What Meryam Touzani expressed at this year’s Marrakech International Film Festival was not just a passing statement. It was almost a rare confession, the kind filmmakers seldom share on camera. When asked, “Where do your stories come from?” her disarmingly simple answer—“I don’t know myself”—opens the door to the real conversation.
Listening to her, it becomes clear that Touzani doesn’t treat cinema as a craft but as a vital form of breathing. She doesn’t write because she has a story or a message ready, she writes because she cannot not write.
This instinctive writing begins in the body: in a shiver, in a pain, in a memory that refuses to be forgotten.
A rare honesty
Saying she doesn’t know where her stories come from is not a sign of ignorance but a statement of artistic truth:
“I don’t invent the stories… they knock at my door.”
While many directors construct the image of the omniscient creator, Touzani chooses sincerity, inviting the audience into her inner world.
But… is instinct enough?
This instinct-driven creativity appeals to critics, but it raises an essential question:
Can cinema always feed solely on emotion?
Or does every inner impulse eventually need conscious structure, a form to guide it?
This tension is what makes her work uniquely compelling.
Touzani in Moroccan cinema
In a cinematic context oscillating between experimentation and social engagement, Touzani’s approach poses a fundamental question: should cinema express the self or the world?
She clearly leans toward the self, the inner movement, the silence before the light. This gives her films a particular sensitivity and places her in a continuous dialogue about the very meaning of cinema.
What does this “need” reveal?
When everything starts from a “need” rather than an idea, there is an unspoken call, an inner obsession:
Is it a need for recognition?
For protection?
To confront a personal weakness?
Or to speak what society cannot hear?
This is what makes her artistic journey so singular.
Conclusion
Touzani’s words reveal not just her writing process but her relationship with herself, her history, and the emotional spaces that become film.
There is in her speech poetry, anxiety, and confession—making the study of her experience essential for understanding not only her films but also the transformations of contemporary Moroccan cinema.
