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 Cairo.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was the highlight of my year. My aunt would start cooking at noon — rendang and ketupat. The whole block smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.

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. Ustadh Ibrahim, 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 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.