My apartment is located in between three of the area’s most frequented bars. At 3 a.m. on a Sunday, I can hear the remainder of Saturday night’s revelers as they pass my window; singing, chatting and shouting under the street lights. I’ve never been much of a party girl, yet I can relate more easily to the 3 a.m. scene outside my window than the one I find myself facing inside. It is 3 a.m. and I’m alone at my kitchen table, eating porridge in the dark. My mini-Ramadan began with a lonely breakfast accompanied by the drunken songs of strangers on the street below.
As Ramadan drew to a close this weekend, many Muslims around the world reflected on the month that passed. I am not a Muslim and won’t be actively celebrating Eid this week. Yet I have been reflecting on my own experiences this month. I too have learned a great deal.
I had never really fasted before. I grew up as a Roman Catholic and as a child I’d unwilling give-up crisps or biscuits as a token gesture during Lent.
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