Ramadan - the mere mentioning of the word brings to my mind old, beloved childhood memories filled with family gatherings, spiritual reflection and a beautiful lifestyle gone forever.
As children growing up in Lebanon in the Sixties, when the word "computer" sounded like something from outer space, Ramadan meant to us, first of all, shorter school days, surprisingly lenient teachers and amazingly tolerant parents.
It meant also daily futile attempts at fasting - to follow the example of older folks - that were duly aborted around mid-day or so with the secret encouragement of a loving mum, who would assure us that God is merciful and compassionate and that He will accept half a day of fasting from a thin, pale child about to collapse from hunger.
Our happiness, as children, would be greatest whenever Ramadan hit winter seasons, meaning shorter days of fasting compared to brutally long summer days. But the older relatives with stern faces were always ready to keep that happiness, which they secretly shared, hidden in shame and denial - as if the higher the suffering the bigger is the reward for the pious.
Sunset was our favourite time of the day, when the entire family along with a permanent rotation of visiting relatives, friends and neighbours would gather for the rich meal of Iftar.
I still remember the special recitations that my father used to say, just minutes before the call to prayer that officially declares the end of daily fasting. I remember our childish nervous shifting as we looked with hungry eyes at a variety of home cooked dishes, in different colours and shapes, unable to touch anything before the verbal permission of our dad.
I had an aunt who would hold several mouthfuls of food in both hands waiting for the call to prayers. Just as the preacher would utter the first syllable, my aunt would start battling mercilessly with all combinations of food that by the time the call to prayers ended she would raise her head and say: "I am full!"
Ramadan also meant delayed bedtime. We were allowed to stay up as much as our eyes can hold. Entertainment meant sitting in front of a black-and-white TV set, which my family was the first to own in the neighbourhood, and watch an old Arabic movie.
Permanent seat
One of our neighbours, Umm Khalil, used to reserve a permanent seat for herself in our living room during the entire month of Ramadan. She would fall in deep sleep whenever an Arabic movie starts, only to wake up suddenly when it ends, demanding a full recoup of the story from beginning to end. We had a field day with widely imagined and twisted storylines intended to confuse Umm Khalil and to punish her for snoring during her sleep.
No Ramadan night was complete without the drummer, Al Musahher, who used to roam the dark streets every night, calling on those who are sleeping to wake up and have a bite in preparation for fasting on the following day. Many times he would call certain people with their names, which was a sign of pride to the entire family.
After 30 days of fasting, Ramadan ends with a feast - Eid Al Fitr. For that we would buy new clothes, get extra money from our parents and relatives and spend our days in a local park filled with the most primitive, dangerous and unimaginative attempts to create a shabby, pathetically dysfunctional Disneyland. I am talking about decorated donkeys, coloured chicks, painted sheep, contaminated pickles, improvised movie theatres, Chinese fireworks in endless supply and the ever present small boats hanging from ropes and serving as swings.
Today, Ramadan is something totally different; it is unfortunately consumed and eclipsed with TV.
Today Ramadan is the platinum month for television viewing and advertising. It has turned into the month that witnesses the annual mother of battles among drama series.
I miss the old coloured chicks.
Ahmad Zahzah is a media consultant based in the UAE.
