Ramadan in a refugee camp

How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Berlin.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My aunt would start cooking at noon — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole neighbourhood smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. The hunger is different. In home, 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. Ustadh Ibrahim, who buried three children, 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, 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 been through the worst, 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.