Ramadan in a hospital
Fasting while studying for finals in Tehran 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 Tehran.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My grandmother 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 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, every morsel feels like a gift.
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. Sister Aminah, who is 80 years old, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen unimaginable loss sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.
Maybe they are.
Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, someone put candles in every doorway. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had lost everything, 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.