In a makeshift camp on the outskirts of a flooded Moroccan town, the call to prayer drifts over rows of canvas tents instead of tiled rooftops. For many here, Ramadan has been stripped of its familiar warmth and ritual, replaced by mud, uncertainty and the sour smell of stagnant water.

For 37-year-old plasterer Ahmed El Habachi, the holy month once meant crowded family tables, clinking glasses of mint tea and late-night conversations that stretched until dawn. Now he breaks his fast on a thin mat laid over damp ground, his iftar a simple meal shared with strangers who have lost as much as he has.

“I’m making do until this crisis passes and we can go back home,” he says, glancing at the heap of broken furniture and twisted metal that is all that remains of his former life.

El Habachi is among thousands uprooted after two powerful flood emergencies tore through northwestern Morocco, overwhelming drainage systems, bursting riverbanks and submerging entire districts. Meteorologists and disaster specialists say the deluges exposed long-standing weaknesses in urban planning and flood defenses, particularly in fast-growing peri-urban areas built close to rivers and dry riverbeds.

In the crowded shelter where he now sleeps, the rhythms of Ramadan have been upended. Street vendor Abdelmajid Lekihel, 49, remembers how evenings once unfolded: the rush to prepare iftar, the quiet of sunset, then the bustle of mosques and cafés as families and friends reunited.

“After breaking the fast we used to go to the mosque or to cafés to meet our loved ones,” he says. “This year, with the floods and these difficult days, we’re living from day to day, moment by moment. Even getting hot water is difficult for us.”

Beyond the loss of tradition, fear lingers. Security guard Mansour Amrani, 59, whose house still stands near a swollen river, says his family no longer trusts the ground beneath them.

“We do not sleep, because we are afraid the house will collapse on our heads and on our children,” he says. “We do not sleep peacefully like others who have nice houses, far from the river.”

Authorities, acting on royal directives, have launched an emergency support and reconstruction programme, registering affected households and promising financial aid, rehousing and infrastructure upgrades. Yet in the camps and damaged neighborhoods, patience is fraying.

El Habachi keeps his prayer mat neatly folded beside his mattress, a small act of order amid chaos. He thought he would be gone for a few nights. Weeks later, he is still here, fasting under canvas, waiting for the waters to recede not just from the streets, but from his future.