Ramadan in a refugee camp

How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Rotterdam.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My father would start cooking at 3pm — 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 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 the camp is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Hajia Khadijah, who arrived last month, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen more than most adults 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.