Think Forward.

Le Maroc et la Renaissance du Cannabis : Histoire, Régulation et Enjeux Économiques Actuels 2192

Aziz Daouda, 7 mon.

- Politics - Society - Business -

3.4 min read.

Le Maroc a amorcé une phase majeure dans la structuration de son industrie du cannabis, avec l’autorisation de commercialisation de 67 produits dérivés: 26 cosmétiques et 41 compléments alimentaires, répondant aux normes et dûment enregistrés auprès de l’Agence Marocaine du Médicament et des Produits de Santé. L'étape est préalable à leur mise sur le marché national ou leur exportation. L’Agence Nationale de Régulation des Activités liées au Cannabis, par sa vigilance, quant à elle, reflète la volonté du pays de préserver sa crédibilité auprès des investisseurs et partenaires étrangers dans un marché mondial en expansion. Alors que bon nombre de citoyens, pensent que le kif avait été interdit parce que nocif pour la santé, un rappel historique permet de comprendre ce qui s’est réellement passé et pourquoi cette plante miraculeuse s’est retrouvée comme par magie dans le viseur de la lutte antidrogues. Le chanvre a connu multiples usages pendant des millénaires. Fibre textile robuste, il servait à confectionner les voiles et cordages des bateaux. Sans cela, l’humain n’aurait pu naviguer longtemps et loin. Les premiers papiers imprimés et les vêtements dans plus d'une région, étaient aussi à base de chanvre. Sa culture nécessitait peu de travail, peu d’eau, faisant d’elle une concurrente redoutable du coton. L’interdiction du cannabis doit être relue à l’aune de la révolution industrielle et de l’essor du coton à partir du XIXe siècle. Les machines à filer et tisser, conçues pour le coton, firent de celui-ci la fibre dominante, favorisant son essor massif. De plus, les empires coloniaux britannique et américain exploitaient de vastes plantations avec une main-d’œuvre servile, d’abord par l’esclavage puis par des travailleurs faiblement rémunérés. Ces puissants intérêts mirent le chanvre en difficulté. Le virage décisif remonte aux années 30 aux États-Unis, quand les industries du coton, du papier et l’industrie chimique émergente, notamment avec les fibres synthétiques, s’allient pour éliminer le chanvre. Un certain Harry Anslinger, alors chef du Bureau Fédéral Américain des Narcotiques, sans doute de connivence avec les intérêts des grands groupes industriels, mène une campagne combinant à dessein chanvre industriel et cannabis récréatif. En 1937, le Marihuana Tax Act interdit la culture du chanvre. Propagande et intérêts économiques aidant, cette politique s’exporte à travers le monde. Par une Convention unique sur les stupéfiants, en 1961, l’ONU classe le cannabis parmi les drogues à contrôle strict, marginalisant ainsi durablement le chanvre. Le coton devient alors la fibre dominante au profit des réseaux industriels. Au Maroc, le kif, forme traditionnelle de cannabis souvent mélangée au tabac et consommée dans le sebsi, est au cœur d’une histoire riche et complexe, marquée par des dynamiques sociales, politiques et économiques. Depuis des siècles, le kif est cultivé principalement au nord autour de Chefchaouen, Ketama ou Issaguen. Loin d’être seulement une plante illégale, il était historiquement toléré et perçu comme essentiel à la subsistance locale. Utilisé autant pour ses vertus sociales que médicinales, il s’inscrivait dans le quotidien des populations quasiment partout. Dès 1906, est crée une entreprise pour assurer le contrôle sur le kif. Sous le Protectorat, elle prend le nom de Régie du Kif et des Tabacs. Les motifs sont surtout fiscaux