I Had a Dream

I had a dream that I was incarcerated in a third-world nation. It wasn’t brutal, but it was suffocating. I could breathe, yes, but the air carried a weight, heavy and motionless, never allowing me to rise above it, never letting me change its quality.

I had a dream of escaping, of living somewhere far from this oppressive maze, somewhere where Hollywood wasn’t just a factory of fantasies, but a beacon of possibility for people like me—people born into a reality that mocks ambition and crushes hope before it can take place.

I had a dream of a brighter future, where I could envision, plan, and execute. A future where my hard work wasn’t met with indifference or ceilings too high to break or even cause to break.

I had a dream of mere progress—of real, unrelenting progress—where the fruits of my labor weren’t rationed, where dignity wasn’t a luxury but a birthright. I had a dream of walking freely into a world without limitations, where the chains of arbitrary rules and suffocating bureaucracy were broken into dust.

I had a dream that my people—my brothers, my sisters, my neighbors—were dreaming alongside me. I had a dream that they, too, could understand my state, my feelings, my actions. I had a dream we marched together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, a unified voice rising from the depths of a long-held silence.

I had a dream that I had a voice, a voice so strong that it could pierce the walls of ignorance and apathy, a voice the world could no longer ignore. I had a dream that my people—those who work their fingers to the bone for pennies—were lifted from the shadows of desperation.

I had a dream that the simplest, most overlooked citizen of Morocco could labor for more than $10 a day. I had a dream that every man and woman in my country could taste the sweetness of a life not burdened by indignity.

I had a dream of green lands, not a green match but a reality beneath our feet.

I had a dream of my people walking freely upon them, not just marching in futile processions over barren, blood-soaked soil. I had a dream that the "Green March" no longer symbolized the red lands of struggle, but a vibrant rebirth, a reclamation of life, of peace, of freedom.

I had a dream I was born somewhere else—anywhere else. Whether it was a land of orange sunsets, blue waters, or black mountains, it doesn’t matter, so long as it isn’t green, the green that now feels heavy with the weight of stagnation.

I had a dream that I was born a Viking, far from these shores, in a place of wild, unrelenting winds. Somewhere between Iceland and Antarctica, where the cold sharpened my resolve and the silence was a promise of untouchable freedom.

I had a dream that I could free myself—not just from the confines of papers and borders, but from the chains of identity thrust upon me not by choice. I had a dream I was free from my skin, my hair, my birthplace, free from the pinprick of a birth certificate that tried to define my life before I could live it.

I had a dream, and in that dream, I wasn’t dreaming just for myself. I had a dream for my people, for their voices to rise with mine, for their dreams to soar as high as mine, for their footsteps to march forward with the same conviction. I had a dream that we were no longer small, no longer invisible. I had a dream that my countrymen, whose backs are bent with the weight of survival, could stand tall, unburdened, and walk boldly into a future they could shape with their own hands.

I had a dream that life was more than endurance. I had a dream that love and freedom were not luxuries but truths we carried in our hearts. I had a dream that even in the darkest corners of my nation, there was light, there was laughter, there was hope.

I had a dream because I am Moroccan, and I am alive. And though I love life, what is it without freedom? What is life without dignity? (Dignity = $10+/Hour) Not necessarily for myself, but for all of you—for every last one of Moroccan Citizens. I had a dream that the simplest of men, the humblest of women, could wake up without fear and sleep without worry. I had a dream that the dreams of my people could ignite a revolution, not of violence, but of spirit, of hope, of humanity.

I HAVE A DREAM that one day, Black, Latino, Asian, and White Americans alike will dare to care about an old, black-haired Moroccan soul—a man as authentic as the actions behind Hollywood’s vision of giving voice and imagery to the simplest, yet most profound, kind of hope, the real, unshakable kind that lives in the hearts of ordinary people.

I swear I have a dream, and in dreaming, I know that even if I wake up, the dream remains. Because dreams, after everything else, are some kind of seeds of action, and the voice of one can awaken the voices of millions.