The more technology distances the actor, the more responsibility must increase.

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From person to target

What becomes of humanity when technology becomes capable of recognising, classifying, tracking and ultimately killing human beings without those carrying out the strikes ever having seen them? My friend Mohammad Reza Dehshiri asked this very question, and his answer is a powerful one. The danger, he writes, is not artificial intelligence but artificial inhumanity – that is, the possibility that machines will become more accurate precisely as humans cease to feel responsible for what those machines do in their name.

With this article, I am launching a series that takes Dehshiri’s analysis as its starting point and attempts to take it further. If the problem is ‘artificial inhumanity’, the answer cannot lie in a ‘more ethical’ AI, as if ethics were a module to be installed as an afterthought to a system that has already been designed. We need to reclaim a category that technological jargon has rendered almost unmentionable: human intelligence, understood not as a remnant to be protected amidst the complexities of automation, but as a form of knowledge with its own distinct characteristics, which no increase in computing power can replace.

I shall call it Human Intelligence, and the ambiguity is deliberate. In intelligence service jargon, HUMINT refers to the oldest of the intelligence disciplines: that which relies on people, sources, languages and the patient frequenting of places. In philosophical terminology, the expression denotes the faculty of understanding. The thesis of this first contribution is that these two meanings now converge, and that their convergence has geopolitical implications that extend far beyond the debate on the ethics of weaponry.

We can describe the operational chain of contemporary warfare in seven stages: detect, identify, classify, predict, prioritise, target, strike. Each link can be technically refined without the sequence, taken as a whole, being morally refined. The resulting phenomenon is called the ‘datafication of human life’: the individual reduced to an identity, a location, a behavioural pattern, a threat score.

This is no abstraction. In April 2024, an investigation by Yuval Abraham for +972 Magazine and Local Call described ‘Lavender’, a system used by the Israeli armed forces in Gaza to assign tens of thousands of people a probability of affiliation with armed groups. According to internal sources cited in the investigation, the human verification of each name often amounted to no more than twenty seconds – the time needed to ascertain that the target was male. The Israeli Defence Forces have disputed this account and described Lavender as a database designed to support analysts. Even if one accepts the official version, however, the crux of the matter remains: a human operator was present, and their presence was not sufficient to transform the system’s recommendation into a judgement.

Cognitive psychology has a name for this phenomenon, automation bias: the tendency of those working with an automated system to treat its recommendations as a substitute for their own verification, and to fail to seek out the information that might contradict them. Back in 1976, Joseph Weizenbaum – who had built one of the first conversational programmes in history – already distinguished between the ability to calculate and the ability to judge, and argued that there are tasks that should not be entrusted to a computer even if the computer were capable of performing them. Half a century on, this distinction has become even more pressing. Computation works on what has already been translated into data. Judgement must decide whether that translation has been faithful.

Dehshiri drives the point home with four distinctions: technical precision is not ethical precision; accuracy is not justice; automation is not responsibility; technological superiority is not moral superiority. I would add a fifth, of an epistemic nature, upon which the others depend: correlation is not understanding. A machine-learning system recognises statistical patterns in a dataset. It does not know what a school is, because it does not know what a child is, and it does not even know that it does not know this.

L’iraniano cites an interesting case study: On 28 February 2026, in the early hours of the war, the Shajareh Tayyebeh primary school in Minab, in Hormozgan province, was struck several times during school hours. The figures provided by the Iranian authorities range between 150 and 175 deaths, the vast majority of whom were girls, along with dozens of teachers and a few parents; the district prosecutor put the final death toll at 156. Washington has never directly acknowledged its responsibility nor published the findings of the Pentagon’s investigation. Amnesty International has described the incident, at best, as a serious intelligence failure.

There is one detail, revealed by satellite imagery, which shifts the analysis from the moral to the factual plane. According to Western media, the school stood next to a naval base belonging to the Revolutionary Guards and had previously formed part of it; among the explanations circulating in US circles is that of out-of-date targeting data. If this hypothesis were confirmed, Minab would not be a case of a machine making a mistake, but of a database that had ceased to correspond to reality. The building had changed. The data had not.

