I always like to ask people whether they feel crankier going without food or sleep. Most people opt for sleep, but I question this reality after pulling all nighters for finals. Then, I question my body, especially the first week of Ramadan, and it reminds me of how powerful hunger is. Hunger for food, hunger for physicality, hunger for a world of things we’ve learned to take for granted.

Dear empty belly,

You kick around, a consistent reminder of whether I forced myself out of bed around 3 a.m the night before, to down a couple eggs, plenty of water, and some yogurt (in hopes of preventing thirst). Sometimes this doesn’t happen. Sometimes I am reminded of how I chose sleep over the next day’s potential hunger, lasting from 4 a.m to 9 p.m. You challenge me the most during this first week. You force me to relearn patience, to relearn hunger and thirst and need.

This year, Ramadan is during the summer. The days stretch longer, and you stretch too, making room for mangos, samosas, a whole variety of mouth watering foods, and then you play tricks too. It comes time to break the fast, there is a whole table of food to pick from, and I am reminded that I am blessed. Something about keeping food away from you makes you different during the end of the day. I fill my plate and always struggle to finish it. This is not because I am ungrateful or overwhelmed, but because you remind me that after a day of being empty, stuffing myself would cause you to ache. You’ve shrunken considerably, but this is OK. Modest portions are taken, and there is beauty in this.

You remind me that controlled abstinence is spiritual and that spirituality is cleansing. You teach me that suffering is a part of life, and that a day without food is barely suffering. You remind me that everyone is differently abled, that some people who fasted last year are not fasting this year. When I am thirsty, you remind me of how my throat connects the head and the belly, the middle ground of my body, what consumes and nourishes, the part of me that receives blessings.

You distance me from my friends, but solidarity is welcomed. I turn down lunch invitations, I become hyper aware of the lack of Muslims around me. When I am in Pakistan, you are at ease, everybody understands what we are going through. Everybody is a collective part of this experience. And yet the location, at the end of the month, hardly matters. You and I made it through the month. We made it through classroom lectures, when you grumbled loudly and people turned to stare. We made it through those awkward conversations where I distanced myself from a friend, aware of my breath, untouched by the aromas of a day’s worth of nourishing. I became more aware of you, and yet you were always there, never voicing your presence so loudly.

Next year, inshallah, we will revisit this again. Next year will be easier, we know each other better now. Even though I will have strayed and I will be in need of more centering, next year will be just as wholesome.

-- Rukhsar.