Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Bradford 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 first Ramadan in Bradford.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a celebration. My grandmother would start cooking at noon — samosas and biryani. The whole block smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In home, 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 camp is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Brother Tariq, who lost both legs, 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, the entire ward prayed together. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had nothing left, 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.