I could use a Ramadhan alliteration here, like ‘Ramadhan Rhapsody’. But I don’t think so.

Ramadhan this year, as it does every year, has passed faster than I would prefer.

When I was younger, this month used to be a bit of a bother. We couldn’t eat and couldn’t drink, and we’d interrupt perfectly good sleep to have our suhoor, our meal before dawn, which is technically going to sustain us until the breaking of fast at sunset. I don’t remember much about my childhood Ramadhans, except that we’d grumble and mope around a bit about being hungry and lacking energy (always a useful excuse when you’re meant to do chores) and that to stay up until Fajr prayers, I’d read an old Harry Potter to keep awake, much to my mother’s consternation (“You’re supposed to read the Qur’an, not some novel you’ve read ten times already!”). The days passed by longer, the weather wasn’t as hot, and we’d look forward to the end of the month, when Eid would come with all of its merriment and duit raya (Eid money; apparently other cultures give gifts instead).

The year before I left to study overseas, I had a bit of a spiritual meltdown, which resulted in me re-examining my faith and questioning every single religious practice I’d previously done by mimicry. That Ramadhan was a special one, where I tried harder than usual at praying and reading the Qur’an, though I was hardly consistent. We were also in the midst of exam preparations and us girls sharing the flat would take turns sleeping and waking up each other and calculating sums and chemical equations, fingers slapping the calculator keys hard and furious.

It wasn’t until my first Sha’aban in Melbourne, the month before Ramadhan, when I was introduced to the anticipation that usually accompanied it. “Ahlan wa sahlan, Ramadhan, ahlan!” (Welcome, Ramadhan, welcome!) they’d say a little self-consciously before grinning sheepishly, knowing how odd it appeared to others that they’d be so excited about a plain old month. My friends started setting targets early on, like wanting to finish the Qur’an or not listening to music at all or being very good about their sunnah (voluntary) prayers. Some girls talked about wearing the headscarf, some were talking about iftar menus, some started inviting friends over, marking dates carefully in planners so as not to double-book.

And then, just like clockwork, it descended upon us.

It’s difficult to describe the flurry of activity that takes place in Ramadhan in Melbourne, when everything is done so quietly and solemnly. The female prayer section was uncharacteristically quiet all of that month, the usual loud chatter replaced by the quiet humming of dozens of girls reciting the Qur’an (the men noted this lack of noise with some smirking), racing each other to finish it by the month’s end. We barely cooked at all, being invited to eat out nearly every night as our friends and neighbours tried to reap the reward of feeding the fasting. I broke fast with no less than 20 people each night, and we’d all pray together afterwards, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, heads bent as we faced our Maker with empty hearts and full stomachs. Our voices broke in prayer and we’d end by hugging each other, our shared Ramadhan making us closer almost without us noticing.

And I understood then this phrase some used to describe Ramadhan – the madrasah of souls. It is a month made to prepare the heart for the rest of the year, to strengthen it spiritually so that it can sustain the other 11 months. The fasting is meant to starve the ego of its worldly longings, the abstaining a test of will and faith. It is narrated in prophetic tradition that the gates of Heaven are flung open for all of Ramadhan, that there are no barriers between the words of the earthbound and the Everlasting. Good deeds are rewarded 70 times over and people race each other to give alms and provide for others. It is a month of tremendous generosity by Allah, and it spills over into mankind unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

But we are still selfish, still self-destructive, still driven by our egos. Ramadhan is an enterprise for the willing, and we often fail ourselves by taking it for granted. After those first two years, I sort of spun out of track. I met Ramadhan twice again without much enthusiasm; I fancied myself seasoned by then, a bit more cynical and knowing. There were other concerns to address, other things to do in life, and I didn’t have the same hunger for God’s pleasure in Ramadhan as I did in those two years. I treated tarawih lightly and I got distracted by other things, simpler pleasures. And as I got a full-time job, the easy excuse was that I was tired – which was true, but hardly the only truth. What I refused to admit to myself was that I had lost touch – with myself and with God. I thought myself better than I was, and history, myth and legend will tell you that most downfalls begin thus.

There is no instant connection with God. There is no spirituality that comes from knowing more than you did before. There is no good that comes from the reading of things that should be done. All effort, all thought and all prayer culminates in the doing of it. The doing, and nothing less.

This month, I’ve been trying harder. It is by no means the best Ramadhan I’ve had – I try not to make an excuse of it, but a 9-hour office job doesn’t do a person favours during this hectic month. But I try. I’ve lost dear friends this year who will never meet another Ramadhan, but I have. In that respect, if nothing else, I have been blessed.

All through this month, each time I stand for tarawih, I am reminded of one memory – or rather, many memories infused into a single recollection – of my sisters, my friends praying alongside me in various prayer clothes and dresses and colours, pulling me into the line of prayer, holding me perfectly into position. Her (their) shoulder brushes mine, and as the folds of people before us bow and supplicate towards the open, welcome heavens, I am more at home then than I have ever been in my life.

And I pray desperately, If Ramadhan means anything to me, o Allah, then let it be that feeling, of closeness to them and to You.

“Oh you who believe! Fasting is prescribed to you as it was prescribed to those before you, that you many learn piety and rightousness” (Qur’an, al-Baqarah, 2:183)

“…And it is better for you that ye fast, if ye only knew.” (Q 2:184)

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