The Seeds Distribution Journey in The High Atlas
BY RACHID KADDOURI
23 JANUARY 2025
PHOTOS COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR
The sun leaned slightly away from the zenith as we arrived in Talat N’Yaaqoub. People sheltered under small trees by the roadside, and the moment they spotted our vehicle, they emerged from their shaded hideouts. They had been waiting for hours, anticipating our arrival, young men and elders alike gathered around, exchanging greetings and embraces. Among them were Abderrazak and his assistant Ayoub, tasked with distributing the seeds, supported by a few local volunteers who spared no effort in serving their community.
This time, we formed a team of five, including Saleh and Abdo, two traditional farmers in their forties. Saleh is from Imilchil, a fact made clear by his features, his face has the marks of harsh winters and biting cold, with wrinkles etched deep into his skin. His tone reflected simplicity and dedication, speaking about the land and farming with fiery passion and deep love. Similarly, Abdo carried a wealth of knowledge about plants, though he hailed from Boulemane in the country’s east. Throughout the two days I spent with them, I felt inspired to grab an axe, water the soil, and wait for its bounty. Their mission with the organization was to raise awareness about the importance of seed conservation, sustainable farming, and self-reliance on the land.
People began gathering, waiting for the truck loaded with seeds to arrive. Saleh and Abdo formed a circle, and the crowd clustered around them to listen to their advice and benefit from their wisdom. The real challenge, however, lay with Abderrazak, who had to ensure a fair distribution without any violations, a hard task when dealing with communities for whom a handful of seeds could mean a lot. For some, such opportunities could even be an excuse to settle personal or tribal scores by denying a family or village their share or seizing it after distribution. Abderrazak was fully aware of these possibilities, and his work didn’t end when the seeds were distributed. He stayed vigilant, following up on every detail to ensure the seeds reached their rightful owners, sometimes through phone calls, other times through a constant stream of voice messages. His tireless dedication ensured he was always connected and ready to intervene.
Finally, the truck arrived, carrying about seven tons of seeds, accompanied by Tasneem, the program leader. Hassan struck the rear gate of the truck packed with sacks of grains and began unloading. Abderrazak, engrossed in his papers, took the lead in allocating the load according to the records in his possession. Rural transport vehicles started arriving, while Abdo and Saleh engaged in deep conversations with some farmers who bombarded them with countless questions. Through their eyes, a burning desire to seize this opportunity was evident, a flood of inquiries that reflected the people’s need for such initiatives. I understood this well, I’ve felt it throughout the 17 years I spent in my own village. Rural areas remain isolated, perpetually neglected for decades, dismissed by the government as part of an “unprofitable Morocco.”
Organisations like the Global Diversity Foundation and others extend a lifeline that could revive hope for these communities. Returning to the soil and the plough might not only alleviate life’s burdens but also heal the scars left by the earthquake. Surely, a man does not live by bread alone, but securing daily sustenance remains a pressing concern for those dwelling in the mountains.
The distribution process took about an hour and a half before everyone dispersed. The truck returned to Marrakesh to fetch another load for the following day, heading again toward Talat N’Yaaqoub, a vital connection point for several rural communes and numerous villages.
We left to spend the night in the village of Tanzzat at Hassan’s family home, a small village clinging to a mountain slope, its mud-brick houses exuding the smell of livestock through its narrow alleys. Children’s laughter echoed as they kicked a deflated ball near their school, which now stood as little more than leaning, cracked walls. I was told they continued their studies in a tent after the earthquake, a shared misery among most villages for over a year now. Dinner provided an opportunity to hear Hassan and his family’s concerns firsthand.
The distribution in Talat N’Yaaqoub went just as smoothly and orderly. The blazing sun wore me down, yet I moved among the people, documenting the process with my camera, as I always do. Between shots, I started conversations with locals who were quick to express their worries and needs, placing their hopes in me to convey their voices to the organization. They clung to any thread of hope, seeking any sign that might ease their burdens.
As the day drew to a close, I watched the sun retreat behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the fields and mud-brick homes. The voices of farmers gradually faded as each one returned home, carrying a sack of seeds and simple dreams of a fruitful harvest to ease the weight of the coming days. Yet the real impact lay not in the seeds themselves but in the interactions I witnessed and the determination shining in the eyes of Abderrazak, Ayoub, Saleh, and Abdo, besides the conversations that revealed how small acts can make a significant difference in the lives of those here.
