Ramadan in space
Fasting while serving in the military in Phnom Penh tested everything I thought I knew about gratitude.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Phnom Penh.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a community event. My grandmother would start cooking at 4pm — rendang and ketupat. The whole village smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 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. Abu Khaled, who buried three children, 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, someone put candles in every doorway. 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.