In earlier posts, I set out hard evidence of betrayal, theft, appropriation, and crime. Here, I add something different: context. The world in which my mother lived, the discussions she had with her sister, my aunt Colette, and me before she was killed, and the questions that remain.

The theft inside the house, just months before her death, cannot be separated from those concerns. In the winter of 2017–2018, during what would turn out to be my mother’s final winter, a chilling event unfolded inside my parents’ home in Casablanca.

Upon my mother’s return from France, where she had gone to visit her sister, she discovered that our family’s safe, which had been inside the house, had been stolen.

That safe was very heavy. It was bolted to a wall and hidden behind a private door in the upstairs closet of my mother’s bedroom. Only she and my father used it.

Yet the safe itself had been extracted from the cement wall and taken out of the house. It was gone. In its place was a giant hole in the wall.

Mom was in her eighties then, and Dad had passed away. There was a lifetime of souvenirs and valuables in that safe, none of which could be replaced. Beyond values, these were pieces of memory, moments past, identity, and love.

Within it were some of my parents’ most treasured possessions, both in meaning and value. Gifts from my dad to my mom, gold jewelry, diamond earrings, my father’s own wedding ring, my grandfather’s watch, family paperwork, legal documents, saved money, and much more.

All heartlessly stolen.

My mother was devastated.

Nothing else was stolen from the house. Nothing else was out of place. No lock was broken.

Did the thief know what he was looking for? Did the thief know precisely where to look? Did the thief have access?

It happened while she was away. Did the thief know that, too? 

And dislodging that safe from the wall was not a task for the weak. How strong did one have to be to remove it and to carry it?

And how could someone remove that heavy and large safe from the house without being noticed? Is it possible someone actually drove their car inside the gates to put the safe in it before driving away with it? But who could have done that without standing out?

It did not seem possible without the unthinkable. Someone who would not stand out. My mother was worried. And troubled. And afraid.

Soufiane Elkabous didn’t have so many questions. Without any evidence, he promptly blamed my mother’s long-time maid, Rashida.

Never mind; she was away with her family while Mom was traveling. Never mind that she could not physically remove the safe from the wall or carry it to a car. Never mind that she didn’t know how to drive or have a driver’s license. Never mind that she would have stood up if she had gone into the house in the middle of the night. For Elkabous, all those facts were irrelevant. It was her.

Rashida had started working for my parents part-time when my father was still alive, before switching to full-time employment four years before this event. She had been deeply supportive of my mother as she was reeling from the loss of my father, and she was always present, always attentive. This woman was a single mother with children, including one with challenges. Her oldest son would watch the other kids while she was at work, and she would go home every night, about an hour away, commuting by bus.

She loved both my parents and treated them as her own family. Nothing had ever disappeared from our home. My mother entrusted her with items of value all the time, and she could have easily monetized them without the hard labor required for this operation.

Rashida was the last person my mother suspected and would ever suspect of the theft. The last person I suspected, too.

Despite her growing concerns about Elkabous’ behavior, temper changes, and actions since my father’s death, and his intimidating behavior towards her, my mother rejected his unjustified accusation against Rashida, refused to fire the maid as he demanded, and, in fact, asked her to stay. Despite the humiliation and fear, Rashida remained by her side.

Although it did seem that the betrayal came from within the very walls of her home, she knew it was not Rashida. And, as she did, the picture became darker.

Privately, my mother confided her concerns to my aunt, her sister Colette, and to me. She openly stated that she did not believe the theft had occurred as Elkabous claimed. This crime was executed with precision and insider knowledge. She had her own strong suspicions, grounded in logic and circumstance, which she expressed to my aunt and to me. And they were far more plausible than Elkabous the fraudster’s story. And they were scary. Could it be? Mom believed so.

At the time, Mom didn’t think it could get worse. Sadly, she was wrong. The theft of the safe didn’t turn out to be an isolated incident. It proved to be part of a sequence of events that would lead to her death, and, beyond her death, to property theft, identity theft, bank theft, and more.

At my mother’s funeral, Rashida came to my parents’ house to pay her respects. The thief promptly forced her out in front of neighbors and friends, creating a scene that left those present dismayed but impressed enough to recall it to this day, and too intimidated to intervene.

Rashida still came to the cemetery. I saw her hiding by a tree, just a few steps from my aunt and me. She was crying and praying. I thanked her. We hugged. We kissed. She paid her respects, in private. Rashida was not the one responsible for the theft.

