After a year of desperate waiting, Morocco's quake-hit Amazigh communities accuse the government of 'systematic racism' against the Indigenous community, bringing up a long history of discrimination and marginalisation.
A year ago, Morocco's government promised $12 billion to rehouse people affected by a deadly earthquake that destroyed hundreds of villages and killed around 3,000 people in the Atlas Mountains.
Today, in Ayt Draret, a village nestled in the heights of these Mountains—known locally as 'forgotten Morocco'—dozens still live in makeshift camps, wondering if the promised aid will ever be distributed.
"This is how we have been living for a year," says Lhajja Tamo, forcing a smile. She gestures towards a room where a sleeping mat lies next to a cooking stove.
Tamo and her neighbours have used remnants of their old houses to reconstruct new ones: a patchwork of plastic, wood, and bed covers.
Inside these tents, the heat is overwhelming in the afternoons. As the 43 Celsius heat relentlessly beats down on the village, the temperature inside these tents rapidly soar, turning these spaces into a sweltering sauna.
For toilets and showers, villagers lined up in front of small cabinets they received as donations when hundreds of local and international organisations flocked up to the area after the 8 September earthquake.
A 6.8 magnitude quake struck the region just after 11 PM local time on 8 September 2023. The epicentre was in the High Atlas Mountains, roughly 71 kilometres southwest of Marrakesh.
At least 500,000 people were displaced in the Atlas Mountains, a remote region primarily inhabited by the Amazigh community, the indigenous people of North Africa.
This year, Morocco's Prime Minister Aziz Akhannouch announced that 51,000 families have received an initial aid payment of 20,000 dirhams ($2,000) for rebuilding their homes.
Four additional aid payments are promised over the next five years: 140,000 dirhams ($14,000) for destroyed homes and 80,000 dirhams ($8,000) for partially damaged ones. Overall, 120 billion dirhams ($12 billion) have been allocated for recovery efforts.
These figures are well-known among the villagers. Both the elderly and children often repeat them as they survey the surrounding ruins in disbelief. Whenever they spot a media crew arriving from the city, they cluster around, their faces alight with anticipation, yearning for any new information from "Rabat"—a term used to refer to the state in the remote Amazigh villages.
Floods and harsh winter
A few kilometres away in Douar Tamterga, people have lost hope and returned to living in their cracked houses.
"We have submitted three complaints [about not receiving aid]. No response," says El-Kabira, a villager in Tamterga, in the Ounayen commune.
The situation is extremely confusing for the villagers, as they do not understand why they have not received aid, while their homes stand as evidence of their loss.
After a year of waiting, Mohamed, El-Kabira's husband, took matters into his hands and patched up the house with a mixture of cement and paint. It is the only solution he could afford to protect his family from the upcoming winter snow.
Outside the house, the deep cracks remain all too visible. Mohamed's daughter Hafida, however, continues to live in a tent nearby. "I can't go back to the house in this condition. I'm terrified of living surrounded by cracks," the 21-year-old says, her voice filled with anxiety.
On Sunday, 8 September, Morocco's General Directorate of Meteorology issued a flood red alert amid torrential rains affecting the country's southern areas. The floods further damaged the patched quake-hit houses and killed 11 people in the region, with nine others still missing.
Contacting the head of the Ounayen commune, Redouane El-Meghrani, he also seemed confused about the reasons behind the slow aid distribution.
"We are still looking into their complaints," El-Meghrani told The New Arab. He said he has no information about how many complaints his commune has received or when their situation will be resolved. He didn't add further details why looking into villager's complaints has taken a year.
'Forgotten Morocco'
For the past year, the villagers have held several demonstrations, walked hundreds of kilometres to nearby cities in protest of the delayed aid, and travelled for seven hours to the capital, Rabat, to bring attention to their plight.
"It's a systemic racism against the Amazigh community. That's the only explanation for how we are being treated," Siham Azeroual, founder of Moroccan Douars, a local organisation defending quake-hit villages, told TNA.
Meanwhile, those who have received the promised aid are as disheartened as those still waiting. To date, they have only received the initial payment, which is meant to cover the construction of the foundation for a new home. The remainder of the aid will be distributed over the next four years.
Furthermore, the government's aid package is limited to covering only up to 70 square meters for each affected family's home—a plan that activist Azeroual finds both tone-deaf and dismissive of the villagers' culture and traditions.
In Morocco, traditional Amazigh homes are built with a deep sense of community and hospitality, designed to welcome not just extended family but anyone in need of a place to stay.
These homes often have multiple rooms and separate areas for guests, women's gatherings, livestock, and crop storage. Throughout the Atlas Mountains, Amazigh rural houses have long stood as a steadfast symbol of the Amazigh people's deep attachment to their land and community.
Despite being the Indigenous community of the region, it was only in 2001 that Amazigh culture was recognised as part of the country's national patrimony. A decade later, their language Tamazigh was added as an official language to the constitution.
Post-independence, Morocco has adopted an "Arabisation" policy, aiming to unite Moroccans over "one identity." This policy has discouraged Amazigh people from using their language and displaying their culture, according to a UNESCO report.
Even after reversing these policies, Amazigh communities say nothing has changed in the Atlas.
"This [government's] policy is not innocent. They are trying to undermine our last stronghold—our land, our heritage, and our community," argues Azeroual.