Ramadan in a fishing boat

How do you fast when you work 12-hour night shifts? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Prague.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was the highlight of my year. My grandmother would start cooking at 4pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole village smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 camp is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Ustadh Ibrahim, who has been here for years, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen things no child should see sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.

Maybe they are.

Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, someone put candles in every doorway. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had nothing left, 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.