I have received many messages of support since the beginning of this blog, in addition to my aunt’s, almost all accompanied by a request for anonymity, most often explained as fear for their safety or that of their family. Some have even promised to take action, only to disappear, like others before them.

But, although it may seem riskier to confront this evil for those who live in Morocco, isn’t it even more critical for them to fight this battle together, lest today’s silence condemns everyone’s tomorrows?

Since launching this blog in July, I have documented a clear pattern of criminal behavior. Let me summarize what has been established:

The Foundation:

• Soufiane Elkabous seized a foundation created to help others and used it for his personal needs.
• He stole my father’s name and used it to create a false image of legitimacy.
• He pretended he was related.

The Safe and Documents:

• He broke into my mother’s private safe, in her bedroom, on the day of her death. Before she was even buried.
• He stole everything inside.
• He forged documents, inventing debts for my parents years after their death.
• He filed the forged documents in national registries, thus corrupting the very integrity of those registries.

The House:

• He occupies the home my parents left me, a house that is not his, without right or title.
• He stripped the house of all my parents’ belongings, everything it contained.

The Bank Accounts:

• He plundered my mother’s bank accounts at the BMCI Val D’Anfa branch after her death, without any authorization. 

Identity theft. Burglary. Theft. Forgery and uttering. Illegal occupation. Inheritance spoliation. Embezzlement. Breach of trust. 

These facts are established. Documented. Admitted by Elkabous himself. Together, they reveal a pattern of criminal behavior spanning years. He does not even bother denying them. In fact, he boasts about them. The law does not apply to him.

Still, no consequences. Still, no investigation.

Still, I will keep going.

And there is more. Next, I will share an event that occurred before my mother’s death, the winter before she was killed, an experience she discussed with my aunt and me, concerns she shared, fears she expressed, and what she believed about it.

The pattern did not begin in August 2018. It began much earlier.

And Mom knew it.

I want to pay tribute to my aunt Colette, my mother’s beloved sister, for choosing to share this testimony. Tati Colette, as my brother Karim and I used to call her, has always remained close to my parents and to me, in moments of happiness as well as in times of hardship.

She was by Mom’s side and with her at Dad’s bedside when he was hospitalized in Bordeaux or in Rabat. She is still at our side, facing this injustice today.

“We left Morocco at the end of 1977 after eighteen years spent in that beautiful country. At that time, Soufiane Elkabous was still just a child, far from what he would later become.

Later, as an adolescent in total academic failure, he rejected the education that my brother-in-law, M’Jid, and my sister, Pierrette, tried to give him.

When we saw him again in Morocco fifteen years later, he had become an adult, physically imposing, already temperamental, unmanageable, authoritarian, and aggressive. And in the many times we crossed paths with him afterward, he only confirmed this image.

After serving in the gendarmerie, from which he was eventually dismissed for questionable behavior, he had already become the owner of several apartments, luxury cars, and had ready cash at his disposal. On a gendarme’s salary!

Away from the M’Jid family, he even bragged about regularly paying colleagues to replace him at his gendarme post during his shift, ordering them to ‘turn their backs’ when suspicious shipments were announced to him.

After that, his assets multiplied very quickly: La Notte, a farm, a beauty salon, studios rented out by the half-day, and, of course, always more cash. Who can accumulate so many assets without really working? We never got an answer.

Little by little, his ties with the M’Jid family weakened. Contacts became rarer. He lived his shady life away from us. The M’Jid family, asking themselves questions, were afraid to understand. M’Jid himself, out of dismay, had even asked him to be less present and not to flaunt his luxury cars in front of the family home.

One day, my sister told him someone had bothered her during her morning walk, and he went out of the house and beat up the first poor man he came across in the street, even though he knew he was not the culprit! This innocent man was severely injured. One hundred and fifty kilos against fifty… such ‘bravery’!

He had become, and he has remained, brutal, closed to dialogue, rejecting reasonable discussion and never tolerating dissent. Surrounded by cowardly, self-interested sycophants, on their knees and at his service, he frightens his employees, whom he treats like slaves.

After M’Jid’s death, my sister came to our home in France more often. During her stays with us, we clearly observed that she would go two or three weeks without any contact with him. Their relationship was deeply strained. We were relieved, because he was hurting my sister and had never deserved the affection that the whole M’Jid family had given him.

Ungrateful, he knew only how to impose himself through uncontrolled violence.

After the death of my dear brother-in-law and sister, the parents of my niece Asma, he decided, through clearly fraudulent maneuvers, to rob her of everything. He moved into the family home, and he emptied my sister’s bank account.

