Voices of Change: Morocco’s GenZ 212 and the Fight for a Just Future

I’m sitting in a café in Rabat, not too far from the Parliament building. I order a cup of tea as the sounds of protest pick up: drums, chants, the angry cadence of a crowd. “Anyone who remains silent belongs to the devil,” a protester yells, a statement that has haunted me. I find myself on a balcony, looking down: I see them, a tide of people moving as one, a cross between a march and a moshpit. They are shouting for dignity, for jobs, for health care, for justice. These are the Moroccan youth, and these are their voices.

The line sticks with me because of something my mom used to say, “Don’t be so rebellious,” she’d say, “What will people think?” For Moroccans, optics are everything. You have to look serene, successful, and dynamic, even if everything feels precarious internally. If anything is bubbling up, you keep the lid on it. That facade, my mother’s lesson in quiet endurance, has, to a large extent, defined our country. Morocco has projected stability and calm for decades, but frustration festers under the surface. 

However, something is shifting. Like brush fires, protests are sweeping across the country from Casablanca to Tangier, but what’s happening in Rabat feels different. It’s not just about politics. It is a story of identity, pride, and the unwillingness to pretend any longer. What we are witnessing now feels like the awakening of something new but profoundly familiar. A new movement of mobilization born in a different Morocco. 

These are the young members of Gen Z 212 — its founders pretty much picked their own name, and they chose one that included "212," Morocco’s international dialing code, in order to signify both national identity and digital unity. The movement originated in mid-September 2025 on a Discord server created by several unknown users on September 18. Beginning with fewer than 1,000 members, the movement quickly swelled into the hundreds of thousands as they organized protests and spelled out demands throughout Morocco.

The Evolution of Moroccan Activism: From Containment to Defiance

To understand this, one has to think back to 2011 — the first time that the February 20 Movement entered the streets. At the time, it was mostly leftist activists, union members, and organized political groups who called for reform and accountability. Their demonstrations were brazen, but their influence was contained. Eventually, repression and weariness drove many back to silence. 

Fourteen years later, the spark is back, only it wasn't from where I'd expected. The test was the protests of September 27 and 28. They were not led by members of political parties or old hands in activism, but by Morocco’s Gen Z: Young doctors, academics, students, and graduates. Very few had ever ventured out onto the streets before. They had three basic demands: dignity, fair pay, and accountability. 

Initially peaceful, the protests later turned tense when the police used heavy force to clear demonstrators by beating protesters, confiscating phones, and detaining dozens, according to local witnesses and independent media. Amnesty International subsequently denounced the use of disproportionate force and called on Moroccan authorities to investigate the crackdown as well as protect the rights of the people to peaceful assembly. 

Historically, such crackdowns tended to succeed. Fear would settle in, and the crowds would thin out and eventually disperse. But this time was different. Despite the bloodshed during those two days, people continued to march. Videos online showed protesters returning the next morning, waving flags and chanting against repression. The government had not anticipated that persistence, that refusal to give way. 

For thousands of young Moroccans, September 27 and 28 came to symbolize the end of silence, with a generation deciding that fear would not forever determine its future. 

Moroccan Activism: A New Era of Defiance

I met Issam Chorrib, a photographer who has always followed protests, especially those of Gen Zs. He tells me he doesn’t just take pictures, he also participates. “I consider myself part of this movement,” he says. “I’m not taking pictures to look, but to remember.” 

Recently, Chorrib has been paying attention to the Gen Z protests, a younger wave of demonstrations that feels different from those of the past. His images are of faces, defiant, exhausted, unfiltered. “I show corners where there are no rights,” he says.

The trigger, the AP reported, was the death of eight women in childbirth at a public hospital in Agadir. The episode quickly spread across social media, unleashing anger over what many viewed as years of neglect and dysfunction in Morocco’s public health sector. Health workers and activists described the deaths as preventable, citing staff shortages, lack of equipment, and poor emergency care, shortfalls that are well-known but rarely addressed.

The fatal episode became a flash point for a generation that was already unsettled over economic stagnation and inequality. “You go into a hospital sick,” says Amina, one of the protesters I spoke to, “...and you come out sicker. Money is going to the World Cup but not to us.” Morocco is co-hosting the 2030 FIFA World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal. The country has allocated a lot of resources towards stadiums and other World Cup-related infrastructure at the expense of more urgent necessities like healthcare. 

Their grievance is not about football — people love the game, and love their team. What they demand is democracy, human rights, and sustainability: envisioning a future where national progress and social welfare are not in conflict. As I’m walking among them in these demonstrations, I see it myself. These young people take care of each other. Others rush in when someone experiences violence. It’s a place where solidarity feels like second nature, and community is being reinvented in real time. I’ve never experienced that kind of care across a generation. 

Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is larger than most people think. What started as isolated protests has ballooned into a vast network, a generation that has harnessed social media as its most potent weapon. Online, they report on one another, mobilize, and amplify each other’s voices. Offline, they have taken to the streets with a disciplined sense of purpose that seems entirely novel. “Sooner or later, you will see more of us,” these young people tell me, committed not to stop until they are heard. “What we’re fighting for is not just a better health care system, or better hospitals,” they say. “It’s our dignity, and our future.” 

In his most recent speech to the parliament, King Mohammed VI declared that “Social justice is not a fleeting priority. It’s a strategic choice which all of us must embrace and a major challenge which should underpin our development action in all its forms.” He also shared that ambitious national projects need to happen simultaneously with social programs, and he urged quicker reforms in health, education, and rural development, where inequality and underinvestment have festered. 

The King did not refer to the protests explicitly, and the degree of the government’s follow-through is uncertain. In the end, the generation with little to lose continues to fill up the streets. 

The protests blaze on even as the country buzzes with anticipation for the upcoming Africa Cup of Nations. When asked about a possible change of plans for the tournament, Patrice Motsepe, president of the Confederation of African Football (CAF), said, “Morocco is plan A, Morocco is plan B, and Morocco is plan C,” at a press conference following CAF’s annual general assembly. 

However, one thing seems certain: this movement is not going away anytime soon. In fact, another demonstration will be held across cities in the country on October 18. It is expanding and defining what power in numbers means in today’s Morocco.