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Maha Tazi is a graduate in International Relations and Middle Eastern Politics from the University of Wollongong in Dubai (UOWD). She is currently working as a Project Consultant in Public Relations and Corporate Communications at APCO Worldwide and teaching part-time as an adjunct instructor in Philosophy at UOWD. [/symple_box]
Dubai, UAE- Just like every year, Ramadan 2015 started with a new hope and a new resolution: that it will pass fast enough with short working hours and longer sleeping hours, and that we shall go back to our customary routines once the fasting season is over.
As the new resolution of the year hit, yet another thought struck my mind: Ramadan will be overlapping with the launch of the ‘Hell Season’ in Dubai this year, and that, quite unluckily, it will also cover the hottest and longest days of summer.
With this thought in mind, I couldn’t help but apprehend the long days of fasting and low productivity at work, the pile of work that will be awaiting me once Ramadan is over, the irritability and hyper-sensitivity of all smokers and coffee-addict friends, and even more dreadful…the same exact routine repeating itself for 30, hopefully 29, days.
However, at the same time, I couldn’t help but remember what Ramadan was truly like and what it had meant back in time, when the Holy Month had a smell of home and an essence of family:
When our mom used to wake us up for the first Suhoor at 4am and that, in spite of the killing sleep, my sisters and I would happily run to the table deliberately knowing where our best meals were awaiting us, on a table served with incommensurable love and affection: bed bl’khli3*, msemmen bl’3ssel**, cheese and minced beef b’riouates*** were only few of the sins we succumbed to before the official kick-off of the fast. The promise of such a good Suhoor would also keep us waking up so early every day, and until the very last;
When the joy and smell of Ramadan was literally everywhere and materialized in every person: in the street vendor’s words, on the doorstep of your neighbors’ house, in your Grandma’s food ch’hiwates*** proudly brought to your home by your father, in the greetings of the grocery man, the delivery man and the taxi driver whom you have never met before and probably will never meet again. The Spirit of Ramadan was haunting, and more than a reassuring touch on a child’s head… it felt like a blessing;
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When after an hour or so of praying, we would join another group of friends in a fancy crowded pub of Casablanca now temporarily converted in a Chicha Café for the Ramadan season and play cards and tell jokes and hear not only our prayers but also our laughter reach the big open skies of Ramadan.[/symple_box]
When during my first Ramadan, surrounded by irritatingly excited schoolkids with their lunch boxes, I was the only one in the classroom to fast…and to be honest to cry more than fast. That was, I still remember, the same moment when the teacher would come close to me every time and comfort me with her ‘kind’ words: “Do not cry, for Allah shall eventually reward you for your strength and patience in Heaven”. What my schoolteacher surely didn’t know is that these words had no meaning, resonance or whatsoever for me at such a young age… but I don’t think it was that which preoccupied her the most. Uttering these words certainly made her feel she has accomplished some kind of good action, and in turn only made me long for being a child for as long as possible, unlike those wise adults with who pretend they know it all and actually feel nothing;
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When I didn’t know yet that this Suhoor gathering I was so tempted to skip back then would be the only excuse I have today to revive those family memories, preparing a Suhoor for myself every night –like a candle you lit each time, to let these moments live again and again. [/symple_box]
When coming back from school, I would throw my schoolbag at the entrance of the house and run to the kitchen to witness the sumptuous Ifar buffet in preparation;
When my mom would cook for each one of us her favorite meal, also keeping in mind two or three of my dad’s best list: Lasagne Bolognaise, Grattin de Choux-Fleurs et Pommes de Terre, Pizza au Thon et au Saumon… Just like Suhoor, the Iftar table was the promise of redemption and the motivation throughout the day. I always suspected my mum knew about this and that it was her guarantee we will keep fasting provided that the Iftar was appealing enough every day.
What I remember the best is the post-Iftar part of the day, my favorite:
When just after watching the best TV show of the season with my parents, we would gather at some friend’s place before heading to the mosque altogether in a keen, enthusiastic and light spirit. When the friend’s mother, besides stuffing us with high-cal sweets, would kick-off a talk about how people get irritating during Ramadan and why the days aren’t getting shorter;
When after an hour or so of praying, we would join another group of friends in a fancy crowded pub of Casablanca now temporarily converted in a Chicha Café for the Ramadan season and play cards and tell jokes and hear not only our prayers but also our laughter reach the big open skies of Ramadan;
When I receive this early morning call from my mum I am always tempted to ignore: “I hope you are not coming back home when your fast already starts. Do come back for Suhoor at least”;
When I didn’t know yet that this Suhoor gathering I was so tempted to skip back then would be the only excuse I have today to revive those family memories, preparing a Suhoor for myself every night –like a candle you lit each time, to let these moments live again and again;
When we go to pray Fajr with my mum and sisters in our favorite mosque someday around the 27th day of Ramadan and stay there for hours just contemplating the stars, talking and dreaming about the future… a future we all wished didn’t knock the door so fast and ask his friend ‘the past’ to walk away;
When I would be amazed at how my little sisters can wake up in the middle of the night so excited to go pray for some sins they surely haven’t committed yet…
When we come back home for that Fajr prayer and realize Ramadan will soon be over, that this overwhelming Spirit will be gone sooner than expected, that the city’s enchantment would soon wash away, that our memories will soon be put in a golden box we hold dear close to our heart but would never, ever, go away…
*A typical Moroccan dish made of eggs and dry meat
**Moroccan crepes with honey
***Moroccan rolls
**** Term used in general for Moroccan food specialties
[symple_box]Please Note that the views expressed in all opinions on The Moroccan Times are the authors’s own and do not reflect The Moroccan Times editorial policy.[/symple_box]
