This article was produced as part of the first edition of the Amwaj Media Fellowship in 2025. The article was originally published in English by Amwaj.
The chaos of drought and floods in Morocco fuels a storm of conspiracy theories around cloud seeding. In the small village of Onine, located high in the Middle Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the sky is considered everything—a roof, a deity, and a messenger of fortune. For generations, residents have been accustomed to reading the clouds as omens: a dark belly, shifting winds, and the scent of wet earth. All these are signs that rain might finally fall.
But in recent years, the sky has become more reserved. Rain has become irregular, teasing us in October, disappearing by March, and then returning as angry floods that carve ravines in the thirsty land.
On a Tuesday in early September 2024, after a week of scorching sun, rains the region hadn’t seen in years swept across the Atlas Mountains, which form the backbone of North West Africa, separating the desert from the sea. On a narrow pass near the road leading to Marrakech, cars came to a halt, their tires trembling on the edge of a ravine amidst a sudden downpour. The drivers stepped out cautiously, digging through the rubble with their bare hands and stacking rocks to create a path through the landslide, murmuring quiet prayers.
Rain has become irregular, teasing us in October, disappearing by March, and then returning as angry floods that carve ravines into the thirsty land.
“This is unnatural,” whispered Hassan, a local taxi driver. His passengers, a group of villagers crowded in the back seat, nodded their heads or muttered prayers for forgiveness. “They say they’ve started manipulating the clouds… they want to make rain instead of leaving it to God’s will,” he added.
In Morocco, rain is not just rain; it is a manifestation of divine mood, a dialogue between the sky and the people. In recent years, whenever winter arrived dry, King Mohammed VI, the Commander of the Faithful, would call for prayer. The prayer for rain, or Salat al-Istisqa, is a ritual rooted in the core of the prophetic tradition. Worshipers, often barefoot, gather in open fields or mosque courtyards, dressed in loose garments, supplicating for forgiveness and mercy. In rural areas, entire villages sometimes walk at dawn, with children leading the way, as a reminder that innocence may invoke divine mercy.
In other places, in the rugged Amazigh communities of the Atlas Mountains, girls still perform the ancient Taghndja rain ritual, which predates Islam. They wear tree leaves and wander through their villages, singing to the sky, while elders pour water over their heads in a symbolic call for rain from the heavens. In these rituals, drought is not seen as a scientific phenomenon, but as a test of the collective spirit.
“Rain is not just a weather phenomenon for us; it is a blessing, coming when the land is ready and the people are humble,” said Aisha, an elderly woman from a valley near Ouarzazate, in an interview with Amwaj.
In that very village, I began to understand for the first time what cloud seeding truly meant and what the clouds themselves represent to communities so deeply rooted in the land. The Amazigh year, after all, begins according to the agricultural calendar. Here, rain is not just water falling from the sky; it is a sign, a covenant. Yet, above this spiritual connection, there lies a deep-rooted doubt—not created by the weather, but by politics.
Many in these remote mountain areas do not speak of government officials as public servants, but rather describe them as “people from Rabat,” men in formal suits, whose names appear in headlines, and whose policies have an impact on people’s lives from afar. In these villages, where officials rarely visit, if at all, they become almost mythical creatures, with their words and decisions seeping through like rumors. And their promises, to many here, seem as intangible as the clouds themselves.
Morocco’s Long Struggle with Drought… and Now Floods
Morocco is experiencing the worst drought wave in decades. For six consecutive years, the skies over the kingdom have provided nothing but dust. Rainfall amounts have dropped below seasonal averages by as much as 67%. Major reservoirs like the Bin El Ouidane Dam and the Al-Masira Dam have shrunk into cracked basins, revealing ancient stones and sun-bleached fish skeletons.
By 2023, the country’s dam filling rate dropped to less than 30%, and in some southern regions, water had to be transported by tankers weekly, sometimes even daily. Entire communities found themselves forced to ration water consumption. In cities like Marrakech and Agadir, taps would run dry by evening, and showers had to be timed precisely. In Casablanca, the Ministry of Equipment and Water imposed nightly water cuts and ordered traditional bathhouses to close three days a week, citing “exceptional scarcity.”
