My First Ramadan

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When I told my friends I was going to fast for Ramadan, everybody laughed, including me. I eat a lot. I have now gone 30 days without food or water between 4:30 in the morning and 9:00 at night.

At 27 years old, climate change, pollution, pandemics and more have got me asking “What’s the point?” As I rapidly lose faith, where better to turn than religion? So I set up a podcast—What 4? Podcast—to find out where other people find purpose.  I’d planned to connect with Barcelona’s local Muslim community but, as we’ve all found out, coronavirus is no respecter of plans. This Ramadan was going to be Zoom calls and video prayers for all. 

The World Is Your Neighbor

The good thing about this is that it makes the world your neighbor. There are clear rules: no eating or drinking when the sun’s up, praying five times a day and empathizing with those for whom not eating isn’t a choice. But 1.8 billion Muslims across the world all have their own take on what Ramadan means. Geography plays its part in how a Muslim worships, even the direction they face to pray, but their country doesn’t define them.

One of the first things Miriam Hatibi of the Ibn Battuta Foundation in Barcelona told me was that there “isn’t one Ramadan.” 

Mouna, from Raval, a nurse on the front line of the fight against the pandemic, managed to find time to send me words of encouragement and photos of her cramming in a yogurt on her night shifts. Her favorite Ramadan memories are of family holidays in Morocco, running with the other kids to get home for iftar, the meal that breaks the fast. She misses that community; for her, living in a non-Muslim country like Spain adds another layer to her challenge. 

Fira, a Syrian living and studying medicine in Germany, cherishes this hardship. Free from the distractions of Syria’s religious festivities, physically harder European Ramadans let him focus on his personal journey with God. 

In her sixties, Meryem in Morocco is more relaxed about her worship: as long as the prayers are done, why worry about the exact hour? 

It’s up to You

These differences say as much about who these people are as it does about the countries they live in. Muslims say we have the rest of the year for ourselves, but Ramadan is the month we give to God. No one can tell if you’re following your fast, and neither Allah nor Islam want you to come to harm, so you’ve got to listen to your own body or conscience, and judge what’s best for you. 

When I have asked for advice about when I should sleep, what I should eat, if I can exercise, the answer has always been the same: it’s up to me. That wasn’t much comfort when I lay awake on my first night, a belly stretched with anxiety and food I’d force-fed myself. Those nerves—which became excitement when I was feeling positive—saw those first few days fly by. 

Ramadan wasn’t supposed to be easy and this gave me something to focus on in quarantine. I was warned I’d have a headache and feel weaker than usual but I’d have to work out whether my body was just readjusting or needed me to take action with painkillers or food. When I asked, I was told “you’ll know the difference.”

Growing Pains

I learned early on that I didn’t need to eat so much. At dawn, anticipating the foodless and waterless hours ahead, I’d stuff myself with water and porridge, avocado toast and peanut butter: the nutrients I’d read would be good for me. All that food makes returning to sleep impossible. In the evenings too, I’d force down anything that would fit into a belly shrunken by the day’s fast. 

Heba, a softly-spoken and philosophically-minded Muslim digestive health expert in Australia, explained that this eating went against what the Prophet, peace be upon him, had taught. Despite the huge sahoor and iftar meals I’d seen on social media, it was said that our stomachs should be one third food, one third water, and one third air. It took some time for that information to sink in to me but after a while my meals became smaller than they were before fasting. My biggest problem wasn’t hunger or thirst, but lack of sleep. Now with time to digest my food, and a better understanding of when to push through, take a siesta, or forgive myself for some brainless Netflix, I rested better which improved my mental state considerably.

It’s always hard to hear what your body is telling you. But when you consume so little energy, disrupt your sleep and must adhere to five daily prayer times, ignoring its messages isn’t an option. You’ve got to think carefully about how you're using that energy. On top of that, you’ve made a promise to be kind to your neighbors and friends. Being hungry and thirsty is not an excuse to snap at people. 

A Constant Reminder

Each year, Ramadan reminds you who you are trying to be, at prayer every few hours, and every few minutes when the pangs of hunger hit. The hunger that I’d use as an excuse to behave badly was now a reminder to do the opposite. 

Meryem had shared with me how reflection and fasting is recommended as a punishment for crimes in the Quran as they force us to check in with our internal teacher. For Muslims this might be described as God. It worked for me: I found myself evaluating and trying to correct the types of wrongs we all commit—mean words, unkind actions, dishonest deeds. 

I was asked to donate blood a few days before Ramadan, on the second day of my fast. I thought about not going but that felt pretty un-Ramadany. Fira, my new doctor friend in Germany reassured me that, as a young, healthy guy, I should be fine. If it looked like I was going to faint, I should take the food and drink the center offered. The nurse who took my blood insisted I get two liters of water down me immediately. I nodded, knowing those liters were going to have to wait another 12 hours. 

