When Moroccan nurse Mofadal Ahyane lost his first patient to Covid-19, he had a recurring nightmare.
He dreamt his patient was in agony and slipped from his body, which gradually transformed into Mr Ahyane’s father, then brother, then a friend.
“The death of that man will never leave me as long as I live,” Mr Ahyane said.
His voice cracked as he recalled how doctors and nurses at a hospital in the northern city of Tetouan tried in vain to save the man’s life.
The virus has upended life for Morocco’s medical staff. They work at better facilities than medics across much of Africa but are often short of the equipment available in European hospitals, which have also been overwhelmed during the pandemic.
Medical professionals across Morocco spoke of heartbreak, fear and the challenges of working safely.
Two Moroccan doctors have died after becoming infected with the virus, officials said.
The country, which is under a strict lockdown, has more than 4,700 confirmed cases and about 170 deaths, according to Johns Hopkins University.
Since early March, the Moroccan government has steadily introduced virus control measures that have turned vibrant cities into near ghost towns.
Health minister Khalid Ait Boutaleb said that without the preventive measures, Morocco would have faced 6,000 coronavirus-related deaths.
Still, the virus has caused havoc in the personal lives of some healthcare workers, temporarily tearing them from their families as medics self-isolate at the end of the day to keep their loved ones safe.
Iman Benali, a radiology nurse at Casablanca’s Sidi Moumen Hospital, has been away from her husband and 6-year-old child since early March.
Some nurses at the hospital had to stop breastfeeding their children when duty called, Ms Benali said.
Her long days end in isolation at a hotel, where 70 other medical professionals stay.
Housekeepers at the hote are also forced to leave their families behind to stay in hotel rooms because of their contact with medics.
Ms Benali said the sacrifices she shared with colleagues created a special bond.
Coronavirus across the Middle East
“We watch out for each other out of compassion, but also out of fear for our own health,” she said.
“If a hospital worker gets contaminated, it means the entire hospital workforce may be contaminated.”
At Moulay Abdellah Hospital in Morocco’s Atlantic coastal city of Sale, Dr Youssef Dhabi said he believed the deaths of his colleagues were a driving force for caregivers.
“If the deceased doctors were given a chance to return to work, they would take it instantly. You’d find them in their protective gear, treating patients,” he said.
During his 12-hour shift, Mr Ahyane rarely eats because he fears contamination. “You wonder, are your hands clean enough to eat?” he said.
Dr Houcine Benazouz doesn’t even consider eating. Since early March, he has been running between departments at the hospital in Tetouan.
At night, he stays in a white, impersonal hotel room far from the comfort of his loved ones.
“It has to be the hardest choice I made, leaving my wife and children behind me,” he said.
Nabil Zouini, who works with a testing task force in his home town of Meknes, hasn’t been home for more than a month and said his daughter, 3, couldn’t understand why he wasn't at home.
He said he spoke to her regularly via video chats. “She smiles at me every night and asks me: ‘Dad, are you coming back home tomorrow?’” Mr Zouini said. “If I say no, she cries.”
He wears a new mask and gown every time he encounters a suspected Covid-19 case, but is never certain he is safe from infection.
“The hardest part is taking the gown off. We have to do it in a way that we don’t touch the outside of the suit, which is fully contaminated," he said.
"We can only take off the suit from the inside out.”
He said he changed gowns at least 10 times a day.
It’s beginning to feel as though the ancient ramparts of Meknes are closing in, he said.
“The psychological turmoil is incredibly hard. Many of us will be scarred by what we see," he said.
Mr Zouini described an eerie emptiness in the streets of the city, an image that clashed with the normal ambience of Meknes, which once drew tourists from across the world.
“As I drive to homes of suspected cases, my eyes flash for a second and I see the cafes, the playgrounds buzzing with life … before I’m brought back to reality,” he said.
Using a typical Moroccan expression that may speak to all the country’s health workers, Mr Zouini said: “I say to myself, we can’t meet each other today, but we will hug tomorrow.”
