Ramadan in a fishing boat

How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Algiers.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was the highlight of my year. My uncle would start cooking at 3pm — samosas and biryani. The whole block smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In home, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, every morsel feels like a gift.

But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the hospital is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Sister Aminah, who arrived last month, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen more than most adults sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.

Maybe they are.

Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, the entire ward prayed together. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had been through the worst, were still reaching for the holiest night of the year.

Ramadan taught me that worship is not about abundance. It's about what you offer when you have almost nothing left to give.