In the South of Lebanon, there’s a small town, hovering somewhere between a village and a town, where the locals mostly bask in the sun. Their lives revolve around small trade, agriculture, and cattle raising. It’s a peaceful place—almost idyllic—so tiny and remote that it doesn’t suffer much from air attacks from Israel. The overwhelming majority of its inhabitants are Sunni Muslims, starting their days at dawn and settling down as the last rays of sunlight fade away. Here, in the early sixties, Mohamed Jamil Derbah was born to a humble worker, who spent most of his life as a truck driver and taxi driver.
Derbah always looked up to his father, a devoted Muslim who balanced strength and reserve with a compassionate spirit. The poverty and isolation of their surroundings didn’t foster much in terms of education, so from a young age, Mohamed Derbah had to earn his keep, fiercely determined to carve out a better future. He wasn’t just content to live comfortably; he aspired to riches, wanting to lift his family out of poverty, provide for a prosperous future for his children, and fulfil the obligations of a good Muslim through charity and generosity. Above all, he wanted wealth; in his view, success brought all other blessings. There seemed to be no way to redeem oneself without the endorsement of prosperity. He had to flee his village, regardless of what lay in his wake.
Of medium height, broad shoulders, and with icy, expressionless eyes, Derbah explored various trades, but eventually focused on commerce. While records are sparse, it seems he found himself in Sierra Leone around 1985. Some recount him as an honest merchant with a small van, while others suggest, less flatteringly, that he engaged in dealings with military officials. Shortly thereafter, he encountered John Palmer in FREETOWN—a 35-year-old British jeweller, posing as a tourist, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, perhaps a bit too casual for the setting.
In Palmer’s Shadow
It’s said that Palmer was impressed by Derbah’s cunning and energy, inviting him to work alongside him in the Canary Islands, specifically in southern Tenerife. Other accounts place them together again in Sierra Leone in 1991 when civil war erupted due to the United Revolutionary Front’s rebellion, leading to approximately 50,000 deaths and half a million displaced persons. Knowledgeable sources suggest that Palmer’s activities in Sierra Leone, alongside Derbah, revolved around arms trafficking, with Derbah serving as both driver and bodyguard, quickly rising in status.
The early nineties marked Derbah’s ascent within the Palmer organisation in Tenerife, which grew increasingly complex and branched out, primarily revolving around sex work, protection, and various multifaceted dealings. The Lebanese driver became Palmer’s Head of Security, navigating through complex webs of interests. Over time, they were rumoured to have been business partners, but years of suspicion and distrust lingered. He kept an eye on his own shadow. Judicially, he felt quite secure, often travelling between England—where he accrued a substantial property portfolio—and managing his time-share scam without interruption.
There were always potential complaints awaiting in court. Years prior, Derbah had brought his brothers along to Tenerife, where they worked under him. His orders were unequivocal and precise. He insisted on being informed about every operation and business opportunity, maintaining firm control. Improvisation had its own risks—people who, without being Mohamed Derbah, aimed to carve out their own paths.
Approach to Political Power
By the late nineties, Derbah decided it was time for a change: he left the south and settled in Santa Cruz de Tenerife. This move wasn’t really about pursuing greater financial opportunities in the capital, but rather about positioning himself closer to political power. “Power is like real estate,” a fictional president once said. “It’s all about location, location, location.” He purchased the premises of the now-closed Rex Cinema, located conveniently close to the city hall and the Parliament of the Canary Islands, transforming it into a grand bowling alley. At the opening night, hundreds flocked to the venue, including the mayor, Miguel Zerolo, who ceremoniously bowled the first ball, almost striking out—an intimate affair with complimentary refreshments, of course.
The bowling alley didn’t manage to thrive for long. Primarily because in May 2001, Judge Baltasar Garzón returned to the National Court to arrest John Palmer, who would later be sentenced to eight years in prison for fraud. Garzón’s investigations revealed that Palmer controlled eleven apartments, along with various other dubious businesses across Granadilla, Arona, and Adeje, with a fortune estimated to surpass 300 million pounds sterling (around 355 million euros).
Once again, whispers of betrayal hinted that Palmer’s downfall stemmed from Derbah. However, this sounds rather far-fetched. By that point, their business relationship had soured, leading to a quiet break-up that was civil, if not entirely without tensions—provocations from Palmer’s associates remained uncouth. Garzón himself also apprehended the Lebanese and 17 others from his organisation in November of the same year, charging them with fraud and related offences, such as extortion and falsifying public documents. According to the judge, Derbah and his associates were selling apartments that did not exist at all.
Prison
He spent more than a year and a half in preventive detention, without the option of bail. In comparison to Sierra Leone, this was more of an inconvenience than anything else. Garzón, often seen as somewhat haphazard in his approach, was unable to gather solid evidence against him—he even attempted to trace an alleged connection to Al Qaeda—and eventually had to release him. That morning, Derbah warmly embraced his family, offered prayers of gratitude, shared lunch with everyone, and in the afternoon, conducted his first work meeting.
Instead of hiding his power in darkness and silence, he aimed to embed himself within Tenerife society.
Then began the next chapter in Mohamed Derbah’s story, as he embraced his fate, blood, and secrets on the island of Tenerife, where maintaining silence is strangely economical. His objectives became clear: reclaim lost wealth, reorganise, and solidify his enterprises with a more professional approach, naturally, but also to clean up his image as a successful businessman henceforth—someone relatable, almost one of us. Instead of remaining hidden in shadows, he aimed to integrate fully into Tenerife society, even—at times—stepping into the limelight.
However, first, he had to deal with a family uprising. His two brothers (Sam and Hatem) sought to dismantle his familial reign and share, at the very least, some of the power. They didn’t succeed in this, but they remained part of the clan. For nearly two decades, Derbah has maintained a measured expansion—an aparthotel, restaurants, bars, various premises, rental properties, and more recently, cannabis shops—simultaneously cultivating a unique kind of social marketing centred on public relations with key figures in different spheres of influence.
The Story of an Entrepreneur
In May 2017, a sort of biography was presented—the tale of his journey from the shores of Lebanon to the coasts of Tenerife: the true story of an entrepreneur in the Infanta Leonor Auditorium in Los Cristianos. About 450 individuals attended, including the mayors of Arona (José Julián Mena) and Santiago del Teide (Emilio Navarro), along with councillors from Adeje and Granadilla de Abona. A smattering of well-known, well-dressed entrepreneurs was present, as were police officers and a few court officials from various jurisdictions. They all applauded Derbah, who only took to the stage for a minute and a half to express his gratitude and praise for Tenerife.
Now, we find ourselves at the dawn of the third chapter of Mohamed Derbah’s journey, once again behind bars. A power struggle exists amid police factions and competing interests. Drug trafficking, from an extremely unlikely source. The Madrid press dissecting political flesh, and politicians engaging in light-hearted banter over coffee. There’s murmurings about a guy attempting to form a political party, or perhaps even planning to establish another one. Derbah is not an outlier—he is a reflection of the more commonplace realities that underpin the true fabric of Tenerife: the part we often choose to ignore, as it forces us all to reevaluate our positions.
