Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while teaching children in Bogotá tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Bogotá.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My uncle would start cooking at noon — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole block smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 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. Sister Aminah, who arrived last month, 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 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.