Ramadan

Ramadan is more than not eating or drinking between sunrise and sunset. It is a period of solidarity, spirituality, and especially of togetherness. During iftar, the first meal of the day at sunset, families sit together at the table and collectively break the fast with a date and traditional dishes. At night they get up for suhoor – sunrise – to have breakfast and pray together. But that is not the case for everyone. Many Muslims spend the month alone. For them, Ramadan is often a period of loneliness, isolation and sadness.

“In Gaza you felt the atmosphere throughout the city, in Belgium that is not the case” – Oday Abed (31)

“I fled Gaza in 2018. My parents, five sisters and their fourteen children still live there. I have been spending Ramadan without them for six years. For me, that’s just not eating or drinking during the day for a month. I no longer have the spiritual experience and sense of belonging that I used to have.”

“Ramadan is about a feeling: being together, helping each other, enjoying the little things. In Gaza you felt the atmosphere of Ramadan throughout the city: the houses and streets were decorated with lights, children played outside, people prayed together in the streets because the mosques were full. My father and I went to the mosque every evening for evening prayers. We broke the fast with a date and a glass of water. Then we returned home for iftar with the rest of the family.”

“Since I came to Belgium, I no longer feel any atmosphere during Ramadan. I eat alone, I pray alone, and I get up alone at night to eat breakfast. Sometimes I visit my Palestinian friends for iftar. But that’s not the same, I miss my family so much. It’s not easy being alone this month. The war makes Ramadan particularly difficult for me this year, but my family is having an even harder time. I worry about my family members. Two of my sisters’ houses have already been bombed. Now the whole family stays in my parents’ house in Rafah, southern Gaza. They have nowhere else to go. Every now and then, when they have coverage, they call me or send me a message. Normally this is every two to three days. If I don’t hear from them for a week, I wonder if they are still alive.”

“My parents did not know that I had converted for a long time, I secretly fasted” – Simba Miala (27)

“I grew up in a Protestant family. Ten years ago I decided to become a Muslim. I just felt it. The first years after my conversion I could only fast for a few days during Ramadan. My parents didn’t know yet that I was converted, so I kept it a secret from them. It wasn’t until I married a Muslim man at 21 that I told them. After my divorce two years ago, I moved back in with my parents. They have known for six years that I am Muslim and that I fast during Ramadan. My sister, nieces and nephews know that too. I still have to hide it from the rest of the family.”

“If you come from a Protestant community and choose a different religion, it can damage your name. My parents have come to terms with it, but they don’t fully accept it yet. They are very religious and would like nothing more than for me to go to church with them again. I can’t talk about it openly with them. I can do that with my twenty-year-old sister, who gives me a lot of support during Ramadan. Although we differ, we understand each other. I can always count on her, and she on me.

“I often hear people say: I’m looking forward to Ramadan, I’m looking forward to it. I do not know what that is. For me that is a month like any other, I only have myself. In the evening I break the fast with the food that my mother prepared that day. I don’t have an extensive breakfast at night, a date and a glass of water are enough. Many converted friends experience the same thing: eating alone in the evening, getting up alone at night and eating in silence in your room, because the rest of the family is sleeping. Sometimes I visit friends for iftar, or we go to a restaurant together or to an organized iftar evening. Only then do I feel that it is really Ramadan. Being together creates that atmosphere.”

“After my mom died, we stopped fasting at home” – Mehmet Sicrar (25)

“When my mother died ten years ago, everything came to a standstill: contact with the family, the sense of togetherness and the ‘Ramadan feeling’. Mom brought the atmosphere into the house during the month of fasting. She did not participate because she had to take medication several times during the day. But that’s why she tried three times as hard to prepare an extensive meal for my brother and me in the evening. At night she got up with us to have breakfast together. She was our biggest support.”

“I had a lot of people around me. We regularly met up with Mom’s family and friends for iftar. But when mom died, contact with the family diminished. We stopped fasting at home. It wasn’t the same without mom anymore. I tried to participate for another year, but then I gave up. The older I got, the more I realized how valuable those moments together are. I miss that. Mom was the one who brought us all together. I find it difficult to accept that she will never see who I have become. Even though she’s gone, I still want to make her proud. One day I will fast again, as a tribute to my mother. But first I want to feel better mentally, so that I can start Ramadan with full courage.”

“When you fast, you have little distraction, because you don’t eat, drink, smoke, swear or gossip. This makes you pay more attention to your feelings and thoughts. Ramadan is a physical and mental detox. You therefore need physical and mental strength to participate. Without that strength, it is difficult to be confronted with your darkest thoughts, especially if you have few people around you.”

“I’m not ashamed to say that I don’t fast for my mental health. Other Muslims will undoubtedly have an opinion about that. I’m not the best Muslim in the world, I know that, and I don’t think I’m the only one. Fasting is a personal choice, everyone has to find their own way.”

“Getting up at night is not that easy if you can’t share your food” – Syrine Bibi (21)

“I no longer have contact with my family. I left home when I was 12. I went to boarding school until I was eighteen, then I went to live alone. Every year I spend Ramadan alone.”

“When I still lived with my parents, Ramadan often fell during the summer holidays. We went to Morocco every year and spent the Lenten month there with family. I was still a child at the time and was not fasting, but I can still remember how nice it was to sit at the table together every evening. On Laylatul Qadr, the 26th day of Ramadan – a holy day for Muslims – my grandmother prayed all night long. I can still see that image in my mind.”

“Ramadan is an emotional month. If you’re on your own, it can be even more difficult. Being together relieves that heaviness. You fast with the same goal, in the evening you end the day together at the table with an extensive iftar. That is the highlight of the day. I miss that feeling. Working, taking care of yourself, getting up at night and preparing your food is not so easy if you cannot share it with anyone. That loneliness demotivates me. I know that I will be confronted with sadness again this year, but I am still looking forward to Ramadan. The beauty behind fasting gives me the strength to persevere.”