à partir de 1917. Les autorités espagnoles au nord appliquèrent des règles plus souples, par pragmatisme politique face aux tribus locales. A l’indépendance, le Maroc hérite d’un dilemme complexe: le kif est profondément enraciné dans la société mais fait face à des pressions internationales grandissantes. Sous Mohammed V puis Hassan II, le pays adopte des mesures progressives. Le monopole d’État est supprimé en 1957-1958, la culture devient illégale, même si dans certaines zones historiques du Rif une tolérance tacite a perduré. Les années 1970 marquent un durcissement sous la pression croissante des États-Unis et de l’Europe. La loi marocaine de 1974 sur les stupéfiants interdit strictement la culture, la consommation et la commercialisation du kif. Pourtant, malgré la répression accrue, la production clandestine explose, portée par une demande européenne vigoureuse. Le Rif s’affirme comme l’un des bassins mondiaux de résine de cannabis. Après des décennies de prohibition et de conflits socio-économiques liés au kif, et sous la pression de scientifiques et de la population au vu de l'évolution à travers le monde, le Maroc amorce un virage en 2021 avec une loi encadrant l’usage légal du cannabis à des fins médicales, pharmaceutiques et industrielles. La consommation récréative reste interdite. L’État s’efforce d’intégrer progressivement les cultivateurs dans une filière légale et contrôlée, réduisant l’informalité et améliorant les conditions économiques des régions concernées. L’histoire du kif au Maroc est une trajectoire jalonnée de tolérance millénaire, de régulations coloniales, d’interdictions décidées sous pression internationale, avant d’ouvrir la voie à une récente reconversion vers un usage intelligent, légal et encadré. Aujourd’hui, quasiment partout, le chanvre retrouve une nouvelle reconnaissance. Moins gourmand en eau, respectueux des sols, produisant graines, huile et matériaux isolants naturels, il s’affirme comme un pilier de la transition écologique. La plante interdite pour protéger des intérêts économiques puissants, cherche désormais à reprendre sa place historique et naturelle. Cette renaissance est particulièrement visible au Maroc. La surface cultivée en chanvre légal a plus que triplé en 2025 avec 4 400 hectares semés, principalement de la variété locale «baladiya», signe tangible d’un essor après des décennies d’informalité. C'est un levier de revitalisation économique pour les régions du Rif, traditionnellement dépendantes d’une économie souterraine. La légalisation adoptée en 2021 vise à canaliser une production historique vers un cadre réglementé, tout en créant une industrie à forte valeur ajoutée. Au-delà de la culture agricole, c’est toute une chaîne de transformation, de conditionnement, de certification et d’exportation qui se met en place, générant des recettes fiscales et améliorant l’attractivité du Maroc pour les investisseurs internationaux. Il ne s’agit plus seulement de cultiver du cannabis, mais de développer une industrie structurée, respectueuse de normes strictes, capable de s’imposer sur un marché mondial dynamique. Cette mutation économique est perçue comme une chance de réconcilier un secteur longtemps illégal avec les mécanismes d’une économie puissante. Les défis restent cependant nombreux, depuis la régulation stricte jusqu’à la lutte contre les détournements illicites, en passant par l’organisation des coopératives et l’adaptation fiscale. Mais le cap est clair: transformer un héritage agricole ancien en moteur de croissance inclusive et d’intégration économique durable.

