Amna’s Ramadan Reflections

By: Amna Faheem

Ramadan is the most holy month in the Islamic calendar. It is the ninth month and moves forward every year based on the lunar calendar. During Ramadan, Muslims are not allowed to consume anything from sunrise to sunset and are expected to pray five times a day, give charity, and better themselves both as people and as Muslims. 

Ramadan is about community and family. It brings people together over hot dishes and seasonal sweet treats. It’s passing around the teapot and laughing with your neighbors. It’s long nights with your cousins at the mosque and sharing dates when Maghrib comes, signaling the time to break fast. It is about people and connecting. 

Unfortunately, I spent this Ramadan alone. My parents and sisters officially moved back home to Egypt over winter break, leaving me in the States. I’m like the Mars rover, alone on a different planet while the rest of my community is miles and miles away. Celebrating Ramadan alone is an odd feeling. While my other Muslim friends are gathering over tables with their parents, I am listening to the Athan in the privacy of my college apartment bedroom. While my cousins in other states can join their siblings for prayer, I am rolling out my prayer mat in my own solitude. I don’t mind being alone, I mind being lonely. And Ramadan without your family is lonely. 

This year, Ramadan began the weekend right after spring break, and I was lucky enough to be able to go back home to Egypt and spend the first few days with my family. The streets of Cairo were filled with decorations–lanterns and colorful tassels blowing in the wind, crescent moons, and flashing lights welcoming me. I could hear the laughter and traditional songs of the religious month spilling out of windows and the sweet smell of various dishes dancing in the air. My heart aches as a bittersweet flavor spreads through my body; I do not want to leave this moment. 

A typical day of fasting goes like this: You wake up at three or four in the morning, drink water, eat sohour (optional meal Muslims eat before the sunrises to bide them throughout the day), and pray Fajr. Then you sleep and sleep and sleep, wake up and maybe get some work done, then prepare Iftar. After Iftar, life returns to normal. Kids start playing, women start laughing and drinking tea over the table. Men smoke their cigars and hookah outside. Later in the evening, everyone makes their way to the Mosque to pray. Time flip-flops; morning is night and vice-versa. 

This year, my Ramadan went a little differently. I woke up at four in the morning, drank some water with my eyes closed, still half asleep, and ate a cucumber for high water retention. I prayed Fajr and went back to sleep until 8 a.m. when I dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day. By 5 p.m., my mind was foggy and my tongue was heavy. I was counting down the minutes until I could swish water around my teeth and get rid of the gross taste that I’m sure is making my breath stink. Finally, when 7:14 p.m. arrived, I broke my fast with a date from the Arab grocery store, I prayed Maghrib and gathered enough energy to finish at least one assignment before I planted myself on my bed and did the same thing the next day. 

Ramadan this year was very sorrowful. Without my family’s warmth surrounding me, and with the genocide in Gaza going on for over six months, the holy month was not the same this year. I’m very lucky to have family in nearby states, close enough to spend an occasional weekend with, but not see regularly. Still, their presence makes home seem not so far away. In the thirty nights of Ramadan, only three were filled with a home-cooked meal. My favorite dish, a dessert called Kounefeh, was not one of them; it was not the same this year.

I hosted a potluck at my house with my friends. Everyone came with a dish from their homeland. I attempted to make the dessert dish to bring a piece of Egypt to my house, but I was not successful, and I did not have my mother at my side to help me. My failure reminded me of just how alone I was. 

After a very fast month, Eid came along. Eid Al Fitr is the three-day celebration marking the end of Ramadan. On the first day, one goes to the mosque and prays Fajr in the morning, dressed in their best outfits. It’s a day surrounded by friends and family, with children running around and smells of traditional dishes filling nearby houses. My Eid was spent alone. I went to prayer, then took myself out to breakfast. It was pitiful to sit in a restaurant calling my sister who was 5,711 miles away, while it felt like every Muslim within a two-mile radius was sitting with their loved ones around me. I invited my friends over in the evening to celebrate, and while it was a sad night, I laughed and broke bread with the closest people I had. 

My Ramadan this year was heart-achingly lonely. I wished I was with my sisters and parents almost nightly. On the phone, it became harder and harder to hide my unhappiness. At the end of the day, however, I am so lucky to have the ability to communicate with my family while we are separated. I am grateful to have food to break my fast with. I am grateful to have family close to me and friends who love me. Throughout my hardest moments, I still had so much to be thankful for. Ramadan this year was lonely, but I don’t think I was ever truly alone.