In villages without water networks, women and girls would wake up at dawn and walk for kilometers to the communal wells, returning with plastic jugs filled only with salty, stagnant water. The impact on agriculture, the backbone of rural life in Morocco, was catastrophic. Wheat crops withered, and the olive harvest was reduced by half, turning olive oil, once a staple of the Moroccan table, into a luxury commodity few could afford.
Women and girls wake up at dawn and walk kilometers to the communal wells, returning with plastic jugs filled only with salty, stagnant water.
In the saffron cultivation belt near Taliouine, the precious saffron flowers appeared weeks later than usual, and in scarce numbers. Meanwhile, nomadic shepherds in the High Atlas Mountains lost entire herds due to the climate crisis. “We had nothing to feed them. We either sold them or watched them die,” said an Amazigh shepherd near Errachidia. The government’s emergency drought plan in 2022 provided financial support to farmers and began building new desalination stations, but for many, this support came too late or never reached them at all. As livelihoods in rural areas collapsed, some families abandoned their lands and moved to the cities, increasing the number of people living in precarious urban conditions.
In Zagora, an oasis town carved into dusty plains where the Draa River once flowed freely, life has always revolved around the palm tree. These ancient trees stand in rows beneath the watchful gaze of the harsh Bani Mountains. Over generations, the town’s rhythm has been defined by the seasons: dates in the fall, wheat in the winter, and the scorching heat in the spring.
Here, water comes from deep wells and traditional khattarat—underground channels dug centuries ago to capture every drop and direct it toward fields and homes. But in recent years, the wells have begun to dry up. Locals speak of sand creeping into their lands, of trees bearing fruit late or not bearing at all. As for the river, once the lifeblood of the area, it now only appears after rare rains, leaving a faint scar in the heart of the valley. “We’ve suffered a lot in recent years. Drought has hit us hard,” said Abrani, a farmer from Zagora.
Then came the rain of September 2024, followed by another in February 2025. It wasn’t a light drizzle, but a deluge that tore through the sky, turning dry riverbeds into floods, and alleyways into rivers. Under the weight of this water, the town’s fragile infrastructure collapsed, no longer equipped to handle such a volume of rain. “The rain didn’t help the farmers much; it actually made people’s lives harder. The streets were flooded, but the oasis didn’t improve,” the farmer added.
In the arid southern regions such as Drâa-Tafilalet, Tiznit, and Zagora, rivers have reappeared in places that had been governed by dry wadis for years. In Zagora, where the annual rainfall rarely exceeds ten millimeters, more than 200 millimeters fell in just two days—more than the town typically receives in an entire year.
In Tata, a desert oasis town, floodwaters tore through date palm groves and mud houses. According to the Ministry of the Interior, at least 56 homes collapsed. On September 30, the body of a man was pulled from the swollen river near Tata. Nine days earlier, a bus carrying 29 villagers disappeared in the raging floodwaters. Authorities stated that at least 18 people died in the incident.
“We’ve never seen anything like this in our lives,” said Abdel Rahman, one of the displaced residents of Tata. In the surrounding oasis, about 90% of the date palm trees were uprooted or destroyed. By late October, women and children were still wandering among the rubble, searching for shoes, blankets, cooking pots, and small fragments of their lives that had been suddenly severed.
This is southern Morocco, Tata, a desert town on the edge of the Sahara, a place accustomed to drought more than floods. With the rising water levels, a strange wave of conspiracy theories also emerged. In cafes, WhatsApp groups, Facebook comments, and YouTube channels, one theory began to take root: Morocco is the one making the rain fall. This idea isn’t entirely new.
From Hailfield to “Al-Ghayth”: Cloud Seeding Conspiracies and Politics
In 1915, an American named Charles Hatfield claimed he could summon rain using a secret concoction of chemicals and a bit of daring (and some critics might add: deception). He set up his equipment near San Diego, climbed a tower, and released his mixture into the sky. What followed was chaos: floods, fatalities, and lawsuits. He insisted that he had delivered on his promise.
