The alarm went off at 5am the other morning. It was an unlikely hour for me to wake up, but then that morning was unlike the rest of the year. It was the start of Ramadaan, the Islamic holy month of fasting when, from sunrise to sunset for thirty days, Muslims immerse themselves in abstinence and prayer.
As I gulped down my oatmeal with eyes half closed, my mind drifted from my New York apartment to my family home, far across the Atlantic, and to what they would be doing at the beginning of Ramadaan. The night before Ramadaan starts, my sister usually sets the table for the "before sunrise" meal, so that porridge bowls, coffee cups, and grilled cheese platters greet us in the morning, in unison with my mom's voice, trailing through the house, waking us up to eat. There we would sit, pyjama clad, smiling through yawns, as we anticipated a day without eating, drinking, smoking (a big deal for my dad) and all things that give earthly pleasure.
Whilst I stood in my New York kitchen, spoon in hand, enveloped by the darkness of the city and only silence for company, I realised that what I miss most here about Ramadaan is the communal spirit.
Although hard to define, the communal spirit of Ramadaan is easy to experience if one lives in an Islamic country or an Islamic community, as opposed to a multicultural one.
In some parts of Egypt, when its time to break the fast, appointed members of the community go through the streets, either on foot or astride donkeys, ringing bells. This is the traditional way of announcing the end of the fasting day. Shops are then closed, children stop playing, families and friends gather around huge dinner tables, and the wafts of food fill the air.
In Istanbul, the calls to prayer from the many mosques not only announce the end of the fast, they also announce the time for sharing, for being charitable and for feeding the next person. Vendors set up their carts in the large squares of the city and traditional food is shared with Muslim and non- Muslim alike. As a matter of fact, I am told it's the best time of day in Istanbul for the tourist.
This is the common thread that runs through Islamic societies during Ramadaan, from Bangladesh to Uganda and beyond.
And even in the street where I grew up in South Africa, I always knew when it was time to break the fast. It was when children walked from home to home, laden with platters of sweets and savouries, in an exchange of foods prepared by their mothers for all the neighbours. And in our own home, Ramadaan was not Ramadaan until my dad brought home a lonely wayfarer to partake in our meals (often someone from Cape Town or Durban who left his or her family behind and came to Johannesburg to work or study). Where he found the wayfarer was not important; what was important was the welcome the wayfarer received.
The idea of fasting is a noble one. The act should bring us closer to God. This is done through increased prayer, being charitable, humbling oneself, pondering the frailty of human life, identifying with the hungry and the poor. It should help us become better, more giving and caring persons. To measure how close Muslims get to these ideals is a private matter between the individual and God. But to see Muslims exert themselves in an effort to do so, is to truly experience the spirit of Ramadaan.
In a multicultural society like New York, where I am the lonely wayfarer amongst many other lonely wayfarers, the spirit of Ramadaan, is not easily recognisable.
Here the call to prayer does not ring through the streets, sweet smells of food don't pervade the air at sunset and Muslims pass each other on the street, ignorant of each other's shared beliefs. Often dinner tables welcome just the immediate family, mosques are filled with only a handful of the faithful who share a bunch of dates and some sweet milk, and friends gather not in large town squares but in upscale Manhattan restaurants, where you would not know by looking at them that they were Muslim and that they had fasted the entire day.
Nevertheless, the spirit of Ramadaan can be found here in New York. It's not in your face but it's there to experience if you wish to do so.
Like coming home from work the other night, I got into a cab five minutes before sunset. Striking up a conversation with the cab driver, we quickly realised that we were both Muslim and were both fasting. So when the time came to break the fast, I unwrapped some candy to share with the driver. He thanked me and broke his fast. And when the cab stopped, he opened up a little brown bag containing some traditional Pakistani treats and he handed me one. There we were, two Muslims in the middle of Manhattan breaking our fast and sharing our little feast. We did so because we knew that Ramadaan is about the communal spirit of sharing and identifying with the other.
I am in a New York state of Ramadaan and I am well.
