A Fast Fast

It's 5AM. My bedroom door swings open. As I open my weary eyes, I can make out the silhouette of my roommate, Amaniel. I acknowledge him with a wave as I swing my legs begrudgingly off the bed and place my feet on the floor. There's nothing I hate more than early mornings. Today, I'm only awake at this hour for one reason - to eat.

This is the holy month of Ramadan. It began three days after I arrived and ends today. For thirty days, Muslims across the globe have fasted during daylight hours. That means, for roughly fourteen hours each day, they have refrained from any sort of eating or drinking. In northern Sudan, Muslims make up the majority of the population, so most of the people I encounter here are fasting.

I figured I should try it.

I stumble into the kitchen where Amaniel has been making breakfast. He's been doing this for three weeks and has grown accustomed to the morning ritual of waking up, cooking, and eating, all before the morning call around 5:30. I'm so tired that I have trouble standing, but Amaneil takes over. He thrusts a bowl of lentil soup and a piece of flat bread into my hand and tells me to start drinking water. I pull a 1.5 litre bottle of water out of the fridge and do as I'm told. Food in hand, I head to the living room to eat.

After about ten minutes, I'm full. I don't want to drink any more, no less eat anything else. Amaniel looks out from the kitchen (where he's been eating) and insists that I continue. Like a child unwilling to eat its vegetables, I want to whine and push the plate across the table. Yet, thinking of the long day ahead, I resist the urge and continue eating and drinking.

Just as I take another big gulp of water, I hear a soft hum that grows into a roar as the muezzins from the scores of mosques across the city sing out the day's first call to prayer. This signals the many Muslims of Khartoum to stop eating and begin their fast. For me, it's a call to go back to bed and catch up on whatever sleep I can. Not wanting to neglect the spiritual nature of the fast, I say a quick prayer before I lie down.

An hour and a half later, it's time to wake up for real.

I'm already thirsty.

I go about my morning routine trying to ignore the dry spot in my throat. Once busy, it's easier not to think about it. The same holds true at work; if I'm busy, it's ok. The moment I'm not though, I can feel the parched patch growing. I'm not even hungry; I just want water. My friends tell me that fasting during Ramadan not only keeps you closer to God, but also helps remind you how less fortunate people live all year. I think about this and how those around me who have been doing it for three weeks already. I suck it up.

After school finally ends, I head home. Normally, this is when I eat a late lunch. However, today I have to put those thoughts aside during the car ride home. I try to tell myself not to think about what I'm going to eat tonight either.  I've done fasts before (no food for three days, but I still had water) and I know that one of the worst things you can do is to keep thinking about food. One of the best ways to make it through the fast is to sleep. As I'm already tired from the morning's forced feast, I'm happy to sleep.

It's 6PM. I wake up after three and a half hours. More than an hour to go.

I look at the clock, semi-willing it to speed up time. My efforts fail. Maybe if I drink something, my telekinetic powers would be stronger. But then that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn't it?

My door bells rings. I realise that this is what woke me up. As I sit up, I can see my friend Anda pop her head in the front door. She was cooking for friends, but her oven ran out of gas. I tell her to use our kitchen. Ten minutes later, our apartment is host to several people all gathered in the sitting room as the smell of Anda's cooking wafts in from the kitchen. I still have an hour to go.

Rather than getting upset that all these people are about to eat right in front of me, I tell myself that it's a welcome distraction. And it is. For the next hour - even as the food comes out - there's plenty of conversation and company to keep my mind off things. Around 7, Amaniel emerges from his room. He too has been trying to sleep away the hours.   

The last ten minutes prove to be the hardest. Anda's already set out some soup for us; Amaniel and I try not to look at it. He and I move to the kitchen and try to hold a light conversation, both of us knowing that we're not really listening to each other at this point; we're only listening for the call.

Finally, we hear the chant from one of the nearby mosques. Delighted, I gulp down glass after glass of water. A litre later, I grab one of the dates Amaniel has one the counter. Dates or something else sweet are supposed to be one of the best ways to break the fast.

I'm so full of water that I don't rush to eat. One of my friends told me how fascinated she was that people breaking fast don't gobble up their entire kitchen or indulge in a massive Beckyfest - they just eat a normal meal. I can understand that. My body has been without food long enough today that it has given up expecting it. I only eat a light dinner and I'm satisfied.

