Ramadan in a remote village
Fasting while working construction in Montreal tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Montreal.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was my favourite month. My grandmother would start cooking at 4pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole street 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 before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in deployment is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Sister Aminah, 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 entire ward prayed together. 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.