A Letter to my Beloved

You know in those old films, when the girl is is saying goodbye to the guy? He’s on the train, she’s on the platform, and they’re holding hands, and as the train starts moving, she’s still holding on, running to keep up until she reaches the end of the platform – and that’s it. He’s gone.

And even though she spent every moment of the last month with him, it’s not enough.

I haven’t actually seen those films, but that is Ramadan to the Muslim who loves it. We know Ramadan as the ‘honoured guest’; it comes and it goes and we love it and look forward to its visit all year, miss it when it’s gone, and make plans for the next time it comes. Plans to spend every possible minute together.

Did you ever have those conversations, probably at 2am, where the person you’re speaking to (WAS IT A BOY, HM?) is trying to leave because they need to sleep and you…well, you don’t?

‘I have to go’
‘I don’t want you to : (‘
‘I know, but I really have to’
‘NO DON’T GO’
‘I’M GOING’
‘ NOOOO’
‘Gone’
‘NO NO NO NO NO NO COME BACK NUUUUU’

Do you get it? I don’t want it to be over. I want it to be Ramadan forever and every day and all the time. I need Ramadan like pizza needs cheese, like the beach needs the sea, like a car needs petrol, like sushi needs soy sauce – like a fasting person needs food.

Without you, Ramadan, I slip back into the mediocre everyday me – but with you, I’m always more. You’re a reason to try harder, and to be better. When you’re here, I’m here – more present in my life than any other time. You make me look at myself harder.

I love you and I miss you and I will wait for you. I will try to be happy tomorrow, or the day after, but today, now, I am very sad.

Don’t go, Ramadan. What if I’m not here when you come back?

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