Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while studying for finals in Lima tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when the temperature hits 45°C? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Lima.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was my favourite month. My uncle would start cooking at noon — samosas and biryani. The whole village smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. 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 night shift 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 has been here for years, 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, someone put candles in every doorway. 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.