Two years after earthquake, displaced Moroccans losing hope

Omar Saed Omar, 52, is still grieving his two young daughters who were crushed to death when a 6.9 magnitude earthquake struck Morocco’s mountainous Al-Haouz region outside the city of Marrakech on September 8, 2023. 

Nearly 3,000 people were killed, thousands more injured, and over 500,000 displaced. The quake and its aftershocks damaged or destroyed nearly 60,000 homes. 

Entire villages across the High Atlas Mountains in Al-Haouz province, the hardest-hit region, were reduced to rubble. This area, home to some of Morocco’s most isolated and underserved Indigenous Imazighen communities, saw widespread devastation. 

Nearly two years later, many survivors remain in tents or temporary shelters, caught between grief and frustration over slow reconstruction.

“I lost everything,” Omar tells The Real News Network, sitting outside his wood-and-tarp shelter in the remote Amsguine village, high in the Atlas Mountains. His shelter stands among rows of dozens of improvised homes, tents, and containers in a settlement where 56 displaced families still reside.

“They were my only children,” Omar says quietly, referring to his daughters, ages 12 and 8, killed in the earthquake. “Now, I’m just here on this earth by myself.”

“Everything that happens comes from God,” he adds. “So I’ve tried to accept things. But it’s clear the government doesn’t care about us. They have forgotten about us. It’s like we don’t exist.” 

Since independence, state policies have consistently neglected Imazighen mountain communities, favoring urban areas and maintaining divisions rooted in the colonial period.

According to the government, 46,650 families in Al-Haouz completed construction and rehabilitation work on their homes as of July, and remaining displacement tents dropped from 129,000 to just 47 today, expected to be fully dismantled by September.

On the ground, however, the reality in these remote villages sharply contrasts with the government’s official narrative. According to activists, thousands still live in tents or containers, enduring scorching summers and freezing winters, with limited access to water and electricity.

Two years on, people like Omar have received no assistance from the government, while others have been only partially paid.

While practical obstacles—such as poor road access and difficulty transporting materials to remote areas—hinder reconstruction, Amazigh scholars argue the slow pace stems from a deeper legacy of systemic marginalization. Since independence, state policies have consistently neglected Imazighen mountain communities, favoring urban areas and maintaining divisions rooted in the colonial period. 

This long-standing neglect left remote villages especially vulnerable to the earthquake and to the uneven, delayed aid that has followed. For many survivors, their trust in the Moroccan government has all but vanished.

‘I feel powerless’

Mohammed Iskrane once had the most beautiful home in Amsguine, overlooking the village and mountains. “We built that house over generations,” the 66-year-old says, standing outside the container where he and his wife have lived now for almost two years. It’s a cramped space: one room, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen. 

“I feel powerless,” he says. “I had a beautiful house—now I have absolutely nothing.”

Iskrane is among many who haven’t received government assistance to rent or rebuild. “The process is so complicated,” he explains. “I’ve submitted so many documents, even traveled to Rabat—and still, nothing.” 

According to Hamid Abdellah, head of the organization Anmoun Amsguine, which shifted from hosting Amazigh cultural activities to providing quake relief, 80 houses in the village were destroyed, and six partially damaged. As of now, only about 30 homes have been fully rebuilt—but none are habitable yet, as they still lack electricity and water connections. 

The Moroccan government pledged support for reconstruction, promising 140,000 Moroccan dirhams (about $15,500 USD) to families whose homes were destroyed, and 80,000 dirhams (roughly $8,800) to those with damaged homes. It also announced a monthly stipend of 2,500 dirhams (around $277), initially for one year and then extended for five months. 

Abdellah notes the monthly 2,500 dirhams promised by the government have been irregular and stopped completely since March, when a five-month extension ended. Throughout the region of Al-Haouz, around 23,500 families remain in temporary shelters, according to activists, and less than 30 percent of families have moved into completed homes. 

