It was the beginning of July, and the heatwave had hit Ireland. Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting, had crash-bang landed in the heart of it. Though I am not Muslim – I had a Catholic upbringing – I lecture in world religions at Waterford Institute of Technology, and for my master's degree I researched challenges faced by Muslims in Ireland. One of these challenges, I tell my students every year, is fasting during a long-dayed Irish summer.
During Ramadan, Muslims are expected to abstain during daylight hours from food, drink – not only alcohol but water too – and sex. The fast this year would last 19 hours on some days, from 3am to 10pm. The fast isn’t always so long, but, because the Islamic calendar is lunar, Ramadan slips backwards through the seasons by about 11 days a year. Next year it will begin at the end of June.
This year I was very conscious of the impending fast, and a mixture of academic and personal curiosity prompted me to try it myself. I also decided to blog about it. I had researched Islam in Ireland enough to know that fear of Islam is prevalent in Irish society and that fear stops integration or even basic communication. I figured that writing about Ramadan might help to open the gate. Just a little.
It felt like I was setting off on a great adventure – not a geographical escapade but an internal exploration of the body and mind – with an excuse to visit mosques, talk to Muslims, eat new foods and learn something about self-restraint.
The fast began on Wednesday, July 10th.
Day 1
Morning dawns and the sun is already blasting at 7.30am. Met Éireann has issued its first orange alert. I'm thirsty already. Stevie, my almost-three-year-old son, puts some crusts of bread to my lips. "Eat this, Mammy. Eat this."
Ramadan also involves good thoughts and good words, and “fasting during Ramadan also means no cursing”, a Muslim man told me over the phone. My husband said I’d never be able to do it. By 10am I have used the F-word five times and a worse curse word once.
My biggest concern is thirst. I seek internet advice on fasting during the summer: stay indoors, avoid direct sunlight, and pull the curtains and blinds. We go to the beach. Luckily it's foggy.
Day 6
One week into the fast and the question I'm asked most often by women is: Are you losing any weight? The truth is that in the first few days I was up two pounds and now I'm just back to my prefast weight. This is despite the fact that I'm starving every day. What am I doing wrong?
Most Muslims would eat a meal when the sun sets (iftar) and another before it rises (suhoor), but I’ve been too lazy to get out of bed for the 3am meal.
Seemingly, because I'm eating only once a day, my body detects famine and tries to hold on to my fat stores, so my metabolism has changed to ensure I'll survive. That means I have to soothe my fat stores into thinking there's no famine by eating the 3am meal.
Day 7
One week into my experiment and I'm shattered after grazing through food half of last night. Today I come very close to caving in. But I'm still in here. Still trying.
I realise that, although I’m “doing” Ramadan, I will never understand the reality of what it’s like for Muslims. I am an outsider. No matter how interested I am in Islam or Ramadan, I am not a Muslim.
Although I fast and feel thirst and hunger, and even read the Quran daily, I do not have the background, knowledge or faith that a Muslim has. I’m also doing it alone.
Day 9
I decide to stop focusing on food, which is only the surface layer of Ramadan. The next level involves abstaining from – in Irishspeak but adapted from the Islamic theologian and mystic al-Ghazali – bitchery, backstabbing, whingeing, gossip and negative vibes.
The final layer relates to thought, to “think good”. The heart layer. The layer of love.
There are no preordained meals to break up the day, which is why days seem so long for me. Muslims have their day broken up with prayer five times; during Ramadan there is an extra prayer, the taraweeh, which takes place at night.
A friend joins me for iftar tonight. My husband does too. Having company changes the meal. I get a sense of what it might be like for Muslims who meet up for meals throughout the month. It's much more fun: debates, discussions, laughter and trying out new food. Unlike Muslims, however, I have a few glasses of wine.
Day 11
I take a two-hour hike up a beautiful low oak-covered mountain just outside Dublin. Excited to see my first wild raspberries, I forget about the fast and eat one by accident.
Day 13
I drive to the Ahlul Bayt Shia Islamic centre, in Milltown in south Dublin, to meet Dr Yasmin Ali, an Iraqi-born woman who came to Ireland 13 years ago.
We take off our shoes in the porch and leave them on wooden shelves before going to the women’s section, a large carpeted room with soft seats and a partition of wooden doors separating it from the men’s section.
"For me, Ramadan is the most important month in the year," Ali says. "Believe it or not, we wait for it every year, and when it is finished we are sad. It's a break from the rules, from having three meals a day, but, more than just that, it is a break from everything. I believe that Ramadan is a good way to discipline the soul."
Day 18
Women are exempt from fasting when menstruating, so my fast is off for the moment. Muslim women are expected to make up the days at a later date. I have my first morning breakfast today for almost three weeks.
Day 28
Today I am called to Islam. The call to convert comes from a lovely 21-year-old South African named Shakeer, at a metal-legged table at the Golden Olive restaurant in the mosque in Clonskeagh in Dublin.
Shakeer is in Ireland with a group of 26 South Africans, who have been brought to Ireland to lead the nightly Tarawih prayers at mosques around the country. They are members of the Islamic missionary organisation called Tablighi Jamaat and can recite the full Koran by heart.
We talk for more than an hour. “Before you go,” he says, “it is my duty to call you to Islam.” He gently encourages me to convert, there and then, by reciting the shahada, or creed: “There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.”
“Is this why you wanted to meet me?” I ask. “Yes,” he answers, smiling, a little cheekily. “Everyone is a believer or a prospective believer,” he explains, and “you are more prospective than others.”
Shakeer is giving me what he believes is the greatest gift that he can give any person. As a devout Muslim he believes that, as an unbeliever, I am destined for hell, where I will burn for eternity. I appreciate his efforts, but decline.
Day 30
Last night my husband joined me for my final Iftar at my newest favourite Dublin restaurant, Little Jerusalem, in Rathmines, which I discovered on my search for Iftar parties. A rare night out.
This morning – Thursday – I head to Clonskeagh mosque to get a flavour of the celebrations that mark the end of Ramadan. Eid ul-Fitr, meaning the festival of breaking the fast, is the equivalent of Christmas for Christians. People wear new clothes, children are given gifts, money is given to charity, and there are meals and gatherings of family and friends. Hundreds of people are here, and I am celebrating with them.
I have read the full Koran. I’ve a new appreciation of food. Things I took for granted I now treasure, including the pleasure of drinking water and the taste of a perfectly ripe pear. I’ve a heightened awareness of my habits and of what it might feel like not to live in a society of almost-always instant gratification. And though I don’t share the faith of Muslims, it has been a pleasure to share the experience.
Colette Colfer blogs at religioninireland.net
