Ramadan may be over, but its power to transform is not

Every year, in the run up to Ramadan, distinct groups are formed; some Muslims eagerly await to experience the spiritual and social dimensions of Ramadan, whilst others dread the tiredness and disruptions the month invariably brings to sleep and routine.

I’m sure there are many who feel both an excitement and angst for the month and that would more accurately be a depiction of what has, for many years, been my experience of fasting in Britain.

There is a part of me that is deeply committed to the spirit of the holy period that brings everyone together, to go through a journey - as is stated in the Quran - of God consciousness.

This year was the second Ramadan since the passing of my father, and in the run up to the month, I experienced crippling bouts of anxiety and self-doubt. Previously, I thought I was someone who had never experienced anxiety, but I have since come to realise that it was just hidden behind keeping busy and trying to fulfil ambitions.

''For some, the month of Ramadan is about abstaining between dawn and dusk, from food, water and sexual relations, but this never sat well in my heart. There had to be more, and in searching for ways to calm my anxiety, I understood, the message behind this divinely ordained abstention.''

My body was raging with agitation, perhaps playing out old traumas and crying out for attention and affection. Food has always been my go to place for comfort and so, the idea of refraining from it, for the vast majority of the day, made me even more prone to anxiety.

But then, in the first week of Ramadan, something changed.

Early on in the month, I searched the meaning of the word ‘Ramadan’. It comes from the ‘Ramad’, which means dryness or that which is intensely and vehemently heated by the sun. This got me thinking. In order to allow something to fully dry, it must be still. And so, I made a decision that the month would be one of stillness and of honouring my body.

I know stillness is not something we achieve, but that it is a journey of removing, layer by layer, all the distractions and attachments that rob us our conscious presence. Certainly whilst we are always physically ‘present’, our minds become scattered through our commitment to meeting the needs of others before our own.

For some, the month of Ramadan is about abstaining between dawn and dusk, from food, water and sexual relations, but this never sat well in my heart. There had to be more, and in searching for ways to calm my anxiety, I understood, the message behind this divinely ordained abstention.

Staying away from food was not a way to punish the body, nor even, as is commonly suggested by Muslims, a way to feel the pangs of hunger experienced by those suffering from food insecurity. The abstention from food is an invitation from the self, to the self, to be consciousness of the body, to not be numbed nor distracted, to be closer to ourselves and in turn closer to God.

The demands upon our bodies, in this fiercely capitalist, materialistic society, are terrifyingly huge. Especially given that the cost of living has sky rocketed, forcing many to look for more work and juggle multiple jobs which places an even higher demand on our bodies that are expected to run like machines.

If this month were an invitation to attain a closeness to God, and to allow, as the meaning would denote, our lives to face the heat, then it would only be appropriate to lower the volume of noise we are paying attention to from every corner of our lives, and raise the sound of our presence.

For me, it was committing the first couple of hours of my day to myself. This month gave me the space to remove and detach from the habit of paying attention to others first whether through social media, emails, family or work.

As Ramadan draws to an end, the stillness I allowed myself to return to will continue beyond this month. The initial hours of the day will be reserved for myself, because in diminishing my consciousness from the world, and in allowing myself to be still first thing in the morning, I allow my body and mind to become dry from the wetness of external demands. This is the only way I can return to a consciousness that is ever more nearing a readiness to meet my father and God. 

Razwan Faraz is a father of 3 boys, he is a teacher and founder of Mansheds, an organisation dedicated to enriching the language of men around spiritual & mental wellbeing. 

Follow him on Twitter: @PilgrimRazwan

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