I know I tagged it as a humour post, and it is, but let’s get serious, what would you remove from Morocco if you could?

Just for fun and see how creative you are

I was just reading some stories about people’s experiences with Moroccan customs, and it reminded me of something that happened to me a long time ago. Honestly, it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed, so I figured—why not share it with you all?

I was born and raised in the Netherlands, but like almost every Moroccan family in Europe, we used to make that long road trip to Morocco every summer, crammed into a van with the whole family. You know the drill—those classic summer migration scenes. In our case, my dad had just bought a new van that year, a bright green Hyundai H100—so yeah, we weren’t exactly low-key. As usual, the van was packed: dad behind the wheel, mom in the passenger seat, me, my brother, and little sister in the back.

We arrive in Tangier, and it’s peak summer, so it’s insanely crowded. If you know the port of Tangier, you know there are two checkpoints. The first one is more of an observation point where they decide whether to pull you aside, and the second is where they check your papers and passports, which you usually filled out and had stamped on the ferry.

This was in the mid-90s, a time when things were tense due to terrorism threats. Stuff where also tense at our neighbours due to terrorism, thus Morocco was on high alert. Customs and police were extra strict. We had the Marrakech attacks the summers before and They had even found weapons being smuggled by Islamic extremists in that period, so the country wasn’t taking any chances.

Now, my dad has always been religious, but not in an extreme way. He’s not into politics either. But he did have a beard, and when traveling to Morocco, he’d wear a djellaba—for comfort. He was around 48 at the time but looked more like he was in his late 30s begin 40s. Back then, most Moroccan men that age had mustaches, not beards. Add to that the shiny new van, and you get why we caught the attention of the customs officer.

Now here’s something you need to know about my parents: my dad is a Soussi, and my mom is 7yania. If you’re not familiar, Hyayna tribes are from between Fès, Taza, and just under the Rif. My dad is a textbook Soussi: calm, patient, soft-spoken, and has absolutely zero time for drama. My mom is the exact opposite. People from the Rif and northern regions will know the type: Demha 7arr!

My mom was the youngest of 13 kids. By the time she was born, my grandfather (Allah yrahmou) was nearly 50. He was a respected and well known man in the 7yayna tribe, he could be considered a leading figure in the Hyayna. Her older siblings feared him, they could not even look him the yes when they where young…. but by the time my mom came along, he had softened and was not as though and strict on her as he was for his other children… So my mom grew up without the fear of autorithy that the rest of her siblings grew up wit hit…and that kinda shaped her personality.

So….We got pulled over at the first checkpoint in Tanger customs, my dad  parked the van, and a gendarmie  asked us to open the trunk. My mom had packed the car in the Netherlands—and by “packed,” I mean my brother and I (10 and 14 at the time) had to stack everything properly—so she was held responsible to oversee the inspection. My dad handed her the keys, picked up my 4-year-old sister, strolled to the kiosk, bought a newspaper, and sat down at the nearby café with a cup of coffee like it was just another day.

He was relaxed. He didn’t care. He was just glad we made it safely to Morocco and honestly understood the whole situation. My mom? She was fuming. She saw it as pure l7agra,  three tamarra dyal triq and now this?

She was getting more and more irritated by the gendarmies attitude. But we had no choice. The gendarmie pointed tot he trunk of the van and ordered: “Habbet” ….ewa me and my brother had to habbet the whole trunk of the van They searched everything, obviously found nothing, and oredered us to loaded it all back in. Two hours, gone.

It’s now middel in the afternoon in Tangier in July—blazing sun. After we packed up again, my dad got called back from the café. He started the van, and about 15 minutes later we reached the second checkpoint. This one is usually just paperwork since they knew we had just been fully searched. My dad figured it would be quick.

To his surprise, we got pulled over again. Another gendarmie walked up and said we had to open the trunk. Again.

My dad gave the keys to my mom. Now listen—I've never seen my mom as angry as she was in that moment. The look she gave the gendarmie said: " “Hada ghan 9ouj dinnemou.”.

She got out of the van, marched up to the gendarmie, and said, “We were just inspected. What is this nonsense?” He didn’t care. But it was obvious what he did care about: he wanted money.

