Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while working construction in Montreal tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Montreal.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a celebration. My uncle would start cooking at 2pm — samosas and biryani. The whole neighbourhood smelled of coriander and ginger 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 eat what's available and thank Allah for it.
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, we heard Quran from every direction. 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.