However, meteorological experts at the time and since then pointed out that the region was already on the verge of experiencing a significant rainfall event due to natural weather patterns. There is no scientific evidence to prove that Hatfield’s methods were effective or that they actually caused the floods.
Some see Hatfield as a pioneer and visionary in the field of weather modification, while others regard him as a lucky charlatan who took advantage of coincidence and natural weather patterns to his benefit.
A century later, the methods have become more sophisticated, but they haven’t become any less controversial. Cloud seeding, the modern version of weather modification, is based on stimulating the moisture in clouds. Cloud seeding doesn’t create clouds, nor does it summon weather from nothing. “Ah, if we could really make all this rain, we would have solved many problems,” said Mohamed Jadli, a Moroccan climate expert, sarcastically.
Simply put, precipitation occurs when water droplets and ice crystals in clouds condense around tiny particles of dust or salt, becoming heavy enough that they can no longer remain suspended in the air, falling to the ground due to gravity. Cloud seeding artificially stimulates this process by introducing substances into the clouds that mimic what happens naturally.
Scientists often use silver iodide, which is released from aircraft or ground generators. This substance helps form ice crystals due to its crystalline structure. When the process is successful, the cloud produces a slightly larger amount of rain than it would have naturally. When it fails, the cloud continues on its path.
That unilateral environmental interventions could provoke geopolitical tensions, especially between neighboring countries affected by cross-border climate conditions.
Morocco has been conducting cloud seeding operations for decades. Between 1984 and 1989, the kingdom collaborated with the United States in the “Al-Ghayth Program,” a $12 million initiative aimed at enhancing water resources. The project provided Morocco with its first weather radar, trained over a hundred specialists, and tested both aerial and ground-based cloud seeding techniques. Since 2021, with the worsening drought waves, the Moroccan government has become more open about the program, presenting data in parliament and launching 140 cloud seeding operations—52 aerial and 88 ground-based.
However, with the flooding that swept through parts of the country last year, doubts began to rise. Some Spanish media outlets published reports about growing skepticism in the region, especially in southern Spain and the enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla.
“Industrial intervention in climate and weather can have unexpected consequences on a regional scale,” wrote journalist Pablo Ramos in El Tiempo, a magazine specializing in weather affairs. The article also warned that unilateral environmental interventions could spark geopolitical tensions, particularly between neighboring countries affected by cross-border climatic conditions. Madrid has not officially accused Rabat of causing the floods.
However, the idea of weather modification as a geopolitical weapon has seeped into the world of conspiracy theories online, particularly in Algeria, where diplomatic relations with Morocco have been tense for years. Today, weather modification has become the latest topic of speculation on YouTube and social media, often portrayed as a covert tool for influence and control.
In Rabat, Minister of Equipment and Water, Nizar Baraka, sought to calm the concerns, stressing that no cloud seeding operations had been carried out in the southern regions that were struck by the severe floods of 2024 and 2025.
The minister emphasized that the program follows strict scientific guidelines, and cloud seeding is only activated during periods of drought, based on data from the meteorological services. In March, after a new wave of heavy rains, I met Dr. Abdel Rahim Majane, a meteorological expert at Morocco’s General Directorate of Meteorology. “No, definitely, cloud seeding has nothing to do with the recent rains,” he said with the tone of someone accustomed to this question being asked repeatedly.
Majane could not specify an exact date for the last operation under the “Al-Ghayth” program, but he firmly confirmed that no operations were carried out during the flood period. This position was also supported by Omar Baddour, Head of Climate Monitoring and Policy Services at the World Meteorological Organization (WMO), who stated that the floods occurred in regions not targeted for seeding, and during a period outside the usual operating window.
