Drought Sharpens Morocco Nomads-Farmers Dispute

A Nomadic herder rides his motorcycle near tents in the southern Moroccan Tiznit province in the region of Souss-MassaDrought has turned parts of the plateaus of Tiznit arid, and when water becomes scarce, tensions rise (AFP Photo/FADEL SENNA)
A Nomadic herder rides his motorcycle near tents in the southern Moroccan Tiznit province in the region of Souss-MassaDrought has turned parts of the plateaus of Tiznit arid, and when water becomes scarce, tensions rise (AFP Photo/FADEL SENNA)
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Drought Sharpens Morocco Nomads-Farmers Dispute

A Nomadic herder rides his motorcycle near tents in the southern Moroccan Tiznit province in the region of Souss-MassaDrought has turned parts of the plateaus of Tiznit arid, and when water becomes scarce, tensions rise (AFP Photo/FADEL SENNA)
A Nomadic herder rides his motorcycle near tents in the southern Moroccan Tiznit province in the region of Souss-MassaDrought has turned parts of the plateaus of Tiznit arid, and when water becomes scarce, tensions rise (AFP Photo/FADEL SENNA)

"We refuse to be confined to a cage," declares nomadic herder Mouloud, asserting the rights and customs of his kin as they graze livestock in Morocco's southern expanses.

But the herders' determination to roam freely has brought them into dispute with crop farmers in the region of Souss.

In the village of Arbaa Sahel, arable farmer Hmad and many of his peers are enraged by herds stomping through wheat and corn fields.

Drought has turned parts of these plateaus arid, and when water becomes scarce, tensions rise -- several clashes have been reported by local media in recent months, as the herders seek pasture.

The battle is also playing out on social networks.

Videos show hooded men presented as nomadic herders, equipped with sticks and swords, attacking villagers.

Some villagers have even uploaded images of what are purported to be camel-mounted attacks on their almond groves.

A few residents have fought back by poisoning water supplies and pastures used by nomads, according to testimony on the ground.

"All these lands that belong to locals, (to) fathers and sons -- they're not grazing areas," said 35-year-old Hmad, clad in leather jacket and trainers.

Exasperated, he points to wheat fields "trampled by sheep" around Arbaa Sahel, near the city of Tiznit.

The region has drawn in nomadic herders for decades -- the verdant landscape a major attraction, compared to arid lands to the east.

There has been a "significant rise in the arrival of flocks, due to drought" over the last couple of years, said nomad Mouloud, sporting sunglasses and a blue turban.

This has stoked tensions.

A local land organization has recorded 18 cases of aggression by nomadic herders against farmers in Arbaa Sahel alone since December, according to Hassan, who sits on this committee.

But Moroccan authorities say only 15 cases have been recorded in the entire Souss region.

The tensions are not limited to farmland -- there has been a spike in incidents in the region's forests, which cover 1.2 million hectares.

Villagers consider these forests to be their property, in line with ancestral customs.

But the nomadic culture, and the right to roam freely, form "part of the Moroccan identity", contends Mouloud.

Clutching his smartphone, he drinks tea and discusses the recent tensions with his nomadic friends, who erect large tents when they set up camp during their search for pasture.

In one such tent, women prepare food for the group -- a metal tray full of grilled livers and other meat.

Abu Bakr, crouching next to Mouloud and sipping a glass of goat's milk, has dropped his studies in favor of the nomadic lifestyle.

His parents come from a desert zone around 200 kilometers (120 miles) away.

Some herders have this year covered distances of almost 1,000 kilometers, traversing immense swathes of desert, Abu Bakr said.

They move in all-terrain cars to escape the drought -- their tents and herds packed into lorries.

When rains are rare, the nomads are constantly on the move, but their movement is more limited when rain is abundant.

"Schooling of children has pushed nomads to opt for stability," said Abu Bakr.

For Mustapha Naimi, professor of Sahara studies at the University of Mohamed V in Rabat, "nomadism is very old in Morocco, but it has been reduced in recent decades by urbanization".

Nomadic roaming by entire families has gradually given way to smaller scale pastoralism by shepherds, Naimi explained.

There are currently some 40,000 nomadic shepherds in the country, according to official statistics.

At the same time, "an increase in the number of herds, with 3.15 million heads of livestock... has contributed to conflict", according to the agriculture ministry.

Land committee member Hassan recalls when shepherds would request "permission from residents" ahead of arriving with flocks.

A law has been adopted by the central government that seeks to regulate nomadic herding and allow "rational exploitation of vegetation".

The legislation only allows grazing of flocks in certain zones and along pre-defined routes. And nomads have to obtain a permit, or face penalties.

But this law has been rejected by both camps.

"We hold to our freedom to roam," said herder Mouloud.

On the other side of the fence, the farmers' land committee firmly opposes government-designated grazing on land that belongs to local residents.



To Get Their Own Cash, People in Gaza Must Pay Middlemen a 40% Cut

A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
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To Get Their Own Cash, People in Gaza Must Pay Middlemen a 40% Cut

A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)
A destroyed branch of the Bank of Palestine in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood of Gaza City is seen Wednesday, July 9, 2025. (AP)

Cash is the lifeblood of the Gaza Strip’s shattered economy, and like all other necessities in this war-torn territory — food, fuel, medicine — it is in extremely short supply.

