The stars, cold and distant, twinkle in the sky, seeming oblivious to the anticipated daybreak. The fireflies play hide and seek in the dark backyard in Maine as I sit outside, waiting for the morning pray and start of a day of fasting as part of Ramadan, the Muslim’s holy month of fasting, when the faithful abstain from food and drink, from dawn to dusk. Most Muslims believe angels are on a mission during Ramadan nights; the sacred time to reflect, recite the Holy Book, ask for forgiveness, and seek closeness to the Creator, to pay a visit and to grant wishes. I’m still hopeful my sky gazing, watching the fireflies play, and reminiscing about long-gone Ramadan of my childhood years, spent in Iran where I was born, would count as acts of piety. As I imagine millions of Muslims living in the four corners of the world could be watching the same sky and the same stars while getting ready to begin a new day of fasting, I feel homesick. During my childhood, Ramadan was a family time with sumptuous evening meals, Iftar, made more special after a day-long of fasting, and watching the elders cooking extra food to feed the poor. Ramadan is not about personal sacrifice and punishing yourself but to find empathy for those going without food, involuntarily all year long, my father would remind us. Once I left Iran to attend a university in India, I discovered the ancient wisdom behind rituals such as Ramadan: more than charity, it was important to personally experience what a poor neighbor or a hungry person went through, on a daily basis. Earlier, I had woken up from a dreamless sleep and tiptoed in the dark house, going from room to room to check on our children, pretending to be a thief intent in witnessing and savoring life’s simple joy. I had walked quietly, mindful of the sleeping household, making my way to the kitchen to warm up the pre-down meal, suhur. With little appetite I finished the rice dish and drank water and some tea. The tea would suppress the thirst during the day, Mother used to say as she’d have us drink the steamy glasses of tea minutes before the radio announcer would broadcast the start of the fasting. Years before radios arrived, my mother, the story teller, would have us believe, it was the loud canon explosions in larger cities, or groups of men walking around the neighborhood hitting the walls of the houses with sticks, who informed the faithful to stop eating and drinking in anticipation of a new day of fasting. Outside, I watch the sky change colors as I think of my extended family members, the younger generation living outside of Iran, spread over the west, like seeds of a plant, and the older ones living in houses empty of children’s laughter. The ghosts of the past crowd the backyard, pleading for my attention. Somewhere an owl hoots. Just as a cool breeze picks up the scent of flowers, still invisible in the dark garden, to carry it to me, I close my eyes and recite the familiar words of prayer for those no longer living. This seems to calms the audience-seeking ghosts. I hear a noise and open my eyes to see the outlines of a skinny deer going through the spilled leftovers by the backyard’s compost bin. Another survivor. You made it through past November, the month of hunting in Maine, alive. Next hunting season is months away. You and I are two survivors. I’ve survived my November; periods of political unrest, a revolution, imprisonment, and forced exile and displacement. I go inside and grab an apple to offer to the uninvited guest humbly, the way a devout Hindu woman would at a temple in South India. The call to morning prayer, coming via my laptop, travelling through the space like a flying angel, moving over sleeping cities, calm lakes, vigilant mountains and foamy oceans, makes me go inside to wash. I stand, facing Mecca, Muslims’ spiritual magnet, and start to utter the ancient verses, God is Great! In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful… I fall on my knees before prostrating to bring my forehead to the ground, the way my ancestors have done for centuries, in total humility and submission, How perfect is my Lord, the Most High…
Posted on: Sat, 03 Aug 2013 19:14:24 +0000
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