Aziz Daouda

Directeur Technique et du Développement de la Confédération Africaine d'Athlétisme. Passionné du Maroc, passionné d'Afrique. Concerné par ce qui se passe, formulant mon point de vue quand j'en ai un. Humaniste, j'essaye de l'être, humain je veux l'être. Mon histoire est intimement liée à l'athlétisme marocain et mondial. J'ai eu le privilège de participer à la gloire de mon pays .

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Eternal Morocco, Unbreakable Morocco: The Identity That Triumphs Over Exile... 293

Aziz Daouda, 23 h.

- Politics - History - Society -

2.1 min read.

There are affiliations that geography dissolves over time, and others that it strengthens as distance sets in. The Moroccan experience undoubtedly falls into the second category. Across generations, sometimes up to the third or fourth, a phenomenon intrigues. Women and men born far from Morocco continue to recognize themselves in it, to feel attached to it, to project themselves into it. They have left the country or never lived there long-term; they were born far away, but Morocco has never left them. How to explain such persistence? Why does this loyalty cut across social classes, faiths, degrees of religiosity, and even nationalities acquired elsewhere? How is a memory so indelible? How does it withstand the test of time, distance, and new cultural acquisitions, if not through the profound weight of national consciousness? Morocco is not merely a modern state born from 20th-century recompositions. It is an ancient historical construct, shaped by centuries, even millennia, of political and civilizational continuity. Dynasties like the Almoravids, Almohads, Merinids, Saadians, or Alaouites forged a stable political and symbolic space whose permanence transcends apparent ruptures. This historical depth irrigates the collective imagination. It gives Moroccans, including those in the diaspora, the sense of belonging to a history that precedes and surpasses them. Being Moroccan is not just a nationality. It is an inscription in a continuity, a composite identity forged by inclusion. Moroccan identity has been built through sedimentation. It is Amazigh, African, Arab, Andalusian, Hebraic. These are layers that coexist in a singular balance, complementing and interweaving without exclusion. This ancient plurality explains Moroccans' ability to embrace diversity without identity rupture. Thus, a Jewish Moroccan in Europe or a naturalized Muslim elsewhere often shares a common affective reference to Morocco, not out of ignorance of differences, but because they fit into a shared historical and geographical framework. This inclusive identity enables a rarity: remaining deeply Moroccan without renouncing other affiliations, with the monarchy serving as a symbolic thread. In this complex architecture, the monarchy plays a structuring role. Under Mohammed VI, it embodies historical continuity and contemporary stability. For Moroccans abroad, the link to the Throne goes beyond politics. It touches the symbolic and the affective, a dimension fully grasped only by Moroccans. It acts as a fixed point in a shifting world, offering permanence amid changes in language, environment, or citizenship. This transmission occurs invisibly in the family, in rituals. It is not a memory but living, sensitive memories. The diffusion and transfer also manifest in cuisines with ancestral recipes, in music and sounds, in living rooms echoing with Darija, through summers "back home," gestures, intonations, moussems, or hiloulas. Moroccan identity is transmitted less through discourse than through sensory experiences: tastes, smells, rhythms, hospitality. Thus, generations born abroad feel a belonging not formally learned, an active loyalty blending affection and claimed will. The diaspora does not settle for abstract attachment. It acts. Financial transfers, investments, public commitments, and defense of Moroccan positions internationally bear witness. This operational patriotism extends affection into action, a duty to the nation, a Moroccan loyalty. Moroccans may be exiles, but never uprooted. For the Moroccan diaspora, attachment transcends oceans. Even in political, economic, or academic roles abroad, Moroccains carry their country of origin explicitly or implicitly. The otherness of host societies reinforces this identity. The external gaze consolidates this sense of belonging to a culture so distinctive that it crystallizes, is claimed, and magnified. This phenomenon, intense among Moroccans, compels us to name what went without saying in the homeland: a continuity at a distance. Neither frozen nostalgia nor mere inheritance, this relationship is a profound dynamic. Morocco is not just a place; it is the bond that spans generations, adapts without diluting, reminding us that exile does not undo all affiliations. Morocco is in our daily lives, in a perennial, solid, and unyielding memory that defies borders and time.

My Pain Qualifies Me 423

Julius Melien, 2 d.

- Health - Philosophy -

1.3 min read.

At an immersion meeting for psychoanalysts, I heard the phrase: “My pain qualifies me,” and immediately, like a lightning bolt, it struck deeply within me and, with the speed of a thought, made complete sense. I was able to perceive it with a clarity that, honestly, I don’t recall ever experiencing before in my entire life. It was so intense that I felt certain I was in the right place, investing in a career that, until not long ago, I couldn’t have imagined myself pursuing even in my dreams. Although this discovery is recent, given the fascination it caused me, perhaps it had been stored in my unconscious all along, likely as a repressed desire, even due to my own prejudice regarding matters of the human mind. Because of unsuccessful past experiences, I had come to doubt the effectiveness of psychotherapy, even considering it at times as a way of making easy money at the expense of others’ suffering. I believed that a person in distress could simply rely on friends and family to vent, share their problems, and relieve tension, while medications prescribed by doctors would do their part. However, upon hearing that my pain qualified me, now, of course, with a different mindset and studying psychoanalysi, I felt as though I was experiencing a kind of gnosis. I know my pain, or rather, my pains, and I fully understand this statement. When we set out to help someone who carries their own pain, we can even through a simple look, convey to the analysand that we understand what they are going through. This phenomenon is what we call countertransference: emotions, feelings, and thoughts that arise in our unconscious in relation to the analysand. These feelings and emotions are developed by the therapist during a therapy session. In that space, we become aware that there are two souls facing each other, one pouring out their thoughts, anxieties, and traumas, and the other offering attentive listening, care, and guidance, helping them find their path and providing tools to manage their struggles and move forward in life as best as possible. And for the therapist who has experienced, or still experiences pain, it also becomes an opportunity for self-analysis, which undoubtedly gives full meaning to the exchange that takes place between two souls standing face to face with their pains.

