Ramadan started today. The date is determined by the path of the moon and thus we’ve been anxiously awaiting the start for a few days now. I had told my family that I was going to fast with them and they seemed cautiously amused. I had to think a lot about this before I made my decision. There’s a fine line between mocking and respecting tradition and culture. There’s absolutely no way that I, as a non Muslim, Westerner, can experience the same Ramadan that my family does. Ramadan is a month dedicated to appreciating their lived experiences with god, of which I have none. However, I decided to celebrate Ramadan for myself. I think there are things to be learned from every religion and I think a lesson in modesty, restrain and appreciation has been a long time coming for me. My host brother tells me that Ramadan is about being close with god. Muslims pray five times a day and each prayer is different. I’ve observed the prayer many times (it’s simply impossible not to here) and have come to understand a little of it. My family prays on mats that are pointed in the direction of Mecca. What I’ve witnessed isn’t the mass praying that we’re so used to seeing on tv. Every family member has their own special place in the house to prayer and does so alone. During a single prayer one touches one head to the ground seven times, each time receiving something from Allah. What exactly is received isn’t apparent to the prayer but it is believed that whether it be knowledge or strength, each reception helps them to honor God throughout the day.

Ramadan is about strengthening these already devout relationships to god. No only does one not eat but one refrains from doing anything pleasurable. Thus there is no eating or drinking, very little contact between men and women and other daily activities like listening to music and playing sports are abbreviated if not removed totally. Another central idea of Ramadan is the idea of giving. This is especially pertinent to my experience because there are an unbelievable amount of people who are need of aid. Giving in Senegal is very different than giving in America. For example, if a soccer mom makes orange slices and rice crispies for Junior’s AYSO team then she’s going to watch the kids eat them, make sure each and everyone thanks her all while making sure everyone knows that it was her who gave. In Senegal giving has nothing to do with the giver. When you give you are giving in the name of Allah. You’re taking care of one of his creatures. I think it’s interesting that they use the word creatures and not men or women. I would think that in such a gendered society they would distinguish between men and women of god but religion is one place where all is equal. Rich and poor, male and female, living and dead, we’re all creatures of god. That’s what I’m being told.

Anyways, Ramadan started very early this morning. I think everyone was a little surprised to see me at the breakfast table at 5 a.m. (you can only eat and drink during sun down). We ate a good breakfast and as the family prayed I read the sports section of the paper. Little did I know people usually go to bed after the first meal of the day. Wanting to conserve energy I took a taxi to school. After a couple hours I became acutely aware of my hunger. My brother says that one can’t understand a child’s hunger in the street until one experiences hunger themselves. This is one idea that I’ll take with me. I have some what of an idea what hunger is now. However, the hardest thing wasn’t not eating but not drinking. I stayed at the WARC for as long as I could and around 4 started to walk home. Going on 11 hours without food or water my mouth had stopped producing saliva and I became conscious of every other bodily function that my subconscious usually controls. It usually takes me 50 minutes to walk home but today it took me an hour and ten. With the unrelenting sun beating down on Senegal, everyone was sluggish but very happy. It was like I was on the same team as the entire city. I’d confront someone, nod my head slowly (aware of every muscle in my neck) and receive and equally lazy nod. These nods said a lot to me. They said, “You’re hurting too right now. We all are. We’re hurting together. But remember this isn’t about us.” In short the lack of food and water fortified and already profound solidarity.

I got home shortly after 5 and napped until 6:30. When I came downstairs my family was preparing a meal for the homeless. Every day during Ramadan those who don’t have the means to eat convene at the mosque and are given food by those in the neighborhood who can afford to do so. My family made milk, coffee, and chocolate and butter sandwiches for about fifty people. The most amazing thing was that they didn’t even stay to take credit for the work they had done. They simply brought what they had worked on all day and left. After giving, we ate. Sundown was around 8 o’clock. During Ramadan the fast is broken with dates which were a delightfully sweet way to satiate my hunger. However, the eating had just started. After the dates we ate bread with butter and chococalte followed by milk. However, this milk wasn’t normal. It was, pardon the pun, heavenly. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten all day but this simple mixture of water, evaporated milk and sugar was one of the best things that I’ve ever had. Strangely enough hot beverages have a way of alleviating the heat of the day.

Right after he had finished our first meal there was a power outage. Although this happens every day people weren’t very happy with Senelect (the electric company) because the first day of Ramadan had been difficult enough. Mama Rama told me that the company controls which neighborhoods do and don’t receive electricity and that they intentionally chose our neighborhood because its relatively calm. She said that had this of happened in the neighborhood she grew up in problems would’ve ensued. Able to make the best out of everything, she dragged two chairs outside for us and we sat and talked. I asked her about growing up, about how hard it was for a woman to attain such a high level of education at the time she did, about how young Senegal is and how much things have changed, until it got dark.

At some point during our conversation the maid brought us fish croquettes that had been stuffed with shrimp and fried. The first bight was followed by a loud crunch and then silence as the crunchy exterior gave way to the interior. The fish still had many small bones which, as I chewed, pricked the top of my mouth. The faintest irony taste of one own blood, the mild flavors and tender textures of the inside of the croquet in perfect contrast with the fatty and crusted outside, and the layer of orange fat left to linger on ones lips comprised one of the best eating experiences that I’ve ever had.

The croquettes were followed by a huge plate of fish, rice and vegetables which was then followed by slices of apples and melons. Tired, full and with an inspiring experience on my mind I thanked everyone for everything and retired for the night.