Lubna Hussain
“I used to look forward to Ramadan a lot more when I was in the US,” commented a friend. “It was different. Somehow I felt it much more. Do you know what I mean?”
“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, 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.
Spiritual awakening
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 essential 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.
High humility
It is this level of humility that we should endeavour 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? I believe that it was 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.
Long, long days
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.
Moderation exceeded
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.
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’ȇtre in favour of a little after-hours consumerism.
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.
Jeddah based ‘Arab News’ gave us permission to reproduce the above article, the author of which is a Saudi writer.
Photo:
Iftar must be simple and humble as it is at Jamia Masjid Al Mustafa in South Auckland