AFCON 2025: The Trophy that Sets the Savannah Ablaze.. 524

Aziz Daouda, 2 d.

- Politics - Society - Sports -

2.4 min read.

There are moments when football stops being a game and becomes a brutal revealer of a continent's institutional and political fragilities. The current crisis surrounding the Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) is the perfect illustration. Between the rigorous application of regulations, the credibility of the Confederation of African Football (CAF), media pressure, and reactions from the Senegalese Football Federation, the affair now extends far beyond sports into a much broader realm, intertwining law, sovereignty, and diplomacy. At its origin, a disciplinary decision that, under normal circumstances, would have been a simple sporting dispute. But the context, symbolism, and players involved have turned this file into a full-blown crisis. The CAF, as the regulatory body, faces a fundamental demand: to enforce its own rules without yielding to pressure. Any weakness in applying the law would open the door to widespread challenges to its authority, including revisiting past decisions and verdicts. In this sense, the decision taken, however contested, fits into a logic of institutional preservation. However, law, as essential as it is, cannot be entirely divorced from its political and emotional environment. Today's events provide perfect proof. The Senegalese side's reaction, perceived as an offense or challenge to the decision, reveals a deeper malaise: a sense of injustice, real or supposed, amplified by a public opinion whipped into a frenzy by a flood of increasingly belligerent statements and remarks. Social media, TV panels, and certain official discourses have turned a legal matter into a symbolic clash between nations. In response, the Royal Moroccan Football Federation remains silent, stoic, calm, and discreet. This is where the main danger lies. Beyond texts and procedures, it is historical relations, built over decades of solidarity and brotherhood, that are now exposed to unnecessary tension. African football, long presented as a vector of unity, risks here becoming a factor of division. And this drift, if not contained, could leave lasting scars. That's precisely what the occult forces, or not so occult, stoking the fire are aiming for. In this climate of escalation, the temptation is great for each side to harden its position. Yet, the history of sports conflicts shows that escalation is rarely a solution. It weakens institutions, undermines competition credibility, and, above all, distances the public from the essentials: fair and credible play. The central question then becomes: how far will this showdown go? A peaceful outcome necessarily requires a return to calm and reason. This does not mean renouncing one's rights or silencing disagreements, but framing them in a controlled manner. Appeal mechanisms exist, whether through direct sports jurisdictions or, if necessary, the international body that is the Court of Arbitration for Sport (CAS). Its role is precisely to settle such disputes with impartiality and rigor. Awaiting the verdict from this body, even if it is slow, means accepting that law takes precedence over emotion. It also means recognizing that the credibility of African football's components depends on their ability to resolve disputes in line with the rules they have set for themselves. Any other path, pressure, excessive politicization, or media confrontation, would only entrench and worsen the crisis. At its core, this affair raises an essential question about the governance model for African football. A model subject to power plays and momentary emotions, or one based on solid, respected institutions capable of enforcing the law, even when it stings? Ultimately, African football bodies didn't fall from the sky. They are the emanation of a democratic process in which Africa's 54 countries participate in good conscience. The answer to this question will determine not only the outcome of this crisis but also the future of football on the continent. Beyond the present case, the credibility of an entire sports architecture is at stake. In the immediate term, one thing is clear: the time for appeasement must follow that of confrontation and escalation. Preserving the essentials and consolidating fraternity among African peoples is worth far more than a sports victory, even an Africa Cup of Nations trophy. Alas, this is beyond those whose vision doesn't extend past the end of their nose. The CAS will speak soon. Then we'll see who is right or wrong under strict application of the law, with no further recourse possible except a return to reason. Wouldn't it be better, in the meantime, to keep a cool head, maintain lucidity, and calm down? A trophy is only raised when it is deserved—truly deserved.

