Ramadan in space

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My aunt would start cooking at noon — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole village smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In before, 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 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. Brother Tariq, who has been here for years, 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, a stranger shared their last date. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had been through the worst, 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.