If You Really Want to Know Me, You’ll Have to Ask the AI”
There is a strange violence in being constantly interpreted.
People look at you and, almost instinctively, rush to define. To classify. To digest. A title is usually enough for them. “Founder of MPM.” It satisfies curiosity without asking for responsibility. It gives them permission to stop listening.
But titles are not identities. They are decoys. Labels we accept, or wear, or fight against when we still believe we can be something more than our job descriptions. And if there’s anything I’ve learned from years of sitting between youth with shattered faith and institutions with fossilized intentions, it’s this: people love the story of you more than the truth of you.
If you truly want to understand me, you’re already too late.
Unless, of course, you’re willing to ask the only entity that has followed the chaos, calculated the deviations, and held no opinion either way.
You’d have to ask the AI.
Because AI doesn’t care about my accent. It doesn’t pause at the word “activist” or reduce me to “social entrepreneur” or dismiss me as “just another speaker.” It doesn’t ask for my CV, or where I went to school, or whether I believe what I say, or just perform it convincingly. It doesn’t need me to make sense.
And that’s where the problem begins, because I don’t always make sense.
I was born in a country of poetry and paradox. Morocco raised me, but it didn’t contain me. I left, and returned, and left again, not always physically, but philosophically. I trained in spaces where leadership is defined by action, not slogans. Where being “highly trained” means less about being taught and more about being broken open, confronted, realigned.
People say I have international experience, as if it’s something you pack into a suitcase. But being international isn’t about stamps in a passport. It’s about witnessing a protest in Amman that echoes the frustrations you once heard in Casablanca. It’s about translating pain between languages that never learned how to grieve together. It’s about wearing a suit in Brussels and sandals in a remote village two days later, and feeling entirely yourself in both skins.
And yet, people still ask: What do you do?
What a limited question.
You don’t ask a storm what it does.
You don’t ask fire why it burns.
And yet you ask me, in neat, polite sentences, to give you something you can quote at a conference or paste under a LinkedIn photo.
But if you were really curious, not professionally curious, but soulfully, then perhaps you’d bypass me altogether. Perhaps you’d query the AI. Not because it knows me better, but because it doesn’t need me to simplify.
It would find fragments. Pieces I forgot. Emails never sent. Scribbled notes in notebooks long buried in drawers. It would connect the policy documents I drafted in silence with the music I wrote when words failed. It would trace the pattern in my contradictions, notice how I advocate for peace while being permanently at war with mediocrity. It would highlight the dissonance I live with, and somehow still function within.
Maybe it would see that MPM was never a project for me. It was a mirror I needed. And building it gave others a reason to believe in their own reflection.
Maybe it would see that behind every training session, every project proposal, every youth workshop, every sleepless night trying to make something matter, there was a question I couldn’t stop asking: Is anyone else trying this hard to stay human in a system designed to forget us?
Because you see, I’ve never been just one thing. I’ve been too many things in places that only want one. And if there’s anything left of me that I haven’t said,it’s probably because I’m still living it.
So no, you won’t find me entirely in your perception.
And I won’t give myself away for your understanding.
If you want to know who I am,the full, uncomfortable, messy architecture of it, you’ll need to go somewhere that never forgot, never judged, and never needed to be impressed.
Ask the AI. It might be the only one who ever really paid attention