Ramadan in a remote village
Fasting while caring for patients in Madinah tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Madinah.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was my favourite month. My mother would start cooking at 4pm — samosas and biryani. The whole neighbourhood smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In home, 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 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 more than most adults 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 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.