Abdellah estimates only half of those affected in Amsguine have been approved for government aid, a disparity echoed across Al-Haouz province. He attributes the exclusion partly to local corruption, particularly involving the Mokaddemine, the government’s local liaisons. 

“You have to go to him for everything—housing aid, food, building permits,” Abdellah tells TRNN. “If he doesn’t like you, he’ll block you.”

In an April report, the Moroccan League for Human Rights Defense (LMDDH) similarly revealed a sharp disparity between official claims and on-the-ground conditions, finding that 16 percent of families who lost their homes received no assistance. This directly contradicts the government, which reported only 2.7 percent (1,652 households) had been left without support. TRNN reached out to the Moroccan Minister of Economy and Finance’s office for comment, but did not receive a response. 

Even for those approved for aid, the process has been slow and demoralizing.

Iskrane said he was denied assistance because his national ID lists a Marrakech address, a common issue among villagers whose cards reflect urban centers. Like many in the High Atlas, underdevelopment in these Imazighen mountain villages left Iskrane with little choice but to move to the city. With only a primary school and limited job opportunities in Amsguine, he spent years working in Marrakech as a school director.

Families often rent in cities to access education, jobs, and basic services, returning seasonally to harvest olives and almonds on their ancestral land—making it more practical to register their national IDs in urban areas.

Iskrane retired several years ago and returned to his village to live full time. Now, he is confined to the container, with no clear avenues to rebuild his life. “We need the government to do something about this immediately,” he demands. “This isn’t the way we want to live.”

Even for those approved for aid, the process has been slow and demoralizing. Idan Said Abdelatif, 59, lost his mother in the quake. Though he initially received a monthly stipend, he had to split the small sum with siblings. That aid ended in March, and he has received no funds for reconstruction. 

“We already have to start over from zero,” he says. “But the government’s delays are making us feel frozen.” 

Initial reconstruction grants—roughly $2,000—that some have received are barely covering the cost of foundations, residents say. Many families are relying on savings, remittances, or donations to continue building.

Villagers have also told TRNN that local officials abruptly lowered the originally promised aid amounts—slashing the rebuilding grant from around $15,500 to $8,000, and home repair support from $8,800 to approximately $2,000—without clear explanations. 

With little state support, much of the aid for earthquake survivors has come from charities and citizen solidarity, including container shelters provided by NGOs. But this aid is now at risk. Under the Trump administration, sweeping U.S. funding cuts abruptly ended thousands of USAID programs worldwide—a blow that proved devastating in places like Myanmar, where a major earthquake struck just two months later, severely limiting the scale and speed of relief efforts. In Morocco, nearly all USAID programs were terminated, among them a $20 million initiative supporting vulnerable women that reached earthquake-affected areas.

Four miles deeper into the mountains lies Tiniskt, where every home was destroyed in the earthquake and 42 people were killed. The entire village of 120 households was displaced. About a dozen families still reside in a sprawling tent settlement on the mountain slopes, while others used the 2,500-dirham monthly stipend to rent in nearby cities.

Residents here share the same frustration: many have not been approved for government aid. According to Ayoub Belkas, president of a local association in Tiniskt, 50 families have been able to rebuild their homes, but most remain displaced. 

Aisha Belkas, a lifelong Tiniskt resident, recalls a peaceful past: families raising goats, selling milk, and living simply. “It was very nice and beautiful in this village,” Aisha says. “We all knew each other and lived in peace.”

Her husband is elderly and unable to work, so the family relies on daughters in Casablanca for money. Aisha’s home is still in the process of being rebuilt owing to delays in aid. “We just want our lives back,” she says. “We are tired of living like this.”

The psychological toll on survivors has been immense, marked by grief, anxiety, and deep loss. Kabira Belaid, 52, lost her 30-year-old daughter and three grandchildren in the earthquake. Her hand trembles as she shows a photo of her daughter on her phone. 

“I went on so many medications for my nerves and anxiety,” she says. “Now, I still can’t sleep. Even a washing machine or a passing truck sends me into a panic.” Fortunately, Belaid was recently able to move back into a newly constructed home. 

