July 2025

This post was written for me years ago, in 2014, after the passing of my father, Mr. Mjid, but before the current scandal came to light. I share it now because nothing has changed, except the scale of the betrayal.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” E. Burke

Asma had one brother, who passed away too soon, and her two parents. Not two brothers. Not one and a half. Just one.

And now her dad had passed away as well.

Years ago, Asma had asked her Dad and her Mom to adopt a helpless kid from a family who was willing to part with him. She had gone to her parents to adopt dogs, cats, and other pets many times before, and they never said no to her. And it was fun to bring more into the family. And the pets were always grateful. So, “how could one ignore a little boy in need”, she thought? It would be good…

But it did not turn out as well. As the boy grew, he barked louder, loved less, deceived more, and was loyal only to image and money. Such behavior was foreign to her and to her family. It was not something they could relate to. He even tried, more than once, to supplant her in her own family, but the father never allowed it. It would never happen. The father loved his daughter.

But now the father was gone, and the boy had forgotten the very hand that fed him—literally. He was now working to subvert her father’s values, usurp her legacy, and hijack her name. He was pretending to be her father, even as he tried to replace her.

The thing about parents is that one can’t change them for someone else’s, even if one tries to forget his own, the mother who got rid of him, or the father he never knew. Repeating that someone else is your father does not make it so. Never did. Never will. And certainly, you can’t steal one to replace yours. It does not work that way. Blood is thicker than water. And when you look at the adults that the daughter and the impostor have become today, it shows: blood matters.

Somehow, her father knew it.

And when the father spent over three weeks in Intensive Care before he passed, the fake son came to visit him once, for a few minutes. He never spoke to him, never comforted him, not before that visit, not after. Not once.

Asma, her mother, and her aunt visited her father, Mr. M’Jid, every day, and stayed the whole day. The aunt’s husband also visited. A few friends traveled hundreds of kilometers for a few minutes with her father. But the self-proclaimed “brother”? No, he didn’t have time. And, there were no cameras at the hospital.

And the father? Well, he didn’t ask about the degenerate once. Not once. Oh, the father spoke to his daughter, his wife, his sister-in-law, asked about his granddaughters, son-in-law, nieces, news, events, and even work. He spoke to doctors, joked with nurses, and talked with his daughter, who stayed with him from the first hour to the last, hour after hour, day after day. But he never asked for the would-be son. The father knew.

She stayed by her father’s side until the very end, through his final night, sitting on a chair beside him, his hand in hers, until his last breath. The fake son? He stayed home, in his bed.

Asma was the one whom His Majesty, King Mohamed VI, promptly called to offer his condolences and support after her dad passed away. She was the one who presented His Majesty with her father’s last wishes, wishes that His Majesty the King kindly granted. She was the one who organized to have the remains of her late brother transferred next to her father’s and who was there during the transfer. She was the one who picked the graves for her dad and for her brother, who bought the tombstones and had them set up. The would-be brother? He didn’t have time.

Now, her dad and her brother were gone, and the one who previously did not have time suddenly had time.

Pretending to be the son he never was, he used her dad’s name to partner with crooks and backstabbers who had hurt her father so much that he had talked to her about them from his deathbed.

The impostor used fake idealism and nationalism as tools to eliminate the real daughter and attack the granddaughters so that he could claim a legacy that he and his bunch didn’t deserve and would never embody.

Her father was an example of moderation and tolerance. Faithful to his own country and faith until his last breath, he had married outside of it 60 years before. Her father never saw a man for his color or belief but for his goodness and potential, values he instilled in his daughter and deceased son.

Now, the one who knew better than to challenge her dad’s values while her dad was alive resorted to opportunistic and calculated idealisms, tried to cast himself as a nationalist while, at the same time, criticizing her, the legitimate daughter, for living abroad.

Nationalism? How can one ship their wife across borders to give birth three times, so the kids have different citizenship, and still stake nationalistic claims? Morocco has excellent maternity wards, with modern equipment and qualified medical professionals. It was the height of hypocrisy.

Very unlike her, very unlike her dad, and very unlike her real brother.

No brother to her. No son to her dad. No uncle to her daughters. And, definitely, no custodian of her father’s name or values. Bringing him into her family had indeed been a grave mistake.

She should have gotten another dog.

My name is Asma M’Jid, daughter of the late Mr. Mohamed M’Jid. For years, I have been fighting against a fraud that strikes at the heart of my family’s legacy. I gave space for the truth to come out, for things to be resolved privately, with dignity. But that path has closed. To stay quiet now would betray everything I believe in and everything my father stood for.

My father, a committed figure in Morocco’s fight for independence, was imprisoned multiple times by French authorities during the protectorate era, but never strayed from his vision of a proud, free, and independent Morocco, founded on honor, truth, and justice.

He considered himself blessed and was proud to have had the opportunity to promote the values of his country under the reign of His Majesty King Mohammed V, under the reign of His Majesty King Hassan II, and under the reign His Majesty King Mohammed VI.

My father served in Parliament, led the Royal Moroccan Tennis Federation as president for over forty years, tirelessly advocated for women’s rights, established the MJID Foundation to support the most vulnerable, and offered his support wherever he believed he could contribute to the future of the country he loved more than anything. “A former young man taking care of future old people,” he used to say.

Papa passed away in March 2014, and my mother, Pierette M’Jid, his wife of sixty years, joined him in August 2018, struck and killed during her morning walk by a reckless and criminal driver. After their passing, a series of betrayals and forgeries led to what is today the outright theft of their legacy and of my rightful inheritance as their daughter.

At the center of this inheritance fraud is Soufiane Elkabous. As a child, he lived in an unstable situation. His mother worked on an estate my parents owned, and I was the one who had asked them to take him in. My family gave him a home and raised him. 

After my mother’s death, he emptied the safe in her house, where she had placed the inheritance documents specifically for me to protect. He emptied her bank accounts. He moved into the home she had left to me and took it over. Then he produced false documents in a calculated attempt to justify the unjustifiable.

I tried to resolve the situation privately, but without success. Like many fraudsters, he believes he can lie, forge, and steal without consequence. He sees himself as untouchable, above justice, beyond shame. But criminal behavior cannot be protected by silence.

Before he left us, my father, who was worried about how certain behaviors toward me might change after he was gone, left me the names of specific people to contact if needed. These were individuals he trusted, had worked with, and who had committed to him they would look after me if necessary. They held, and continue to hold, positions of prominence and high responsibility. We’ll come back to this. 

After numerous attempts at an amicable resolution failed, I contacted three of them. I had their personal numbers. All three condemned Soufiane Elkabous’s actions as clearly illegal, all recognized I was the victim of a fraud, and all committed to taking action to redress it. One of them even told me he was aware of other complaints. All three assured me they would see that justice was done. In the end, none of them helped. Which brings us here.

Louis Brandeis, former Justice of the United States Supreme Court, once said: “Sunlight is the best disinfectant.” I believe this to be true.

Today, I am starting this blog in the hope that those who still believe in the Morocco to which my father devoted his life, those who believe in justice, whether they are civil servants, journalists, diplomats, professionals, retirees, or activists, will take action and stand with me to right this injustice.

That is why I am writing publicly today. That is why more posts will follow, each week, with more information, more specifics. Come back to read them. The facts will shock you. 

My parents would have wanted me to.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for bearing witness. Thank you for sharing.