A Balancing Act: Ramadan and Reality

After a month of being a teacher, I still don't know what it's like to have lunch in the teacher's lounge. My first day as Mr. B at a high school in Brooklyn was also the second day of Ramadan.

This was my first Ramadan out of college and as a professional. I've lost the fifteen pounds gained moments after the regular "Hi, can I order the ten wings, please?" phone calls at 2 a.m. back in college. (Writing "back in college" just sent a shiver up my spine.)

I'd love to say that not eating or drinking from dawn to sunset is easy (I'm not married so the not having sex with my wife part is easy). But the hours of my 22nd Ramadan are longer than they've ever been (based on the lunar year, Ramadan moves up about eleven days each "normal" year). I can neither miss class nor sleep in as I did so often back in college (shiver). Even if I wanted to sleep in on a Sunday morning, my body doesn't let me because it's gotten used to the early mornings and my mind is fully aware of the lessons that need to be planned and the 120 exams from a week ago that need to be graded.

The hours include dancing around my classroom to convince my students that I'm actually interested in the Neolithic Revolution (lying is haraam, except in the classroom) and dancing in the subway to elicit smiles from the seemingly depressed workers I travel with each day (seriously, New York City needs to cheer up). The volume of my students is a double-edged sword: though it often keeps us from doing our jobs, even I can't hear my stomach growl.

At sundown, my eyes feel the weight of my students before I can finish tracing the first sip of cold water from my throat to my stomach. The energy is sapped only a moment into breaking my fast.

But with the month of fasting almost over, I find myself hungry for one thing: time.

Too often did I fall asleep without attending the nightly prayers at my mosque. Too often did I excuse myself from reading the Qur'an the month in which it was revealed. Too often did I postpone prayer because I just need to get this done. Too often did I let my emotions get the better of me, even in a month where peace and calm should be the norm.

I made my Ramadan resolutions a week before the holy month began. I felt the resolutions were ambitious, but feasible. But at that time, I still hadn't been assigned a placement from Teach For America. I made these resolutions before I knew where and what subjects I'd be teaching. Before I realized what my life might be like the next two years. Is this an excuse for a Ramadan in which I probably couldn't even make time for lunch? No. But it's something much more important.

Food and drink are necessary to sustain life. Fasting is a way for believers of any faith to sever this connection to this life and this earth while opting for a deeper spiritual connection with God. After all, no one else besides God knows if one is truly fasting or not (for all you know, I could be taking a sip of the pink lemonade seated next to my computer).

The last few Ramadans, I hope that I had achieved at least a small level of transcending my ephemeral being. But this Ramadan, more than anything, being at the mercy of time, I am reminded of my humanness. At month's end I find myself more human than ever.

Ramadan has never been just about not eating or drinking during daylight hours. If it were, I'd be perfectly fine. The failure to attend those nightly prayers, the missed opportunities to read Qur'an, and the silly bickering with loved ones would matter little to me as I reflect on the past month.

But this Ramadan I have been utterly humbled (and arguably humiliated) as I have failed repeatedly in my quest to be a good teacher, a good friend, a good Muslim. It is a scary thing coming to terms with this fact of my life, that I am fully flawed and all too human.

A frequent conversation in Ramadan often begins with "It just doesn't feel like Ramadan." This obviously is not desirable and should be avoided, but a part of me is willing to say that it's okay. That part of me does not hide behind hopes that I have a better Ramadan next year (God willing). That part of me is hoping that it's okay that the only time I came close to tears this Ramadan was not during prayer, but while listening to the poetry of my students after I made them write "Where I'm From" poems. Not desirable and surely not the standard, but its okay.

It has been this particular Ramadan that has reminded me that hard work might not always result in success, but that I need to work harder because issues of faith are not always easy. I am reminded that good intention doesn't always result in action. I am reminded that while I know we need to make the most of Ramadan, sometimes we just can't. Like so much else, things don't always work out the way we want them to.

It is at moments like these that I turn to the third verse in Surah Doha (Chapter 93) of the Qur'an: "Thy Guardian-Lord hath not forsaken thee, nor is He displeased." As soon as I begin to think that it may be a bad thing to remember this verse as often as I do, I keep in mind that God designed me, and He included this verse in His book to remind me just that. It is a hopeful reminder that regardless of how disappointed we may be in ourselves, whether we think it or not, the Big Guy sticks with us.

As I write this, John Legend reminds me through my iTunes that we are, in fact, ordinary people. I think it's God telling me that it's okay.

By Abed Z. Bhuyan  |  September 29, 2008; 1:31 PM ET  | Category:  Abedology
Share: Email a Friend | Technorati | Del.icio.us | Digg | Facebook
Previous: Where Do I Belong? | Next: Exception to the Rules

The comments to this entry are closed.