Asma cannot even safely travel to Morocco to recover her inheritance, as she is directly threatened by Elkabous and his mafia network, which he pays to execute his orders outside of the law.

I myself underwent a humiliating and threatening check at Casablanca airport by one of his men, who clearly told me he wanted to prevent me from leaving after my brother-in-law’s funeral.

May all those who knew and loved her parents give their support to Asma. She cannot fight this battle alone. She needs each and every one of you. Thank you.

It comes from the heart.”

— Colette

It should no longer be necessary to bring further testimony about the criminal Elkabous after all I and others have already revealed. His actions speak for themselves, so long as one does not decide to ignore them. Yet, it seemed important to me to make an exception here and share the perspective of a family member who knew him from the beginning with us all the way to what he has become today, a blight on society.  Asma

After exposing how Soufiane Elkabous illegally appropriated the M’Jid name and turned the MJID Foundation from a public-serving institution into a tool for self-promotion, a quiet change appeared quietly, behind the scenes, on the foundation’s website.

For years, the usurper displayed the fake name “Soufiane Elkabous M’Jid” on the foundation’s website, placing it directly beneath my father’s name, deliberately creating and sustaining the false illusion that he was the natural heir. I made it clear in the same article: Elkabous has no legal ties and no blood ties to my father, to my family, or to our name.

By Sunday, August 17, 2025, the usurper finally had the name “M’Jid” removed from his surname on the foundation’s site. His name now reflects his legal identity, as it always should have: Abousoufiane Elkabous.

Not M’Jid.

It took public exposure to force him, in shame, to stop stealing my family’s name. 

But erasing the name doesn’t cleanse the past, or the intent. On the contrary, it shows he always knew exactly what he was doing, manipulating the foundation’s image. It confirms yet again how Elkabous and his circle shamelessly falsify information to serve their corrupt interests.

He also added a small section about Mr. Berrada, presented as president from 2014 to 2018, to suggest a separation between my father’s death and his own takeover. But why was that name removed in the first place, if not to fabricate a direct link between my father and himself? The answer is obvious. In truth, the foundation’s social media was already flooded with promotions centered on Elkabous: his face, his appearances, his false name, everywhere.

In 2018, the year my mother was killed, Elkabous seized the last remaining powers and made his takeover official. That same year, my father’s final close collaborators left the foundation.

Now that Elkabous has finally removed the false name he gave himself on the foundation’s website, will he contact the donors he deliberately misled to tell them the truth and apologize for this willful deception?

Sunlight is indeed the best disinfectant.

For Dad.

I arrived in Casablanca on the night of April 3, 2024. The next day, April 4, I visited the graves of my parents and my brother. That same day, I confronted Soufiane Elkabous about his scheme to steal my parents’ home and learned that their belongings had been taken, stolen, or removed.

On the morning of April 5, I went to the BMCI Val d’Anfa branch with my Moroccan national ID and my mother’s death certificate. I wanted to access my mother’s accounts and review the funds she had left for me.

A bank officer of the Val d’Anfa branch approached me quickly, then went to his desk, presumably to check something. He returned a minute later and said flatly, “We don’t show any active accounts for your mother. They were closed. The funds are gone. There’s nothing left.”

After her death?

I stood there, stunned.

I asked how anyone could have withdrawn funds after she was gone without authorization or a will. He just repeated that the accounts were closed. I asked to speak with the branch manager. He refused, saying I couldn’t talk to the manager because I didn’t have an active account with them. I showed my ID and my mother’s death certificate, and asked for at least the last bank statement. He refused, dismissively.

The Val d’Anfa branch never contacted me again, despite the seriousness of what had happened.

My mother’s bank balance included the monthly allowance His Majesty King Mohammed VI had granted to her after my father’s death, some personal savings, and the proceeds from the sale of two plots of land my father had left her near Rabat. Mom had used only a portion of the land-sale proceeds to clear the house title and make renovations. The bulk of the funds remained.

My mother kept her checkbooks and account records in the safe, to which she had given me the combination, the same safe that Elkabous admitted to breaking into and emptying.

Mom had been clear. She was leaving an ample amount in her bank accounts and an reserve so that I would always have means to live in Morocco when I chose.

As with all of my parents’ belongings, everything was gone. This time, however, a bank agency, meant to safeguard assets, had directly or indirectly enabled the theft. My mother left money in her accounts. It was emptied after her passing. I have no siblings alive. The agency released those funds to an unauthorized party.

