It is a sun-drenched afternoon and a mini-van carrying Morocco’s most famous television host, Nassima el Hor, veers on to an unpaved road that snakes through bone-dry wheat fields. The car stops in the centre of a village with boarded-up shops and a dilapidated hay farm. El Hor steps on to the camel-coloured earth in her platform shoes and surveys her parched surroundings. The silence is broken when a BMW pulls up and a freshly shaven man named Haj steps out. He greets el Hor enthusiastically. The television star and her crew have travelled 100 miles from their studios in Casablanca to help him solve a dispute that is tearing apart his family.

El Hor heads a new TV show whose format of bringing together warring friends and neighbours to thrash out their problems in front of television cameras – and four million viewers – has enthralled Moroccans since it first aired 10 months ago. As el Hor accompanies her cameraman to the main plaza to film Haj describing his feud with an uncle, a crowd gathers – el Hor has, after all, been one of the most recognisable faces of Moroccan television for more than 25 years. Unfazed, the presenter pulls out a tissue, wipes her brow and coaches Haj on how to talk to the camera. “Take us through the story of how you beat your uncle in the local elections five years ago, and why he hasn’t spoken to you since.”

Haj’s problem is one of many that will eventually be broadcast on the primetime show Al Khayt Al Abyad (The White Thread). And while the title may be derived from a Moroccan proverb – one that alludes to a mediator bringing enemies together with a white thread – el Hor’s take is decidedly 21st century. She invites adversaries to reveal, very publicly, the details of their animosity, addictions, rivalries and jealousies, rather than keeping them behind closed doors. The concept is made even more radical by the fact that her sidekicks on the programme are a lawyer and a psychologist. Viewers have seen men foreswear gambling, business partners end their estrangement and a wife-beater apologise. The public format is one for which a fast-changing Morocco was desperate, argues el Hor, who also devised the show. “In our nation’s history we didn’t go to tribunals to solve problems,” she says. “We addressed them within our own societies, either in souks or with neighbours. With modernity, we have forgotten about this communal aspect. Individualism has taken over. This show is about using the past to fix the present in a way that has never been done before in this part of the world.”

Al Khayt Al Abyad is broadcast by 2M, the state-owned channel that was launched in 1989 after the late King Hassan II sought to modernise the nation’s media. It was one of the first in the Arab world openly to discuss social and political issues. El Hor also hosted several earlier shows for the channel, including Frankly Speaking and Clearly, two of Morocco’s first platforms for debating censorship and democracy.

The Moroccan MP and former media director of the ministry of communication, Fatiha Layadi, says that before 2M was launched, “freedom of speech and freedom of the press were mere slogans – 2M was a stroke of light in what was a very cloudy media”. Jonathan Smolin, ­assistant professor of Asian and Middle East studies at Dartmouth College, New Hampshire, examines the Moroccan media in his forthcoming book Policing Reality. He believes that el Hor is pioneering an emerging style of programming aimed at exposing issues that once would have been hidden. “What you are seeing more of is a kind of media-isation of personal problems that were once kept in the family,” he says. “The hidden realities of poverty, spousal abuse, domestic violence and drugs are becoming part of the public media sphere. And Al Khayt Al Abyad is one step forward in that process.”

Despite the show’s subject matter – one episode that focused on incest even showed the people involved – no one has threatened to boycott or tried to deny Al Khayt Al Abyad its primetime slot. One reason, according to Ahmed Abbadi, president of the Mohammedia League of Moroccan Ulama (religious scholars), is because “the programme is Islamic at its core”. El Hor, he says, has structured Al Khayt Al Abyad “in a way that avoids what Islam calls fadiha or scandal, and instead employs a more respectful advisory position, or nasiha. She is encouraging of mediation and reconciliation, which are two pillars in an Islamic society.” (Presenters such as Jerry Springer, by contrast, clearly use fadiha.)

The show’s popularity is testament to a society in the throes of rapid modernisation, he adds. “With the extended family vanishing, Moroccans are evolving towards more nuclear ones. What Nassima is offering is a ­television stage that acts as this missing extended family – one that re­habilitates and tutors the people.”

