The guest who stayed for a month has finally left.
Ramadan is gone.
The gold-colored decor and countdown calendar packed away, the gifts opened, the crescent moon and star servingware all stored for another year. Leftover white and gold balloons litter my living room, along with remnants of art projects my kids did not finish. The twinkling lights are still hanging, because I can’t quite reach them to take them down. The kid-made itikaaf tent picturing a unicorn and dragon, complete with dhikr beads and pillows, might stay as a permanent feature of the playroom.
Ramadan is gone, but I can’t stop thinking about her.
The end of Ramadan is like a crescendo, increasing in fervor and activity, culminating in Chand Raat (the night of the new moon), Layutul Eid program, and finally Eid prayers and parties.
Nights with Ramadan are both intense and joyful.
Ramadan attracts a lot of attention especially after 11:30 at night when there’s an hour-long Dhikr program. She has no issues with 20 rakats of prayer, followed by another hour and half of songs praising the Prophet (S) and she keeps going until Tahajjud and Fajr.
She’s is a total night owl. She doesn’t want to leave the masjid until sunrise. She naps occasionally but she’s content to be constantly in the remembrance of her Beloved. She has no fatigue, no sense of body or time during those last odd nights. Only with Ramadan, do the masjids light up with angels, coffee, and sweets. At my masjid, there are anywhere from 150-200 people in the twilight hours, worshipping God.
Ramadan brings so many friends it’s like a party that never ends … at the masjid.
She’s something else, for sure.
Because of Ramadan, a steady stream of dinners from neighbors, friends, and family arrived at my house. May God bless all the women for making me (and my family) extra food. Biryani, samosas, dahi vada, chaats, pasta…. I truly do not know how to make any of these properly, but I am so grateful to other people for sharing with me. It is one of life’s greatest blessings, to have access to free, healthy, home-cooked food. Ramadan’s presence engenders a kind of open generosity that doesn’t happen any other time of the year.
But now that Ramadan is not here, I feel bereft. I’m always hungry.1 I don’t know what to do with my nights anymore. I don’t have much motivation to do much of anything. According to Mayo Clinic, the signs of grief are as follows:
Intense sorrow, pain, and rumination over the loss
Focus on little else but your loved one
Extreme focus on reminders of the loved one or excessive avoidance of reminders
Intense and persistent longing or pining
Problems accepting the departure
Numbness or detachment
Bitterness
Feeling that life holds no meaning or purpose
Lack of trust in others
Inability to enjoy life or think back on positive experiences with your loved one
Grief is like a terrible break-up except the other person doesn’t exist anymore. Ramadan, as personification, doesn’t exist, so maybe this metaphor works. I’m eating a tub of ice cream as I write this, so I definitely think the metaphor works. There are elements of grief I feel: detachment, intense pining, and rumination of all the great moments we shared.
Life still has a purpose; I trust others; I can only think of positive experiences that happened because of Ramadan’s visit. But there are moments when I felt so overcome by sadness by my government, I had nothing to do except channel that frustration into writing and writing some more.
There were some personal bright spots to Ramadan 2024.
For this growing community of readers, I wrote 16 posts reflecting on micro-lessons around gratitude and Ramadan. Typically this type of productivity is impossible, especially without caffeine, but Ramadan makes the impossible possible. There were 5,000 views in the last 30 days, which is probably my year-long number count. I’ll end season 2 of Ugly Shoes (details forthcoming) on a strong note. This growth is more than I expected, and I thank you for reading and sharing my work!
One tradition we have in Muslim communities is for women to get together and apply henna to the hands before Eid ul Fitr. The holiday itself is commemorated by a large, community-wide prayer service in the morning, followed by meals and visits with friends and family. A mandatory charity called Zakat al-Fitr is collected before the prayer and distributed to the poor to ensure everyone can participate in the festivities. Equity is built into the holiday. Were told that if the charity is not given, the entire month of worship does not count — that’s how important charitable giving is to the faith.
Here’s a photo of my daughter’s hennaed hands. My neighbor was kind to invite us over for a chand raat event and also another friend I had met at a neighbor’s house was the one to do the mendhi for both of us! The serendipity delights me! Plus I love when friend circles expand and you realize how people connect and reconnect because of Ramadan. No other time of the year do I see so many of my friends, and neighbors.
Here’s another picture that is etched in my heart.
Whatever joy I experienced this month was within a genocide backdrop.
I stayed off of social media, prayed for people under occupation, and kept living despite the intense grief and tiredness. All of the writers on Substack who posted about Palestine, you kept me going. The reminders from my local advocacy group kept me going. I never felt alone in my sadness. In fact, a few friends organized in-house fundraisers and efforts for Palestine, like Aqsa, and collectively we did something together. I am grateful for not being alone. Ramadan is a time I never feel alone. I suppose the context is that I’ve lived in the same community for 20 years so Ramadan is a yearly tradition fully of joy and gratitude for me, to be with family and loved ones and to feel loved like this when the world is hemorrhaging and dying. Despite the horrors of being gunned down in prayer, systematically tortured and denied food and water and safety (of my brothers and sisters abroad), I felt like if I didn’t worship who would worship for these people who have taught me what it really means to be a Muslim? To submit to God’s will when I’d rather just take a nap.
May God give victory to the oppressed and change the hearts of the oppressors.
Hi, I’m Sadia. I write through the ugly stage of motherhood, as a mom of young children trying to make space for creativity and the pursuit of spiritual knowledge. I write about topics like theology, culture, gratitude, and trying to live a prophetic life in modern times. If you’re new, welcome!
If you’ve learned something or benefited from my series, please find membership options above. You’ll have access to my full archive of 80+ essays.
Here are some popular posts from the Ramadan Learning Series:
To be clear, this is due to my health condition. I’m always snacking now that Ramadan is gone!
I’m soo glad to read this :) I had written a piece about the last 10 days and hadn’t managed to finalise it, and was soo gutted that I’d missed the Ramadan deadline. You’ve given me inspiration to repost it … I might be brave enough soon (IsA - maybe) ;) xx love Fati.
Eid Mubarak Sadia! Felt so much of this piece in bones. This Ramadan felt different for so many reasons. Grateful that Ramadan's energy lives on Substack, too -- and glad to read along