Ramadan in space

How do you fast when the temperature hits 45°C? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Astana.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was the highlight of my year. My uncle would start cooking at noon — samosas and biryani. The whole block smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In home, 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. Ustadh Ibrahim, 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, we heard Quran from every direction. 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.