My Ramadan journey from childhood to parenthood
By Sahar Syed
My earliest memories of Ramadan revolve around waking up in the early hours, whilst its pitch-black outside, some of the birds are starting to rouse and I can smell something very yummy wafting up the stairs. There’s a glow of light outside my bedroom door and the entire house is humming with activity.
I was maybe 5 or 6 and came downstairs to confront my parents who were having breakfasts without me! Why didn’t you wake me up! Of course, they wouldn’t wake me up, I was too young to fast, and they didn’t want to disturb my sleep. But that didn’t matter to me. From my perspective I was missing out! At least they offered me what they were eating, so I wasn’t mad at them. We prayed together, my Dad led the prayers and he always recited them aloud with the most melodic rhythm that reverberated throughout the house. This was the first prayer of the day and the beginning of a long fast during the daylight hours.
Over the next few years this routine would ensue every Ramadan! ‘Why didn’t you wake me up?!’ I was always so cross that I was not included in Sehri which coincidently was my nickname. Sehri or Sahur is the time we eat breakfast in the morning in preparation for the fast.
When I was 8 years old, I kept my first fast and my parents made a party of it. All our family joined us for Iftar, the meal we have after breaking our fast.
It was a long time ago now, but I remember breaking my fast with a juicy date and mango Rubicon juice. The feeling of eating after hours of fasting is so joyous and the moment is so tranquil, it’s a relief and joy at the same time. A gratitude washes over you with the realisation of how well fed and watered you are, that fasting is a temporary request, 30 days, no food or water in daylight hours and how clever the human body is.
These realisations set in me from a very young age, and I approached it as an athlete embarking a marathon. Steadily I tried to increase how many days I fasted every year after that.
When I was 10, I was in year 6, so I fasted Fridays and the weekends, much to my mother’s horror. My grandmother was even more concerned. ‘How will she cope at school?’ they would say. My father was very relaxed and said, ‘she can break her fast at any time.’ To this day, as I approach my 40s, my father will still make sure I am well enough to fast and that I don’t take on too much during Ramadan. This is innate in parents to encourage their child to practice their faith but to also worry about them meeting that requirement with good health. My parents always put my wellbeing first.
I recall the school being on board with my fast, it was only 4 days of the month, so not an issue in their eyes.
When I joined secondary school, I was 11 and able to fast all the days. I was up to the challenge and took each day as it came. By the end I was amazed I had completed all of 30 days.
Ramadan is always joyous; I can only explain it as Christmas every day with an even bigger celebration at the end with Eid-ul-fitr.
At secondary school, as the years rolled on, the month of Ramadan entered the winter months. This meant the fasts were relatively short. Every year the month moves back 10 days as it’s dictated by the lunar calendar like Easter.
The experience was different and now I found myself having to defend the practice of fasting and to prove my parents were not forcing me to do so.
Every year, guaranteed, the same questions from non-Muslim peers and teachers alike.
These questions:
Not even water?
Are you being forced?
You fast non-stop for 30 days?
What’s the point?
What if you eat in secret?
Do you want some of my sandwich?
Do babies do it?
I don’t understand how that brings you closer to God?
I didn’t have many friends, I learnt to speak to everyone in a hostile environment and managed to get by with peers who would sometimes speak to me. It was survival and I answered those questions like I inhaled and exhaled oxygen. I was lucky to have one RE teacher who gave me a microphone (so to speak) to express my faith and practice. To add she was very fond of me and really gave me the platform to be my authentic self. I will add she was an English non-Muslim teacher and there are only a handful of teachers who really enabled me to exist in that school. A predominantly white school.
Advocating for children who have a different belief system and culture to you is a rare skill in teachers and sadly remains rare. But I will forever be grateful to those who supported me.
Sadly, the focus on me intensified after 9/11. This is relevant to Ramadan because when the above questions expanded and now there was the birth of Islamophobia.
Bearing in mind I already had to deal with being a Pakistani girl. Which had its own set of assumptions and ignorance.
I didn’t mind this too much seeing as at primary school being called a Pak* was commonplace. The aggressive questions felt like progress to me.
The Islamophobia really shone a huge light on Muslims and attacked the belief system ingrained in us. To make it worse the suicide bombers seemed to be the most interesting association with Islam post 9/11.
An RE teacher showed us a video about death. It included a Rabbi who stated that Muslims believe in martyrdom to receive virgins.
This teacher asked me in front of the whole class, ‘why do suicide bombers get virgins in heaven? What do you have to say about that?’ Note this was a different RE teacher. I recall running out of the classroom crying and then writing a letter to this teacher accusing her of ‘raising another generation of ignorance towards Islam’.
I was in trouble for this letter however I escalated it to senior leadership, and I was victorious. I received an apology, and the teacher was forced to remove the offensive video from future lesson plans.
There were other comments made by other teachers about why is it like this in Islam? Why do Muslims do that?’ it was tiresome and ignorant.
Again, I managed to survive and leave that school with an education I was able to build upon despite having one hand tied behind my back by teachers who tried to academically hold me back. Perhaps another essay is required on that.
Being a Muslim, Pakistani child is walking around with a target on your back and racism is now subtle. Microaggressions. Small changes. Minor rules. Things that can go unnoticed if you’re not fully awake.
Being the mother of two Muslim children in 2025 means I am on high alert.
My reflection of Ramadan as a child is short due to how long ago it was but now, I can see it through the eyes of my children.