Overall, it was a hard day, but in the end, it was only one day. Anyone can do it for a day. Hell, some of us are so busy that we do it by accident. I figured if I was somewhat serious, I had to fast for three days. This changed my whole attitude. Now the thought of more days to come were hanging over my head as I went to sleep that night. I was not looking forward to more.

The second day played out the same way. Wake up too early. Eat and drink too much. Wake up again. Go to work. So far, the only difference was that I drank too much in the morning and, once I woke up again, I peed so long my kidneys hurt. All things in moderation, I suppose, even eating before a fast.

The only real difference comes when I get home. A friend of mine had asked me to come with her on an errand. I figured it would be another welcome distraction, so I was happy to oblige. Then I remembered it's 40C (104F) outside. That's what happens when you live on the edge of the world's largest desert.

Walking outside, I have to make a concerted effort to keep my knees from buckling. I'm sweating away any of the precious water I have left in my body. Plus, my head is pounding and all I want to do is drink or sleep. Knowing it can't do the former, my eyes drupe as my brain tries to order my body to shut down.

Have you ever stayed awake for two days or more? For the first 36 hours, you can handle things, so long as you're occupied. After that, however, your body doesn't care what you're doing - talking, driving, eating, or walking - it just wants to drop everything and have a snooze. Walking around with my friend, this is how I felt.

At some point, my friend gets caught up in a conversation with someone. I look around to find the nearest place to collapse. It's one of those chairs made for Kindergartners, the kind where your knees come up to your chest when you sit in it. I crouch down, my ass squeezed into the seat, and I don't care. I can't get comfortable, but at least I'm not standing. We finally make it home and I take an hour's nap. 

It's 7:15PM. I'm hanging my head outside my bedroom window, listening. Every noise gets my attention. The hum of a rickshaw, the yell of a child, each sound makes my ears perk. My head is aching and my throat is begging for just a drop of liquid. I've been trying to pray off the thirst, but in these last few minutes, my Earthly desires have taken hold and all I can do is eagerly await the call.

I can hear the click of one of the loudspeakers at a nearby mosque. Wait for it. Wait for it...

Finally, the call comes from one of the mosques. I don't wait for the dozens of others to join in before I start greedily drinking my water. Like yesterday, I'm not even that hungry after all the hours without food. I eat a normal sized dinner and go to bed early.  

It's 5:30AM. Amaniel and I have finished eating early and go up to the roof to wait for the call. Around us, the world is calm. Though thousands below are feasting in a frenzy, from this height, the city seems to be subdued by the early hour. The air is cool in the absence of the African sun and a light breeze wraps itself around us as we gaze out into the darkness. Though he and I often discuss our religious differences, the gap between our two faiths is absent in these moments just before sunrise. For now, we are only two men poised to begin a new day full of praise and sacrifice for our common God.

As if one, the muezzins across the city cry out their call to prayer. There is only one God, they sing. Move quickly to prayer; it is better to pray than sleep, they continue. From our perch, we see the city shake itself to life.

The last day of my fast proves to be the most challenging. The fatigue, strain, and difficulties I felt over the previous two days become amplified ten fold. It's Thursday - the end of the work week - and my kids are extra rowdy. Once home, I take a long nap before joining friends at an Indian restaurant downtown. I arrive a few minutes before 7, order three bottles of water, and wait. A few others in our party are fasting and we sit pleasantly as others drink around us. As the sun sets, we hear the call and break our fast.

For me, it is the last day, but for Muslims there is still more than a week to go. As I look around the table, I think back on the last three days. There's a calm clarity that comes with fasting. While forgoing certain things, my mind becomes too tired to process all the events of the day. It quickly cuts through trivial things and focuses on the important aspects of life. As a result, I feel more sure of myself and my decisions, but more importantly, I feel closer to God.

I then consider all those who adhere to Islam around the world. I only did it for three days; more than a billion people do it for a month. Upon breaking my fast on the last day, I am filled with respect and admiration for Muslims across the globe. Though I may different in my beliefs, I come to understand that I have much to learn from them.