This year's Ramadan is different.
Of course, it's different. How could it not be? We’re flooded with images of starving babies, reports of parents scrounging for grass to feed their families and scores of children dead from hunger or dehydration in Gaza.
This holy month of self-imposed fasting for Muslims is happening against the backdrop of state-imposed starvation.
For those of us watching this war unfold from a distance, our temporary hunger pangs are a reminder of unrelenting hunger on the other side of the world. One of the purposes of fasting is to increase one’s empathy for those who lack basic needs like food and clean water. But this physical reminder comes on top of months of grief at the bombardment that has killed more than 30,000 Palestinians and displaced nearly 2 million.
People die in wars every day, the world over. But this one has been broadcast in excruciating and graphic detail on our phones and televisions.
Imagine there’s a bruise on your heart. And every day, it gets hit again.
To outsiders, Ramadan may look like a month of deprivation. After all, those who are fasting are abstaining from food and drink every day from dawn to sunset. But it’s also a month of excess. People host parties inviting family and friends to break their fasts together. Special congregational prayers are offered each evening. Charitable giving is far more generous. There is an undercurrent of renewal and community that creates a feeling of festivity.
This year is different.
I don’t see people sharing pictures of their pre-dawn meals or the evening iftars. The Facebook groups where crafty moms would post their elaborate holiday decorations are subdued. Prayers at large gatherings start with our imam pleading for mercy for people in places of oppression and extreme suffering -- in Gaza, Congo, Yemen and Sudan; for the Uyghurs in China and Rohingya in Myanmar.
It makes me think of what this past Christmas season must have been like for Palestinian Christians. The war led dozens of church leaders to cancel Christmas celebrations in the biblical birthplace of Jesus.
The Associated Press reported in December that Palestinian Christians around the world were "gripped with helplessness, pain and worry." Suzan Sahori, who lives near Bethlehem in the West Bank, said, “We’re broken, looking at all these children, all this killing.”
I can relate to this pervasive and palpable sense of guilt. It feels wrong to sit with an overfilled plate of food. I’ve spent time reading more about the crises threatening masses of humanity in distant places. I’m trying to understand the situations that have led to millions being displaced, the extreme violence and atrocities being committed.
But I’ve also looked away from images that come across my social media feeds that are just too painful to bear. It’s excruciating to look in the eyes of a child who has starved to death while trucks full of aid line up at a blocked border. I quickly scroll by the videos of broken parents cradling slain babies.
A friend recently shared a poem by New Zealander Em Berry that stopped my scrolling. It read:
"This morning I learned
the English word gauze (finely woven medical cloth)
comes from the Arabic word [...] Ghazza
because Gazans have been skilled weavers for centuries
I wondered then
how many of our wounds
have been dressed
because of them
and how many of theirs
have been left open
because of us."
I sat with this poem for a minute.
In past years, I had decorated our fireplace mantel with light-up letters spelling out "Ramadan Mubarak" in an arabesque font.
This year, the letters stayed in a box in our basement.