With nearly every bank branch and ATM inoperable, people have become reliant on an unrestrained network of powerful cash brokers to get money for daily expenses and commissions on those transactions have soared to about 40%.

"The people are crying blood because of this," said Ayman al-Dahdouh, a school director living in Gaza City. "It’s suffocating us, starving us."

At a time of surging inflation, high unemployment and dwindling savings, the scarcity of cash has magnified the financial squeeze on families — some of whom have begun to sell their possessions to buy essential goods.

The cash that is available has even lost some of its luster. Palestinians use the Israeli currency, the shekel, for most transactions. Yet with Israel no longer resupplying the territory with newly printed bank notes, merchants are increasingly reluctant to accept frayed bills.

Gaza’s punishing cash crunch has several root causes, experts say.

To curtail Hamas’ ability to purchase weapons and pay its fighters, Israel stopped allowing cash to enter Gaza at the start of the war. Around the same time, many wealthy families in Gaza withdrew their money from banks and then fled the territory. And rising fears about Gaza’s financial system prompted foreign businesses selling goods into the territory to demand cash payments.

As Gaza’s money supply dwindled and civilians’ desperation mounted, cash brokers' commissions — around 5% at the start of the war — skyrocketed.

Someone needing cash transfers money electronically to a broker and moments later is handed a fraction of that amount in bills. Many brokers openly advertise their services, while others are more secretive. Some grocers and retailers have also begun exchanging cash for their customers.

"If I need $60, I need to transfer $100," said Mohammed Basheer al-Farra, who lives in southern Gaza after being displaced from Khan Younis. "This is the only way we can buy essentials, like flour and sugar. We lose nearly half of our money just to be able to spend it."

In 2024, inflation in Gaza surged by 230%, according to the World Bank. It dropped slightly during the ceasefire that began in January, only to shoot up again after Israel backed out of the truce in March.

Cash touches every aspect of life in Gaza

About 80% of people in Gaza were unemployed at the end of 2024, according to the World Bank, and the figure is likely higher now. Those with jobs are mostly paid by direct deposits into their bank accounts.

But "when you want to buy vegetables, food, water, medication -- if you want to take transportation, or you need a blanket, or anything — you must use cash," al-Dahdouh said.

Shahid Ajjour’s family has been living off of savings for two years after the pharmacy and another business they owned were ruined by the war.

"We had to sell everything just to get cash," said Ajjour, who sold her gold to buy flour and canned beans. The family of eight spends the equivalent of $12 every two days on flour; before the war, that cost less than $4.

Sugar is very expensive, costing the equivalent of $80-$100 per kilogram (2.2 pounds), multiple people said; before the war, that cost less than $2.

Gasoline is about $25 a liter, or roughly $95 a gallon, when paying the lower, cash price.

Bills are worn and unusable

The bills in Gaza are tattered after 21 months of war.

Money is so fragile, it feels as if it is going to melt in your hands, said Mohammed al-Awini, who lives in a tent camp in southern Gaza.

Small business owners said they were under pressure to ask customers for undamaged cash because their suppliers demand pristine bills from them.

Thaeir Suhwayl, a flour merchant in Deir al-Balah, said his suppliers recently demanded he pay them only with brand new 200-shekel ($60) bank notes, which he said are rare. Most civilians pay him with 20-shekel ($6) notes that are often in poor condition.

On a recent visit to the market, Ajjour transferred the shekel equivalent of around $100 to a cash broker and received around $50 in return. But when she tried to buy some household supplies from a merchant, she was turned away because the bills weren’t in good condition.

"So the worth of your $50 is zero in the end," she said.

This problem has given rise to a new business in Gaza: money repair. It costs between 3 and 10 shekels ($1-$3) to mend old bank notes. But even cash repaired with tape or other means is sometimes rejected.

People are at the mercy of cash brokers

After most of the banks closed in the early days of the war, those with large reserves of cash suddenly had immense power.

"People are at their mercy," said Mahmoud Aqel, who has been displaced from his home in southern Gaza. "No one can stop them."

The war makes it impossible to regulate market prices and exchange rates, said Dalia Alazzeh, an expert in finance and accounting at the University of the West of Scotland. "Nobody can physically monitor what’s happening," Alazzeh said.

A year ago, the Palestine Monetary Authority, the equivalent of a central bank for Gaza and the West Bank, sought to ease the crisis by introducing a digital payment system known as Iburaq. It attracted half a million users, or a quarter of the population, according to the World Bank, but was ultimately undermined by merchants insisting on cash.

Israel sought to ramp up financial pressure on Hamas earlier this year by tightening the distribution of humanitarian aid, which it said was routinely siphoned off by militants and then resold.

Experts said it is unclear if the cash brokers’ activities benefit Hamas, as some Israeli analysts claim.

The war has made it more difficult to determine who is behind all sorts of economic activity in the territory, said Omar Shabaan, director of Palthink for Strategic Studies, a Gaza-based think tank.

"It's a dark place now. You don't know who is bringing cigarettes into Gaza," he said, giving just one example. "It's like a mafia."

These same deep-pocketed traders are likely the ones running cash brokerages, and selling basic foodstuffs, he said. "They benefit by imposing these commissions," he said.

Once families run out of cash, they are forced to turn to humanitarian aid.

Al-Farra said that is what prompted him to begin seeking food at an aid distribution center, where it is common for Palestinians to jostle over one other for sacks of flour and boxes of pasta.

"This is the only way I can feed my family," he said.