Ramadan in deployment

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was the highlight of my year. My mother would start cooking at 2pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole neighbourhood 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 the old country, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.

But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the night shift 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 lost both legs, 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, the entire ward prayed together. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.