No classification algorithm, however sophisticated, can detect that an old military building has become a school if no one has recorded the change. Everyone living in Minab knew this: the parents who took their daughters to school every morning, the schoolbus driver, the teachers. This is precisely the kind of knowledge that HUMINT gathers and that remote warfare tends to regard as superfluous, because it is slow, costly and difficult to scale. Based on publicly available sources, US responsibility appears highly probable, whilst the exact circumstances remain unclear and confidence on this point is low: a database error, a classification error, or a conscious acceptance of the risk. The three hypotheses, however, all converge on the same question. Who, prior to the strike, checked whether there were people in that building?

Beyond ‘human-in-the-loop’

The international debate has long been content with the principle of human-in-the-loop, whereby a human being is part of the decision-making loop.

This formula is insufficient: a person may be present in the loop yet merely rubber-stamp the algorithm’s recommendation. He proposes replacing it with a more demanding principle, which he calls humanity-in-command: the effective ability to question, reject, override and halt the automated process.

The history of the Cold War offers two examples that clarify what this means in practice. On 26 September 1983, the Soviet early-warning system Oko signalled the launch of five ballistic missiles from the United States. The officer on duty, Stanislav Petrov, dismissed the alarm as a false alarm and did not report it as an ongoing attack, reasoning that a first American strike would never consist of just five missiles. He was right: the satellite had mistaken the sun’s reflection off the clouds for missile launches. Twenty-one years earlier, on 27 October 1962, in the Caribbean Sea, the Soviet submarine B-59, isolated and under fire from signal depth charges, was on the verge of launching a nuclear-tipped torpedo. The launch required the consent of the three senior officers on board, and Vasily Arkhipov refused to give it.

In neither case did the man approve a recommendation from the system. He contradicted it. And he did not do so because he had more data: indeed, the data were the problem. He did so because he knew how to ask himself a question that no procedure required him to ask, namely whether what he was seeing made sense in the context of everything else he knew about the world. Petrov was familiar with American nuclear doctrine; Archipov knew the difference between an attack and a threat. It is this ability to compare the signal with the bigger picture, the detail with what is plausible, that I call Human Intelligence. It is worth noting that the Dena was sunk by a submarine. We do not know what its officers were asked, nor what scope they had for judgement.

This proposal needs to be clarified, as there is a risk of reducing it to a generic humanistic appeal. Human Intelligence, as I understand it, is structured across three distinct levels, each of which marks a structural – rather than contingent – limit of artificial intelligence.

The first level is epistemic. The scholastic tradition distinguished between intellectus, the act by which the mind immediately grasps a truth, and ratio, the discursive process of moving from one element to another: for Thomas Aquinas (Summa Theologiae, I, q. 79, a. 8), the two are not distinct faculties but aspects of a single intellect, in which reasoning begins with an understanding and returns to an understanding. Current machine learning systems realise a ratio of unprecedented power, capable of inferring, combining and predicting on scales inaccessible to the human mind. They lack the aspect of intellectus, that is, a grasp of the meaning of what they process. This is a philosophical thesis and must be presented as such, but it has precise practical consequences: a system devoid of understanding cannot know when its own model of the world has become false.

The second aspect is practical. Prudentia, in the Thomist definition, is right reason applied to action, and its specific task consists in applying the universal principle to the particular case. The machine generalises: its value lies in mapping the individual case back to a class. Prudence does the opposite, because it must recognise what, in this particular case, falls outside the class. War, which is the realm of the singular and the unforeseen, is the arena where this difference carries the most weight. The Vatican’s Antiqua et nova note of January 2025 took up this line of thought, emphasising the embodied and relational nature of human intelligence and its irreducibility to a mere processing function.

