Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while serving in the military in Melbourne tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Melbourne.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was a community event. My uncle would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole neighbourhood smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you eat what's available and thank Allah for it.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in deployment 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 is 80 years old, 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, a stranger shared their last date. 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.