Ramadan in prison
Fasting while serving in the military in Alice Springs tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when the temperature hits 45°C? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Alice Springs.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a community event. My mother would start cooking at 4pm — rendang and ketupat. The whole street smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, 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 hospital is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Brother Tariq, 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, we heard Quran from every direction. 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.