Ramadan in the Arctic

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

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was my favourite month. My aunt would start cooking at 2pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole village smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. 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 the Arctic is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Brother Tariq, who arrived last month, 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 lost everything, 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.