In a forgotten corner of Iran—where development plans have long been abandoned—deep within the harsh mountains of the Zagros, among cracked soil and rains that no longer come, live villagers and farmers whose choices oscillate between death and destitution. For these people, cultivating poppies is not an act of greed but one of desperation—an agonizing attempt to survive; to buy a loaf of bread, a school notebook, or medicine for a sick spouse.

This report is the result of several weeks spent in the rural areas of Lorestan and Kermanshah provinces—from Noorabad and Kuhdasht to the border towns of Thalas Babajani and Gilan-e-Gharb. Peace Mark Monthly Magazine spoke with three farmers, whose names have been changed out of necessity—farmers who have staked their lives on growing a plant that is both illegal and whose profits almost always end up in “other people’s” hands.

From Thirsty Fields to Tired Eyes
Mohsen’s Story – A Farmer in Noorabad

Mohsen, 45, from a village near Noorabad in Lorestan, guides us with hands more like worn shovels than farming tools, toward a field that was once a wheat farm:
“I’ve been losing money for seven years. The year I harvested wheat, the government didn’t buy it on time, and then the price dropped. Farming is just a name now. There’s no water, no subsidized fertilizer. Everything is private, everything is expensive. We’re human too—we have children, we have mouths to feed.”

He says that when he first planted poppies, it wasn’t the law he feared most, but people’s judgment. That fear faded quickly when he realized he wasn’t alone:
“Three of our neighbors planted it too. They said nothing would happen. I only did it for one season. I’m not saying it was right, but for the first time, I could afford my son’s medication.”

Gazing at his parched, cracked land, he asks:
“By God, if they told me they’d set up drip irrigation on this land, I’d quit that other work. We’re not criminals. But when even subsidized flour doesn’t reach us, what are we supposed to do?”

Always One Step from Prison
Saeed’s Story – A Farmer from Dinavar, Kermanshah

In a house with mud-and-wood walls, Saeed, 38, father of four, recounts one of the bitterest stories in a calm voice:
“I resisted at first. I even took loans to prepare my land for chickpeas. But the chickpeas dried up—there was no water. I came home empty-handed. My wife asked, ‘What now?’”

Unlike some of his fellow villagers, Saeed harvested the opium himself:
“We’d go to the field at night. We couldn’t stay till morning. If security forces came and caught us, our whole life would be gone. We’re not drug traffickers. We’re trying to save ourselves.”

He lives in constant fear of the authorities:
“I’ve dreamed many times that agents raided the house and my kid was screaming. We sleep in fear and wake in fear—but we have no choice.”

When asked if he would still do this if given an alternative job, he answers firmly:
“No, by God. I just want a job, a helping hand, a co-op, real farming insurance. I don’t want to be a trafficker—I want to be a father.”

They Don’t Understand Our Silent Pain
Farrokh – A Former Teacher Turned Poppy Farmer

Farrokh, 50, from Kuhdasht, was once a village teacher. But after losing his contract teaching position, he had no choice but to return to his father’s land:
“I planted poppies with a lump in my throat, with shame. I used to teach history. Now I plant something the law considers a crime. But I was unemployed, in debt, and my child was sick. Who could I ask for help?”

He explains that contrary to public perception, the main profit doesn’t go to the farmer:
“We only harvest the crop. Someone else comes to buy it—cheap—and takes it away. They profit in the black market. We just barely make it to the breadline.”

Last year, even after harvesting, they couldn’t sell much of the opium:
“The middlemen disappeared. We took all the risk and ended up empty-handed. As always.”

The Heavy Shadow of Failed Policies

Experts say the root of poppy cultivation in western Iran lies in economic structures and the long-term neglect of rural development. Dr. Reza Karami, professor of development sociology at Bu-Ali University, states:
“When you put a farmer in a position where his land has no water, his crop has no purchase guarantee, and there’s no insurance, that person enters survival mode. That’s not a breeding ground for corruption—it’s a breeding ground for the denial of justice.”

According to this academic, much of the responsibility lies with official institutions that have for years implemented rural development programs in the form of superficial statistics, without considering their real impact on people’s lives.

Trapped Between Law and Smuggling

In every interview we conducted, one thing was clear: none of these farmers want to keep cultivating poppies. All of them seek a path back to legal and dignified farming—provided they receive support. But when the government’s guaranteed wheat price is below production cost, when seeds and fertilizer must be bought on the open market, when the only local farming co-op is defunct, and when farmers lack insurance, poppy becomes the only means of survival.

Between Prohibition and Livelihood

Although combating drug production is one of the official priorities of the Islamic Republic, no comprehensive or tangible plan has been proposed to replace poppy cultivation in these regions. In countries like Afghanistan, with the help of international organizations, poppy has been successfully replaced by crops like saffron or cotton. Yet in the Zagros, farmers continue to suffer in silence, far from the reach of cameras.

At the end of his interview, Farrokh says something that might summarize this entire report in a single phrase:
“We’re not afraid of the law—we’re afraid of lawlessness, of a world where no one hears our voice.”

The truth is, before being labeled criminals, the farmers of the Zagros are victims—victims of failed policies, structural injustice, and silences that never become screams. This report is not a justification for the illegal cultivation of poppies. It is an attempt to give voice to those who have long gone unheard.