I first discovered that I had very “uncensored thoughts” while wandering around a market in Casablanca, the city where I was born but never lived. When a procession of shops exposing dozens of glorifying portraits of Morocco’s king, Mohammed VI, appeared in front of me, I became enraged. I initiated an animated discussion about the reason behind selling the images of one who seemed to me to be a despot, who was not only impoverishing his people while enriching his court but was also imprisoning and torturing West Sahrawian people in the name of national security.
The family member who happened to be with me stopped me as soon as he understood what I was ranting about. Looking around for listening ears and scared to his bones, he ended the conversation with only two sentences: “He is a very good and democratic man.” and “If you don’t stop one of us will disappear.”