“It is also worth noticing how Le Maire’s efforts to convey this form of structural violence are particularly commendable in the film’s visual language”
“I think of globalization like a light which shines brighter and brighter on a few people and the rest are in darkness, wiped out. They simply can’t be seen. Once you get used to not seeing something, then slowly there is no longer a possible way to see it.” – Arundhati Roy
When the Moroccan authorities announced the construction of one of the world’s largest renewable energy complexes, they did so in a manner reminiscent of a businessman overselling a product, constantly adapting the pitch to suit their audience. And thus, two dominant narratives emerged: first, that the project would boost the national economy, invoking the capitalist promise of endless growth; and second, that it would advance a greener energy system, aligning with contemporary environmental discourse. Beneath this ambitious vision, however, lies a critical and often overlooked issue: a “green” future conceived as a commodity will not be accessible to all.
Accordingly, Jérôme le Maire’s The Price of the Sun is structured around two interrelated perspectives, both of which interrogate the assumption that progress is inherently desirable without questioning its ultimate direction. On the one hand, the film focuses on the Aït tribe and their lives in the southeastern Moroccan high plateau near the Midelt desert. It portrays their deep connection to the land and their reliance on its scarce resources, as well as their long-standing adaptation to its harsh conditions. Gradually, this ethnographic focus evolves into a more political narrative, as the Aït struggle to assert their visibility. Almost as though their identities as desert inhabitants and Moroccan citizens can no longer coexist, forcing an impossible choice between the two.
The ideas expressed by Chico Mendes, who famously stated that “ecology without class struggle is gardening“, resonate strongly at the core of Le Maire’s film. As the massive solar complex reshapes the landscape, the Aït are rendered collateral damage, being confronted with the stark choice of altering their way of life or facing disappearance. In this sense, The Price of the Sun serves as a compelling case study of how environmental initiatives can reproduce longstanding geopolitical inequalities, particularly those between the Global North and South, leaving the “post” in post-colonialism largely unexamined.
Which allows Le Maire to further illustrate how contemporary discourse surrounding the energy complex echoes older forms of colonial violence. In one relevant sequence, members of the tribe listen to a radio broadcast discussing the project, revealing how such narratives both recreate and reinforce historical patterns of marginalization. The film underscores the fragility of concepts like citizenship, as legal frameworks fail to protect those most affected. Cut off from direct access to water, members of the Aït community are effectively rendered disposable, painfully aware that they are no longer regarded as full Moroccan citizens.
It is also worth noticing how Le Maire’s efforts to convey this form of structural violence are particularly commendable in the film’s visual language. The Aït are frequently depicted in close relation to their environment, either dwarfed by vast landscapes or silently observing the arrival of trucks and construction crews. At times, this alienation is conveyed more directly, as they watch television broadcasts to understand what is being built on their own land.
As the desert transforms, fences are erected, pathways to water are obstructed, and even wildlife alters its patterns, the Aït become both preservers of a centuries-old way of life and unwilling witnesses to an inevitable future. Unable to influence these changes, they observe how the relentless drive for capitalist progress, coupled with the class blindness of much environmental discourse, produces a future in which entire populations are seen as expendable or, at best, should be hidden from view. Symbolically, one of the film’s final images depicts elderly women straining their bodies as they break rocks to extract lead for sale. One of them remarks on the growing demand for electric cars, vehicles that require batteries, and therefore lead. As they inhale dust from nearby construction sites, others celebrate the promise of clean energy. The irony is unsettling, and encapsulates the film’s central critique: that the cost of a “sustainable” future is often borne by those least able to afford it.