Local Tunisian date farm grows progress for its community

In Tunisia, the community in Jemna managed to keep local control of the nearby state-owned date plantation in the decade following the Arab Spring revolution. The plantation has created more than 100 jobs and reinvested its profits in health and education facilities.

Layli Foroudi/Thomson Reuters Foundation
Mohsen Ezzine stands on the Jemna date palm plantation, which he considers to be his ancestral land, Nov. 23, 2020. He worked tending the palm trees until 2018 and then in the administration of the community association that now manages the farm.

As revolution swept Tunisia 10 years ago, the people of Jemna saw their chance to settle a colonial-era score – seizing a 460-acre date plantation just outside the oasis town.

“We had to get our land back, we should be the ones using it,” said Mohsen Ezzine who was among those who occupied the farm – claiming it as ancestral land – two days before then-President Zine El-Abidine Ben Ali fled abroad in January 2011.

A wave of land occupations took place during the revolt against Mr. Ben Ali’s authoritarian rule, but a decade later much of the reappropriated land is either back in state hands or caught up in legal disputes.

Of about 247,000 acres of state-owned land that was appropriated, the government has since clawed back nearly 198,000 acres, according to the Land Ministry.

And while Tunisia’s government has refused to negotiate on the question of ownership, Jemna is a rare case of local people managing to negotiate the collective management of state land.

Despite a recent drop in date prices due to COVID-19, the plantation has thrived. More than 100 jobs have been created and profits have been reinvested in community health and education facilities.

And due to a social economy law passed earlier this year, Jemna looks set to become the first land-occupying collective to reach an agreement to keep the land in community hands.

The legislation, which is yet to be implemented, would grant collectives with a social objective legal access to state-owned land although ownership would not be transferred.

Ghazi Chouachi, a former land minister who worked on the new law, said Jemna was an “exceptional” case due to the success of its social business model.

“This is why we supported it, even though it’s state land,” he said.

From one colonial rule to another

Mr. Ezzine belongs to one of the tribes that collectively owned the land until 1912 when he said it was appropriated during French-colonial rule to be used to grow dates.

His grandfather worked on the farm during the colonial period “like a servant for very low wages” and used to take his sheep and goats to graze there after the harvest had finished, Mr. Ezzine said.

After independence in 1957, Tunisia took a loan to pay France for the land and then kept it as state property, instead of returning it to local residents.

Following a brief experiment with farming cooperatives, the state changed tack, encouraging the use of public land by private investors.

This led to “villages of peasants without land surrounded by public land that is abandoned or given to such-and-such an investor,” said Layla Riahi, a lecturer at the Tunisian School of Architecture and Urbanism.

In Jemna, the date plantation land was rented to the state-owned STIL, which went bankrupt in 2001. Two businessmen with close ties to power began to rent the land at low prices.

Such policies fueled old grievances over the land’s confiscation, said Taher Tahri, president of the Association for the Protection of the Jemna Oasis, the organization that manages the plantation collectively.

“We had replaced the colonizer with another colonizer, a Tunisian one,” he told the Thomson Reuters Foundation, sipping coffee in Jemna’s palm-lined main road.

In the community, for the community

Prior to the date plantation’s 2011 occupation, it only employed 20 local people. Today, it provides 162 jobs.

The association decides how to spend the business’s profits in consultation with local people and so far it has funded numerous projects including classrooms for the local school, a new roof at the wholesale date market, and a community ambulance.

Young people from the town who want to study at university are offered financial assistance.

While a recent change of government has delayed the implementation of the social economy legislation, and in turn Jemna’s land-use deal with the state, Mr. Tahri is determined to keep community control on the plantation.

“What is essential is that no one except those from Jemna will put their feet in the oasis of Jemna,” he said.

With the passing of the new law, other groups have contacted Mr. Tahri to see if they can emulate Jemna’s model.

A decade after the revolution that triggered “Arab Spring” protests across the region, most of those who seized state land have struggled to keep hold of it – many hampered by poor organization and a lack of capital.

In the nearby town of Zaafrane, young people occupied a 300-acre date farm situated on lands they claimed as ancestral, but were forced off the site in 2017, said Ali Rtima, a local activist.

The plantation has since been returned by the state to its former tenant, a wealthy land-owning businessman, a blow to the occupying group that Mr. Rtima blamed on a lack of solidarity and organization.

A group of former STIL employees also sought access to part of the land in Zaafrane, but their appeals to the local governor fell on deaf ears.

“We didn’t go to court – a lawyer needs money and we couldn’t afford it,” said Mohamed Grere, one of the ex-STIL workers.

Preparing to head home after a morning’s work irrigating Jemna’s palms, Tarek Sessi said he was much happier with working life today than when he used to work for STIL.

“I get paid, I buy something from the [local] shop. The association does things in Jemna. All the money stays in Jemna,” he said. “It’s the solidarity economy.”

This story was reported by The Thomson Reuters Foundation.

You've read  of  free articles. Subscribe to continue.

Dear Reader,

About a year ago, I happened upon this statement about the Monitor in the Harvard Business Review – under the charming heading of “do things that don’t interest you”:

“Many things that end up” being meaningful, writes social scientist Joseph Grenny, “have come from conference workshops, articles, or online videos that began as a chore and ended with an insight. My work in Kenya, for example, was heavily influenced by a Christian Science Monitor article I had forced myself to read 10 years earlier. Sometimes, we call things ‘boring’ simply because they lie outside the box we are currently in.”

If you were to come up with a punchline to a joke about the Monitor, that would probably be it. We’re seen as being global, fair, insightful, and perhaps a bit too earnest. We’re the bran muffin of journalism.

But you know what? We change lives. And I’m going to argue that we change lives precisely because we force open that too-small box that most human beings think they live in.

The Monitor is a peculiar little publication that’s hard for the world to figure out. We’re run by a church, but we’re not only for church members and we’re not about converting people. We’re known as being fair even as the world becomes as polarized as at any time since the newspaper’s founding in 1908.

We have a mission beyond circulation, we want to bridge divides. We’re about kicking down the door of thought everywhere and saying, “You are bigger and more capable than you realize. And we can prove it.”

If you’re looking for bran muffin journalism, you can subscribe to the Monitor for $15. You’ll get the Monitor Weekly magazine, the Monitor Daily email, and unlimited access to CSMonitor.com.

QR Code to Local Tunisian date farm grows progress for its community
Read this article in
QR Code to Subscription page
Start your subscription today