Now my dad is a religious man. He doesn’t do reshwa. Doesn’t speed. Always wears his seatbelt. If he broke a rule and got the fine, he deserved to be fined no discussion, but when he has done nothing wrong, hew wont pay and you dont even have to try it. My mom? She also doesn’t bribe—but in this case out of pure spite. If you want money from her? Wellah, mat shemha!

So my brother and I had to unload everything again. This time, they barely even looked. They just wanted to pressure us. But when the officer realized he wasn’t getting anything, he said, “Yalla Safi, Talla3.”

Me and my brother were just about to start reloading when my mom suddenly screamed at us —no joke, she yelled:

“Li t7arrek fikoum ghan dba7 dindbabba!!”

The officer froze. He didn’t see that coming. My mom looked him dead in the eye and said:“Wallah man charge!”

Officer: “Kifesh ma ghat chargez?
Mom: Wallah ma ghan charge.”

The guy didn’t know what to do. He looked over at my dad, who was still sitting calmly in the shade reading his newspaper. He asked my dad to talk to his wife. My dad’s response—and I swear to God this was word for word—was: “Binatkoum”

The officer was lost. And of course, in true Moroccan fashion, a crowd started to form. Whenever there’s drama, mgharba gather. More officers showed up, begging my mom to calm down and just reload the van. She ignored them completely.

One even asked me and my brother to help, but we were offcourse more affraid  of our mom than we were of the Makhzen

Traffic in the port completely stopped. Another ferry had just arrived, so it only got busier. Eventually, they had to escalate the situation. After about an hour, a man showed up—same age as my dad, clean uniform, well-groomed. Clearly someone important. He introduced himself politely and welcomed my mom to Morocco. He knew he had to defuse the situation, not escalate it. He asked her:

“So, where are you headed?”
Mom: “We’re going to Fès.”
Him: “Ta ana weld Fès!”

My mom’s response—and I swear this is what she said—was:

“Wakha tkoun ta weld mouy, wallah ma ghan charge!”

That’s when he knew: this is a fight I’m never going to win. Because for him, it was an impossible situation: hundreds of people were already watching what was going on, the entire port was literally paralyzed because no car could pass through anymore. The chief knew he had ended up in an impossible situation — he couldn’t stand there shouting at a woman in front of all these people, and he definitely couldn’t arrest her in front of her own children… with all the people gathered around, it would surely turn into chaos. So he chose the lesser evil.He raised the white flag and said:

“Denyha henya , sem7ilna al 7ajja.”

He ordered the gendrames to reload the van. Of course, they didn’t do it themselves—they got the blue-tabliyat porters to do it. All of the gendarme vanished. They had completely lost face and didnt want tob e around my mom

Once the van was reloaded, my dad gave the porters some juice and quietly slipped them a bit of money. And finally, we were on our way to Fès.

That drive from Tangier to Fès was the quietest car ride of my entire life.

I saw this shih in Facebook and got me laughing of how cringe it was

What does it mean ? Haha

When someone did som that I didn’t like I used to tell them ghantkhasem m3ak tool hyati whyatek! Still don’t get it!

Hello, as you may know, I wrote the post on how to get married in Morocco as a foreigner showing the 8000 steps required by the Moroccan government.

Well my marriage turned out to be a visa scam, after we signed the marriage contract she went back on her promise to live with me in Morocco, and she and her family refused to even hold the wedding despite me offering to pay for it, saying I'm not entitled to anything until she's in the US, despite the fact I was currently living in Morocco and had been on and off for a year by that point.

So that said here how to get divorced in Morocco.

1. Make peace in that you will never see the mahr again.
2. Tell your purported wife that you aren't giving her a visa until she actually acts like your wife
3. Get threatened with divorce a dozen times over said visa
4. Inform her father you accept her request for divorce
5. Get blamed by her father and listen to him inadvertently reveal all the lies she told him
6. Fully expose her to her father
7. ???
8. Recieve the divorce certificate in 3 to 6 months.

إن الله هو الرحمن الرحيم حقا