I wasn’t sure I made the right decision. The donation took it out of me for a few days. Was my deceit foolish or justified? Was that foolishness a betrayal of my promise to look after myself? I made it home fine but this constant questioning over each of my actions became a theme of the month.

How to Pray?

One challenge I faced was working out how to pray. Muslims prepare for prayer by washing themselves in a very particular way, working their way down their bodies in a specific order. They also say a number of Arabic phrases I had no idea how to pronounce, let alone remember at each prayer. I decided to meditate and read the Quran and a biography of Muhammad, peace be upon him. I didn’t understand a lot of the Quran but I could adapt what I did and to my own outlook—something that some Muslims agree with and others do not. You don’t need to believe in God to take 15 minutes out of your day and reflect on what you’re grateful for, what you want, and what you want to do for others. 

When I decided to give Ramadan a go, I’d imagined going to mosque, being taught how to pray, making new friends, sharing the delicious iftar meals Muslims traditionally share with friends and strangers alike, and asking them to explain things to me. COVID-19 made this impossible. I was going to have to work this out through trial and error, video calls and chance encounters. 

I wasn’t the only one to have lost this sense of community. Many Muslims go to mosque several times a day to pray with their families, friends and neighbors. It’s also customary to cook too much food for dinner so you can share it. Muslim community groups around the world organize soup kitchens to share their iftar meal with those who need it, fundraisers, and, I would later find out, blood drives. Social distancing made all this impossible.

Isolation Blues

Muslim or not, isolation was getting to us all and Ramadan wasn’t helping. Waking up to eat before sunrise was screwing up my sleeping pattern and my flatmates’ lunches smelled more and more tempting. Before Ramadan, my main comfort in lockdown was filling my mouth and my time with food. I hadn’t seen my partner in a month and a half either. I stuck at it out of sheer stubbornness and not wanting to embarrass myself before all the Muslims I’d interviewed and the people I’d shared my fast with on Instagram. I don’t believe in Allah, I told myself. I had no idea how to pray so why was I attempting to do so five times a day? Nobody cares about my foray into Islam. What on Earth was I trying to prove? 

The Kindness of Strangers

There is an intimacy in shared struggle. This fast, this quarantine, just getting on with life in these crazy times, brings us together, even if we need an internet connection to realize it. I will remember the moments that kept me going, when I found new ways to connect to the people who wanted me to succeed.

Mohammad works at my favorite kebab place in Gracia, Mustà, but we have hardly spoken. When we realized they were open again, my flatmates and I screamed with delight. As I tucked into their delicious shawarma, I told him I was fasting, too. He excitedly explained about the Night of Kadr. This is when the angels descend to earth, and make your prayers worth more than on any other day.  This —one of the most important times of Ramadan—was the next day: “If there’s anything you want, make sure you pray for it today!” I barely knew what to pray for, let alone how. The Arabic and the rituals were overwhelming on an empty stomach. 

He told me to come back the next day. He took me into the shop’s tiny kitchen. In between a noisy fridge and a skewered slab of meat neither of us were allowed to eat, he placed a flattened cardboard box on the floor as a prayer mat and explained to me what I needed to say, how and in what order I needed to purify my body, and how to speak the prayer itself. 

This was just one of the kindnesses I received from people I barely knew. 

Seeing it Through

After the pre-dawn prayers, I’d often lie awake in bed, hoping to fall asleep. In this peculiar solitude, I’d receive texts at 4:30 in the morning from Muslim friends I’d lost contact with or interviewees I’d spoken to once, checking in to see how I was. They all said I’d miss it when it was over. Every one of these acts lifted me.

Twenty days in, I was at my lowest point. My body was shaky; the initial excitement had worn off and the idea of holding out for another nine days was bringing me to tears. I’d had an argument with my partner which was definitely the product of hunger and being unable to see her. I had no Muslim family to lean on or cook me delicious traditional food like the people on Instagram. I wanted to give up. There was no way I’d miss this ridiculous frustration.  

But then a text from the blood bank came through: Hi Harry, today your blood was sent to Hospital Moises Broggi for a patient. Thank you very much. 

A sign from God? I’m not sure. But it gave me what I needed to make it through to the end. 

Many think the word Islam comes from salaam, “peace.” In fact, they share the same root, salima, “to find security, safety, or a deeper sense of wellbeing.” Islam relates more to power, submission, and the pursuit of security. A month ago, I would’ve told you that’s what’s wrong with religion. It seeks to control you. But, a month of fasting and prayer has humbled and empowered me in equal measure. That doesn't feel like a contradiction anymore.

Eid Mubarak.

You can follow Harry’s story at @what4podcast on Instagram as he takes on more four-week challenges, from building a skatepark to making a rap song, in a bid to find a purpose by asking “What 4?”