Ramadan in space
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Amsterdam tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Amsterdam.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was a community event. My father would start cooking at 4pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole block smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, 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 deployment is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Sister Aminah, who lost both legs, 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, the sky was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.