The third level is relational, and it is here that philosophical meaning meets that of the intelligence services. Sherman Kent, who effectively founded the field of intelligence studies in the post-war United States, defined it first and foremost as knowledge, even before organising or activity. HUMINT is the form of this knowledge that passes through the other as a person: someone who speaks their language, knows their customs, can read a neighbourhood, and can distinguish a festival from a rally. Over the last three decades, the major powers have progressively shifted resources towards technical disciplines, from signals intelligence to satellite surveillance, right through to data fusion platforms. Minab illustrates the cost of this imbalance.

None of this implies a rejection of technology. Human Intelligence does not stand in opposition to AI in the same way that a manual stands in opposition to a mechanic. It establishes a hierarchy: the algorithm as a tool subservient to a judgement it cannot produce on its own. And from this it derives a principle, formulated by Dehshiri, which deserves to become an operational criterion: the more technology distances the actor from the consequences of their own actions, the more the conscious responsibility of the decision-maker must increase, not decrease.

Geopolitically speaking

So far, the issue might seem to be one of moral philosophy. It is not merely that. The distribution of algorithmic warfare capability is a distribution of power, and the rules governing it will be written – if they are written at all – by those with an interest in limiting them as little as possible.

The state of international law confirms this. The group of government experts established under the Convention on Certain Conventional Weapons has been discussing lethal autonomous weapons systems since 2017 without having reached a binding instrument. In November 2023, the United States promoted a political declaration on the responsible military use of AI, which is by definition non-binding; in December of the same year, the United Nations General Assembly adopted the first resolution dedicated to these systems, whilst the International Committee of the Red Cross has been calling since 2021 for a ban on unpredictable autonomous systems and those designed to target human beings. In June 2024, speaking at the G7 summit in Borgo Egnazia, Pope Francis called for no machine ever to be placed in a position to decide on a person’s life. The gap between these positions and the reality on the battlefields of 2026 is measured in casualties.

There is also a deeper asymmetry. Those who control the data decide who is a target, and the victims of algorithmic warfare are largely found outside the West: in Gaza, Iran, the Sahel and Yemen. For states that do not produce the platforms or control their databases, human intelligence thus becomes a matter of sovereignty. A country that maintains linguistic expertise, regional knowledge and human intelligence networks retains its autonomy of judgement; a country that entrusts its worldview to systems designed elsewhere – often by private companies – surrenders it along with its data. In an order tending towards multipolarity, this distinction will separate the actors who judge from those who are judged.

This leads to a concrete proposal, which I shall develop in future articles. Alongside the general principle of meaningful human oversight, international humanitarian law could codify a specific obligation for human verification of the civil status of every fixed infrastructure included on a list of targets, with an expiry date beyond which the information becomes invalid and must be renewed using direct sources. This is a minimum standard. Applied to Minab, it would have required someone to ask whether that building was still what the records stated it to be.

Technology can determine how a weapon reaches its target, whilst it is up to humanity to decide whether that target should be struck. The question underlying all this is who, in practical terms, exercises that humanity, with what tools of knowledge and within which institutions. In Minab, someone should have known that there was a school there. The fact that nobody knew, or that nobody asked, is the point from which we must start again.

US President Donald Trump has accused the Norwegian Nobel Committee of discrediting the Peace Prize after it awarded the 2026 honour to South African jurist Navanethem Pillay, warning Norway that Washington would not forget the decision.

US President Donald Trump has launched an attack on Norway and the Nobel Peace Prize committee after being overlooked for the 2026 award, declaring that the decision had permanently damaged the prize’s credibility and left an indelible stain on the country responsible for selecting its recipient.

Speaking at a campaign rally on Friday, 9 October, Trump insisted that his diplomatic achievements entitled him to the distinction and accused the committee of allowing political ideology to determine its choice.

His remarks followed the announcement that South African lawyer and former United Nations human rights chief Navanethem “Navi” Pillay had received this year’s prize for her contribution to peace and international law.

“The United States of America, represented by me as your president, should have received the Nobel Peace Prize, but didn’t,” Trump told supporters.

He described the committee’s decision as disgraceful and embarrassing before issuing a pointed warning: “We will not forget, Norway.”

