I’m not Elias El Amari, or Gerando… The End of a Lie!!
Since I began to narrate the story as the honorable people in this country have lived it, the tale of the weasel that gnawed at the wall from the inside, and when I decided to open the files of Elias El Amari and reveal some of his secrets, based on the leaks from Dr. Mustafa Aziz, warnings flooded in like alerts before a storm. Calls, messages, whispers from friends and acquaintances, all repeating to me: “Beware of the weasel… watch out for the godfather.”
Calls and messages kept coming, all playing the same tune: “Be careful… don’t get close to the godfather.”
He is the one who carved his own nickname—The Weasel. He is the one who marketed himself as a godfather, shrouded in mystery, then sat back to watch how fools swallowed the bait of his aura. How many friends became followers, and how many activists turned into puppets in the hands of a confused political imagination, believing he was above accountability, above criticism, and above the voice of the homeland.
But since when does a “godfather” hide behind titles? Since when has mystery been a passport to a sacrosanct status?
The truth, simply put: Elias was nothing but a project to play in the shadows, a man who excels at digging clandestinely more than he does at building openly.
The political and national arena spat him out when it became clear that he was skilled in drawing narratives of slander directed against the symbols of the nation and its officials, secretly of course, and through traitors who shed their national skins, devoured the profits, and insulted the faith.
He used to sell electoral endorsements like one sells dates in a dusty market, before being cast aside by those around him as one discards a bitter seed.
As for the aura he surrounded himself with, it was his own creation: titles like “The Weasel” and “The Godfather,” and the myth of an invincible man flourished from those who believed in him, or who used him, or who feared his reaction.
I surely won’t forget an absurd scene etched in my memory—when Elias sat in one of the bars, inciting a journalist against a national official, believing that a handful of dirhams would suffice to buy a pen.
When he was taken by surprise by the noble late journalist Jamal Barawi, he wanted to rescue the situation, so he pulled out two thousand dirhams from his pocket while the bill was only two hundred dirhams, not out of generosity, but out of panic.
This is how small wars are fought… with fragility.
As for Gerando, that’s an insignificant chapter from a poor narrative. A hollow voice, expressing nothing but the disappointment of a man who turned his back on his mother before turning his back on his homeland.
He was used as a digital puppet, then believed the role, and began braying in every direction, thinking he was frightening those in the mountains.
Yet, as I write, I fear neither the barking of the weasels nor the poison of the godfathers.
If I’m seen as a “weasel” in their eyes, let them know that I am a lioness from the Atlas, unfazed by storms, and I won’t sell principles for a pittance.
I am the daughter of the march, raised to believe that dignity cannot be measured by the number of threats but by your ability to tell the truth when others remain silent.
I came from this country, and I write about it, not because I seek enmity but because I believe that the homeland is safeguarded only by voices that cannot be bought.
I wrote for the dignity I want for my children, which I refuse to squander at auctions, nor to reduce to false images of a man history rejected before his voice faded away.
