As crowds gathered in Ceuta for one of the city’s largest protests in years, its beaches emptied. Migrants who had slept rough for weeks vanished from view, choosing to stay out of sight. The usual noise at El Trampolín beach gave way to quiet conversations among those who remained.
For many, staying hidden was about safety, not politics. Zacarías Moujahid, 17, from Fez, said he no longer feels safe moving around the city. "We don’t leave the beach because the police are nearby," he said, describing an anxiety shared by thousands living in makeshift camps. His friend Ahmed Cherogui, also 17 and from Fez, said local anger is impossible to ignore. He insists he wants to help the city, not harm it.
In late July 2026, approximately 70,000 to 72,000 migrants entered Ceuta from Morocco over just a few days. At least 80 to 100 deaths were reported during the crossing.
Ceuta is one of Spain’s most densely populated places, with 84,000 residents packed into just 20 square kilometers. The arrival of nearly 8,000 new migrants has pushed the city to its limits. In neighborhoods including Los Rosales, La Pantera, El Príncipe, Loma Colmenar, Hadú, and Juan Carlos I, the influx has made daily life more difficult. Some areas now resemble refugee camps. Military patrols keep migrants out of other areas, blocking access to the city center.
Recent reports cited by BBC and DW put the number of migrants still in Ceuta at between 5,000 and 10,000. Many live in improvised camps, on beaches or in the streets. Local aid networks still distribute food to thousands, but humanitarian groups warn that those stranded in the city lack coordination and protection.
Not everyone joined the protest. Abdellah Mustafa, who leads a neighborhood association near the Sidi Embarek mosque, said he refused to take part after seeing the demonstrations turn against local Muslims. He organizes daily meals for thousands of migrants and accused Ceuta’s president, Juan Jesús Vivas, of fueling division instead of bringing people together. Many share Mustafa’s frustration, feeling caught between competing identities and loyalties.
For women like Kaja Marimilda, 35, from Casablanca, the past month has tested her endurance. Living under plastic sheets among thousands of men, she described exhaustion and rising hostility. Still, she said she does not fear radicalization and that women are respected in the camps.
Taxi drivers like Yusuf, who skipped the protest to work, are frustrated by how outsiders talk about the crisis. "I’m Spanish and I’m from Ceuta," he said, rejecting the idea that religion should determine his loyalties. Others resent being forced to pick sides in a crisis that has changed daily life for everyone.
Violent incidents have been rare, but tension is clear. Some residents believe migrants will leave sooner if aid groups stop feeding them. But, as one local pointed out, without that support, thousands could wander Ceuta’s streets in search of food.
Recent events echo earlier warnings about the city’s social strain, as reported in previous coverage of Ceuta’s ongoing crisis. The city’s experience shows the limits of local infrastructure and the consequences of political decisions focused on short-term pressure rather than long-term solutions.
Ceuta’s situation reflects the collision of migration and politics, with fear adding to the strain in a small space. City leaders have offered no way forward, leaving residents and migrants stuck in a cycle of suspicion and fatigue. Until authorities address the underlying causes, the city will remain divided, its beaches quiet and its streets restless as the future stays uncertain.
