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 Islamabad.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was my favourite month. My aunt would start cooking at 3pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole neighbourhood smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 prison 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 arrived last month, 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 sky was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. 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.