Fast times
You don't have to be religious to take part in Ramadan. We explore the collective magic behind it.
Words by Kenza Marland
Illustration by Saffa Khan
What do we do all together?
Countdown to the bells and kiss our friends to bring in the New Year? Gather in bursting pubs to watch the World Cup? Clutch sparklers in mittened hands on Bonfire Night – tracing our names in the air? Vote? And what about the things just some of us do together? Stand before the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury? March through crowded streets, chanting against Westminster? Listen to firecrackers while opening red and gold envelopes at Chinese New Year?
All of these things are magic. They’re tingle-inducing moments that unify humanity. We are what we do – and to disregard culture is to disregard the very magic that makes our capacity for greed, violence, murder, rape, and extreme societal inequality, even vaguely bearable. Without it, we are alone and separate.
For a huge proportion of the nearly two billion Muslims around the world, the annual month of Ramadan is an example of unity and beauty. I observed Ramadan for three years when I was a teenager, and I think of those months as magical, formative experiences. It might seem strange to have fasted, despite not being – and never have been – a practicing Muslim; which is exactly what I said to my mum when she first suggested it to my 16-year-old self. But my mother can be a pretty persuasive woman, and had a fairly strong argument lined up. “Most of the world does not have access to food and water whenever they want it. Knowing what it feels like to be hungry is hugely important,” she told me. “We are some of the luckiest people to have ever lived. Putting yourself into the shoes of others will begin to open up their daily experiences in the smallest but most powerful of ways.”
My grandfather is Moroccan and my grandparents live in Marrakech. I’ve spent time in Morocco most years since I was a toddler. Islam has played a significant role in my life and contributes to my own identity; regardless of my non-existent belief in Allah. Both my mother and her sister observed the month of Ramadan as young adults and I love this cultural relationship with a religion that I’ve been gifted with.
“Won’t everyone at school think it’s weird?”
This was a huge concern – as social standing is to most teenagers. I'm white, and outwith the summer months, look pretty Western – not Turkish or North African, Pakistani or Indonesian. How could I fast without everyone asking why? Would they not see me as a fake or a fraud? And rightly so?
And finally, how could it even work? Without a whole family or community doing it with me, surely I’d be alone? I don’t go to the mosque, or pray. It would just be me – sat eating quietly before the sun came up.
Turns out, my concerns were invalid. Before I knew it, I had begun a seminal experience.
Magic is found in that feeling of connection, in those tiny moments whereby we stop being individuals and become, even fleetingly, connected. When I came to break my fast, I found myself thinking of – not the thousands or millions – but billions, of people all around the world, who were doing the same. Ramadan is, in my opinion, a truly shared experience. From the hardships and frustration, to the daily relief and joy, it is a contemplative stamina test – a humbling that we’re all in desperate need of. We’re not the most important thing, nor are our problems, desires or needs. Feeling small and part of a bigger whole is magic. Ramadan reminded me of that. Everyday, we take a vast number of things for granted. From turning on the lights, to jumping in the shower, to making a cup of tea. Fasting can act as a tiny reminder of the immensely privileged lives we lead. I loved the challenge of fasting; how it put you in touch with your body. Like running, it teaches you to listen and notice what you need, and how you feel – instead of mindlessly consuming, or actively ignoring.
Perhaps I was lucky – the experience might have been very different elsewhere. I went to a comprehensive school in North London and grew up in Finsbury Park: diversity, eat-your-heart out. There were 52 languages spoken at my secondary school, two mosques at the end of my road, and my wander to the shop led me past steamy cafes full of vats of fragrant harira and stacks of sticky chebakia. Our world smelled like London does – fish and chips, cheap fry ups and cigarettes – coriander, lemon and paprika – chicken shops, and bus fumes. In some ways, Blackstock Road and Tangier form one seamless experience, full of coffee-sipping men chatting on the pavement, butchers opening white vans and throwing whole lambs over their shoulders and hijab-wearing women handing fussy children over to their fathers. I lived in a community for whom Ramadan was a part of life.
The kids at school welcomed me with open arms, and we sat together on warmer days when P.E felt like it might be too much of a stretch, chatting about where our extended families were from. Our head of P.E, Basil Mohammed, was himself a member of the Nation of Islam. And the Muslim kids at school came from countries all over the world. We were white, brown, black, Asian – our languages multiplicitous.
Early morning meals became meditative in a time before I knew what that really meant. Rising at half past four to eat gave new life to Roald Dahl’s misinformed idea of the ‘Witching Hour’; I discovered it wasn’t midnight, like he claimed, but just before dawn. Joined only by the hum of the milkman’s cart and thoughts of curtain-drawn, bustling households nearby, full of families eating together before day broke, I would sit quietly and think. I wonder if in some ways, this was one of the most magic times of all. Real peace is only known in solitude, I believe. Especially when all the potential of the day lies ahead, and nothing in that moment is expected of you. Ever since, I’ve been drawn to quiet early mornings; a time just for me, to write, run, read and be.
A few years ago, I was near the Koutobia in Marrakech, at the five o’clock prayers during Ramadan. Throughout this holy month, more people than ever take the time to pray together, and visit the mosque. Visitors spilled out of the beautiful building and into the streets to pray, unable to fit inside. Wanna talk about magic? Seeing hundreds of people moving as one, lowering themselves in humility to the ground and paying respect to something other than themselves was a moment I will struggle to forget. Community, stories, language, tradition, practice, respect, family – that is what these experiences are about for me. They’re values I worry are being lost or commodified in our modernised, Western lives.
Last June, I landed in Marrakech just before sunset, on the evening of the Champions League final, and near the end of Ramadan. Liverpool were playing Tottenham: two English club football teams. But football, like religion, is universal. The game had just kicked off, and Iftar, the breaking of the fast, was soon approaching.
We drove from the airport through the ghost town streets. The few cars and mopeds still about were speeding past with an ever-growing sense of urgency, and lining the roads was an endless run of cafes, restaurants and makeshift outdoor eating spaces. Every table was groaning under the weight of a thousand fragrant dishes, as the city gathered to eat together, under the light of mounted corner television screens glowing green with the game. Children were pulled onto the knees of uncles: theirs, and their great grandparents’ dishes served first. Finally there was no one else left on the twilight road but us.
Together, all around the world, people watched a game of football, while together for the first time that day, Morocco broke its fast.
By the time we got home, the final call to prayer was echoing around the starlit garden. Liverpool won, and Eid was days away.