The American president went further, claiming that the award had been discredited by radical ideologues whom he characterised as opponents of democracy and civilisation. He also questioned Pillay’s qualifications, telling his audience that he had never heard of the South African jurist.

Nobel Committee Recognises International Justice

The Norwegian Nobel Committee’s announcement honoured Pillay’s contribution to peace and international law.

Born in Durban in 1941 under South Africa’s apartheid system, Pillay became a prominent human rights lawyer before serving as a judge at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda and subsequently at the International Criminal Court (ICC). She was also UN High Commissioner for Human Rights between 2008 and 2014.

Her judicial career included work on cases involving genocide and sexual violence during the Rwandan conflict. More recently, she chaired the UN Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Occupied Palestinian Territory, including East Jerusalem, and Israel. Israel rejected the commission’s findings.

The award comes at a contentious moment in Washington’s relations with international judicial institutions. On the same day as the Nobel announcement, the Trump administration introduced new sanctions against the ICC, expanding American restrictions and bringing Washington into conflict with European governments that support the institution.

Trump’s Claims of Diplomatic Success

Trump has repeatedly argued that his interventions in international disputes justify receiving the Nobel Peace Prize. During Friday’s rally, he claimed to have settled eight wars and suggested that he was approaching further breakthroughs involving Iran and Russia’s war against Ukraine.

Those claims remain contested. Several disputes cited by Trump have not resulted in comprehensive peace agreements, while others involved ceasefires or diplomatic arrangements that did not permanently resolve the underlying conflicts.

His administration also participated alongside Israel in the war against Iran earlier this year. Although Washington subsequently pursued a negotiated settlement, the conflict raised questions about the relationship between American military intervention and Trump’s presentation of himself as an international peacemaker.

Trump has likewise maintained that he can secure an end to the war in Ukraine, although Russian military operations continue and no comprehensive settlement has been reached.

The president’s dispute with the Nobel Committee is not new. He has frequently contrasted his diplomatic record with that of former President Barack Obama, who received the prize in 2009, less than a year after taking office.

Machado’s Medal and the Norwegian Connection

Trump’s frustration has also been shaped by his relationship with Venezuelan opposition leader María Corina Machado, who received the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize for her campaign for democratic rights and political change in Venezuela.

In January 2026, Machado presented her Nobel medal to Trump in a symbolic gesture. However, the Nobel Committee subsequently reaffirmed that a Nobel Prize cannot be transferred to another person, regardless of what happens to the physical medal.

The president’s latest criticism also draws Norway into a dispute over which its government has no direct authority. The Nobel Peace Prize is awarded by an independent five-member committee appointed by the Norwegian parliament, rather than by the Norwegian government.

Under the rules governing the award, the committee is responsible for selecting the individual or organisation judged to have made the greatest contribution to peace in accordance with Alfred Nobel’s will.

Trump’s warning therefore raises a separate diplomatic question: whether his dissatisfaction with an independent committee’s decision will have consequences for relations with Norway, a longstanding NATO ally.

For European governments, the controversy also comes against the background of Washington’s escalating confrontation with international courts. Russia has separately demanded the extradition of ICC President Tomoko Akane and other judicial officials over proceedings connected with the war in Ukraine.

The Nobel Committee’s decision to honour a former ICC judge, just as the institution faces pressure from both Moscow and Washington, has consequently acquired significance beyond the question of Trump’s personal ambitions.

The 2026 Nobel Peace Prize will be formally presented in Oslo on 10 December.

Le elezioni legislative marocchine hanno ridisegnato gli equilibri tra i partiti: il PAM conquista il primato, l’RNI arretra e il PJD torna protagonista. Ma l’astensione e il ruolo della monarchia mostrano i limiti dell’alternanza, mentre il Sahara Occidentale resta escluso da ogni processo decisionale.

