Ramadan in space

How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Athens.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was my favourite month. My aunt would start cooking at 4pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole block 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 home, 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 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 unimaginable loss 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.