Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while serving in the military in Kampala tested everything I thought I knew about patience.
How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Kampala.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was a community event. My mother would start cooking at 3pm — rendang and ketupat. The whole neighbourhood smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, every morsel feels like a gift.
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. Abu Khaled, 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 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.