Ramadan in space
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Baghdad tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Baghdad.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My uncle would start cooking at 4pm — rendang and ketupat. 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 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. Sister Aminah, who buried three children, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen things no child should see 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 nothing left, 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.