Memories of Drought and Famine in Morocco in the 1980s: Between Mother, Market, and Dignity
Peace be upon you.
We left off in the previous episode at the beginning of a very harsh period for everyone living i Morocco.
In the year 1981, rain completely ceased, and the kingdom sensed imminent danger. The King addressed his people with an awareness-raising speech and even ordered the cancellation of Eid al-Adha sacrifices. Soft wheat began arriving from America and some European countries. Farmers abandoned their livestock, which started searching for food on their own, as animal feed had become more expensive than the livestock itself.
At the time, I was studying at Ibn Khaldoun Middle School in Khouribga, living in the Al-Nahda neighborhood. We were still living in tin houses, surrounded by garbage dumps from all sides, which attracted animals that came to feed from them.
One of the funny stories I remember: I used to wake up early in the morning to find a donkey and bring it near the house before school, tie it up, and then have breakfast. Afterward, I would gather my school supplies and ride the donkey to Ibn Khaldoun Middle School. After arriving, I would leave it outside to roam freely. When I finished school, I would take another one instead, because in front of the school there was a cactus garden (called Hindiya, the prickly pear), which served as a transit station where many animals came to satisfy their hunger. That was my round trip, day after day.
On my way, I would see skinny sheep and ewes on the brink of death, abandoned due to people's inability to care for them. People had begun prioritizing their families and children over their animals. Yet the word abandon still stung—these animals once considered their owner their only provider after God. They loved him because he fed and gave them water, and now he drove them away suddenly. But understanding their situation, they would return—only to be chased off with stones. The owner would watch them go, heartbroken. Sadly, they would either die or be devoured by dogs.
As for daily life, flour had become inaccessible to the poor. A horse-drawn cart would deliver flour, accompanied by four police officers and a local official to protect it until it reached the shopkeeper. What’s even stranger is that the distribution process treated the poor like slaves. The officers were first to receive flour, followed by the shopkeeper, then his regular customers. As for the rest, each household was allowed just 5 kilograms.
We were 11 people in the household. My mother would knead dough twice a day, and the quantity would run out on the same day. But the flour came only once a week. How could we survive without bread?
I began working at the weekly market of Khouribga. I started by selling mika (plastic bags), and I used to gather leftover vegetables from the market at the end of the day. But selling mika wasn’t profitable. So, I decided to save money to buy a clay water jug ( jar), which kept water cool. I worked at two markets, then finally bought it and came home loaded with vegetables and the jug.
I remember clearly how my poor mother would wait for me eagerly, knowing that my father wouldn’t bring anything—he didn’t work. And even if he did work for a day or two in construction, he’d hand over his pay to the shopkeeper we owed for sugar, oil, and more.
When I arrived, she would carry the load off my back, hug me, and thank me for whatever I’d brought from the market. Then she’d prepare some food for me, and I’d go out to play.
A week passed, and the next market day came. I had prepared the jug, wrapped it in cloth and filled it the night before.
In the morning, my sister asked to come with me. She was a year older than me. I was 14 years old. I carried a basket with her so we could fill it with vegetables after I sold the water. We walked to the market. The jug was heavy. When we reached the vegetable area, I tried to step up onto the sidewalk. The weight of the jug pulled me backward. I fell—and the jug shattered.
And my heart shattered with it…
I looked into my poor sister’s face, the empty basket in her hand, and I felt like I hadn’t just failed alone—but that my sister, my mother, and all my little siblings had lost with me.
I cried, took my sister by the hand, and we returned home.
My mother tried to console me, saying, “Don’t worry. God will provide better.”
I didn’t play that day. I was very sad.
The next day, there was a piece of land near us with cactus—Hindiya or prickly pears—which belonged to Haj Hassan Al-Abdouni. My friend and I decided to wake up early and explore the area. We went in and began picking. We each filled a bucket and then left.
We passed by construction workers, who asked to buy from us. We sold and returned home with 15 dirhams, split it in half, and I ran to my mother and gave her my share.
Do you know why the bond between me and my mother was so strong?
Because anyone who wanted to eat had to ask her. She was responsible—but she had no income of her own. And people would blame her if there was no food on the table.
That’s how Morocco was during that time.
And I will never forget one painful event:
To be continued...