Ramadan in a remote village
Fasting while studying for finals in Yogyakarta tested everything I thought I knew about surrender.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Yogyakarta.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at 2pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole neighbourhood smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, 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 the camp is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Abu Khaled, 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, a stranger shared their last date. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.