My relationship with food means I have to preserve my health during Ramadan
/CW: Eating disorders and mental health issues
Ramadan is the ninth month in the Islamic calendar, during which millions of Muslims across the world fast from sunrise to sunset. It’s centred on charity, sabr (patience), community and closeness to Allah. Growing up, it was without a doubt my favourite month of the year. Even at nine or ten, as my brother and I would sit on his bedroom floor, groggily shovelling in spoonful’s of cereal and bites of banana for sehri (suhoor), we knew that in those moments we were a part of something special.
We would feel the magic, when we were at my Aunt's house, gathered over a leg of lamb and platters of samosas and kebabs in the countdown to Maghrib. And as we passed tins full of kajoor (dates) and flapjacks around the masjid (mosque) at iftar time, we felt it too. We were a part of something bigger than us, bigger than our family and our mosque. It filled us with pride.
As we grew older, our appreciation of the month deepened, and that sense of belonging only intensified. Fasting brought with it a greater understanding and connection to our spiritual selves.
Under the guidance of my Mum and Nana, giving became a primary focus of my observation of the month. Whether this took the form of serving iftar at food drives in Holborn with my best friend before we broke our roza (or sawm, both meaning 'fast'), offering to pass out the kajoor at Maghrib at our mosque, or setting up online fundraisers in support of those without the daily access to food that we have been blessed with.
Yet by the time I turned seventeen, another force had come into play in my life - one that was particularly damaging during the holy month.
Fasting while grappling with an eating disorder brings with it a bizarre contradiction of feelings. The twisted satisfaction that my anorexia revelled in every time that I skipped a meal soared, as did my disgust in myself as a Muslim. I could feel my focus slipping away from self-reflection and strengthening my relationship with Allah as each day of Ramadan passed - and shifting towards the shrinking of my body, a phenomenon that filled me with an inexplicable glee. I felt torn, and powerless over my own thoughts and actions.
Skip ahead a few years, and I’ve finally accepted that I have an ongoing illness and sought the support I needed to lift myself out of its grip. Under the guidance of healthcare professionals and with the strength of close friends and family, I've developed a range of mechanisms through which I can manage my eating disorder and protect my mental and physical health. One of these mechanisms is abstaining from fasting, during Ramadan and every other month of the year.
Because I know that restricting my food intake for any reason and experiencing the intense hunger that I once viewed as a sign of my worth, brings with it the risk of falling back into old and dangerous habits. Particularly in a situation in which my ability to resist the temptation to eat would be celebrated.
That's not always an easy thing to explain to others in Muslim communities. Not when the number of fasts that an individual completes is sometimes viewed as a measure of success. Not when others can feel as though they have the right to demand a justification for your abstinence from fasting, as if it is their personal duty to assess the validity of your reasons. As if you've not already dedicated years towards working to remind your brain that eating isn't an act that needs justifying.
And not in a society in which mental health is still disappointingly likely to be a taboo topic of conversation, resulting in a far-reaching and dangerous lack of understanding across its members. In which eating disorders are still considered to be 'western' illnesses - that is, when they're considered at all.
Add to this how alienating and awkward it can feel. Not only can you feel you're missing out on this shared community experience but being welcomed to iftar parties and served your third or fourth meal of the day by hosts who haven't eaten for up to eighteen hours, can feel incredibly uncomfortable. It’s just as humiliating when lunch rolls around at school or work and Muslims and non-Muslims alike look at you sideways as you crack open your tupperware - when it really, really shouldn't.
These feelings of isolation and discomfort only amplify the feelings of guilt and self-consciousness that, for those struggling with or recovering from eating disorders, often already accompany the act of eating.
This can leave Ramadan, whilst an incredibly beautiful month, as a potentially difficult one for some of us to navigate.
But that doesn't mean it isn't a month for all of us to share. No one is a bad Muslim for abstaining from fasting, in order to protect their health. The Qur'an permits those who cannot fast in Ramadan, and aren't able to make up the missed days at a later date due to health reasons, to instead donate fidya (a charitable contribution equivalent to the cost of feeding a person in need).
And crucially, you are also respecting and safeguarding your physical, mental and spiritual health by prioritising your recovery. This stands for any mental illness, physical illness, or other difficulty that leaves fasting as a significant risk to your wellbeing.
So this year, instead of beating myself up for not observing Ramadan in the most known and traditional way, I am trying to remind myself that fasting isn't the only way in which a person can take part in the month.
There are countless alternative or additional activities that we can all try and benefit from - whether this takes the form of reading the Qur'an over the month, enhancing our support (financial or other) of vulnerable members of our global community (particularly in light of all that's happening around us right now), spending more time in nature, giving up smoking for thirty days, or delivering sehri or iftar treats to our fasting friends and family (whilst observing the rules of social distancing).
Most importantly, I've learned that I don't owe an explanation as to why I'm eating and drinking in the middle of the day to anyone, on any day, in any month. It's exhausting, it's unnecessary and frankly, it's no one's business but my own.
Ramadan - albeit being a tricky month for countless Muslims around the world for a range of reasons - remains an incredibly beautiful time of the year. It’s a month of community and unity. It is the month in which Muslims believe that the Qur'an was revealed to Prophet Muhammad (PBUH). It is an opportunity to practise gratitude, self-improvement and crucially, compassion. And in my eyes at least, it is a month for all of us. Regardless of whether we are able to fast or not.