Ramadan in space
Fasting while teaching children in Denver tested everything I thought I knew about gratitude.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Denver.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a celebration. My uncle would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole neighbourhood 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 before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you eat what's available and thank Allah for it.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the camp 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 lost both legs, 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, someone put candles in every doorway. 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.