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Le elezioni legislative marocchine del 23 settembre hanno prodotto una significativa ricomposizione degli equilibri parlamentari senza mettere in discussione l’architettura fondamentale del sistema politico del Regno. Il Partito Autenticità e Modernità (Parti Authenticité et Modernité, PAM) è diventato la prima formazione della Camera dei rappresentanti con 97 seggi su 395, superando il Raggruppamento Nazionale degli Indipendenti (Rassemblement National des Indépendants, RNI), che dopo cinque anni alla guida del governo è sceso da 102 a 66 deputati. Il Partito dell’Istiqlal (Parti de l’Istiqlal) si è collocato immediatamente dietro con 65 seggi, mentre il Partito della Giustizia e dello Sviluppo (Parti de la Justice et du Développement, PJD) ha realizzato la rimonta più consistente, passando dai 13 rappresentanti del 2021 a 54.

La distribuzione dei seggi permette di individuare contemporaneamente una sconfitta dell’esperienza di governo uscente e una continuità più profonda: il PAM, infatti, aveva governato insieme all’RNI e all’Istiqlal nel corso della legislatura appena conclusa. Il suo avanzamento da 87 a 97 deputati rappresenta quindi soprattutto un riequilibrio interno all’area che ha amministrato il Paese negli ultimi cinque anni. Il cambiamento più marcato riguarda invece l’RNI dell’ormai ex capo del governo Aziz Akhannouch, che perde 36 seggi, mentre l’Istiqlal ne perde sedici.

Il risultato ha portato Muhammad VI, il 29 settembre, a nominare Fatima Ezzahra El Mansouri capo del governo incaricato, in applicazione dell’articolo 47 della Costituzione, che impone al sovrano di scegliere il capo dell’esecutivo all’interno del partito arrivato primo alle elezioni della Camera dei rappresentanti. El Mansouri, coordinatrice della direzione collegiale del PAM, già ministra dell’Assetto territoriale e sindaca di Marrakech, è la prima donna nella storia marocchina a ricevere l’incarico di guidare il governo.

Il PAM conquista il primato, ma non produce una rottura

La vittoria relativa del PAM deve essere interpretata all’interno delle caratteristiche specifiche del sistema politico marocchino. Fondato nel 2008 da Fouad Ali El Himma, stretto collaboratore e consigliere di Mohammed VI, il partito è stato fin dall’origine una componente importante dello spazio politico vicino alla monarchia. La sua affermazione non corrisponde dunque a un’alternanza paragonabile a quella che avviene nei sistemi parlamentari nei quali il controllo dell’esecutivo comporta anche la direzione complessiva della politica dello Stato.

Il PAM, come ricordato in precedenza, aveva partecipato direttamente anche al governo Akhannouch, e resta dunque inserito nello stesso quadro istituzionale. La differenza tra i due partiti può essere rilevante nelle politiche sociali, nell’organizzazione della spesa pubblica, nelle priorità economiche o nella distribuzione delle responsabilità ministeriali, ma è molto meno marcata sui dossier strategici che dipendono direttamente dalla monarchia.

La Costituzione del 2011 attribuisce infatti al re funzioni che vanno ben oltre quelle normalmente esercitate da un capo dello Stato parlamentare. Muhammad VI è definito capo dello Stato e garante dell’integrità territoriale; presiede il Consiglio dei ministri, nel quale vengono stabiliti gli orientamenti strategici della politica dello Stato, ed è comandante supremo delle Forze Armate Reali. Presiede inoltre il Consiglio superiore di sicurezza, competente sulle strategie di sicurezza interna ed esterna.

La differenza tra alternanza governativa e alternanza del potere risulta quindi essenziale per comprendere il voto del 23 settembre. Il PAM assume la guida dell’esecutivo, ma la politica estera, la difesa, la sicurezza e le grandi direttrici strategiche rimangono settori nei quali il Palazzo conserva un ruolo determinante.

Il ritorno del PJD

Se il PAM è la prima forza parlamentare, il cambiamento numericamente più rilevante riguarda il PJD. Nel 2021, infatti, il partito islamista aveva subito una sconfitta eccezionale, precipitando da 125 seggi ottenuti nel 2016 ad appena 13. Cinque anni dopo torna a risalire fino a quota 54 deputati, recuperando 41 seggi e ricostruendo una presenza parlamentare significativa.

