Ramadan in a hospital

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was the highlight of my year. My mother would start cooking at noon — fattoush and hummus. The whole street smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.

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

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Brother Tariq, who arrived last month, 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, we heard Quran from every direction. 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.