During Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, Muslims all over the world abstain from food, drink and other physical needs during the day. It is a time for self-sacrifice and purifying the soul.
Muslims are meant to use this time to re-evaluate their lives according to Islamic guidance. We are to make peace with those who have wronged us, strengthen ties with family and friends, and do away with bad habits — essentially, clean up our lives, our thoughts and our feelings. The Arabic word for fasting, ”sawm”, literally means ”to refrain” — not only from food and drink, but also from impure actions, thoughts and words.
Fasting is not merely a physical act. It is a total commitment.
This is my experience.
”Food, food, food — where is the food?!”
That’s the only thought running through my mind as I sit here typing, hoping I can enlighten readers on the real feeling and relevance of Ramadan. I keep hearing a plane take off — the sounds being the grumble of my tummy crying for nourishment. Scientists will argue that the noises are, in fact, the sounds of digestion. To me, a mere human, it’s the sound of hunger. And it definitely sounds like a Boeing 747 leaving the runway.
I’ve just moved to Johannesburg from Durban, and my nerves are shot. I’ve started a new job and this will be my first fasting month alone. But I will rise to the challenge.
Thus far, the experience has not been detrimental to my health. The only nightmare is the fact that I have to cook. Muslim mothers believe that their daughters must know to fry samosas, bake pies and prepare haleem, an Indian broth, by the time they reach 18, yet I’ve failed my mum. The shame.
So, what to cook?
The task is daunting, but I’m living in a household with eight other Muslim girls — we call it the Madhouse. We’re all fasting together without our relatives, but the Madhouse is proving that families do come in different forms.
Food in the wee hours of the morning is not a happy occasion in the Madhouse, with everyone needing to be woken up in a mad rush to eat before devoting time to prayer — and all this before sunrise. We barely make it.
Who needs food? As I hit the snooze button, hoping I can get some extra sleep before the thumping elephant arrives to usher me to breakfast, I’m sure I can survive the day with no sustenance, but I would be fooling myself in the long run.
Toast, cottage cheese, yoghurt and muesli seem to cover the early-morning eating needs. How anyone can stay full on cereal amazes me. I seem to be hungry by 10am if I have cereal, which is pointless, since I have another eight hours to go.
One helpful housemate decided it was time to indulge us with toasted cheese and sweetcorn sandwiches. She prepared it the night before and all that needed doing in the morning was the toasting. The smell of toast, corn and melting cheese would usually leave anyone wanting more, but at that early hour, wolfing it down induced gagging reactions.
I miss my mum’s Jungle Oats porridge — maybe I should learn to make that next? How hard can boiling oats be?
I’m finding this new family a bit of a roller-coaster ride. I want to scream at the cheerful ones in the morning, but it’s the same ones who put a smile on my face in the afternoon when my airplane is taking off.
Blissful surrender
The afternoons — no words can fully express what I feel during those hours. I sleep at my desk with my eyes wide open. People talk and it takes five minutes to register that they were speaking to me. My stomach takes off and my eyes start closing, and it’s not even time for iftar — a meal served at the end of the day during Ramadan, to break the day’s fast just after 6pm.
I have to drop a colleague of mine off in the heart of Indian town in Johannesburg — Mayfair and Fordsburg. All I can smell when driving through these streets is wafting food aromas; I hear samosas being fried and my mouth drips with anticipation.
Going past Bismillah’s, an Indian take-away, and some of the other Indian restaurants in Mint Road is highly detrimental to my mental health. I know I said I was surviving, but this is pure torture. The smell of butter-chicken curry and rogni naan (an Indian bread) seriously tests what little resistance I have to the hunger pangs.
Many Muslims find Ramadan an easy time to lose weight. I don’t think this is the case, not when you abstain the whole day and then break your fast with samosas dripping in oil or pies full of ghee (Indian cooking butter).
Walking into the Madhouse, I can hear the girls getting the dates, water and milkshake ready for us all. Breaking the fast on dates is a tradition from the Prophet’s time, and the milkshake consists of rose syrup (sarbat), milk and tons of ice cream.
Today there’s no need for me to prepare. They seem to have made enough mouthwatering pies, samosas, pasta and chicken with naan.
It’s good to come home to a family.
This is the first of a three-week series of three articles on Ramadan. Read the second here