Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while caring for patients in Algiers tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
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 Algiers.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My aunt would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. 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 before, 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 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. Hajia Khadijah, who buried three children, 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 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.