Years ago, on the advice of a notary, my parents had established a civil real estate company, ASKA, the first two letters of Asma and Karim, my deceased brother’s name, and transferred the house to the corporation. My mother held 95 percent of the shares, my father 5 percent. It was designed to ensure my mother would inherit everything after my father’s passing, and that I would inherit it from her in turn.
Before her death, as part of organizing the family’s affairs, Mom sold two parcels of land my father had owned in the Rabat area, used part of the proceeds to pay off the remaining debt on the house, and secured a clear title from the bank. She called me proudly the day she received it and told me she had placed it in her safe for me, just in case. A thousand times, she spoke about the will she had written, making sure the house and all its contents would pass to me, and that I would have access to her bank accounts. A thousand times, I pushed back. I didn’t want to talk about the “after.”
I was stunned when both Elkabous and his so-called attorney insisted I dissolve ASKA before I had even returned to the United States to renew my Moroccan ID card. The same two individuals who had explained to me that I couldn’t access any of my inherited property without the ID card were now trying to convince me to dismantle a company my father had created without needing the same identification. That made no sense. I was certain my father had received sound legal advice when he established ASKA. I refused.
Shortly after, I returned to the U.S. and began the process of renewing my ID card. I remember the staff of the Moroccan consulate in New York being so supportive and kind. They had heard about my mother’s killing. The consul himself stepped out of his office to comfort me and hug my daughters.
I did not return to Casablanca immediately. The pain of losing my mom so suddenly and violently, the way she died, her missed trip (we were preparing to welcome her just days later), the paltry sentence her killer received, the thought of going to the house we had owned since 1972 without either of my parents there. It was all unbearable. Then COVID hit. Then came family medical issues in the U.S. And some time passed.
During that time, Soufiane Elkabous stayed in touch. He repeated his earlier apology a couple of times and said it would never happen again. He told me he understood my devastation after the loss of my mother and assured me he was looking after the house. He said someone came to clean it on a semi-regular basis, but that he was always there when they did. He asked for my permission to stop by from time to time, “just to reflect,” he said. I agreed, on the express condition that he not change anything in the house. He agreed.
He acknowledged that he knew and understood the house was always going to be mine and often repeated that everything would be ready for the transfer when I returned. He said there was nothing to worry about despite the delays. We also agreed that I would reimburse him for any cleaning expenses he had covered, after I accessed the funds in the bank accounts.
He offered to arrange a meeting with the Adouls, whom he said he knew, even though my mother had told me clearly her will was with her notary. Elkabous insisted the Adouls route would be faster and more efficient, and said I should return to Morocco alone, “just the first time,” “just until the title was transferred.” After that, he said, the rest of my family could join. I didn’t know it then, but he wanted me to be and to feel alone in Morocco for what he had planned.
Eventually, once COVID restrictions lifted and health concerns were addressed in the U.S., I called the notary directly. She confirmed that she still had the will and that it was secure in her possession, but stated she was about to leave on an extended trip for a few months. She asked me to delay my trip to Morocco until her return and assured me the additional wait would have no impact. We would handle all inheritance matters at once when she got back. This was November 2023.
I informed Elkabous that I was planning to return to Morocco in the spring to visit my parents’ and brother’s graves, complete the succession, and take possession of the house. As he had before, he assured me he would organize everything: the meetings, the title transfer, the reading of the will.
I would sleep at my cousin’s place the first night, since I couldn’t sleep alone in my parents’ empty home. They were figuring it out. My daughters were not with me. A friend was going to join me later and stay at the house with me.
I had no idea how far from reality those reassurances would turn out to be.