Ramadan in deployment
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Wellington tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Wellington.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was my favourite month. My aunt would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole village 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, the feast is whatever the canteen has.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the Arctic 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 lost both legs, 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.