Word To My Mother: Ramadan
Growing up, I became more aware of my roots. Your roots. Our heritage. And how that would fit into our lives, my life, and my person.
Coming from a countryside Malay family, you made sure that your religion was passed onto your children. It was important to you. It probably still is or would be if you were still around. I mean, times change, generations change. Our thoughts and opinions were and are influenced by many external factors, from peers to all the information we now have access to on a daily basis. Thanks to you, we grew up in a world full of freedom. Freedom of choice, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to choose what to believe.
I believed growing up, because I believed you when growing up. I firmly believed that there was a man up there keeping score of my actions to determine whether I was going to exit through gates of heaven or hell. I believed that religion was important because you raised me as such. Petting a dog or eating pork was enough to render me a sinner who should be forever doomed to the fiery pits of hell Or, to be less dramatic and more realistic, it made me believe that I had done something wrong. Simultaneously, I also believed that I could compensate for this by never touching a dog again, a ship that has sailed five times around the world, at this stage. I also thought I could compensate by doing Ramadan as often as I could.
I recall discovering what Ramadan was and watching you take part in it. You weren’t eating until after sundown, which was strange. Why would the sun determine your feeding times? Would it blast you to death with its sunbeams if you didn’t? I heard you get up at the ungodly hours of 4/5AM to feed before sunrise. When I went downstairs to see what was going on, the TV was on and you were sitting in the dark like a creep, having your leftovers from earlier that night.
When I was 12 years old, I decided to give it a go myself. I was interested, I was curious, but more importantly: I wanted to be good for you. Like a typical middle child, I wanted you to be proud of me. In another way, it also felt like it could bring me closer to you. And after petting the neighbour’s dog, bullying my little brother, and eating salami, I had a lot to atone for. Let me just remind you again that all those ships have sailed far, far away into the sunset. If the earth were flat, they would have gone down the never-ending waterfall into space. They’re floating somewhere amongst George Clooney’s body and countless of Star Wars references.
The first morning you woke me was horrible. Generally, waking up at 4/5AM is always horrible. But during Ramadan, the first week is always the worst. I remember getting up together to eat before sunrise. As much as I hate waking up in general, I did it for you and to share something with you. There were mornings where I just didn’t care enough to eat as much as I could stomach, that I’d go straight back to bed after a slice of bread. But most days I ate as if the government would start rationing the entire country at dawn. I ate as much as my stomach could handle: noodles, krupuk, bread, chocolate, chips, and wash it down with Milo afterwards. This diet was also known as Indah’s “sustainable” Ramadan diet. If apocalypse were to befall us, I wouldn’t have lasted the first 24 hours.
Not eating was hard, especially when smelling the cheese toasties and sausage rolls - it was beef, I swear - from the school cafeteria. Feeling my stomach rumbling was one thing, but it became something else when my other 25 classmates could hear it during a test. Luckily I soon discovered I wasn’t the only student partaking in Ramadan. Telling people I was a Muslim soon felt as something I should have hidden or pretended not to be, as Islam became the black sheep of all religions and people were heavily misinformed about its different forms and believers. But, as an adult, I ended up running along with it. Even though I stopped identifying as a Muslim – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I am not afraid to say I was raised as one and that my family still are Muslims as well. Flashback to a good few nights out where I would meet a stranger, mostly male, who would spout his nonsense hoping to impress this girl he just met in a bar, only for me to ask if their Islamic terrorist theory also applied to me. “But… you are not a Muslim? You aren’t wearing a hijab?” was the most common response I would receive. The other would be the usual oh-shit-I-got-caught-out-response: “oh, but I’m not talking about you. YOU are different, clearly!” Sure. Oh mom, how glad I am you are dodging the bullet that has been hitting the world for years now. The foul ignorance and scapegoating has become ridiculous, especially now we can just share our unsolicited opinions with one click of a button that’s sitting in the palm of our hand while the other stuffs a puff pastry in the mouth. Or a sausage roll, whichever you prefer.
At the same time, I’d love to hear your opinion on all of this. I know you were proud of your religion, but I struggled with it for a long time. I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore and if I believed, was it for the right reasons? I started questioning a lot of things. If there was a god, why is there poverty? Why is there still hunger? Why do good people die and bad people live? Why do we get diseases? Why did we have to lose you to a horrible illness that should have a cure by now? Why couldn’t you see your children grow up? God has a plan, God works in mysterious ways… Nah, I ain’t having any of that.
Soon, I realized that I do not identify as a Muslim anymore. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. This must be very disappointing to you. It surely would have been if you were still around. I imagine we probably would have had a temporary fall out. But, if it helps, I don’t believe in any religion. I respect other people’s beliefs, but I personally don’t think I’m going to hell for eating a carbonara, getting a tattoo, or having the cutest dogs ever lick my hand.
Not gonna lie: it took me a while to come to terms with it. For years after your passing, I strictly followed the rules you taught us. I did not eat pork and said the prayer you taught us before bedtime, like we always did when we were children. It felt like the right thing to do to keep you close, to honour your memory. I continued doing Ramadan alone or with my sister. It was not long until your baby boy would join too. It used to be you waking me up with your soft voice. Not long after that, I would hear your light footsteps going down our creaky stairs. Ten minutes after, I’d rise and follow suit. We would sit there together, both grumpy and tired, doing what felt right to us. And every evening where we’d cease our fasting by eating dates. You always told me that breaking your daily fasting with dates would be more beneficial or get me more “points” in God’s eyes. That was when I still believed we were living according to a points system, as if we were in the army. After your passing, I did that alone for a while. When my brother joined, it felt like something we bonded over but also to make it feel like you were still there. Some mornings, I feel like you were.
So, when I realized I was not doing it for myself but for someone else and gave it up, I felt like I betrayed you a little. Your religion was a big part of you as a person. You grew up with it and all your brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews are still practising Muslims. I am sorry to say that Islam is not a big part of my life anymore as it was yours. I have no excuse for this either, but do I have to? Life was different for me. My environment, my upbringing, my friends, the books I read, the media I consumed, but also my personality. I respect people practising their religion as they see fit, but I didn’t see the value of it in my own life anymore. At the time, it felt like the right thing to do to honour and respect you, even after your passing.
But now I’m different. I have changed and grown, and realized that religion is not for me. I eat pork, I have tattoos, I consumed alcohol, I have sex before marriage. And guess what? It hasn’t changed me. Neither of those made me feel bad or made me a bad person - as far as I’m aware of – and I think it’s silly to believe that it does. It would be the same if I were queer, for example. I’m still the same person, your daughter, the one you raised for fourteen years. The only difference is that now I get to enjoy ham and cheese toasties.
And, even though I have been apologizing on paper here, I do not feel guilty about it anymore. It took me a while to get to this place, too. You passed on to us what you wanted us to have, what you wanted us to learn, because that was the best for us. Unfortunately, I didn’t take it on board for the rest of my life. This does not mean that all was for naught - it still played a big part in my upbringing. But I believe that, in the end, we all end up wherever we think or want to go. Personally, I hope I end up in the same place as Chris Evans – we all know that is impossible, though.
Written by Indah Suria
Indah is an Ireland based contributor from The Netherlands. After her BA (hons) in film and her masters in creative media practice, she runs Suria Creative - her own freelance writing and design business. When she is not working, she makes time to practice photography, yoga, pole or any other form of dancing. On her lazy days, she enjoys reading or binging series. While at home she is known to be the queen of snacks, on IG she’s just plain old @indahgramm and has a pole account at @impolefection. You can catch her freelance work at www.suriacreative.com.