Ramadan in space

How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Tehran.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was a celebration. My father would start cooking at 4pm — fattoush and hummus. The whole street 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 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 the Arctic 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 is 80 years old, 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, a stranger shared their last date. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.