When I think about Ramadan in Egypt, I see yellow-lit mosques full of people for night prayer, a practice we call taraweeh. The word means to rest and relax. I take time out, travelling to see friends and family, close in Suez or far away, a day’s trek to the hinterlands of Upper Egypt. Wherever I find myself, I am surrounded by joy and excitement. Anticipation for the to mark the end of the fasting day, and the commencement of the iftar, the daily feast. And a feast it is. Everyone from children to elders contributes, whether it’s crossing town to get a special ingredient from the sukh, or peeling onions with crooked hands, or leaving small finger marks in the sweets. This is our ummah, our community.
I normally feel a deep sense of belonging during the month of Ramadan, a gratitude that brings a true sense of joy to my life. Ramadan is about introspection, the ability to abstain. Not only from food but also from the ego. The way I think and act determines how I feel. Ramadan is about mindfulness, charity and inclusion. Witnessing ex-pats in Cairo fast, partaking in the daily celebrations, traditions and customs, and helping arrange Eid El-Fitr — the three days marking the end of Ramadan — is a beautiful display of human solidarity across faith and race.
This is the third Ramadan I celebrate in solitude
But I am not in Egypt. This is the third Ramadan I celebrate in solitude. I live at the foot of the Perth Hills in Western Australia, a long way from friends on the east coast, let alone overseas.
I’m a single father, so when Zaki, my son, is staying with me, we make the iftar a daily event. Even though Zaki is 11 years old and still too young to fast, his excitement for the end of the fasting day reminds me of what it was like back home. We make dessert such as Basbusa (Egyptian semolina cake), cook molokheia (Egyptian spinach), mashi and other delicious meals.
Zaki recites the Basmala: ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.’ Then he stretches a smile and eagerly serves himself. Sometimes he’ll follow suit when he hears me give my thanks, wishing well to those I love and care for. I recite one or several verses from the Qur’an to myself. I ask for forgiveness, a humble request for my past and present wrong doings. Sometimes, I ask for all of mankind to forgive, to seek respect and love.
But when my son is not present, with each setting sun, I eat alone. Almost.
On these nights, I seek solace in the routines and rituals of ‘my tribe’, maintaining a spirit even though I’m home with only myself for company. Technology, something I usually don’t engage with, has turned out to be a friend. It has played a major role in reminding me that my solitary experience is shared beyond my four walls. Isolation can quickly turn into an emotional rollercoaster. Trying to celebrate Ramadan with family and friends demands that I, and loved ones, are willing to change our ideas, our traditions.
A new culture emerges.
I video call my parents, my friends — and break my fast in front of them. I’m six, if not 12 hours ahead. I’m breaking my fast while they have just commenced theirs, or while they are feeling the pang of noon hunger. But in solidarity, I receive their duas. Amongst a plurality of duas, they wish me safety and good health, that Allah gives me strength to endure my solitude. Usually they’ll stay with me until I’ve had the first morsel of the day. A tear sometimes rolls down my cheek but most of the time, I laugh. Jokes are cast. My dad will say, “Are you sure you’ve got the time right?” and my mum will say, “Stop it!” She’ll elbow my father, then look at me, even though we’re only looking at our screens, for there is never any eye contact, and she’ll say, “I wish we were gathered together my son,” and I’ll reply, “Soon together, insha’Allah.”
These moments bring back that feeling of being connected
Although I am by myself, these moments bring back that feeling of being connected. The word ‘Ramadan’ is derived from ‘ramida’ or ‘al-ramad’, which mean ‘extreme heat’ or ‘ashes’. The month is named to indicate the hot sensation in the stomach one feels from thirst. Part of my family is Sufi and in Sufi Islam we say: ‘Fasting is wine for the soul — it gets you very drunk.’ This saying is intended to mean that fasting can reveal the treasures of our hearts. We all have dreams, wants, wills, and needs. We all crave to feel love and acceptance, that core sense of belonging. We all hurt and know sadness. Ramadan is a way of cleansing our soul — reminding us that we are all connected.
In this time, where the folly of our conceits is found in the narrow overtaking lane of the path to war — where conflicts around the world are acts of our pain, while in reality we wish nothing more than to connect with one another — my prayers are broad. I make duas for our humanity to abstain from its over-inflated ego, for us to see beyond the borders and beliefs in our mind, and instead find a true sense of belonging in unity and peace. That I humbly ask from Allah.
Ramadan Kareem. A kind Ramadan to you indeed.
