Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while caring for patients in Tokyo tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Tokyo.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was the highlight of my year. My grandmother would start cooking at 3pm — rendang and ketupat. The whole street 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 before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you eat what's available and thank Allah for it.
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. Ustadh Ibrahim, who is 80 years old, 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, 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 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.