Ramadan

Ramadan marks the ninth month of the Islamic calendar; it is a month of abstinence. Practicing Muslims who have reached puberty forgo food, drink, smoking, and sexual activity from sunrise to sunset. Only the ill, pregnant or menstruating women, and travelers are exempt. Although I had never fasted, I decided early on in my service that I would fast for Ramadan. It felt important to participate in such a significant cultural event. One friend cautioned me: a few days, maybe a week would be sufficient; it was foolish to try fasting for an entire month on my first attempt. He explained that fasting for the entire month is not obligatory for Muslims until they are 18. During puberty, boys and girls literally train their bodies to fast, beginning with a few days and fasting longer each succeeding year. Ever willful—I am 24, after all, and relish any moment to prove I am not a child, despite being unmarried—I stubbornly insisted I would last the month.

In the days leading up to Ramadan, I spoke at length with my friend Michael, who has previously fasted many times of his own volition. Anyone who knows me knows how much I enjoy food. I love it all: grocery shopping, cooking and baking, sharing food, not to mention simply eating. And without food, I become crungry (crankiness due to hunger). Fasting for a month seemed daunting, but Michael helped ease my anxiety. His own words: “The big trick here is about your state of mind, and the God thing is just another way to get there. The first or second day will probably be hard because you won’t really know what it’s going to be like, and you’ll get worried that you’re gonna die. But you won’t.” Wise words: I didn’t die.

Round 1: Rabat

After my two weeks in El Jadida, I followed Kyla to Rabat to work another camp with her. The start of Ramadan found me sharing quarters with her and three other PCVs, all of us teaching English to fasting Moroccan youth. All five of us were fasting together—well, the entire country was fasting—it would be a team effort. Team Ramses made two simple rules to survive our days together. We were not held accountable for any untoward communication made while the sun was up. We were not allowed to speak of food or drink before sundown.

The first day passed in a daze. I could literally feel my brain trying to process information, deprived as it was from food and water. Concentration was a fleeting phenomenon. An odd routine quickly emerged, though.

3:30 a.m.: We ate suhoor, the pre-dawn meal, in a stupor. We clustered on six twin-sized beds we had pushed together to form a communal space. The camp initially provided us with bread, fruit, and yogurt for suhoor; we brought our own eggs. By the end of camp, our bagged breakfast only included cookies and a sugary yogurt drink; we brought our own suhoor.

10 a.m. – 12 p.m.: English class. It came as no surprise that the students could barely focus; us teachers we were not in much better shape.

12 p.m. – 5 p.m.: I spent my afternoons napping, listening to music, and trying to read or write without much success. When inspired, I took short walks to stave off lethargy.

5 p.m. – 7:30 p.m.: In the final hours before iftar, the break of fast at sundown, Team Ramses gathered once again on the large communal bed for a Star Wars marathon to numb our desperate longing for sustenance.

7: 45 p.m.: The entire camp broke fast together when the canon sounded. I reached first for a glass of water; it was thirst, not hunger that shocked my body. But never have I craved food as much as I wanted that date and glass of milk, quickly followed by a warm bowl of harira, a hearty Moroccan chickpea and lentil soup. I sat outside one evening waiting to hear the canon. The streets were deserted. Everyone was home, anticipating the break of fast.

8:30 p.m.—12: a.m.: After a brief respite, nights were spent walking around the medina, as this was the time we felt the most energized. It’s when the city came alive.

12 a.m.: In Morocco, a traditionally larger meal is served at this time. I did not enjoy this meal since I was never particularly hungry, but I tried to eat a little, knowing another day of fasting awaited me. Bedtime quickly followed.

Rinse and repeat. I passed the first four days of Ramadan at camp, and I could not have asked for a better start. My experience was not only shared with Moroccans, but also with four other Americans, fasting for the first time. Our collective effort made all the difference in the moments when I wanted to reach for my water bottle. The rest of Ramadan passed in much the same way it began, although my days were thankfully devoid of any teaching. And I found I had more energy each day, energy to actually engage with the world around me, rather than be a witness.

Round 2: El Jadida

When camp ended, I returned to El Jadida with Kyla. We both had projects to start with a fellow PCV placed there. I was to begin work on a community garden, a task I looked forward to since my summers usually include tending tomatoes. Unfortunately in a matter of days, this plan fell apart when the PCV we were staying with decided to return home to the United States. The news was particularly devastating to Kyla since it was one of her best friends in country. Stranded in El Jadida and neither of us quite ready to return to our sites, we reached out to a Moroccan family that we had only met a few days ago. They welcomed us into their home for the week. I have never been met with such open generosity.

Ready for iftar at N's home in El Jadida.

Ramadan in El Jadida was cultural exchange at its best. In the late afternoon, I helped prepare iftar. I even made chocolate cake one night for N’s mom’s birthday. It was a hit, as was the apple cake I was commissioned to make the following day. Iftar was the best part of every day. We leisurely ate our way through different courses—N’s family prepared a large iftar and little for a midnight meal. Kyla and I reminisced with N about life in America, swapping stories and comparing the cultural differences.