However, between the official statements and the rumors circulating online, there remains a gap of ambiguity, leaving farmers like Abarani, in the arid plains of Zagora, confronting rains that fall violently and quickly, alongside a drought that refuses to end. “Even now, despite the recent rain, we are still suffering from the drought,” said the farmer. “We don’t really know the nature of this rain, but we are not against the technology if it is effective and will help.”
Cloud Seeding: A Solution or a Problem in Morocco’s Weather Chaos?
I sought additional answers at Mohammed VI University for Multidisciplinary Studies, a hub for advanced research in artificial intelligence, complex graduate programs, and students from across Africa pursuing specialized qualifications. Inside the university’s library, I met Perez Kimini, a researcher at the International Water Resources Institute (IWRI), a newly established research unit at the university. Kimini had spent three years meeting with farmers, listening to their problems, and discussing agricultural policies.
“Our problem is not just the need for more technology; it’s about communication… because farmers are the ones currently bearing the brunt of both drought and floods,” Kimini told Amwaj.
Perez believes that to understand the paradox of recent droughts and floods in Morocco, one must first view the country’s complex climate through the eyes of farmers. The most pressing threat to Morocco’s water resources is not just drought, but the unpredictable pace of climate change: erratic rainfall, rising temperatures, and the immense pressure this places on an already fragile water system.
Our problem is not just the need for more technology,
but communication.
For farmers, the story often starts and ends with drought. About 80% of them consider it their primary concern, according to the researcher. However, drought in Morocco is not simply the absence of rain, but a complex web of consequences linked to climate change.
High temperatures lead to reduced rainfall and accelerate the melting of snow in the Atlas Mountains, natural reservoirs that quietly feed rivers and dams. As temperatures rise, the snow melts too quickly, briefly filling the dams before they dry up again, leaving fields thirsty once more. This flash of abundance is deceiving. Farmers might celebrate after heavy rainfall, but the celebration doesn’t last long.
Mustafa Salah Benrimal, an environmental expert and president of the Manarat Al-Ecology association, which works with local farmers, explained further: “This rain won’t benefit the farmers much because it came too late and in an irregular pattern. Crops need consistency, not just abundance,” said Mustafa Salah Benrimal.
The wheat plant, for example, needs water at specific stages of its growth. If it misses the flowering period, it fails to produce grains, regardless of how much water it received before or after. Without a consistent and predictable supply, the crop’s life cycle collapses. “The real crisis is not that rain no longer falls, but that it no longer falls at the right time, and when it does, it falls violently,” Kimi explained.
Across the Mediterranean basin to Morocco, rainfall has become more erratic and violent. One storm is enough to trigger devastating floods, erode topsoil, and drown vulnerable seedlings, followed by weeks of drought.
In late 2024, severe floods hit Tunisia, Algeria, and Spain, revealing the increasing vulnerability of the region to climate shocks. In Spain, heavy rains caused the deaths of more than 230 people and led to billions of dollars in damage. Meanwhile, Algeria and Tunisia saw their cities inundated by sudden floods after rare and violent storms.
Moroccan soil, rich in clay, is excellent at retaining moisture, but it isn’t suited to handle these extreme fluctuations. It quickly becomes waterlogged and cracks just as fast when it dries. Water experts have reported rising dam levels during storms, but these gains were short-lived. A temporary flood doesn’t compare to a month of drought. “The rain fell,” people say. But for farmers, this kind of rain doesn’t mean much. What they need is that slow, steady drizzle that allows seeds to sprout and fields to breathe. For Kiminni, while artificial rain seems promising in theory, it’s fraught with complexities in practice.
Moroccan soil, rich in clay, is excellent at retaining moisture, but it's not prepared to withstand these extreme fluctuations.
The climate expert believes that rainfall resulting from human intervention must align with agricultural cycles. If it doesn’t, the outcome could be ineffective, or even harmful. Any sudden rainfall in an area suffering from shallow reservoirs or neglected water channels could cause more damage than benefit.
Farmers in rural areas need precise, timely information about when and where artificial rain may fall. Without this information, seeds get planted either too early or too late. Planting calendars shift quietly, and crops stumble, Kiminni added.
