Have you ever experienced hunger pain, the kind of pain that makes you double over and cry?
Over the weekend, my children attempted to fast in solidarity with my husband and me. My kids are lean and healthy, but I actively discourage them from fasting because of a fastidious concern over their health, age, and school sleep schedule.
Throughout the day here’s what I say as their mother:
“You can break your fast.”
“Go drink some water.”
“Please don’t fast today.”
"Fast when you’re older.”
“Did you know Mommy only started fasting in high school? You don’t have to do this.”
Of course, kids do the exact opposite thing they are told to do, and both my kids fasted from food and drink anyway despite many attempts to get them to eat something. We started the day with lots of eggs, oatmeal, fruits, and halal bacon which for some reason I love, despite knowing it’s bad. We started with the intention: “I intend to do an obligatory fast in the month of Ramadan because of God.” The purpose of the fast is what I emphasize, not the mechanics of the ritual. Especially for my youngest child, age 6, I didn’t think he was emotionally ready to try.
He asked, “Why is it called fasting? I’m not fast when I’m fasting.”
In fact, the kids slowed down tremendously due to a lack of energy as the day progressed. But in the last 2 hours before sunset, my child started to cry from the pain of being hungry.
A cry sets a mother in motion.
I prepared some nutritionally dense foods: rice with butter, kidney beans with ketchup and cumin, and refried keema. I washed cucumbers to put in the whole milk yogurt. My child ate everything (also rare).
“I’m sorry Mama, I couldn’t do it.” I hug my kid, telling them I am proud of the effort.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask.
Yes, everything hurts.
“Does it hurt less?” I probe. I need a metric. I explain the pain scale and demand a number from my child so that I know if I have helped alleviate the pain quantifiably.
That night, our family committed to going to a potluck iftaar with our neighbors. We promised to bring certain essential items (pizza for all the neighborhood kids). Obligations do not stop because we are in discomfort. I told my child we must attend, and keep to our promise.
But listening to her crying, saying how much it hurts to be hungry made me realize how rarely in the United States we allow ourselves this feeling of hunger. If not for Ramadan, I do not think I would know this feeling of hunger pain, either. As an American parent, I immediately stop the hunger. I am quick to relieve my kids of any pain. As a parent, this is an obvious part of my job.
Yet, I wonder: Is a little discomfort in an otherwise luxurious existence, good for my American kids? Not for an infant, or a baby or a toddler, but maybe for the older, mature child who can feel empathy? Maybe this discomfort can help my child grow as a human being? It is counter to any parenting advice you’ll find on the internet, but this is my perspective alone.
The hunger pain was a teaching moment.
I told the kids that millions of children around the world have no one to relieve them of this pain. They wake up hungry. They go to sleep hungry. They are in a constant state of deprivation. These kids don’t produce tears anymore; their tears have dried up along with any hope they might have for accessing food. I want you to imagine living with that pain all the time. How will you show your gratitude for this food you’ve been given?
I’ve been fasting, despite my doctor telling me not to. I feel a different sense of pain and constriction in the body. My limbs feel like concrete slabs, and maneuvering out of my desk or bed takes some strategy. I’ve been trying to be more attentive to what happens in my body as I fast. Am I light headed? No. Am I dizzy? No. Can I do the 1 hour round-trip drive safely? Yes. My lips are mostly chapped (clear sign of dehydration) but I reason, if my 6-year-old can make it an entire day without eating or drinking, so I can I. My mind is more lucid without the constant snacking. Writing these posts take me less than 2 hours, sometimes less, but my body feels like it has a 5% battery charge.
I don’t experience hunger per se.
Instead, I feel stoic.
I have a stoic acceptance for a lot of the stuff that I find generally unacceptable: dirty dishes, wet bath towels on the floor, unmade bedding, Madeline cookie crumbs on the floor, impatient drivers on the road. These are small things, after all.
But in the daily hustle outside of Ramadan, these small things usually upset me quite considerably (did I write about my anger issues in a previous post?). Now, I accept the environment as it is. I try to conserve what little energy I have for meaningful tasks, and let the little annoyances go. I am not saying I have superpowers that allow me to not be bothered. I’m still a woman. I observe the negative thoughts. I notice them, and let them pass through like an exhale. Or I’ll close the door to the kids’ bathroom. But I choose not to waste energy on “fixing.” I don’t try to constantly fix my environment or the people who live with me. I let the discomfort of being uncomfortable stay. Or maybe I am learning to stay with my kids’s discomfort a little longer instead of trying to solve their pain like a math equation.
Welcome to the Ramadan Learning Series, which offers micro-lessons I’m learning for a joyful Ramadan. I recently started to paywall my essays (80+ posts in less than a year) because I wanted to encourage people to subscribe and read my content for free as I publish rather frequently.
Here’s what I have so far:
Pre-Read: Ramadan: A Guest That Stays a Month.
Lesson 1: A Small Intention
Lesson 2: 3 Levels of Fasting
Lesson 3: Sleep is a Gift
Lesson 4: Do Less, Not More
Lesson 5: More Gifts
Lesson 6: Five-Minute Phone Calls
Lesson 7: Who’s Your Pharaoh
Lesson 8: A Pause
Lesson 9: Thank Your Mother
Lesson 10: Run from Triviality
Lesson 11: Don’t Stop Learning