Ramadan in a refugee camp

How do you fast when the temperature hits 45°C? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Kampala.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole street smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. 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 is 80 years old, 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, the sky was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. 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.