Ramadan in a submarine
Fasting while working construction in Doha tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Doha.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was a community event. My mother would start cooking at 4pm — rendang and ketupat. The whole neighbourhood smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 hospital 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, the entire ward prayed together. 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.