Ramadan in a remote village

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at noon — rendang and ketupat. 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 my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, every morsel feels like a gift.

But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the Arctic is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Hajia Khadijah, who is 80 years old, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen too much 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 nothing left, 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.