Ramadan in prison

How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Kuwait City.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was my favourite month. My uncle would start cooking at 3pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole block smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In before, 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. Hajia Khadijah, who buried three children, 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, the entire ward prayed together. 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.