Ramadan in a refugee camp

How do you fast when you work 12-hour night shifts? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Rotterdam.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My mother 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 I fast in a hospital ward. 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 hospital is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Abu Khaled, who arrived last month, 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, a stranger shared their last date. 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.