“But I don’t care about this world or how I’m living, whether it’s a tent or a house,” she says softly. “I just care about losing my daughter. That’s all I think about.”

‘Useless Morocco’

Amazigh scholars tell TRNN that villagers’ frustrations go beyond bureaucratic delays, reflecting decades of systemic neglect rooted in post-independence policies that mirror colonial-era structures. 

For centuries, Indigenous Imazighen communities sought refuge in the mountains from invasions, starting with 7th-century Islamic conquests. Therefore, Imazighen have historically inhabited the Atlas mountains for protection and survival, explains Brahim El Guabli, an Amazigh scholar and professor at Williams College. These mountain regions have served as strongholds for Amazigh culture.

According to Samia Errazzouki, a scholar of Amazigh history at Stanford University, during French colonialism (1912-1956) authorities used a “divide and rule” strategy, separating what they perceived as urban Arabs and rural Imazighen under distinct legal systems. 

This laid the foundation for “territorial injustice,” which established a “parasitic relationship” between the wealthier, Arabized regions of Morocco and the rural, Imazighen territories east and south of the Atlas, El Guabli says. 

“The French devised the notion of the useful Morocco and that of a useless one,” El Guabi tells TRNN. “And the useless Morocco is the one that is always sacrificed in order to sustain the useful side.” 

“The French devised the notion of the useful Morocco and that of a useless one. And the useless Morocco is the one that is always sacrificed in order to sustain the useful side.”

After independence in 1956, the Moroccan state inherited a centralized, Arab-centric power structure that continued prioritizing urban development and Arabic identity. State development—roads, schools, hospitals—was funneled into cities, leaving rural Amazigh regions behind. 

Alongside suppressing mostly Amazigh uprisings, “this approach consolidated power in the center while decimating Morocco’s peripheral regions, particularly Imazighen areas furthest from state authority,” explains Errazzouki.

These disparities are stark, says El Guabli—evident in infrastructure, basic service access, and lack of daily transport. “Useless Morocco,” he tells TRNN, “has become an exporter of hundreds of thousands of workers who sustain the urban economy through labor, and their home communities through remittances.” 

Decades of state neglect have driven younger generations from underdeveloped Amazigh regions to migrate to cities like Casablanca, Marrakech, or Rabat, or to travel abroad, seeking services and opportunities. This rural exodus has left behind aging populations, reduced local labor forces, and triggered a brain drain that has stifled rural development. 

Urban life, dominated by Arabic and French, also limits the use of Tamazight dialects, causing a sharp decline in linguistic and cultural transmission among younger generations, El Guabli states. Migrants in cities are often forced to assimilate into dominant Arabized culture and language to survive, further weakening ties to indigenous heritage. “Moroccan cities are cemeteries of Tamazight,” warns El Guabli.

While more recent reforms recognize Amazigh as an official language, lasting territorial injustices and urban-centric development continue to erode Amazigh identity. “The state’s developmental approach hasn’t changed since the colonial era,” El Guabli tells TRNN. “The same disregard for Amazigh regions remains embedded in Morocco’s current development models.”

The earthquake nearly two years ago exposed the deadly consequences of this long-standing neglect. In impoverished Imazighen mountain communities, families built homes using traditional clay and mud, as durable options like brick and cement were unaffordable, says Errazzouki. These fragile structures crumbled instantly, contributing to the massive death toll. 

In impoverished Imazighen mountain communities, families built homes using traditional clay and mud, as durable options like brick and cement were unaffordable. These fragile structures crumbled instantly, contributing to the massive death toll.

Rescue efforts were hampered by poor infrastructure; roads were scarce and in disrepair from decades of underinvestment, and the earthquake made access nearly impossible. Errazzouki notes that the lack of resilient infrastructure set the stage for catastrophe: with no way for heavy equipment to reach them, survivors were left to dig through the rubble using sticks, shovels, and their bare hands to find loved ones.

