Ramadan: Fiction as the Main Course

For years, the sitcom played the role of the obligatory bite at ftour time. Short, loud, meant to make you laugh right away, without demanding any attention. Except that by constantly coming back, looking the same, and sometimes mistaking agitation for comedy, it eventually wore people out.

Fatigue set in—in everyday conversations, in online comments, in that line that comes back like a seasonal tic: “we’re sick of it!” Even the humorous “capsules,” supposedly the quintessential “light” format, sometimes end up being judged too mechanical, as if on-screen humor had been turned into a programming reflex.

Ramadan 2026 therefore arrives with a slight shift. What hooks viewers, what makes them stay, what makes them want to “come back tomorrow,” is series—and especially those that promise a story, characters, a narrative thread. Channels are not giving up entertainment, but they seem to be accepting the idea that the audience is no longer satisfied with a simple comic interlude after breaking the fast.

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This shift is first visible in the way SNRT is reshaping the most sensitive slot—the one that follows immediately after the adhan (call to prayer). The channel is no longer betting on a uniform comedy block, but on a succession of dramas with contrasting tones, as if it were testing different degrees of intensity with an audience that has become more attentive.

“Attaman,” directed by Rabii Chajid, sets up a competition in the real-estate world where the humor comes less from gags than from power dynamics. The reception remains measured. People watch, they follow, but without any massive enthusiasm. A proposal deemed decent, sometimes “average,” that does its job without sparking unanimous buy-in.

“Al Mardi,” under the direction of Abdelhadi Anebarou, prefers a popular microcosm and the small everyday dramas of ordinary life. Here again, reactions are mixed. A steady series, watchable, but without a real spark. It holds the ground more than it shakes it up.

By contrast, with “Och Tmâa,” directed by Ayoub Lahnoud, the tone clearly darkens. Clandestine trafficking, social tensions, moral gray areas… Here, fiction takes a risk. And it is precisely there that interest is rekindled. Viewers seem to grant more credit to this embraced darkness, as if confidence returns when the writing dares to leave the well-trodden paths.

Then “Chkoune Kane Igoul,” by Safaa Baraka, extends this dynamic in a police-thriller register where suspicions and secrets structure the plot. The public wants to understand, debate, anticipate. Suspense builds loyalty more reliably than the repetition of comic situations.

The essential point, then, is not the list of titles but the coherence of the movement. Comedy does not disappear; it changes status. It becomes an ingredient, no longer a stand-alone block.

The schedule thus gives the sense of fiction that more fully embraces its registers, mixes genres, and holds attention through narrative continuity rather than through the reflex of immediate laughter.

At 2M, the movement is comparable, even if the channel keeps a humorous capsule. “Yawmiyat Mahjouba wa Tibariya,” directed by Mourad El Khaoudi, reactivates figures that are already familiar.

And it is precisely this recycling that divides people. Part of the audience denounces heavy-handed effects, acting that is sometimes too forced, caricature going in circles. The short format, repeated year after year, quickly shows its limits. Expectations therefore shift to the series that follow.

The third season of “Bnate Lalla Mennana” illustrates this evolution well. Directed by Chaouki El Oufir after the handover from Yassine Fennane, it adopts a more measured pace, a different rhythm. Feedback highlights a more controlled structure and better-established characters.

The arrival of new faces, combined with keeping the historical core, creates a balance between continuity and renewal. The care given to costumes, makeup, and visual details makes the passage of time tangible. The public reads it as a sign of narrative maturity.

Alongside it, “Hikayate Chama,” directed by Brahim Chkiri, favors a drama of rise and rivalries in which psychological development matters more than immediate effect. Attachment comes from the characters’ journeys, not from the simple chaining together of scenes.

Main courses

SNRT extends this logic into prime time with weekly series designed as self-contained worlds. “Seddik,” under the direction of Brahim Chkiri, tackles talent and difference with writing judged more sensitive. “Caftan Khadija,” directed by Lamisse Khairat, blends intimate drama and artisanal heritage, and its aesthetic effort is praised.

The cycle of TV films entrusted to Mostafa Achaour, Lotfi Aït Jaoui, Youssef Ikourd, or Yassine Fennane reinforces the idea that fiction is becoming the structuring axis of the evening. The directors’ names circulate and become reference points. You no longer watch only a story—you follow a signature.

2M adopts a similar evening logic. Driss Roukh, Alaa Akaaboune, Younes Reggab: directors are highlighted as anchor points. Discussions are no longer only about the plots, but also about staging, pacing, and visual identity. Humor is not removed; it is repositioned. It stops being an automatic Ramadan reflex and becomes one tone among others.

And yet, behind this perceptible improvement (more carefully crafted writing, more assertive directing, more coherent worlds), there is an obvious fact: as the audience becomes more demanding, it also notices that certain names keep coming back in a loop.

The same directors sign multiple projects; the same actors and actresses fill the screen from one year to the next. Familiarity reassures, but repetition raises questions. Where are the new signatures? Where are the young performers?

ISADAC graduates new cohorts of actors and actresses every year. Some generations have seen several faces emerge and become familiar. Others seem to disappear without transition.

To be sure, a few new talents emerge here and there, but for many viewers, it is still not enough. The qualitative improvement is real, but renewal seems more timid. This question, already surfacing in conversations, deserves to be asked head-on.

What remains is that the real verdict is decided neither at press conferences nor in trailers. It is decided in living rooms, in family discussions, on those evenings when people collectively decide to keep going… or to drop off after three episodes.