Ramadan in deployment

How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Oslo.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was a celebration. My grandmother would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole street smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you eat what's available and thank Allah for it.

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. Abu Khaled, who is 80 years old, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen too much 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 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.