Ramadan is here.
In recent years, Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, has become part of mainstream American society. It is frequently cited in hip-hop and even made an appearance in Eminem’s epic freestyle takedown of United States President Donald Trump at the BET Awards. In keeping with the tradition started by former president Thomas Jefferson, former presidents George W. Bush and Barack Obama hosted Muslim community leaders and dignitaries at Ramadan dinners, featuring a variety of exquisite halal meats. The holy month is now even linked to the most sacred American tradition, consumerism: Party City has introduced a line of Ramadan decorations featuring mosques, stars-and-crescent symbols.
But I want more. This Ramadan, I’m in search of something substantive that nurtures my soul and truly transforms America, which is wounded, suffering from a resurgence in open expressions of hate against racial and religious minorities, and politicians who seek to profit off the divides. I know the solution will start at home, so this month, grateful for my privileges, I’ll try praying for enemies, friends and frenemies.
Taking a page from US First Lady Melania Trump’s campaign for children, I remain convinced this Ramadan can help Americans of all faiths “be best”: We can emerge from this holy time as the greatest version of ourselves.
The Arabic root for the word Ramadan means “scorched”. The month deliberately disrupts your routine, your comfort and your mode of thinking. You hunger, you thirst, you engage with family members and community members that you’d otherwise avoid and disown. The disruptions create opportunities for growth. I welcome these strictures as an invitation to expand my community and capacity for generosity. Try is the key word here.
A few weeks ago, I was driving to deliver a speech about Ramadan for a Muslim student group and their non-Muslim friends who were fasting in solidarity to raise funds for Rohingya refugees. My right tyre blew out on the highway right before the exit. I pulled over to change it, but my suburban dad skills failed and my car jack broke, leaving me upset with myself and stranded on the side of the road. I tried to flag down a friendly car. For 35 minutes, nobody stopped. With my dead cell phone in hand, I just stood there, freezing, praying that someone would help me. Finally, a young black driver, who turned out to be a student working on a doctorate, pulled over. The student waved off my profuse thanks by saying, “If it happened to me I hope someone would do the same.”
“Well, no one did except you,” I said, wiping off my numb, dirty face.
There was another reason for stopping, my saviour told me: “I saw a fellow person of colour and around here, well, we all got to help each other.”
I used the student’s phone to call a tow truck, and then we started chatting about life.
We were interrupted when a tough-looking white dude with an earring arrived, smiling broadly, to change my tyre and jump-start my car. He went above and beyond the call of duty, assuring me that I’d make it to my speaking engagement and taking the time to make sure I knew the best places in town to have dinner afterwards.
My small crisis had just created an opportunity to form a tiny, temporary multicultural community. I can find the Ramadan spirit not only in fasts and prayers, but in situations such as these: On the side of the road in Williamsburg, Virginia, where a black student and a white man from the South reached out to help a brown Muslim stranger, get his car running.
The moment on the side of the road reminded me what this holy month was about: Reaching out and helping each other.
— New York Times News Service
Wajahat Ali is a playwright, lawyer and contributing opinion writer.
