Ramadan in a submarine

How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Pristina.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was the highlight of my year. My mother would start cooking at noon — fattoush and hummus. The whole block smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. 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 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. Sister Aminah, who arrived last month, 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, someone put candles in every doorway. 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.