The Right to Dignity in Free Speech Discourse and the Case of Omar Radi

Luxembourg – Earlier this year, media coverage in Morocco shifted focus from street violence and rape into issues of defamation, injury, and free speech involving both ordinary citizens and persons of public interest. It honestly felt like a relief from raw knife fight images and ruthless sexual assault stories.

We read about the rapper Gnawi versus law enforcement officers, Mol Kaskita and his Youtube videos, and later about journalist Omar Radi versus Judge Lahcen Talfi, among a handful of other speech cases.

Though the common thread among all these cases is that they compel us to rethink how we look at free speech and the rights of others, including those we most vehemently disagree with, Omar Radi and his prosecution for tweeting negatively about a Moroccan judge is particularly interesting.

Omar Radi is not a household name like others across the Moroccan media spectrum. But for the first time in a while, Moroccan society began engaging in meaningful questions around rights, obligations, and the rule of law.

Of course, the price has been hefty. Ahead of his court appearance, in an objectively harsh measure given the nature of the liability, Radi was arrested. The justice system then reversed course, sticking to the rule of law by not criminally prosecuting Radi and set him free as he awaits trial.

An ‘exemplary’ journalist

The journalist rightfully received much support from different media sources out of collegial solidarity and pride for the role journalism plays in free societies. His own employer, Medias24, released a statement.

“Besides the brotherhood that unites us, Omar Radi was a journalist at Medias24 and was able to make himself loved and respected during this period. He has forged strong bonds of friendship and respect with the team. He has been professional and exemplary in his work at Medias24.”

And yet the statement does not address the issue at its heart. How does being loved or friendly relate to the idea of freedom of speech and rights to dignity?

The statement also quoted Karim Tazi, a highly respected intellectual and political activist: “Our country cannot avoid a major challenge. Such moments of transition are obviously sensitive and necessarily lead to excesses. In my opinion, such transitions should be managed by drawing a clear dividing line between what falls within the scope of political dialogue and what deserves repression.”

Tazi continued, “It is urgent that this line should become the sole recourse to violence, and that everything else should be catalogued as freedom of opinion to be dealt with through the fruitful confrontation of ideas.”

Name-calling or respectful challenging

By diverting the argument from its legal and ethical dimension into an ode to his character, Omar’s colleagues were actually doing him a disservice and depriving his cause of genuine traction and wider support.

In line with Tazi’s statement, there are two options to respond to Radi’s tweet: Either 1) call Radi names and slap him with a conspiracy theory of supporting revolutionary ideas to overthrow the system or 2) respectfully challenge Radi’s views through “the fruitful confrontation of ideas.”

Karim Tazi’s standpoint is premised on the classic argument that the only restriction of speech should be on speech that incites violence. This theory says any other restrictions would kill the spirit of public debate, and our free societies would, consequently, go off course towards finding the truth.

American legal theory on freedom of speech is deeply rooted in this notion. English philosopher John Stuart Mill’s 1859 essay “On Liberty” is probably the most famous literary work advocating for free speech.

The essay argues “the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others.”

Mill elaborates on his “harm principle” and free speech with a story about corn merchants. The claim “Corn dealers are starvers of the poor!” can be condoned if written in the press, but may be subject to restriction if said to an angry mob gathered outside the corn dealer’s house.

Read also: HRW Calls on Morocco to Release ‘Freedom of Speech’ Convicts

What did Radi mean by ‘let’s remember’?

Mill’s harm principle oversimplifies free speech and its extent. The wording of Radi’s tweet is a denial of Judge Lahcen’s dignity, regardless of how flawed Lahcen’s rulings are.

Radi tweeted: “Lahcen Talfi, judge of the Court of Appeal, executioner of our brothers, let us remember him well. In many regimes, small arms like him came back to beg afterwards, claiming to have ‘carried out orders.’ No forgetting, no forgiveness for these officials with no dignity!”

When I read “Let’s remember him,” I hear a speech to an angry mob gathered around Lahcen’s personal and professional space. It could even put him in harm’s way.

Born and raised in the notorious J5 CYM neighborhood in the heart of Rabat, I know what “remember” means in this context. If someone says “remember me,” it is like serving somebody with a notice to watch out for their own safety, both hyperbolically and literally.

With such a tweet, Radi fails to hold himself accountable to Lahcen. His emotional and understandably staunch disagreement with the judge’s rulings cannot legitimize his harmful behavior.

As much as I would like to defend him, Omar Radi named and shamed a judge, a private citizen exercising a public service.

Was the judge doing a good job? It is definitely an open question, and everybody is entitled to participate in the debate on the efficiency of Morocco’s legal system.

When is it permissible to criticize?

Some people might argue that the judge is the center of his court, and criticizing him is a critique of the court.

Here we need to set the record straight. We have to distinguish between a person of public interest and a private citizen. Judge Lahcen cannot, even remotely, be compared to the likes of former Head of Government Abdelilah Benkirane, agriculture minister Aziz Akhannouch or any similar public figure.

Those people made a choice to be publicly exposed. They do and say things subject to the rules of public debate. Such rules allow heated conversations, naming and shaming, hyperbolic accusations, etc., as part of democratically-open debates.

But those very rules do not apply when the same public figures leave politics or public space, once and for all.

A case in point was an incident involving Benkirane and a member of Rally of Independents (RNI) party led by Akhannouch.

We were all entertained by the sharp words, insults, and accusations against Benkirane. As far as I can tell, nobody was sued for defamation or injury, since Benkirane was fully aware that his job does not guarantee him a good name.

Likewise, then Government Spokesperson Mustapha El Khalfi called RNI party members at a rally in Tangier “mortazika,” meaning “scroungers,” or people who seek to make money at the expense of others or by stealth. The members filed a defamation lawsuit against El Khalfi, asking for MAD 50,000 ($5,200) in damages per member at the rally.

The case did not gain any traction and was clearly a defensive nuisance lawsuit. The rhetoric came during the peak of politicking ahead of elections and was part of an electoral campaign run by public figures within the realm of politics.

When it’s okay to call someone an animal

Another case makes the distinction clearer. Shortly after Benkirane resigned as head of government, a protester insulted him through an SMS, comparing him to a mule, a despicably regarded animal within Moroccan society. The defendant received a three-month sentence, serving only two after the plaintiff pardoned him.

What is the catch? First, the defendant and the plaintiff were not political opponents having a debate, nor was Benkirane functioning as a public figure. He was a strictly private citizen, fully entitled to the rights of privacy and dignity.

Second, calling someone an animal is permissible only in the right context. Benkirane’s most famous political punchline uses animal equivalency—crocodiles—to describe his political opponents, and yet he has never been held accountable for that in a court of law, because the metaphor was hyperbolically used as permitted by the rules of public debate. The metaphor was meant to criticize, not to demean.

Read also: Editorial: Morocco Shouldn’t Let Omar Radi’s Case Erase Years of Progress

In his case, Radi could have aspired to protection by the rights society grants to journalists by upholding the standards of meaningful journalism. But his amateurish tweet does not mesh with an expectation to be treated as a journalist exercising his profession.

I assume Radi, as a journalist, has access to the court ruling. He could have challenged the content of it rather than insinuating an uncalled-for revolution, especially because journalists should reflect the truth that an ordinary citizen might not be able to see.

Free speech is a mixed bag, and saying all speech in that bag is protected can be misleading. When we have cases like Omar Radi’s, journalists are no longer the watchers of our problems. They become the problem.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Morocco World News’ editorial views.