Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while teaching children in Edinburgh tested everything I thought I knew about surrender.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Edinburgh.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was the highlight of my year. My grandmother would start cooking at 2pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole village smelled of turmeric and chilli 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 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. Hajia Khadijah, who is 80 years old, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen too much 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 lost everything, 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.