Secondo gli analisti, il ritorno di Abdelilah Benkirane alla guida della formazione ha contribuito a restituire al PJD una capacità di mobilitazione che sembrava compromessa dopo il tracollo del 2021. Il risultato non porta però il partito verso una nuova partecipazione al governo: il PJD ha annunciato la propria collocazione all’opposizione e Benkirane ha anche rifiutato di partecipare alla consultazione convocata da El Mansouri presso la sede del PAM, contestando il luogo scelto per il confronto.

Il dato segnala comunque che l’esperienza del 2021 non aveva cancellato l’elettorato islamista. Una parte consistente degli elettori che aveva abbandonato il PJD dopo gli anni trascorsi al governo è tornata a sostenerlo in una fase nella quale il partito può nuovamente presentarsi come forza di opposizione.

La dinamica è particolarmente interessante perché ribalta in parte quella verificatasi cinque anni fa. Nel 2021 il crollo del PJD aveva aperto la strada all’ascesa dell’RNI; nel 2026 è l’RNI a perdere una parte considerevole della propria rappresentanza mentre il PJD recupera gran parte dello spazio perduto.

L’astensione come dato strutturale

Il risultato più significativo per comprendere il rapporto tra istituzioni e società resta tuttavia quello della partecipazione.

Secondo il ministero dell’Interno, l’affluenza ufficiale è stata del 38,02%, contro circa il 50% registrato nel 2021. Il dato assume un peso ancora maggiore se confrontato con la dimensione delle liste elettorali: a fronte di circa 27 milioni di cittadini potenzialmente aventi diritto, soltanto 15,8 milioni risultavano registrati, una cifra diminuita di circa il 12% rispetto alla precedente consultazione.

Il problema appare particolarmente marcato tra i giovani. Nelle settimane precedenti al voto, soltanto il 3% dei cittadini tra i 18 e i 24 anni risultava iscritto nelle liste elettorali. Lo stesso gruppo sociale è stato protagonista negli ultimi anni di manifestazioni legate alla disoccupazione, alla qualità dei servizi pubblici, alle difficoltà abitative e alla distribuzione delle risorse, mentre gli ingenti investimenti destinati alle infrastrutture per i Mondiali di calcio del 2030 sono diventati uno dei termini del dibattito pubblico.

Le elezioni mostrano quindi un sistema partitico capace di produrre spostamenti consistenti al proprio interno, ma solo nell’ambito di un corpo elettorale registrato e partecipante relativamente ristretto rispetto alla popolazione complessivamente in età di voto. Il problema, infatti, non riguarda soltanto quale partito governi, ma il grado di identificazione di ampi settori della società con gli stessi meccanismi della rappresentanza politica.

Anche per questo, l’incarico affidato a El Mansouri contiene due dimensioni differenti. Da una parte costituisce un cambiamento significativo nella rappresentanza di genere ai vertici dell’esecutivo; dall’altra il nuovo governo dovrà confrontarsi con la stessa distanza tra società e istituzioni che l’affluenza del 23 settembre ha reso evidente.

Una sinistra frammentata, ma con un nuovo spazio parlamentare

Il voto offre indicazioni interessanti anche sullo stato della sinistra marocchina.

L’Unione Socialista delle Forze Popolari (Union Socialiste des Forces Populaires, USFP) scende da 34 a 26 seggi, mentre il Partito del Progresso e del Socialismo (Parti du Progrès et du Socialisme, PPS) passa da 22 a 19. Il PPS, in particolare, rappresenta la forza erede del Partito Comunista Marocchino, fondato negli anni Quaranta, passando per il Partito della Liberazione e del Socialismo fino alla costituzione del PPS nel 1974.