Most Moroccan farmers rely entirely on rainfall to irrigate their crops. If rainfall patterns change without any early warning or support from agricultural advisory networks, even the most well-intentioned efforts will be in vain. “And worse, the process might become wasteful. Cloud-seeding is costly,” Kiminni added with a smile as he carefully chose his words. “If it fails to make a difference for those in dire need, the loss isn’t just financial… it’s existential.”
For this young researcher, who acknowledges the limited understanding of cloud-seeding technology, there’s a more pressing question: How much control can we actually have over this technology? If we can stimulate clouds to release rain, can we determine the amount of rainfall? Or where it falls?
“If not, Morocco is at risk of solving one crisis by triggering another,” Kiminni said. “Floods can destroy entire crops. Afterward, only a few farmers can start again. Seeds are expensive, and insurance is almost non-existent.” In Morocco, the question is no longer: Will it rain? but: How? When? And at what cost?
Traditional Practices vs. Modern Technology?
Moroccan meteorological authorities, as well as the World Meteorological Organization (WMO), stress that cloud-seeding is only used in extreme, critical situations. While the “Gheith” program does not directly consult with farmers, it does involve climate experts familiar with the rhythm of the land.
Dr. Abdelrahim Majan, one of the senior meteorologists at the General Directorate of Meteorology in Morocco, insists that the floods were the result of failed infrastructure, not cloud-seeding. He added that this technology has helped the country cope with prolonged droughts.
However, even at the international level, the appeal of cloud-seeding has started to fade. Australia scaled back its major programs in the early 2000s after inconclusive results. In the United States, only a few states still use the technology, mostly in mountainous regions. Senegal, which was once a partner to Morocco in weather modification efforts, has stepped back, citing inconsistent rainfall quantities and changing climatic conditions.
Omar Badour, a senior climate official at the World Meteorological Organization, estimates that cloud-seeding can only increase rainfall by about 15%, if the right conditions are met. “And that’s not enough,” he said. At the same time, Morocco is expanding its desalination projects, especially around Casablanca and Agadir. However, local groups warn that these are just temporary solutions.
“In the heart of Morocco’s water crisis lies an agricultural development model that prioritizes export over resilience,” says Abdeljalil Takheem from “Nashfat,” a local initiative focused on climate change awareness.
Since the early 2000s, public policies have shifted towards liberalization, with a focus on high-value crops such as tomatoes and berries for European markets. This trend was deepened by Morocco’s Green Plan in 2008, which invested in drip irrigation and genetically improved seeds to boost production and hard currency earnings. However, this model has marginalized rain-fed agriculture, which is the backbone of subsistence farming in Morocco’s mountains and oases. Staple crops like cereals, which were once central to food security, have been classified as low-value crops.
What Morocco needs today is a fundamental shift in approach: from an export-driven agricultural model to an ecological farming model.
Even water-saving technologies have had counterproductive effects: they have led to excessive groundwater extraction, depleting reserves faster than they can be replenished, according to the “Nashfat” platform. Large players in the agricultural sector have primarily benefited from government support, encouraging highly water-intensive practices, while small farmers have been left on the margins,” said Takheem.
“Most of the supported crops aren’t even consumed locally; they are shipped to store shelves in Europe.” Rarely do the profits reach rural communities whose wells are drying up.
What Morocco needs today, according to “Nashfat,” is a fundamental shift in approach: from an export-driven agricultural model to ecological farming, with sustainable practices rooted in the local knowledge accumulated by the people of this land over generations. “Traditional water-sharing systems, drought-resistant crops, and small farms… all of these carry not only genetic diversity but a legacy of resilience,” said Takheem.
In a country where rain is both a harbinger and an algorithmic forecast, the future may rely on a fragile partnership: Rabat’s silent, precise satellites monitoring the upper layers of the atmosphere; and mountain farmers reading the clouds as their ancestors did. Between them lies not just geographic distance, but a difference in understanding. Yet, environmental experts believe the solution may emerge from this very distance—not by controlling the sky, but by coexisting with its moods.
