Ramadan in a submarine

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My aunt would start cooking at 4pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole neighbourhood 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 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 prison 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 has been here for years, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen unimaginable loss 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 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.