Accanto a queste formazioni emerge però l’Alleanza della Sinistra (Alliance de la Gauche), costituita nel giugno 2026 dal Partito Socialista Unificato (Parti Socialiste Unifié, PSU) e dalla Federazione della Sinistra Democratica (Fédération de la Gauche Démocratique, FGD). La coalizione ha conquistato otto seggi, contro i due complessivi detenuti dalle due componenti nella legislatura precedente. I suoi documenti programmatici insistono sulla democratizzazione delle istituzioni, sulla giustizia sociale e sulla riduzione delle disuguaglianze.

Anche l’Alleanza ha scelto una collocazione distinta rispetto al processo di formazione del governo. Il 1° ottobre ha sospeso l’incontro previsto con El Mansouri dopo aver chiesto che le consultazioni si svolgessero in una sede istituzionale neutrale anziché nel quartier generale del PAM.

Il Sahara Occidentale resta un dossier dello Stato

Per quanto riguarda la questione del Sahara Occidentale, essa non è oggetto di una competizione sostanziale tra le principali forze marocchine paragonabile a quella che riguarda politiche fiscali, occupazione o servizi pubblici. La rivendicazione della sovranità marocchina e il piano di autonomia costituiscono un orientamento strategico dello Stato sostenuto trasversalmente dai principali partiti, comprese le formazioni collocate all’opposizione, anche della sinistra radicale.

Ciò significa che l’esito elettorale non modifica la linea seguita da Rabat nei confronti della Repubblica Araba Saharawi Democratica e del Fronte Polisario. La questione rientra infatti precisamente fra quelle nelle quali il ruolo della monarchia e delle strutture permanenti dello Stato prevale sull’alternanza parlamentare.

Il contesto internazionale rafforza questa continuità. Il 16 settembre, appena una settimana prima delle elezioni, Marocco e Israele hanno concordato di elevare le proprie rappresentanze diplomatiche al rango di ambasciate. In una dichiarazione trilaterale con Washington, Stati Uniti e Israele hanno contemporaneamente riaffermato il riconoscimento della sovranità marocchina sul Sahara Occidentale e il sostegno al piano di autonomia proposto da Rabat (con esclusione, quindi, della soluzione indipendentista). Questo conferma il legame strategico fra Rabat, Washington e Tel Aviv, che abbiamo già analizzato rispetto agli Accordi di Abramo, alla crisi di Ceuta e alla progressiva internazionalizzazione della posizione marocchina sul Sahara Occidentale.

Un voto di ricomposizione più che di trasformazione sistemica

Le elezioni del 23 settembre delineano quindi un quadro più articolato di una semplice vittoria del PAM.

L’RNI paga il logoramento di cinque anni di governo e perde oltre un terzo della propria rappresentanza parlamentare; il PAM consolida la propria posizione e conquista il diritto costituzionale di esprimere il capo del governo; il PJD recupera una parte consistente dell’elettorato perduto nel 2021; la sinistra tradizionale arretra mentre una nuova alleanza alla sua sinistra amplia la propria presenza. Soprattutto, l’affluenza del 38,02% segnala che la competizione tra i partiti si svolge in presenza di una marcata distanza di una parte della popolazione dalle istituzioni elettorali.

Il voto modifica, pertanto, gli equilibri nella Camera e nella futura coalizione, ma non modifica automaticamente il centro istituzionale nel quale vengono definite le principali strategie dello Stato marocchino. La Costituzione del 2011, da un lato, ha ampliato il ruolo del capo del governo e del Parlamento rispetto al passato, ma dall’altro mantiene nelle mani del sovrano prerogative decisive sulle grandi direttrici politiche, sulla sicurezza, sulla difesa e sull’integrità territoriale.

Tirando le somme, il nascente governo El Mansouri dovrà confrontarsi con disoccupazione giovanile, disuguaglianze territoriali, servizi pubblici e investimenti legati ai Mondiali del 2030; sul Sahara Occidentale, sui rapporti strategici con gli Stati Uniti e sulla progressiva normalizzazione con Israele, invece, il quadro appare caratterizzato da una continuità molto più marcata.