“You know I used to look forward to Ramadan a lot more when I was in the United States,” commented a friend of mine last week. “It was just so different there. Somehow I felt it much more. Do you know what I mean?” I had to think about his question for a few earnest moments as I had never really framed a phenomenon such as this in a comparative context before.
“Doesn’t fasting feel the same wherever you are?” I pursued after having contemplated what I had believed to be the crux of the issue.
“That’s my point,” he remarked. “It’s not just about the fasting. It’s about the whole rationale behind it. That special feeling that you supposedly get after having submitted yourself to God.”
He was right and I knew exactly what he meant. The holy month of Ramadan is more than just a time that Muslims observe by refraining from food and drink. I remember some of my non-Muslim friends in London who, in their ignorance, viewed this as a sort of pointless self-inflicted process of starvation. “You can’t even drink water?” they would inquire innocently having failed to grasp the concept that the fast lasts only from dusk until dawn as opposed to a continuous 30-day stint. However, such an outward manifestation actually serves to belie the profundity of a much deeper abstention in which individuals are expected to strive to become closer to God.
Ramadan is a unique opportunity for all followers of Islam to avail themselves of the mercy and blessings of Almighty Allah. It is a time when we are supposed to reconnect with our spiritual side and cleanse our souls through a process of immense self-discipline and ingenuous introspection. True, it is an essential requirement to experience the basic deprivation of hunger, to know what it must feel like for millions of people who live in a perpetual state such as this without any respite at the setting of the sun. But it is not just about enduring those physical pangs brought on by the denial of basic sustenance. To me, this period is more about cultivating a superior perception of our relationship with God and developing a cognizance of how, in spite of all our self-delusions, we really are insignificant. It is this level of humility that we should endeavor to attain and which subsequently teaches us more about gratitude, understanding and empathy toward others.
So back to the original question. Why did we both feel that somehow the spirituality of our devotion was somehow lacking here? Like I said before, I truly believe that in order for us to benefit from the lessons learned during this month, we have to sincerely feel the plight and suffering of others. When I used to fast while I was studying at university I would still have to adhere to all the strictures that such a dedicated regime required. There were no special timings. People would be eating and drinking everywhere. I would stay up during the night praying, and still have to function normally during the day without any special privileges afforded to me because of this aspect of my worship. There were days when the sun would set at close to ten at night and rise again a few hours later and yet, rather than rue this hardship, it actually made the whole process seem more rewarding. The breaking of the fast would be a simple affair with some special Ramadan treats and there were very few social events save the communal prayers at the local mosque. The feelings of intense personal satisfaction and achievement were pure and untainted, encompassing a solitary ambition to seek the pleasure of God devoid of any desire for personal glory.
What disappoints me greatly is the way certain people behave during this inherently private month. It has sadly become, for some, a sorry excuse to have parties with advance bookings stretching back for over a month. A peculiar round of iftars and suhoors that cajole invitees into a world of excess and lavishness with tables creaking under the strain of the 101 dishes all vying for their attention and indulgence. Frankly I find the whole concept of starving all day and then gorging out all night nothing short of sickening. The Islamic faith preaches moderation in all walks of life. To feast your eyes upon the gluttony inspired cuisine manifest on most dinner tables during this holy month shows just how far we have diverged from this central precept.
There are many who become nocturnal creatures, abandoning their daily routines to antipodean timings. I have been flabbergasted at members of the community who spend the entire day sleeping, waking up in time for the evening prayer so that they may beautify themselves for one of those round-robin gatherings. How then, I wonder, does that make their life any different? How can it be deemed possible to perceive what it must be like to be poor and hungry when instead of sleeping for eight hours during the night, you eat to your heart’s content and just swap your regular pattern of rest for a different spot in the day? What’s the point?
There is then sheer pandemonium on the streets with tempers fraying, accidents aplenty and incidents of road rage moments before sunset. A time when we should be busy contemplating the purpose of our fast, where some of the primary objectives are to control one’s basal instincts, exhibit self-restraint and show courtesy and consideration to others ahead of oneself. Who would even suspect that anger is forbidden and can serve to nullify the fast?
The evenings are a time of frenzy. But people are not rushing to the mosques anymore. Shopping malls and cafes are filled to capacity with those who enjoy the carnival atmosphere, forsaking the chance to ponder their raison d’etre in favor of a little after-hours consumerism.
Indeed, there are certain sectors of government and industry, which in spite of all the sympathetic timings, manage to work to a scenario of virtual standstill. It is as if nothing gets done, a phase in the business cycle that is commercially and quasi-officially suspended in the twilight zone. Matters of course get progressively worse as the Eid draws closer, to such an extent in the last few days that there literally is a common denominator of zero productivity. Most candidly admit that if there is an application to be submitted or a proposal to be made then it is best done “Baad Al-Ramadan” (after Ramadan) to ensure that it gets seen to by an alert individual.
Another rule that I fail to understand is why eating and drinking openly is a punishable offense when there are so many non-Muslims among us in our community. I know that for a fact, out of pure deference, courtesy and respect, my friends of other denominations would be mortified if they accidentally had a cup of coffee or a sandwich in my presence. But is not one of the purposes of testing our will power to actively refrain from open temptation? Why then should such trials be removed from our way?
Perhaps for me the most disturbing aspect of some of our behaviors is reflective of an avoidance of the core issues pertaining to Ramadan. It’s a shame how creative we can be when it comes to circumventing any minor inconveniences we may face in light of giving up our creature comforts. We have to think deeply about what it is that we are meant to be doing, what the logical motivation is in us being asked to forsake things for the sake of God and how we can benefit fully from this enlightening and glorious month.
To Muslims the world over, the advent of Ramadan is an opportunity for spiritual renewal. To non-Muslims who see it practiced here it might ironically be perceived as a symbolic reversal of day and night.
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— (Lubna Hussain is a Saudi writer. She is based in Riyadh.)