On August 6, 2018, my mother was struck and killed by a reckless, criminal driver while on her morning walk. I flew to Casablanca the same day and arrived the next morning, just hours before her funeral.
It was the first time I would speak to Soufiane Elkabous in over four years. Indeed, after my father had passed away, he had revealed his true nature. Mere hours after the funeral, he had become disrespectful toward me for the first time, had raised his voice, and had to be restrained by members of my family. The very next day, he and his family began posting vile attacks about me and my daughters, who were teenagers at the time, on social media.
After I returned to the USA, he had filed a false complaint that had led to my father’s Facebook account being taken down, even though he knew perfectly well that all the posts in it came from my father. That account, my father and I had built together over the years. In Casablanca, we would often sit in the living room while he shared his thoughts on society, a person, or an occasion to honor Morocco, and I would post them on his behalf. Even from a distance, he would call me so I could post his words. I did it gladly. It was our bond, our shared project, despite the distance.
That alone was enough for this bitter, ungrateful snake to want the account gone. Elkabous was not the center of it, and it highlighted the love and closeness my father and I shared. From that moment on, I never spoke to him again.
In a cold and calculated display of malice, having successfully fooled Facebook into shutting down my father’s account, he was simultaneously promoting his own, day and night, often invoking my father’s name as if he were his own. My mother understood my disgust toward him and his schemes, and his behavior hurt her, but she still hoped to repair things between us before she died. She never succeeded. There was too much to fix.
At the same time, Mom, ever careful, had spent the years since my father’s passing putting all her affairs in order, “just in case,” as she would say. If anything happened to her, she wanted everything to be ready so I could keep spending time in Morocco. She had even delayed her trip to visit us so she could finish renovating the house. She wanted it to be “perfect,” even refreshing the paint and updating the major appliances.
We spoke every day. About everything. I miss those conversations so much. It still hurts today, and even more when I think she must be looking down on what is happening.
She kept me updated on the house renovation, her preparations for her upcoming trip to visit us, and everything else happening in Morocco and around the world. She also insisted on keeping me informed about what she called the “after,” including the status of her bank accounts, the will, the house title, and more.
During her last visit to the USA, she had handwritten the code to her personal safe in her bedroom on a piece of paper for me to keep. This was the safe containing all the inheritance documents, a copy of the clear title, and other items and valuables she wanted me to have. I still have her handwritten note with the code. She wanted me to be prepared and protected.
After the funeral, I returned to the house and went to her room to feel closer to her. My mother’s perfume still lingered in the air. Her shoes were by her bed. A change of clothes was laid out. She had just gone out for a morning walk, but never came back. My legs gave out, and my daughter helped me out of the room.
Before I left the room, I stopped by her safe, hoping to find a note or some message from my mother still speaking to me. To my shock, the safe stood wide open. Empty. No note. No copy of the will. No copy of the house title. No valuables. Not a thing. Everything had been emptied out.
I asked Soufiane Elkabous where the contents of the safe and the documents my mother had left for me were. He replied, without shame, that he and the foundation’s “attorney” had “secured them for me” at the lawyer’s office, and that he would give them to me in due time.
They had emptied Mom’s safe on the very day of her death to block my access to it!
I had hoped things would be better between us this time, but discovered then and there that nothing had changed, except perhaps for the worse.
“In due time”? Somehow, he was now deciding what “due time” meant for the contents of my mother’s safe. He had no right whatsoever to that safe. No authorization. It was in my mother’s bedroom. It was my mother’s private safe. By what right had he even accessed it?
She was alive just the day before. She had given me the code directly during her visit so that I could access it myself when the time came.
Yet, in the few hours between my mother’s passing and her rushed funeral, Soufiane Elkabous had already emptied my mother’s safe of all its contents. On the very day she was killed. How could anyone behave that way? Think that way? Even before the funeral.
I left the room, locked it, and took the key with me. I wanted it preserved exactly as my mother had left it that fateful morning she was taken from me. I told Elkabous that no one was to disturb her room. He agreed to ensure nothing was touched. I could not go back to the room during that trip, but I planned to do so upon my return.
The next day, when I again asked about the contents and documents from the safe, he and the foundation’s “attorney,” very much acting as his personal attorney, told me I first needed to return to New York and renew my Moroccan national ID card before I could take possession of the house, access my mother’s accounts, and the rest of the inheritance. They added that they would assist with everything, including the title transfer, bank accounts, and the will.
They were stalling. I didn’t yet know why. But I would soon.
Because of the length of this post, we had to split it into three parts. The remaining parts will be posted in the next day or two.