Three months after the earthquake, Halime returns home for the first time. The silhouette of the olive tree that guards the entrance stands in desolate silence, now reduced to rubble. She retrieves the key from her pocket and places it in the main door lock—the only part of the house still standing. The roof is gone, most of the concrete walls have collapsed, yet Halime refuses to abandon her traditions. For him, it remains his home.
Halime was among about 300 people who arrived at dawn on September 9. He lost his house in Azro, a town in the Al Haouz province of Marrakech-Safi. The earthquake, measuring 6.8 on the Richter scale, shook the High Atlas mountain range and became Morocco’s second-deadliest quake. It killed thousands and left tens of thousands homeless. People waited for aid promised by the government, while many sought shelter in improvised camps as the cold set in.
Following the disaster, Imi N’Tala was left in ruins. The scene captured by photographer Judit Figueras underscored the devastation.
Since then, cultivation terraces across the High Atlas valleys have become makeshift shelters. Tents have sprung up: some provided by the government, others by NGOs, and some created by the ingenuity of local residents. Branches, bricks, and plastic sheeting formed temporary dwellings intended to be only that—temporary.
Blankets are the first necessity
Khadija and Sarah, aged 17 and 20, live with their parents and younger brother in a tiny shop measuring only ten square meters. “I haven’t slept for nights—the cold is unbearable,” says Sarah. A minibus arrives at the temporary camp organized by the village, a moment that brings both hope and tension to neighbors. “No one has been here for months; we feel forgotten,” remarks the young woman.
A founder of a Canadian NGO, Child Love Foundation, visits with dozens of boxes of essentials—oil, water, and blankets. Within moments, a crowd gathers near the temporary mosque, turning the arrival into a surge of activity that breathes life into the town. Smiles and tears mix with anxiety as people push forward, hoping for a blanket to warm a cold night.
The founder of the Child Love Association distributes blankets in Azro.
Hygiene and education
Temporary toilets were installed in several villages to maintain hygiene, though essentials like showers and bathrooms remain scarce in places like Azro. “We must walk about an hour to Tahnaout for basic facilities,” explains Sarah.
The local school sits in the heart of the city and now operates from a tent. The Moroccan Ministry of Education reported that 1,050 education centers were damaged. “Since the earthquake, we have attended class for only a few days,” says Khadija. Many teachers were affected, and some did not return to classrooms. The situation was worsened by a recent teachers’ strike following reforms approved by the ministry.
A girl studies in the tent where she has lived for weeks. The sight of a classroom in a temporary shelter has become part of life for many students.
In the absence of formal schooling, residents turned to social networks to keep education going. Moroccan teachers share lessons via Instagram and YouTube, providing a lifeline for students who cannot reach centers. For two young women, these online lessons have become their only path to learning while they wait for formal schooling to resume.
Depression invades families
On the outskirts of the city, children play amid a mountain of rubble, about 60 kilometers from Marrakesh. Some fashion pretend swords from wooden shelves, while others invent games to chase away the fear that lingers in the ruins of their homes.
In Amizmiz, a group of children play atop a pile of rubble as their families begin to imagine rebuilding. Across the street, Hicham watches his children helping to salvage a car with a white canopy, hoping to piece together a new home until their own is rebuilt. The government announced an aid package for reconstruction, including grants of 80,000 to 140,000 dirhams for home rehabilitation and monthly financial support of 2,500 dirhams per family for a year.
Despite assurances, many struggle to accept the pace of aid. Hicham wonders when help will arrive and whether the proposed sums will cover a fraction of the true cost. The loss is more than material; it weighs on every day.
Hicham and his children attempt to adapt by pitching a new tent beside their former home. His wife battles depression, and Fatima Zaobair, a volunteer with CorpsAfrica, notes a pervasive fear among residents. Everyday sounds—cars, trucks, even wind—can trigger memories of the quake. Even as conditions remain tough, families choose to stay in tents rather than return to homes that could crumble again, hoping for a safer future.