I remember as a little girl, learning the meaning of Ramadan from my parents. The month that the Qur’an was revealed…the idea of the month enthralled me. “Every day was Ramadan.” My mother said this and she and my father laughed…but I know they were speaking the truth.
I remember as a little girl, learning the meaning of Ramadan from my parents. The month that the Qur’an was revealed…the idea of the month enthralled me.
“Every day was Ramadan.” My mother said this and she and my father laughed…but I know they were speaking the truth. Their fast was one of many struggling young parents around the world–they withheld food so I and my sister could eat. It was the greatest sacrifice for two parents to make. And like so many strong and persevering ancestors before them, they dealt with their struggle with humor.
Every day was Ramadan.
At 16 and 17, my sister and I convinced my parents to let us fast. We were committed–fasting and dreaming of food between prayers. Two weeks in, my dad stopped us because I had lost an alarming amount of weight.
Five years ago I moved to the nation’s capital and probably the most beautiful ummah on earth–we embody the surah: “I made you into nations so that you would know one another.” One year I broke fast with brothers and sisters from Tanzania, who spoke Ki-Swahili and later with Ghanaians, Indonesians, Qataris, Afghans and African Americans.
My first Ramadan five years ago, I ate iftar out every night–fellowshipping with many Muslim friends who remain part of my community today. Yearly since then, I honor that first Ramadan by co-hosting an iftar where we invite both Muslim and non-Muslim friends. For many of those non-Muslims, it is the first time seeing believers pray…hearing the prayer in Arabic or hearing the adhan called.