One night, we joined N for the tarawih prayers at the mosque. During Ramadan, these special prayers are held every night after iftar; the entire Qur’an is recited over the course of the month. Not a religious person but always an anthropology student, I was curious about the ritual. Many mosques are closed to non-Muslims here; I felt like I was looking behind the curtain. Daily Islamic prayers consist of a prescribed number of rak’at, a combined set of movements and words. The number of rak’at performed during tarawih varies. Our recitation of eight rak’at lasted over an hour. Attendance for tarawih prayers is not required, yet with men and women standing shoulder to shoulder in their respective rooms at the mosque, there was an overflow of people praying in the courtyard.

Another afternoon, we met with a man who had studied international relations in New York City; R now owns a shop in El Jadida. He spoke beautiful English and graciously answered our questions about Islam. N’s mother set up the meeting for us after we expressed an interest in developing a better understanding of the religion. Our discussion came to an end with the afternoon call to prayer, just as we were debating the role of women in Islam. R struck a very conservative stance: women should be veiled and stay at home. Despite our differences, he kindly invited us to tea that night. While we did not pick up the debate, we passed a pleasant night with his wife and her friends.

During the course of the week, I discovered that N’s family had no reason to trust or welcome us. Over three years ago, U.S. immigration authorities had mistreated N during a visa mishap when she was studying in California. She now lives in Canada and is still trying to return, so she can be reunited with her husband who works in California. I was ashamed to hear about the treatment N received when she was detained, and it was frustrating how helpless I was to assist her. Her family had no reason to welcome us, but they did. I can only hope to match their kindness. When I finally departed for home, I left comforted by the knowledge that I had an open invitation. I already look forward to my next visit. 

Round 3: Foum Oudi

My return to Foum Oudi was the most difficult leg of my Ramadan journey. I hadn’t been home for over a month, and I was apprehensive. After so much time with Americans, my Darija had suffered. I still needed to move into my own apartment, and with my regained independence, returning to my host family for even a brief stay made me anxious. And it was hot in Foum Oudi. I knew from other PCVs in my region that most days got as hot as 120F.

The ocean breezes had definitely spoiled me. I woke up every morning drenched in sweat. It didn’t matter how much water I drank at suhoor; by 11 a.m., I was parched. I started to get headaches most days. After suffering through two days sans water, on Thursday I decided to hydrate. I was going to buy a few essentials with my host mom and dad at souk, so I could make a smooth transition to my apartment. I knew I would not survive a long morning in the sun with no water. I could not take a water bottle with me—drinking or eating in public during Ramadan is incredibly rude—so I guzzled water in my bedroom before making the trek to market. Even with my preparation, I still became ill.  My host father left me sitting with the kitchen supplies vendor while he went and bought vegetables. The vendor’s praise for my fasting effort did little to ease my nausea. When I finally made it home, I had to eat. I had juice and water and a small salad. A cold shower helped put me at ease and then I passed out for five hours. After my brush with dehydration, I opted to drink water for the final week and a half of Ramadan.

My host family was mostly supportive. Many already did not accept my fasting as legitimate since I was not praying. And now I was drinking water. Never one to get angry, I held back shouts: I’m not Muslim. I don’t pray. Don’t you recognize what I’ve given up this month? Why isn’t that good enough? Can’t you see I’m doing this for you? When I became sick that Thursday, some were concerned, but some seemed satisfied that the notion I was not strong enough proved true. If I hadn’t been so delirious, I might have known rage.

But if I’m honest with myself, I was angry this last week. My efforts weren’t appreciated. I had lost my momentum from El Jadida. I felt alone, even though Kyla and I called each other every morning and chatted over suhoor.  I watched my host family struggle through each day, lips white from dehydration; nothing seemed healthy about fasting in this climate. I learned a PCV was assaulted in Rabat just before iftar, but when she needed medical attention, there were no doctors because they were home to break fast. I already knew that car accidents were more common, but that day I learned that crime rates go up during Ramadan. And in a country that already grooves to a slow daily rhythm, Ramadan brought Morocco’s waltzing step to a halt.

Today marks the last day of Ramadan. The passing of the month was announced last night on television—script streamed across the bottom of the screen like Wall Street’s figures when the market closes, so not to interrupt the sitcom I watched with my host family. Disappointment warred with relief. I wanted more fanfare. Every television program should have been interrupted with a loud PSA, proclaiming Ramadan’s end. I wanted to experience the declaration firsthand. Instead, my host brother had to translate the running script for me. I slumped back against my pillow. Relief won.

Tomorrow I will join my host family for a breakfast of epic proportion, followed by more feasting in the afternoon. Despite the difficulties, I will be able to celebrate that I have survived a month of fasting. Although, I do have one confession: I cheated my fast three times—chocolate chip cookies, falafel, and apple with peanut butter. Worth it every time. 

Published November 19, 2012