High in the hills above Khemisset, the tracks carved by old wooden carts still crisscross the land, silent witnesses to a way of life that’s slowly fading. This soil, handed down from generation to generation, now finds itself at the heart of a quiet but deeply divisive battle. As Morocco pushes ahead with a sweeping transformation of its collective lands, the lives of rural communities are being reshaped—often at a pace and in a manner they never agreed to.
Morocco’s collective lands cover nearly 15 million hectares—about a third of the country’s arable land. These areas, historically governed by customary law rather than formal titles, sit in a legal gray zone. They’re neither fully public nor truly private, instead belonging to tribal or ethnic communities under a system of shared usage. Over time, that ambiguity has turned into a flashpoint, as the land’s growing value has drawn interest from investors, developers, and the state itself.
The government’s answer to this situation has been what it calls melkisation: the individual titling of these lands. The official goal is to encourage investment, provide legal clarity, and pull this vast swath of property into a more dynamic and formal economic system. More than 60,000 hectares have already been registered in regions like Gharb and Haouz. But for many families, the process has brought more frustration than opportunity.
“We were promised ownership papers, but we’re being forced to meet deadlines, pay fees, and we have no guarantee that the land we receive matches what we’ve actually been using,” says Rachid El Kadi, who comes from a soulaliya community near Settat. His father cultivated a plot there for four decades. Now he worries that the land could be handed over to a private investor—without his consent, and without recognition of his family’s history on it.
The pressure isn’t only external. Within the communities themselves, rifts are deepening. Younger members—many of them educated but jobless—are demanding access to land so they can launch agricultural or craft businesses. But elders, more attached to long-standing customs, are hesitant to upend the old balance. Women, too, are challenging the status quo. In many areas, they were historically denied land rights altogether. That’s now being contested by groups like the Soulaliyate collectives, who have organized across several provinces to claim their place.
In Kénitra, Aïcha Marouane has been fighting for four years to receive compensation after her family’s land was seized. “My brother got paid. I didn’t,” she says bitterly. “We both grew up on that land. They talk about equality, but nothing really changes when it counts.”
Officials say the goal is to modernize land management, improve agricultural output, and pave the way for new infrastructure or industrial projects. In practice, however, the increase in public utility declarations has led to a wave of forced expropriations. Meanwhile, government tenders aimed at encouraging local development often struggle to attract serious local interest—largely because of bureaucratic hurdles and high financial entry barriers.
Critics argue that the process, though branded as modernization, is weakening social cohesion and accelerating land consolidation. Once titled, collective lands can be legally sold—and some already have been, snapped up by property developers or agri-business firms, especially in areas near major cities.
At a land governance conference held in Rabat this past April, experts called for a more transparent, inclusive approach that would reflect the realities and needs of local populations. But despite the rhetoric, mistrust on the ground remains widespread.
Today, the future of Morocco’s collective lands hangs in the balance—caught between development ambitions, private interests, and centuries-old traditions. And with every new title deed, the story becomes more tangled, as communities fight to preserve not just property, but a way of life.
