When you look into the eyes of a Moroccan you see despair. You see oppression, you see depression. You see disappointment and helplessness. You see ashes of a life. Sometimes you sense vice but then you look into the eyes and they tell you the truth. They always do. It is not vice; it’s the face of a rebellion against an ugly chronic misery.
You hear complaints. Nothing works (quite the contrast to “just works”). Public servants suck bribes from citizens. The powerful are above the law. The weak are abused beyond the law. Traffic is lawless. Education is mindless. Young men spend their evenings and nights in cafes and corners. Young women spend their evenings and nights being harassed at every corner. Streets are dirty. Sewage flows through the city. Police never picks up the phone. Firemen act like they don’t have a phone… it gets too loud! Too loud! It feels heavy.
Each complaint feels like an iron anchor. With all these anchors, it feels impossible to go anywhere. Eventually, the inner self is crushed leaving a void filled by nothingness. In the nothingness grows defeatism, helplessness, wishful beliefs in magic and miracle, disbelief in hard work and personal ability. In the nothingness grows misery.
From the misery springs an evil sense of opportunism, a disrespect for any kind of rule or principle and a pure animalistic survival-driven behavior akin to the Hellenic stereotype of barbarians.
It sounds like a perfect vicious circle; impossible to break. Except, it is not. All these cries are merely symptoms of the same disease: injustice.
With a well functioning justice, all the pieces fall into place and the machinery works. For the price we pay, fixing justice is, no doubt, cheap.
Maybe we should all start there!