Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while caring for patients in Marseille 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 first Ramadan in Marseille.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was my favourite month. My uncle would start cooking at 2pm — samosas and biryani. The whole neighbourhood smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In home, 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. Abu Khaled, who has been here for years, 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 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.