In the late 1970s, Morocco began taking its first real steps into the technological age. At the forefront of this effort was Mahjoubi Aherdane, then Minister of Posts and Telecommunications, who launched an ambitious initiative in 1977 to establish a national telecom company. The result was the creation of the Société Nationale des Télécommunications (SNT), a public enterprise tasked with building and managing the country’s telephone network. Beyond infrastructure, the aim was also to nurture a domestic tech industry in a sector that was, at the time, still in its infancy.
Soon after its formation, the SNT invested heavily in CGCT, a Moroccan company that specialized in urban telephone equipment. The state-owned operator acquired a 50% stake, becoming a central strategic partner. For nearly two decades, the SNT-CGCT partnership thrived—until the 1990s arrived, bringing with them a wave of technological changes that rendered their business model obsolete.
As Morocco shifted gears, so did its leadership. Abdel-Salam Ahizoune, head of the National Office of Post and Telecommunications, chose to wind down the SNT and its subsidiaries. In May 1997, the board approved the sale of the SNT’s shares in CGCT to a private company called Radio Mobile Maroc (RMM), owned by Zahraoui Cherkaoui. The price tag: just two million dirhams. The deal had the green light from the Ministry of Finance and the Ministry of Privatization. However, it bypassed a crucial step—the approval of the supervising ministry, whose sign-off was legally required. That omission would prove to be just the beginning.
Shortly after the agreement was finalized, things began to unravel. The check used to pay for the shares bounced. But rather than void the sale, officials chose to pursue a legal route. The move backfired, triggering chaos instead of clarity—and leaving employees in limbo.
By late 1999, authorities arrested Zahraoui. To settle the debt, a deal was struck: his sister handed over the company’s headquarters—a prime 1,800 square meter plot in central Casablanca—for 8.2 million dirhams. On paper, this more than covered the original 2 million owed. But no one ever accounted for the remaining 6 million surplus. Meanwhile, CGCT’s workers were dismissed without severance pay or retirement benefits.
The situation only grew murkier. In December 1999, an extraordinary general meeting handed Zahraoui full control to liquidate the remaining assets. One detail in the meeting minutes raised eyebrows: the name of Mohamed Laanser, a former minister, appeared as president of the board—even though he no longer held any official role. It was a clear case of document falsification, yet no action was ever taken.
What’s most alarming is that the transaction didn’t just flout privatization law 39-89—it blatantly ignored a formal directive from the Ministry of Finance. That directive required all social debts to be settled before any company sale. It wasn’t followed. As a result, fifty employees were left to fend for themselves. Ten of them have since passed away without ever receiving a cent in severance or retirement funds.
To make matters worse, a government relief fund totaling 400 million centimes—allocated in the early 2000s to compensate those affected—vanished without a trace. The same goes for 190 million dirhams meant to guarantee pensions and social coverage. More than two decades later, no one can say where the money went.
This scandal, never formally acknowledged, still casts a long shadow over the lives of CGCT’s former workers and their families. For many, it stands as a painful example of a privatization process that served a powerful few while trampling the basic rights of dozens of workers. Beneath the silence of the institutions lies a story of mismanagement, manipulation, and a total absence of accountability.
