Ramadan in space
Fasting while working construction in Atlanta tested everything I thought I knew about surrender.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Atlanta.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a celebration. My father would start cooking at noon — rendang and ketupat. The whole street 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 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 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. Hajia Khadijah, who lost both legs, 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, the entire ward prayed together. 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.