As the sun dips behind the ochre hills of Castile-La Mancha, a chorus of sheep bells and bleats marks the end of another long day for Osam Abdulmumen. At just 25 years old, Abdulmumen is not only a shepherd but also a symbol of a changing Spain—one where migrants from Africa and beyond are reviving an ancient, neglected trade in the country’s rural heartland.
Abdulmumen’s story, featured in reports by The Livingston Enterprise, AP News, and CityNews Halifax, is emblematic of a broader shift in Spain’s agricultural landscape. Once the backbone of rural life, shepherding has faded from favor among Spaniards, leaving hundreds of villages like Los Cortijos—home to just 850 souls—struggling to find anyone willing to take up the crook. The exodus from rural areas has been dramatic: as AP News notes, about 81% of Spaniards now live in cities, a stark rise from 60% in 1950, according to the Bank of Spain.
Enter a new generation of shepherds, many of whom hail from places like Sudan, Ghana, Venezuela, and Afghanistan. Spain’s regional governments, grappling with depopulation and labor shortages, have turned to migrants to keep their agricultural traditions alive. Since 2022, a government-funded program has trained around 460 students—most of them migrants—in the basics of shepherding, according to program coordinator Pedro Luna. The scheme, highlighted by AP News and TDT News, offers five days of classroom instruction near the medieval city of Toledo, followed by on-site training with local farms.
“I always wanted to work in my country, but there are too many problems,” Abdulmumen told AP News in halting Spanish from his simple one-bedroom apartment. He fled the violence of Sudan’s Darfur region at 18, embarking on a years-long odyssey through Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco, and the Spanish enclave of Ceuta before finally reaching the Spanish mainland. Now, he tends a flock of 400 sheep and goats in Los Cortijos, earning about 1,300 euros (roughly $1,510) per month—a wage just above Spain’s minimum. It’s enough to send some money home every couple of months, though civil war and unreliable cell service mean Abdulmumen sometimes goes weeks without speaking to his family.
His days start at five in the morning with prayer, then stretch until sundown, caring for animals whose milk becomes the region’s celebrated Manchego cheese. “That’s the only difficult part,” he admits, referencing the ache of separation from loved ones. Yet Abdulmumen finds comfort in his work and in the quiet rhythms of village life. “I like this job, it’s more calm and the town is, too. I like living here in the town,” he said.
The shepherding program is not just a lifeline for migrants seeking stability—it’s also a last hope for many local farms. Álvaro Esteban, a fifth-generation farmer in Los Cortijos, knows this firsthand. After leaving the village for eight years to study and work abroad, Esteban returned during the COVID-19 pandemic, uncertain about his future. “I didn’t see my future here,” he recalled to AP News. But the realities of rural depopulation and his family’s legacy drew him back. Like Abdulmumen, Esteban completed the shepherding course and now works alongside his 61-year-old father and their new Sudanese colleague. Together, they blend tradition with innovation, using drones to monitor their flocks and pastures—a nod to modernity in a trade that’s been around since biblical times.
Despite the program’s promise, challenges remain. Only 53 of the 460 trainees have found work as shepherds, while 15 are employed in slaughterhouses and others on fruit and olive farms. Language barriers and the physical demands of shepherding deter many, and the isolation of rural life can weigh heavily. Abdulmumen, for instance, is one of just three Africans in Los Cortijos. On weekends, he plays soccer with young people from nearby towns, but the scarcity of peers his age is palpable.
Sharifa Issah, a 27-year-old migrant from Ghana, is another trainee who sees opportunity in the fields of Spain. “I’m happy with animals,” Issah told AP News, drawing on her experience tending livestock back home. For many like her, shepherding is both a link to their past and a bridge to a more secure future.
The stakes are high for the region’s farms. Esteban warns that without migrant workers, many livestock operations in central Spain could shutter within five to ten years. “Most of the businesses that exist right now won’t have anyone to take over, because the children don’t want to follow in their parents’ footsteps,” he said. “It’s a very hard-hit sector, very neglected.”
The government’s approach isn’t without its critics. Some locals worry about the cultural and linguistic integration of newcomers, while others lament the loss of traditional rural ways. Yet, as CityNews Halifax and TDT News highlight, the alternative—abandoned villages and shuttered farms—poses a far greater threat to Spain’s agricultural heritage.
Organizations like the International Red Cross have stepped in to help, connecting asylum-seekers with training opportunities and smoothing the path to employment. For the migrants themselves, the journey is rarely easy. Abdulmumen’s tale of perseverance is echoed by many others who traversed dangerous routes and uncertain futures in search of safety and work. The Spanish shepherding program, while not a panacea, offers a rare win-win: a chance for migrants to rebuild their lives and for rural Spain to keep its past alive.
As twilight settles over Los Cortijos, Abdulmumen’s flock returns home, and with them, a glimmer of hope for a countryside fighting to remain vibrant. The new shepherds of Spain, armed with resilience and determination, are not just filling jobs—they’re breathing life into a way of life that might otherwise be lost to history.