ? Ce simple constat : le gouvernement du Maroc a donné son feu vert pour dépenser l’argent du contribuable dans une société fantôme présentant des chiffres fantasmatiques. Qui d’autre que M. Majidi aurait pu obtenir un tel feu vert dans de telles conditions ? Il y a visiblement matière à enquête sur une violation de l’article 36 de la Constitution, qui interdit  le trafic d’influence. Au strict minimum, nous avons là un sujet de question orale au Parlement… à condition, bien sûr, qu’un député marocain ait le courage d’évoquer publiquement une affaire impliquant le secrétaire particulier de Sa Majesté.

Egalement contacté par l’auteur de cet article, Saïd Hassani, homme de confiance de Mounir Majidi et administrateur de BaySys Morocco, New Assets et FC Com, a déclaré, après avoir été informé de l’objet de l’appel : « Je suis en réunion, rappelez moi plus tard ». Puis il n’a plus répondu au téléphone.

Ahmed Benchemsi

One year after his presentation on Morocco’s “Subtle dictatorship”, the blog’s author comes back to the Oslo Freedom Forum to participate in a panel titled ” The Arab Uprisings: One year later”. This is an hour-long (yet fascinating) discussion on where the Arab Spring is at, and is heading to. Held in Oslo on May 8th, 2012, the debate features talented bloggers and activists Lina Ben Mhenni (Tunisia), Maryam Al Khawaja (Bahrain), Ghazi Gheblawi (Libya) and Amir Ahmad (Sudan), and is animated by the BBC’s Philippa Thomas.