Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
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“Why do we fast, Mama?”
While I waited for my parents’ explicit answer to my question, they gave me clues that helped fill in the blanks.
My childhood memories of long, hot Ramadan fasts in Toronto start and end with my mother. Returning home from work after her long commute, she would rest on our couch and close her eyes. Meanwhile, my eyes would turn to the clock on the wall.
“Are you sleeping, Mama?”
“No. ... I’m just resting.”
She would awaken well before dusk to fry samosas and chop fruits. She sprinkled sugar and tasty spices onto banana mixed with apple, and, if we were lucky, mango chunks. Dark and plump dates were served on a white plate.
Like many of my fellow Muslims, I was taught about the importance of fasting from a young age. After fasting for a few days each Ramadan, by the time I reached puberty, I was expected to partake in the ritual. My parents never threatened me or punished me into fasting. They taught by example that fasting is about empathy. Rather than through their words, they demonstrated through their actions that we fast to foster empathy. We fast to feel the hunger of the poor. We fast as a reminder that not everyone has full bellies before they go to bed or start school in the morning. We fast to increase our awareness of ourselves, our God and one another.
“Isn’t it hard?”
“Why do you do it?”
When I was 13, I decided on my own to commit to fasting the entire month of Ramadan. Every year, my non-Muslim friends would pepper me with questions and queries.
Fasting through high school involved trying to avoid the cafeteria. Food that never smelled appetizing suddenly triggered growls within my stomach and pangs of hunger. Through college and university, I fasted during exams and labs. I was out of the home longer, meaning I would often miss the chance to break fast at home with my parents. Some nights I would break fast with friends, on others I would break my fast alone in a food court. I would remove the lid from my disposable plastic container and pray for no leaks. I would tear my dates out of cling wrap a few minutes before sunset. Spoon in hand, ready to dig in.
“It is not as hard as you think …”
By medical school, I managed to fast the entire month with diligence and commitment. During my busy clinical rotations, I would try to sit down between rounds to conserve energy. Some days I was able to sneak to my apartment near the hospital during lunch to lie down and rest. I remember napping with my white coat on then fixing my rumpled hair on my way back to the hospital. During long patient interviews, I would stifle a cough to hide my audible stomach rumbles, and turn my head to hide my wide and gaping yawns.
But I kept at it because fasting is an important spiritual exercise, as these 30 days of the year are spent in conscious and constant reflection. Ramadan is a blessing for many Muslims because it affords us an opportunity to reassess our faults and strive for a better version of ourselves.
“Why do we fast, Baba?” my son asks.
I struggle with finding the right words to provide answers for my children. Long days and sleep deprivation after long nights on-call make my brain foggy. Some days I feel like I am not the role model my kids deserve. Some days I don’t feel well enough and I make excuses. Any missed fasts quickly become dark clouds of guilt. The pride I once felt for fasting during the entire month is taken over by a pervasive sense of inadequacy. Some days my guilt hardens into a prickly sense of shame. My motivation wanes and once aspirational ideals seem too far from reach.
“Are you fasting today, Baba?” my daughter asks.
For those of us flawed, imperfect humans, who cannot make it from dawn to dusk every single day, these simple, innocent questions can perpetuate heavy feelings of insecurity. Yet, my childhood memories of Ramadan have been about compassion and mercy. I cannot let my children’s memories be about judgment and shame. We start every prayer invoking the beneficence and mercy of God. I want them to grow up striving to be their best selves, while accepting of their vulnerabilities.
I will not parent them through my own baggage. I must not expect them to be perfect, unrealistic versions of themselves. My faith has always been an anchor that keeps me from being adrift in the choppiest seas. I do not want my children to feel constricted by their faith tradition. They will face a world with immeasurable challenges. They must carve their own path.
“Why do we fast Baba?” my children ask.
We fast for many reasons. We fast in gratitude for our blessings. We fast to remember our privilege and our responsibility -- to ourselves and to those who are less fortunate.
My loves, fasting is not simply about abstaining from food and drink. It is about abstaining from judgment and scorn. Fasting is a state of mind that cannot be achieved without humility.
I fast for many reasons. I hope you will, too.
Dr. Javeed Sukhera lives in London, Ont.