Halfway
through the Ramadan Fast
Faiza
Saleh Ambah
I
started a week late, due to a toothache. But now that I'm
completing my first week of fasting, I feel as if I'm still
searching for Ramadan, like a person waiting for the kettle to
boil. I wonder what I'm doing wrong, and go looking for my Saudi
sister Taghreed.
She
tries to fast every day, but fails sometimes because of her
craving for cigarettes.
"How
do you feel at the moment you choose cigarettes over God?"
I ask her on our way to break the fast Wednesday evening with my
brother's Harley Davidson bikers' group and their families.
"I
feel miserable when I'm not fasting. And miserable when I'm
fasting," she says and turns away.
Although
I was raised in a Muslim home, my three siblings have been far
more devoted to the practice of Islam than I. But I'm sincere in
wanting to understand Islam better, and write about it, so have
decided to fast for the first time.
In the
middle of Tuesday night, I wake up thirsty, but am not sure
whether the time for the last meal before dawn, or suhoor, has
passed. According to the Koran, Muslims must start their fast
when they're able to distinguish white thread from black thread.
I open my window. All dark, all clear.
My
craving for water started when our Yemeni driver Izzy took me
out for a walk Monday. "You can't spend the day in your
room reading and sleeping," he says. "You have to wake
up early, get out, exercise. You have to feel the thirst and
hunger. Otherwise it doesn't count."
Izzy and
I hit the walking track near the sea an hour before sunset. It
is almost deserted. The weather is cool and above the sun is a
huge ball of melon sorbet. On the other side I spy the moon,
almost full. "It's not even the middle of the month. How is
that possible?" I ask Izzy.
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"The
crescent signals the beginning of Ramadan. The full
moon means we're halfway through and then when it
disappears again, Ramadan ends," he says. I feel
silly that I didn't know that. We pass the
two-kilometer mark and head back. "Are you
thirsty?" Izzy asks expectantly.
"Hungry?"
"No,
not really." I look back up at the moon and then
the sun, closer to the water now. Almost time for
iftar, the breaking of the fast, and it seems strange
to me that since I started fasting my day has become
intertwined with the heavens, as if it's been lifted
from its worldly moorings.
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On the
way home, we stop at a red light near a low-rise building that
houses a wedding hall, Chinese restaurant and a mosque. I notice
a long tablecloth spread out on the sidewalk with about 80
people, mainly laborers from the Indian subcontinent, sitting
around it.
"It's
a free iftar," explains Izzy. "It's a great blessing
when you feed someone [needy] iftar," he says.
Most
people break their fast with dates, the way the prophet Muhammad
did. But arriving home, I grab a bottle of water. Halfway
through I remember to say the prayer for the occasion.
"Allah, for you I have fasted, and on your bounty I break
my fast," I recite, before gulping down the rest.
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The
next day my 14-year-old daughter wants to go to Mecca
for a minor pilgrimage, or umra, with her girlfriends.
An umra during Ramadan, according to Islamic scholars,
is the equivalent of, but does not take place of,
hajj, one of the five pillars of Islam. More than 1.5
million Muslims are expected to converge on Mecca this
Ramadan.
My
daughter has already gone twice to the mosque to
attend the nightly Taraweeh prayers. Is this the same
teenager who was bikini-shopping in the States three
weeks ago? I agree to let her go after a protracted
discussion. But I can't tell if she's rebelling
against her mother's relative secularism, is serious
about Islam, or just wants to spend more time with her
friends.
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On
Tuesday night, I go to a lecture on Ramadan at the home of an
Islamic researcher. About 15 men and seven women are seated in a
large living room with a small fountain in the middle. Two
partitions separate the men from the women. Some of us move one
partition aside to get a better view. Two women, who veil their
faces, sit behind the remaining partition.
I
listen, and pay 300 riyals ($80), fulfilling an earlier pledge
to give someone in need iftar. But I leave the lecture feeling
despondent. Then it occurs to me that maybe I am the one who's
acting out. Maybe, when it comes to God, most of us are
rebellious teenagers, pushing and pulling in different ways,
looking for attention and the assurance that we are loved.
Wednesday
evening my sister Reem surprises us with a visit from her home
in Dubai. I confide in her that I'm having a hard time finding
the spirit of Ramadan.
"The
only way to experience Ramadan is to let go," she says
gently. "Don't sit there and wait for something to happen.
Ramadan is a great teacher. It brings you face to face with
yourself and highlights your weaknesses. Every time I gossip, or
think bad thoughts about someone, or crave a drink, I know it's
not the devil, because this month he's chained up; it's all me.
Ramadan gives us the opportunity to see ourselves as we really
are and to clean up our inner junk, and it only comes once a
year. Don't let it pass you by," she urges.
She
turns to Taghreed. "You too."
The moon
is half full. We have two weeks left.
Reprinted
with permission.
