Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while studying for finals in Jeddah tested everything I thought I knew about patience.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Jeddah.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was the highlight of my year. My uncle would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole neighbourhood smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, 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 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. Brother Tariq, 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, 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 lost everything, 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.