Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while working construction in Rabat tested everything I thought I knew about gratitude.
How do you fast when you work 12-hour night shifts? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Rabat.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was my favourite month. My father would start cooking at 3pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole block smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. 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 the hospital 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 is 80 years old, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen more than most adults sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.
Maybe they are.
Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, the sky was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. 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.