Anthony Elghossain

Casablanca – Yesterday, Morocco went to the polls for the first time since protests earlier this year pressured King Mohammad VI to adopt constitutional reforms.
In Casablanca, at least, nobody seemed to notice.


At cafes scattered across the eclectic city, Morocco's largest, people talked about everything but politics. For most of election day, in which voting took place between 8:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m., people were all too happy to chat about football, the mild Moroccan climate, Lebanon's vibrant society, and their various academic and business careers.


Even the cabs were quiet. In the “petit taxis,” ubiquitous little red cars, drivers simply told me they "weren't voting" and "had no time or interest in politics." And the passengers couldn't have cared less. "I might vote blank," said Mohammad. "But I'd rather do something productive with my time." Coming on the heels of Beirut's talkative cab scene, where passengers are routinely deluged with political analysis and commentary, this cageyness was surreal.


Perhaps it would be different at the voting stations? People there—that is, voters and officials—would obviously be more involved. "I have no clue where to take you," the cabdriver said miserably. "Why don't you write something about the Corniche? This isn't Lebanon! Politics here is all talk." I couldn't help but smile.



At a high school in Hasaniyeh, voters trickled in slowly.
"Everything's calm," said a guard. "Not much is happening." The words were probably truer than he realized. A measly 11.5 percent of eligible voters had bothered to cast a ballot by mid-day, according to the Moroccan daily al-Masaa (other estimates were even lower).

According to Morocco's Interior Ministry, however, turnout rose to
45 percent by the close of polls. "That's probably inflated, though turnout did rise after Friday prayers," said one journalist, who requested anonymity. He was alluding to the fact that the number of registered voters in Morocco has decreased from 15 million to 13.5 million, "cosmetically improving" the participation rate.



Before pressing on to another station, I decided to have some lunch. One waitress immediately quizzed me about my accent. Satisfied that I was a journalist, she showed a bit of a political pulse. "I'll be voting today," she told me, "though I don't really want to. At the end of the day, there are certain 'obligations' I need to meet." She didn't elaborate. (Another journalist later told me that many Moroccans effectively sell their votes—to parties across the spectrum—for cash or certain subsidies.)



The afternoon wasn't much better. Bureaucratic run-arounds, poor navigation on my part, and a general lack of interest from people "busy making a living" made it difficult to look at the voting dynamics or identify what the general public saw as hot-button issues.



"Your experience today," said one friendly cab driver, "is a small slice of what we go through! I'll bet nobody refused you outright; they just laughed and told you to go somewhere else to get 'a document' or 'an approval.’" He was spot on, and it might very well be that this suppression by diffusion has simply exhausted most people here, who'd rather carry on with their lives than "worry about false change."



While searching for a third voting center, I luckily spotted L'Ecole
Superieure de Journalisme et de
Communication,
a school for aspiring journalists. A kind professor helped me chase down a group of English-speaking students and journalists to see if they could help.
 "None of us are voting," said Ayoub, amused by the question. "It's just not going to change much."

Sarah, another young journalist, said she had "voted blank" once, to "give meaning to [her] abstention," but that she wasn't inclined to try that again.
 Why, then, become journalists? These five young people were all covering the elections, but none had cast a ballot in their lives. Was it academic disinterest? Was it some sort of ethical concern? "You have to understand," said one of the students, "I'm not disinterested. It's just that my uncle was assassinated for his political views, and I'd rather keep my head down."



After some persuading, a couple of the students agreed to get me into a polling station nearby. Inside, a group of party observers was watching proceedings alongside others affiliated with local and international NGOs.
 One vocal lady said she "would like to see a constitutional monarchy develop! We need more reform, but we—all Moroccans—love our king." In the first policy discussion I'd been privy to in Morocco, she then talked about the need to develop Morocco's extensive coastline, exploit "phosphate reserves," and promote maritime industries alongside tourism.

Later, as we drove to the meandering Corniche to unwind, we saw a tire burning on the highway. The flames flickered on the faces of a bunch of giddy teenagers, who were dancing and yelling.

"Stop the car!" I said, too dramatically. "They might be protesting the election results or something."

Ayoub laughed. "This isn't Beirut," he reminded me. "Nobody cares."


"It's just a bunch of kids fooling around," said Sarah. "Behold the future!"



Anthony Elghossain is an attorney based in Washington, D.C. He blogs at Page
Lebanon.