Faceless War, Disoriented World, Trapped Citizen... 527

Aziz Daouda, 2 d.

- Politics - Philosophy -

2.6 min read.

There was a time when war made sense, or at least appeared to. It pitted identifiable camps against each other, produced winners and losers, and sometimes ended in peace, even imperfect peace, sometimes signed in a train car. Before that, it unfolded in battles for which appointments were even set, far from civilians. They observed each other, sized one another up, and collectively decided the start time of the clashes. A true war of the brave. There were always winners and losers. Thank cinema for reliving those scenes, more or less romanticized, but scenes nonetheless... From World War I to the Cold War, closer to us, conflicts, however tragic, followed a certain historical intelligibility. Since then, joysticks have crept in, and computers have taken over... Things changed; dare we say: they dehumanized. Contemporary war, as it emerges in the triangular confrontation between the United States, Israel, and Iran, seems to have broken with that old logic. It's no longer just complex: it's become ungraspable, unintelligible to ordinary mortals like us. It doesn't just oppose forces; it dissolves the very landmarks that once allowed us to understand what war is. Who is the victor? Who is the vanquished? The question feels almost out of place. For this modern war produces no clear verdict, but a succession of competing narratives saturated with propaganda, disinformation, and what we now call "fakes." Truth itself becomes a battlefield, fragmented, manipulated, inaccessible. Lies are baked into the system. Reality wavers and fades. Yet lives are lost in anonymity, buildings surely turned to mush, billions of dollars vanished, likely burned in milliseconds by traders, exploded without a trace except by making poor people everywhere. In this war, roles seem interchangeable. One of those who triggered the hostilities seeks to extricate itself, as if suddenly discovering the vertigo of what it initiated. The second? Who knows. Its war logic has long been impenetrable. It presents itself as the aggressed party, refuses all negotiation, or pretends to, while expanding the theater of operations. The one retaliating, the third protagonist, loses its leaders, gets hammered daily for over a month, yet seems driven by an endless escalation logic too. Toward what horizon? It strikes beyond its declared adversaries without provoking proportional reactions. Part of its war is waged against those who don't want it and resist with all their might, without retaliation. How long will this last? We must ask: what does "winning" mean in a war with no clear limits or identifiable final objective? We are thus confronted with a profound mutation of war: it is no longer a means in service of a political end, as once thought, but an autonomous, self-sustaining process, almost abstract. A war that no longer aims for peace, but for its own perpetuation. And yet, this distant war is not so distant. Beyond strategies and rhetoric, it's civil societies that pay the price. Here in Morocco, elsewhere in the world, the effects hit with silent brutality. Energy prices climb, threatening psychological thresholds unthinkable just forty days ago: 20 dirhams per liter of gasoline soon. Tomatoes, fish, chicken, lentils, and the rest will follow... Anxiety is very real. The economy becomes war prolonged by other means. The citizen becomes an adjustment variable. It's they who foot the bill. Even when they don't want war, they must still pay for it, wherever they are, even at the ends of the earth. Faced with this, governments seem powerless. They dust off old solutions, already tested and already ineffective, as if economic history itself were trapped in eternal recurrence. This political impotence amplifies the sense of injustice and abandonment. Thus arises the question, almost metaphysical: what have we done to deserve this? This so-human question may be ill-posed. For it assumes an immanent justice in the world's course, a moral logic linking our acts to our collective fate. Yet the tragedy of our era is precisely the absence of that coherence. The world is not just: it is unstable, chaotic, traversed by forces beyond us. Perhaps that's the price of calling ourselves democratic, living in or under democracies... or not. Perhaps we need to rephrase the question. Not: why is this happening to us? But: how to keep living in a world where meaning slips away beneath our staggering feet? That is probably the true philosophical challenge of our time. Not understanding war, for it now escapes classical understanding, but preserving, despite everything, a capacity to think, to resist confusion, to refuse letting lies become the norm. If modern war is faceless, endless, and truthless, then the only possible victory is internal to each of us: upholding, against all odds, a demand for lucidity, a touch of humanism, hope, a dream.