Halfway through the Ramadan
Fast
By Faiza Saleh Ambah
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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.
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