Ramadan in prison

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My father would start cooking at noon — samosas and biryani. The whole neighbourhood smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In home, 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 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 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, someone put candles in every doorway. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had lost everything, 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.