Ramadan in the night shift

How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Los Angeles.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the divorce, it was a celebration. My father would start cooking at noon — samosas and biryani. The whole neighbourhood smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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. Brother Tariq, who is 80 years old, 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 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.