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Although Ramadan is a solemn month of fasting, prayer and reflection, it also is a festive time in which family and friends gather every evening for cozy meals and prayers.
In many countries around the world, reduced work hours are in place; homes, schools and public squares are adorned with lanterns, crescent moons and stars; TV listings switch to special Ramadan programming; and seasonal songs and litanies complete the nostalgic atmosphere.
It is a holiday I always look forward to, but this time it is more difficult. It is my first Ramadan without my father, who did not survive the pandemic.
Our family meals, like those of many other families who lost loved ones over the past year and during the pandemic, will not be the same. It is my turn to lead the spiritual events for my extended family and community, a place my father once held. They are shoes I fill reluctantly, but I must fill them all the same.
As I deal with my loss, as well as the pain of strangers far away, I am thankful for this annual opportunity for healing, celebration, reflection and personal growth.
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Because the timing of Ramadan is based on the lunar calendar, the holiday can fall at different times of the year. As Ramadan dipped into winter, my father would leave for work early so he could come back in time for sunset, which was around 4:30 p.m. There would always be people invited over to share my mother’s specialty three-course meals.
When Ramadan coincided with summer, which meant ridiculously long daylight hours, my parents would break their fast at close to 10 p.m. (Luckily, I was too young to fast then!)
I began my first fast in Egypt as a pre-adolescent. I never felt as accomplished as when sunset rolled in – and cold water never tasted so good. But my lasting impression of Ramadan in Egypt was standing on our balcony listening to the beautifully haunting call to prayer at daybreak echoing harmoniously over Cairo’s minaret-dotted skyline.
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Naturally, it might seem counterintuitive that, for Muslims, our most anticipated month in the Islamic calendar is one in which we abstain from all food, water and sexual intimacy from dusk until dawn. But for about 2 billion Muslims worldwide, including about 3.5 million here in the United States, it is exactly that. Indeed, we mark a countdown of 60 days or so leading up to Ramadan as if it were the Super Bowl or the World Cup.
What gives? In Islam, we think of our souls as the essence of our being, manifested in our beliefs, attitudes, outlooks and behaviors. Ramadan is a sort of spiritual workout. Temporary abstention can help cultivate a true sense of gratitude and appreciation, renewing your taste for things. Permanent abstention hits the message home even more.
You know how they say, “you don’t know a good thing till it’s gone”? Ramadan tries to teach us to know it well before it’s gone, or we’re gone. Big or small. From honoring the value of every morsel of bread and sip of water to honoring your parents, from loving the roof over your head to loving those who live under it.
These words hold new meaning for me, as thousands of miles away from home, Muslims in China, Uyghurs, face genocidal campaigns for as much as fasting during Ramadan. And in between, in Ukraine, a senseless war rages on.
I am thrilled that my course in spiritual rejuvenation has begun. I need it more than ever this year.
Ahmed Rehab is a civil rights activist, writer and lecturer. He is executive director of CAIR-Chicago.
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