In the Syrian countryside of al-Dheibeh, a quiet revolution is taking root. Farmers, once reliant on imported, hybrid seeds, are returning to “baladi” seeds – traditional, open-pollinated varieties that are native to the Levant. This movement, championed by the NGO Buzuruna Juzuruna (Our Seeds Are Our Roots), aims to restore agricultural independence and preserve Syria’s rich biodiversity.
The recent gathering in al-Dheibeh, the first large farmers’ meeting in Syria since the war, marked a significant step. Farmers from across the country shared knowledge and exchanged baladi seeds, a vital act of defiance against erasure. These seeds, unlike sterile hybrid varieties designed for single, high yields, are living lineages that can be replanted and improved year after year.
Walid al-Youssef, a co-founder of Buzuruna Juzuruna, embodies this spirit. After fleeing Syria in 2012, he established an agroecology farm in Lebanon with fellow refugees and international farmers. There, they cultivated and preserved over 300 varieties of Syrian seeds, creating a living library of the nation’s agricultural heritage. “We want to restore the bond between farmers and their baladi seeds, those born from the land itself,” Walid explains. He calls this a “revolution without weapons.”
Walid and his wife, Fodda, recently returned to Syria after a decade in exile, bringing with them carefully preserved envelopes of baladi seeds. These seeds represent more than just agriculture; they symbolise a promise of return and resilience. Their journey underscores the deep connection farmers have with their land and its native crops.
The gathering also highlighted the challenges. Farmers like Azzat al-Mohamed shared stories of displacement and loss, yet their determination to preserve seeds persisted. Azzat carried his family’s seeds from his village, through exile in Lebanon, and back to Syria, replanting them even in temporary shelters. “They came from my grandfather,” he says, “And they’ll go to my son.”
Salman Dakdouk, another participant, echoed the call for autonomy, cautioning against aid that might inadvertently create dependency. The sentiment is clear: while external support is welcome, true progress lies in empowering local farmers and rebuilding self-sufficiency.
Beyond the seeds, the gathering fostered a sense of unity. Kurdish and Arab farmers, once divided by conflict, found common ground through their shared passion for agriculture. “Politics divides us. The war divided us… but vegetables bring us together,” stated Ali Shato, a Kurdish farmer.
The spirit of renewal extended to the village school, where children planted olive trees and learned about sustainable practices. Despite the school’s damaged state, the act of planting symbolised hope and a belief in the future. Children like 9-year-old Amale, planting olive trees, are sowing the seeds of a new generation connected to their land.
Even elders like Abu Zoheir, a 67-year-old agronomist, are part of this resurgence. Having witnessed the detrimental effects of industrial seeds in the past, he now advocates for the natural resilience of Syrian soil. “The soil is like an immune system,” he explains. “If you bring in foreign seeds… you make it sick.”
As the sun sets on al-Dheibeh, the scene is one of quiet determination. Families are replanting their lives, seed by seed, rebuilding not just farms but their connection to heritage and home. The baladi seeds, once symbols of survival, are now symbols of a hopeful future for Syrian agriculture.