Ramadan in a hospital

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a celebration. My uncle would start cooking at 3pm — rendang and ketupat. 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 my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, the feast is whatever the canteen has.

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

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Abu Khaled, who arrived last month, 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, a stranger shared their last date. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.