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So far, El Hor’s instincts have been spot on. Nowhere is the show’s popularity more evident than in its production headquarters in an industrial neighbourhood on the outskirts of Casablanca. Hundreds of calls are received there every day. Inside the all-glass offices, a young woman called Laila cups a telephone receiver on her shoulder as she scribbles notes in Arabic. Her oval face is framed by a white headscarf that shimmers under the glare of fluorescent lights. Laila and her colleague, Rajae, are Al Khayt Al Abyad’s telephone operators. After the requisite, “What’s your name?” and “Where are you calling from?” Laila listens. Twenty minutes later she hangs up and sighs. “That was a Moroccan woman calling from Spain,” she says. “The woman married her cousin in secret because the whole family was against it.”

Laila begins entering notes into a ­computer. “Now, whenever she fights with her ­husband, he runs to tell his family. And they always remind him of his mistake in marrying her. She’s hoping Nassima can help resolve the tension with her mother-in-law.” Because Al Khayt Al Abyad is beamed via satellite, its popularity extends far beyond Morocco’s borders. The production office is inundated with calls from Arabs scattered across Europe and the Gulf; there have even been calls from neighbouring Algeria, whose borders with Morocco have been closed since 1994.

“I never imagined the extent of dramas within our own society,” says Laila. “It is especially busy during the holidays because that is the time the Koran says we must connect with our loved ones. Once I had a caller who said, ‘If you do this quickly I will sacrifice a lamb for you.’” When Laila has recorded the details of the conversation, she submits them to el Hor and the show’s journalists to decide whether to send a reporter to meet the caller in person. A team of four has set off on such a reconnaissance mission from the Casablanca studios to a village on the outskirts of Marrakech. Here a journalist, Amine, interviews Abdel, a 32-year-old bus station clerk. His single room is packed with pillows that double as a bed and seating, a framed picture of a girl praying in front of Mecca’s Kaaba [the most sacred site in Islam] and a silver TV covered with lace doilies. Abdel is desperate for Al Khayt Al Abyad to solve a dispute about some nearby olive groves, owned by his mother. Before revealing the details, he changes into a clean shirt, removes his shoes and sits on a stack of pillows. But, in front of the camera, nerves get in the way. He starts and stops, shifting nervously in his seat. After several tries, and gentle direction from Amine, he nails it – his mother favours another brother to whom she decided to give the deed to the acres of olives.

Abdel is not ashamed of revealing the details of a family dispute on national television. In fact, he feels it’s his only hope. “Nassima is so good at solving problems,” he explains. “There is no reason why she couldn’t help me with mine.” When the cameras are turned off, Abdel points down a dirt road to a collection of red clay buildings where his mother lives. The crew sets off to hear her side of the story. When they arrive, the smell of mint tea and freshly baked bread greets them at the door; on the street there’s a palpable buzz among onlookers.

Abdel’s mother, Fatima, comes into the room, wearing an apron tied over a nightgown. She too wants to talk. As she discusses her struggles with her son, the camera zooms in on her henna-stained hands. With each mention of Abdel’s grudges she dismissively flicks her wrist and sighs. She then shows Amine boxes of expensive medicine, telling him that much as she’d like el Hor to mediate, she can’t possibly afford a trip to Casablanca. The journalist assures her that if she decides to participate, all her costs, including a hotel, will be covered by the programme. “What this show is doing,” says Amine, while instructing Fatima to sign a waiver, “is giving a voice to those that have none.”

It also helps that el Hor, who was born into a family of Berbers with limited financial means, shares a similar background with many of her guests, and speaks the same dialect. “Nassima is digging into Moroccan life, but she does it in a way that is respectful,” says Abdelali Rachami, the director of the show. “Because of the nature of this task, it’s not just about getting the story shot; we have to appreciate the feelings of those concerned. She knows how to intervene and challenge the black holes in the system in her own special way.”

