Ramadan in prison

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a celebration. My father would start cooking at 3pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole street smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. 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 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. Ustadh Ibrahim, 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, the sky was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. 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.