In the weeks before Ramadan, Amina's house in Morocco's Al-Qasr Al-Kabir would usually be alive with preparation.
Curtains would be taken down and washed. Walls are scrubbed and sometimes repainted. Cushions arranged neatly along the living room walls to welcome neighbours after iftar. In the kitchen, flour would be bought gradually, sesame seeds roasted for chebakia, and lentils and chickpeas stored carefully for harira—the soup that anchors most Moroccan Ramadan evenings.
This year, those rituals never began.
"The house should have been painted by now," says Amina Benkoussi, 48, a widowed mother of three children who works as a cleaner in nearby homes to support her family. Since her husband passed away three years ago, she has been the sole provider, juggling long hours of work with the daily responsibilities of raising her children alone.
A thin brown line marks how high the floodwater rose when heavy rainfall inundated parts of northern Morocco earlier this season. When the rain began that night, she did not immediately worry. Storms are common in the region. But within hours, water seeped under the doors, spread across the tiles, and climbed steadily up the walls.
By midnight, Amina and her children were moving through knee-deep water, lifting what they could: mattresses, a small wooden table, official documents, schoolbooks already softening at the edges. By dawn, they had left the house entirely.
When she returned, the damage was unmistakable. Mud coated the floors. Kitchen cupboards had swollen and split. The refrigerator no longer worked. The oven she used every year during Ramadan to bake bread and prepare sweets was beyond repair. The metal trays she once used to serve dates and milk to guests were rusted. A small prayer rug had absorbed the brown water.
"My Ramadan kitchen is gone," she says quietly.
Across Al-Qasr Al-Kabir and nearby towns, similar scenes unfolded. Residents describe cracked plaster, warped doors that no longer close properly, damaged electrical wiring, and belongings ruined beyond salvage. Some homes were declared unsafe; others remain structurally weakened, forcing families to live cautiously within their own walls.
For Amina, the only option was to move in with her sister in Fes. She and her three children now share a single room. Each evening, mattresses are laid across the floor; each morning, they are stacked away to make space.
"In Ramadan, your home should be open," she says. "Now, I feel like a guest."
Traditions on hold
Ramadan in Morocco is defined as much by domestic space as by religious devotion. Preparation begins weeks in advance. Women gather to prepare "chebakia" in large quantities. Honey is warmed. Sesame and anise scent the air. Living rooms are refreshed to receive extended family and neighbours. Evenings stretch long after sunset prayers, tea poured repeatedly in small glasses as conversations flow.
This year, for many flood-affected families, those traditions are suspended.
Ahmed Nami, 62, a seasonal agricultural labourer, survives on temporary harvest jobs that offer only a modest, irregular income, and is the father of two young girls. Once the season ends, opportunities disappear, leaving him to navigate long stretches without stable work. His wife does not work outside the home, and the household depends entirely on what he earns from short-term contracts in the region.
Another resident of Al-Qasr Al-Kabir, Ahmed chose not to leave his damaged home. The floodwaters did not bring the structure down completely, but deep cracks now stretch across the interior walls, and sections of the electrical wiring remain unsafe, casting a quiet uncertainty over everyday life inside the house.
"We cleaned what we could," he says. "But we don't have the money to fix everything."
In previous Ramadans, Ahmed’s house hosted large family iftars. Cousins and neighbours would arrive before sunset, children playing in the courtyard while adults shared soup and bread. This year, gatherings will be limited to immediate family.
"My children keep asking why we are not repainting," he says. "I tell them we have other priorities."
For Salma's daughters, the loss of their home will be felt most deeply on the 27th night of Ramadan: Laylat al-Qadr, the Night of Power, when many Moroccan families gather for special prayers and quiet celebration.
Salma Elkirami, 35, mother of 2 children, does not work outside the home. Her days revolve around her children, cooking, cleaning, stretching what little they have into something that feels enough. Her husband works in an industrial factory in Casablanca, returning only when he can. Most months, he sends part of his salary home, but it is never quite sufficient, and the distance has become another silent weight in the family's life.
In previous years, she would begin preparing days in advance, determined to preserve the dignity of celebration, no matter the hardship. Dresses would be ironed carefully and laid across the bed. Jewellery polished until it caught the light. On the afternoon of the 27th, she would sit her daughters beside her on the cool tiled floor and apply henna to their hands, tracing delicate floral patterns that would deepen into a rich brown by evening.
"It is their moment," Salma says. "They feel grown-up that night."
Relatives would gather in her living room. Plates of chebakia and briouats would circulate. Children would compare henna designs, holding their hands side by side before heading to the mosque for night prayers.
This year, Salma and her family are staying in a relative’s apartment after floodwaters damaged their house.
The dresses were soaked. The wooden chest where she kept jewellery warped with moisture. The henna cones she had stored for Ramadan were lost in the chaos.
"My youngest keeps asking if we will still do henna," she says. "I tell her maybe, but it will not be the same."
Without her own living room, there is no space to host relatives. No decorated corner for photos. No gathering of cousins.
"Laylat al-Qadr is about blessings and joy," she says softly. "But when your home is broken, the celebration feels incomplete."
Further down the district, Fatima Gharbaoui, 71, an elderly grandmother with silver hair tucked beneath a faded headscarf, recalls fleeing her home in the middle of the night with her four grandchildren.
When she returned, her kitchen was unusable, and the courtyard where she once lay prayer mats during Ramadan evenings remained damp and damaged.
"We always had noise in Ramadan," she says. "Now it feels quiet."
For many families, the loss extends beyond appliances and furniture. It is the loss of privacy, hospitality, and dignity, values closely tied to Ramadan.
"It is not just about food," Amina says. "It is about welcoming people, it's only one month in the year"
Government response
The families confirmed that, in the aftermath of the floods, residents reported that local officials visited affected neighbourhoods to document damage. Names were recorded, photographs taken, and preliminary assessments conducted.
In response to the exceptional floods that struck northern and western Morocco, authorities announced an emergency support and reconstruction programme in line with High Royal Instructions issued by King Mohammed VI. The plan was designed to provide comprehensive assistance to populations affected by the recent extreme rainfall—described by officials as an unusual weather event—and to help families rebuild their homes and livelihoods.
According to official statements, affected families are eligible to receive up to 6,000 MAD (about $658) in direct financial aid to cover immediate and essential needs. An additional 15,000 MAD (around $1,645) has been allocated to support the rehabilitation of partially damaged homes and small businesses, while families whose homes were completely destroyed may receive up to 140,000 MAD (about $15,362) for reconstruction.
Authorities have stated that the program is based on on-the-ground assessments and aims to restore normal living conditions as quickly and equitably as possible.
"We will fast," Amina says. "We will ask God to help us."
When asked what she hopes for this Ramadan, her answer is simple: "To break our fast in our own house."
For many in northern Morocco, the holy month arrives not with renewal but with waiting, suspended between faith and rebuilding, between tradition and uncertainty, between what Ramadan once meant and what it now demands.
This article is published in collaboration with Egab.