El Hor is in her dressing room. It is her first day back at work since Ramadan ended. A make-up artist brushes aside her black ringlets to apply a layer of foundation to her cheeks. Fatima and Abdel have agreed to come to the studio at a later date and thrash out their problems, but nothing will be certain until they are sitting before the ­camera: “There have been times when families are filmed and then do not show up [at the studio] because neighbours convince them it is shameful to go on television and air their dirty laundry.” El Hor simply takes it in her stride. “I am not here to shock or break people. I understand there are limits. But I also know that the change I am after starts with our citizens. So I am in it for the long haul.” (Several weeks later, Abdel and Fatima did indeed appear on the show, and Fatima agreed to split the land between the two brothers.)

As her hair is styled, el Hor looks over her notes about today’s case. ­Sitting nearby are the show’s lawyer, Aicha Loukhmas, and its psychologist, Aboubakr Harakat. Today’s Al Khayt Al Abyad centres on a feud over a pine forest between two villages in central Morocco. One of the villages, Ait Hnini, has permission from the municipality to cut wood in the forest, while villagers from the other, Ichkirne, began to fell trees illegally after a spate of harsh winters saw their own stockpile shrink. Three years later, the conflict has escalated to the point where the Ichkirnis have built blockades to stop their rivals from even walking through the forest. Attempts from the authorities to resolve the standoff have been unsuccessful and the village heads of Ait Hnini have called in Al Khayt Al Abyad.

Moments before the cameras roll, el Hor learns that the Ichkirne villagers have not turned up. The show, however, will go on. “We aren’t pretending that we are going to change the overall mentality,” says el Hor. “It is still a challenge, but I will give them everything I have.”

She walks over to a white plastic podium and flips through her note cards while cameramen practise their pans and close-ups. In the background television screens display the show’s animated logo of a thread dancing across a black screen. When the lights go up, the cards are set aside. El Hor’s voice fills the studio with the intricacies of today’s dilemma.

Scattered on stage and in the audience are four men representing Ait Hnini. Ouaddi Ali, Ait Hnini’s environmental association president, says that coming on Al Khayt Al Abyad, with or without the rival village, puts him one step closer to the resolution he longs for. He hopes that the dispute’s very public airing will push the rival village into a settlement; now the ball is in Ichkirne’s court.

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The next shooting day, el Hor fares better. The audience is assembled and she, along with the psychiatrist and lawyer, is in a control room to recap, watching the backstories of today’s participants. On screen a mother, Barnia, describes how, when her husband died, her son Hassan sold off the land on which the family home stood without telling her. To her shock, the new owner came to her house waving papers that said he had the right to demolish the property. Barnia flew into a violent rage and attacked her visitor, ending up in jail. By the time she was released her house had been torn down. Now homeless, she wants to know why Hassan secretly sold the property. But moments into the video sequence we see a near-destitute Hassan, living in his car. Neither el Hor, nor the lawyer and psychiatrist, are convinced of Hassan’s guilt. They suspect that others lined up the demolition and set up Hassan to take the fall.

In front of the camera, tears begin to fall. Hassan wants to be reunited with his family, but Barnia and Mohammed, a nephew, won’t have it. Hassan continues to deny having caused the demolition. After 20 minutes of dissecting the problem, el Hor and her team deliver their take. Harakat, the psychologist, looks at Mohammed and asks, “What would your uncle have got out of destroying the house? Clearly he is living in poverty and hasn’t reaped any rewards. What I am asking is, if he did it, what did he get out of it?”

Step by step, the team break down Mohammed and Barnia’s arguments, gradually showing that Hassan is innocent. “The most important thing is love,” el Hor tells Barnia. “You are fighting about a house, but if something happened to Hassan, you would give everything to have him back. What is important here?” Barnia looks at Hassan with a mixture of guilt and relief. She bows her head and apologises before the director calls cut.

As the cameras roll again, el Hor brings the three relatives together in front of the audience, where they embrace over and over again. A smile stretches across el Hor’s face before she turns to the camera and shares the number to call for those in need of on-air problem-solving. Later, with the studio lights off and the audience gone, Hassan and his mother are still embracing. “Yes, you made mistakes,” el Hor tells them as she collects a stack of papers filled with details for the next show’s argument. “But now you have the chance to start all over again.”