Meet the Women Reclaiming Morocco’s Rose Industry
Through cooperatives and female-led ventures, Morocco’s rose harvest is slowly returning to the hands of the women who have sustained it for generations.
The lush area surrounding Kelâat M’gouna in Morocco is largely inhabited by Amazigh communities. Sand-colored houses are nestled among dense fields and solitary bushes, each laden with verdant green leaves and the promising blushing buds of Damask rose. Only at the start of April do these flowers begin to unfurl in delicate clusters, their petals heavy with dew and a sweet, cloying scent.
As soon as the first blossoms break open, women begin to gather en masse in the area now known fondly as the Valley of the Roses. “We wake up very early, before sunrise,” Fatima Temaghrite, a 57-year-old local picker, tells me.
Their silhouettes bend low against the bushes, fingers plucking each bloom whole before dropping them into makeshift cradles fashioned from the cloth of their traditional tachtat dresses.“We pick quickly, filling our baskets before the sun gets too strong,” Temaghrite explains. “There’s something peaceful about working with nature, surrounded by mountains and the scent of roses.” She adds, “By late morning, we finish and bring the roses to be weighed and sold.”
It is at this point that they begin the distillation process; open flowers are separated from leaves and stems before being poured into copper alembics filled with water. “These vessels are then placed over heat, with temperatures rising to nearly 97 degrees Celsius,” Hafsa Chakibi, owner of local brand Flora Sina, tells me. Steam infused with rose essence begins to lift from the copper chambers, the fragrant vapor guided into a cooling system where it condenses back into liquid form. What remains is rose water and essential oil steeped in scent.
While the flowers are being distilled, an event takes place to celebrate the harvest. “The Festival of Roses is one of the happiest times of the year,” Temaghrite says excitedly. “Filled with joy, laughter, and the feeling that all our hard work is being celebrated.”
Music spills through the streets and dancers in traditional dress weave through open spaces. Atop wooden tables, vendors lay out soaps, oils, perfumes, and bundles of petals tied with ribbon. At the center of it all, a pageant crowns a “queen of the roses.” Flanked by her two runners-up, she rides a float through the carnival, casting handfuls of petals that fall over the crowd in scented cascades.
Beneath all of these rituals lies a history that stretches back centuries. “No one knows the exact date that Damask roses came to Morocco,” Nacima Mohamdi, an associate researcher at the EIREST laboratory at Panthéon-Sorbonne University whose thesis focussed on Morocco’s rose industry, tells me. “According to certain legends, pilgrims from the Middle East brought the variety over with them in the twelfth century.”
The rose quickly found a natural home in the valley, where the climate proved uniquely suited to its cultivation. “The area is an agro-pastoral society, with families relying on crops of almonds, corn, wheat, barley….,” Mohamdi trails off. “Roses were traditionally planted around the edge of the crops as a protective barrier.”
For generations, rose cultivation remained embedded within domestic life. Women tended the bushes, with the work of picking, drying, and distilling carried out at home. The arrival of the French Protectorate in 1912 marked a turning point, however. “Exploiting Moroccan raw materials was an integral part of the colonization process,” Mohamdi says. “At the time, the perfume industry in Grasse was expanding, and the French were seeking a rose variety capable of producing a more valuable essential oil than the Centifolia cultivated in France.”
Upon realizing the value of the Moroccan Damascus rose, French companies established a formalized presence in the valley. Distillation factories opened in Kelâat M’Gouna in 1937, followed by another in Amednagh in 1947. “They would purchase the roses from local families using middlemen,” Mohamdi recounts. “It was still a domestic task carried out by women and the prices offered were extremely low.”
Even after the end of the French Protectorate in 1956, the export-driven monopoly established by factories endured. As production expanded, cultivation moved into dedicated agricultural fields and seasonal labour became more formalized.
The workforce remained overwhelmingly female, with knowledge and practice often passed through maternal lines. “I started very young, maybe around 10 or 11 years old,” Temaghrite says. “My family has always done it. My grandmother, my mother, and now me.” Temaghrite still has fond memories of her first mornings in the fields. “My hands were slow and clumsy, but I felt proud just to be there with the older women,” she says with pride. “It felt like joining something important.”
As she grew older, Temaghrite chose to remain within the industry. “I continued because it’s part of who we are,” she tells me, explaining that she was also drawn in by the sense of community. “We work side by side, talking, sometimes singing. Everyone has their own row, but we help each other. It feels more like a group effort than individual work.” There is a strong financial draw to the sector, too. “It’s very important, especially for families like ours,” the picker explains. “The harvest season brings money that helps us for months after.”
Mariam Tarhalt, a 27-year-old local picker, tells me she too relies on the work. “I didn’t start as a child like many others,” she says. “I was around 18 when I began. At that time, I needed to help my family financially.” The income Tarhalt earns during the season gives her a sense of financial independence. “I usually save part of it and use the rest for household needs,” she says. “It also helps me avoid depending too much on others, which is important to me.”
Still, the work is not without its uncertainties. “Some seasons are weaker than others, so you don’t always earn the same amount,” Tarhalt laments. “Another difficulty is that prices can change depending on demand.”
Since the beginning of the 21st century, efforts have emerged to diversify the market in order to tackle these low and fluctuating wages. Roses were once sold directly to middlemen or factories. Now, local cooperatives and independent businesses are offering women an alternative path. “Since 2008, supported by the “Plan Maroc Vert”, a lot of cooperatives have been established in the Kelâat M’gouna region,” Mohamdi explains. “These production facilities represent new economic opportunities, particularly for women, many of whom face economic and social exclusion.”
In a cooperative, the women are encouraged to sort, process, and distil the roses into products themselves. Alongside having an annual income, the profits are shared equally amongs the workers. “We have more control and earn more fairly,” Temaghrite says. The women are also given the chance to showcase their heritage at international and national agricultural fairs. “Thanks to the cooperatives, a lot of women leave their village for the first time in their lives,” Mohamdi says.
“There are now close to seventy cooperatives operating in the area,” Mohamdi continues. “A good example is Les Femmes du Dadès, which operates on the outskirts of Souk El-Khémis Dadès village.”
Les Femmes du Dadès supports roughly 400 female pickers in the surrounding area. Many are widowed, divorced, or supporting partners unable to work. Beyond production, the cooperative provides training programmes and educational outreach.
Alongside cooperatives, individual female entrepreneurs have begun to reshape the industry. Chakibi started her own brand, Flora Sina, in 2018 after completing her PhD specialising in petroleum. “Using my scientific knowledge of distillation and extraction processes, I learned how to create high quality rose oil,” Chakibi explains. “Our product is now completely organic and we implement sustainable practices.”
Chakibi is committed to a broader social mission, working directly with local pickers and paying above-market rates. Temaghrite is one of the women who works at Flora Sina, having joined the team in 2020. “It helped me get better prices and more stable work,” she tells me proudly. Flora Sina even reinvests part of its profits into community development projects. These initiatives include support for girls’ education, workshops for craftspeople, and the development of school libraries. “The aim is not only production, but long-term local empowerment,” she says.
Through the rise of women-led cooperatives and socially conscious companies, it seems that the balance of power is slowly being redistributed in Morocco’s Valley of the Roses. “The transformation is gradual,” Chakibi tells me. “But for many, it offers hope that a practice we hold in deep pride is finally being reclaimed for future generations.”