The state’s initial earthquake response—which involved restricting international aid, blocking rescue teams, and hindering grassroots relief with military checkpoints—mirrored a troubling historical pattern. “The disaster in 2023 undoubtedly revived traumatic memories from 1960 and 2004,” says Errazzouki. 

After the 1960 Agadir quake, Morocco’s new independent government used colonial tactics: sealing areas, deploying military, and controlling aid. Survivors were displaced, often receiving aid contingent on land forfeiture and adherence to expensive new building codes. A similar response followed the 2004 Rif earthquake, where troops, ostensibly delivering aid, violently suppressed protests over rescue delays. 

“These eerie parallels reveal deep structural issues,” Errazzouki explains, “that reflect the afterlives of colonial policies subsumed into the state’s authoritarian agenda.” She argues the state has consistently prioritized centralized control and political optics over human-centered disaster relief.

‘Silence people’

Fadema Ait El Machi stands outside her dome tent in Tiniskt. She submitted aid documents two years ago but received no response. “What do I have? I’m 68,” she asks, shaking her head. She survives on the small amounts her six married children send when they can. “How can we ever trust this government again after this?” she scoffs, her face gloomy and tired.

These frustrations have led to repeated protests—spontaneous and organized—in affected villages, Marrakech, and outside Parliament in Rabat. The state has responded by arresting activists who are criticizing slow reconstruction, charging them with defamation, insult, and spreading false information. 

Earlier this year, Said Ait Mahdi, a prominent Amazigh activist leading earthquake response protests, was sentenced to three months jail and fined over $1,000. “This sent a clear message: anyone protesting the slow reconstruction should think twice, because the state won’t tolerate it,” El Guabli explains. “Without real rebuilding, repression becomes the tool to silence people and maintain control.”

According to Errazzouki, the state’s response mirrors its historical treatment of predominantly Amazigh peripheral regions, where even non-political demands are met with repression. She draws parallels to the Hirak Rif movement (2016–2017), sparked by fishmonger Mouhcine Fikri’s death. Although protests called for basic services—economic development, improved social services, an end to marginalization—the government accused demonstrators of separatism, responding with crackdowns and arrests. 

“This is the pattern we always see,” Errazzouki tells TRNN. “And people in these regions often see the writing on the wall—they know their demands won’t be met. So they choose to leave the country, to immigrate to Europe or elsewhere.”

Observers fear migration from Indigenous mountain communities will only worsen with the devastating environmental effects of climate change—and scholars warn the state’s earthquake response shows a failure to learn from past mistakes. 

Morocco’s geographic location makes it vulnerable to natural disasters and climate shocks: prolonged droughts, extreme heat, and growing water scarcity. The High Atlas is particularly affected, with poor infrastructure, harsh weather, and communities relying on rainfed agriculture. Experts say these environmental risks have a devastating impact in marginalized Amazigh regions, where state neglect and mismanagement means national green policies rarely take effect.

Predictable climate threats have thus become worsening human crises. El Guabli warns that delayed post-earthquake reconstruction and escalating climate conditions will push more families to leave the mountains, threatening Amazigh identity and language. 

“There is no doubt that this [migration] would be a huge blow for Imazighen and Amazigh culture,” he says.

Mohammed Afroukh, 27, stands in Tiniskt’s displacement camp, surrounded by weather-beaten tents stitched together by plastic tarps and fraying rope. He says his family was also denied aid because his father’s national ID was registered outside the village. 

“It’s always the same story in this country,” he laments. “The government leaves us without jobs or basic infrastructure, then we have to move to the cities. And then they use that as an excuse to deny us government support. It’s like we’re always being set up.”

“We just want to hear something from the government,” he says. “They send us in circles—travelling to Rabat then coming back here, then back to Rabat—and no one gives us a clear answer.” 

Afroukh chuckles bitterly. “But I’m not surprised. I never had hope they’d actually help us. We’ve asked for proper roads for decades and got nothing. They have never cared about us. So why would this situation be any different?”