Ramadan in the Arctic

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a community event. My mother would start cooking at noon — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole village smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In before, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, the feast is whatever the canteen has.

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. Ustadh Ibrahim, who arrived last month, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen more than most adults 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 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.