- The author was born in Ouazzane, Morocco and decided at a young age not to live a restricted life like the women in her city who always wore white and seemed sad. - She graduated high school in 1998 in Rabat and realized the difficulties of having to support oneself. Despite years of schooling, she felt she learned little that was useful except principles from books on history and religion that often degraded women. - Journalism appealed to her and she pursued it in school, learning the inequalities in Moroccan society and that advancing often required bowing to those in power. Her investigative reporting on issues like prostitution and treatment of maids drew harassment and legal threats. - Facing

1. About me:
I was born in the city of Ouazzane, Morocco. I decided at a young age that I would not live the
same life my mother and other women in this city have. they’ve always been shrouded in white
garments and looked sad. (white being the color of mourning in Morocco). I decided not to live a
grey life, one that did not allow other colors to shine, or happiness.
In Ouazzane, this small, conservative and sad city, I discovered a world that spanned beyond the
metal bars on our windows. A world that was bigger and wider than the rooms of the school that
I longed to go to.
I graduated from Abraham Al-Rodany in Rabat in 1998, with a high school diploma. Only then
did I realize the meaning behind the smile on my math teacher's face in elementary school, when
he used to say to us "I envy you because you are still young with nothing to worry about except
your studies. You don't have to think about how to support yourself or how you must buy shoes
for your kids because their toes have started showing, not even the rent, only your books!". I
realized the significance of the smile because only then did I have to face the obstacles of life.
Despite spending all those years in school, I hardly learned anything useful. I had nothing but
principles I have learned reading books about the French revolution and the European
renaissance. Other than that, the only information I had was from the Islamic education teacher,
who made me feel less than nothing every time I would debate with her some ambiguous Islamic
texts (Hadiths) degrading women and portraying them as stupid.
Journalism chose me when I successfully passed the entry tests at School of Media and
Communications in Rabat. I spent the following four years absorbing information and satisfying
a thirst for knowledge and trying to use my brain, not put it aside like my Islamic studies teacher
said I should do.
During these four years I learned that Moroccans are not all equal and that our last names and
family wealth dictated how we should be treated. I also learned every time you bow down and
kiss the masters’ hands, you move forward and get promoted. I learned that you cannot discuss
free ideas with your colleagues because they would accuse you of being an infidel or a prostitute
at best.
It always pained me to see people selling their mothers and daughters out of desperation to
wealthy foreigners, who would come to Morocco to satisfy their sexual needs. Therefore, I
decided to work on an investigative report. Disguised as prostitutes, I went to brothels, which
ironically were located right next to mosques in the fanciest neighborhoods in Rabat. I
discovered that Moroccan universities, High Schools and even Elementary Schools have turned
into hotbeds for rich males coming from Gulf countries looking for young, virgin and beautiful
poor girls for sex. I finished the investigation with a broken heart. But no one wanted to publish
it. Until 2003, when Assahifa managing editor decided to take the risk and publish it.
When a close friend read the report, he was shocked that I would not only put something like this
out there, but that I actually used my real name in the byline. I remember his angry words
coming through the phone "are you crazy? Do you think you are in Sweden? We are in

2. Morocco." He added that people will think one of two things; either I was a prostitute myself,
and that’s how I know much about the subject, or that I am a liar and the report cannot be true.
Sadly, my friend was right. Within a few hours of publishing the report, many “journalists” and
“colleagues” called me and harassed me and asked me if I had sex with strangers during my
investigation. I was shocked by their reaction. I was sad and angry because everybody knew that
wealthy sheikhs from the Gulf pay their way to have sex with very young Moroccan girls all
over the kingdom, yet some Moroccans decide to live like ostriches, with their behinds in the
air and their small heads stuck in the sand. That same year, I received an award by the Moroccan
Writers Union for my collection of short stories “A Taste of Pain”. I was suffering in silence
and pouring my heart onto papers, trying to stand up to a society that remained silent before the
suffering of helpless poor girls, who had to sell their bodies to old, sick wealthy men.
I moved to a different magazine, Telquel, where the managing editor gave me a chance to
pursue my dreams. I specialized in investigative journalism, reporting on local community
issues. One of my project was to disguise as a maid and report on how maids are treated in
some circles in Morocco. So, I worked as a maid for a week and I wrote about what a maid was
expected to provide on daily basis. Basically, they are supposed to play several roles, but a
human’s. This time the article was published in French, the language of the people who control
Morocco and the reaction was powerful. I felt I was giving a voice to the voiceless and my hard
work could make a difference.
After that I chose to write about beggars, who were becoming the infamous face of Morocco.
Later on, I was granted a student visa to the US, and It was the ray of hope that I had never seen
before. . I was a student in my last year and I was suffering in silence.
At that time, there was a lawsuit against me, filed by a hairdresser who worked for the
Moroccan royal family. He complained that I mentioned his high prices in an article I wrote
about the cost of living for students in Morocco. The hairdresser felt “insulted”, he claimed. One
day he barked in the newsroom “you don't know who I am, you scum. I am the barber of his
majesty… I will teach you an important lesson. You should never write about masters."
Moreover, someone from the Saudi Embassy in Rabat barged into the newsroom where I
worked and said he would like to drag me by my hair to “teach her a lesson for writing about
Saudis”, who come to Morocco for prostitution.
After going through all this, I felt like an orphan in my own country, where I was denied my
rights and looked down on because I do not hold a very well-known family name or come from
a rich family. I had to fight for myself and for all the girls of my generation. I knew that the
only weapon I had was education. I left Morocco to pursue my dreams without fear of
persecution and execution. I came to a country where I feel safe and empowered as a woman. A
country where the sky is the limit.