Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Havana tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Havana.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole village 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 before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, the feast is whatever the canteen has.
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. Brother Tariq, who arrived last month, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen things no child should see 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 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.