Of course, I asked Elkabous the fraudster. And, as with my parents’ home and belongings, he initially denied everything. Then he cycled through a series of stories, often contradicting himself, before finally admitting to yet another crime.

• First, he claimed he knew nothing about the withdrawals or the account closures.
• Then he said he had taken money to repay debts my father supposedly had, even though Dad had passed four years earlier.
• Next, he claimed there was no money left when he checked.
• Then he said my mother had sent a large sum to her family in France.
• After that, he claimed my mother owed him the money.
• Finally, looking me straight in the eye, he admitted he had taken everything, simply because he had decided it belonged to him. Once again, he had stolen what did not belong to him. He no longer even tried to lie. He believed he was untouchable, and he wanted me to know it. He wanted to make me understand that I had lost, that there was nothing I could do to stop him.

All of these twisted lies were delivered in a single conversation, while he, unworthy as he is, sat behind my father’s desk, inside what had once been my father’s office, now disgraced by this criminal’s mere presence, in the foundation he had taken over and corrupted. He lied as if the truth had never meant anything to him. He spoke with the ease of someone who had long since buried every trace of conscience and decency..

Of course, the inconsistencies were obvious. My father could not have contracted new debts four years after his death. My mother was not, and could not have been, financially depleted. She was receiving the monthly allowance from His Majesty the King, had just sold two plots of land, and lived a simple life. A large transfer to France would have required documentation and authorization. In all cases, Mom would have told me. It was all fabrication, until his ultimate admission:

Soufiane Elkabous had emptied my mother’s bank accounts after she had died and stolen the money. Was anything safe from this hardened criminal?

However, this time, unlike at my parents’ home, he could not act under the cover of night. He had to violate the privacy and security of a bank agency. The Val d’Anfa branch allowed Elkabous the fraudster or one of his accomplices, the wrong party either way, to empty and close my mother’s bank accounts after her passing.

Why? Did he walk in with a gun? Did they simply hand it to him?

They went even further by refusing to provide me, her daughter, any transparency, thereby protecting the crime. If this is how a bank branch operates, why wouldn’t any criminal walk in and claim the money of whoever they choose? Isn’t this precisely what happened here?

The bank agency that emptied my mother’s accounts into the hands of a criminal – one with no blood relationship to her, no legal relationship either, no shared surname or maiden name, not named in her will, holding no valid document authorizing withdrawals, and in likely violation of its own banking procedures – would not even allow me, her daughter, with the same last name and proper identification, to speak with a bank manager about the missing funds and improperly closed accounts.

What a dark irony!

Is there anything in Elkabous’s world that is not rotten to the core?

By his own admission, Elkabous is the criminal here. However, the Val d’Anfa branch at the very least facilitated the theft and shares responsibility for it. Was this professional misconduct? Did he have an accomplice inside the branch? BMCI leadership must now investigate, sanction, and repair what happened within it.

Moreover, once the situation became known, the Val d’Anfa agency should have provided me, the rightful heir, with all relevant information about this transaction, including the parties involved, the account details, the amounts, the communications, and any known connection to Elkabous. It should also have alerted BMCI’s management, which in all likelihood would then have escalated the matter to the Moroccan Banking Authority, Bank Al-Maghrib. It does not seem any of that was done. I was never contacted. A full investigation is required. If we cannot trust our bank branches to safeguard deposits, how can society function?

I hope the Moroccan banking authority pursues this case with vigor and determination, wherever the facts lead. I will also evaluate different options. The Val d’Anfa agency failed on multiple levels for this theft to occur. BMCI’s management must now begin repairing the damage by returning to me, as the rightful heir, the funds my mother had entrusted to it and that were wrongly released. The bank may then decide to seek recovery from Elkabous. That is its choice, of course. What cannot be erased, however, is the agency’s failure to safeguard the integrity of its procedures, to protect the funds entrusted to it, and to take responsibility for placing them in the hands of a thief.

My mother’s intention was clear: she left me that money.
Elkabous’s intention was just as clear: the law does not apply to him.
He seizes a foundation created to help others and uses it for his personal needs.
He steals an identity.
He breaks into a private safe.
He takes everything inside.
He forges documents and files them in national registries.
He occupies a house that is not his, without right or title.
He strips it of everything it contains.
Over and over again, without ever facing consequences.
And now, he plunders bank accounts too.

This latest theft committed by Elkabous was made possible by the failures of the Val d’Anfa agency. BMCI must now assume its responsibility and correct the shortcomings of its branch. As for Elkabous, it is time this now notorious criminal to start paying for his crimes.