Why Ramadan always feels like the fastest month — and the one we miss most

Dubai: Many people in the UAE say the same thing every year. Ramadan arrives quietly, settles into daily life, and then seems to disappear almost before it is fully felt. One day it is being anticipated; the next, it is already being counted down.

For a month that shapes routines, conversations and emotions so deeply, it somehow always feels fleeting.

Yet despite its speed, Ramadan brings an atmosphere unlike any other. Time feels different. Days slow even as weeks pass quickly. Moods soften, priorities shift, and meaning finds its way into the smallest moments. Long after the month ends, its presence lingers.

With less than five weeks to go until the crescent moon signals the start of Ramadan, a quiet countdown has begun across the country. It appears in small ways — in conversations drifting towards memories, in shopping lists that change, in evenings that feel slightly more reflective.

Alongside anticipation sits something just as familiar: nostalgia. A collective longing for the sounds, rhythms and shared moments that define the month.

For many long-time residents, Ramadan is not measured by calendars or schedules, but by sensations. The smell of cooking in the late afternoon. The stillness just before sunset. The way entire households instinctively slow down, guided by an internal clock.

These small rituals continue to shape the experience, even as prayer apps, automated reminders and late-night deliveries become part of modern routines.

For many, memories of Ramadan begin with iftar.

There is the firing of the Ramadan cannon, the Maghrib call to prayer echoing through neighbourhoods, and the sudden hush just before sunset. Conversations trail off. Eyes move between the clock and the television. People wait not for a notification, but for a sound that belongs to everyone.

In those final seconds before Maghrib, the city seems to hold its breath. Traffic eases. Shops grow quieter. Voices soften.

When the adhan finally comes, it feels less like an announcement and more like a shared release — a moment experienced simultaneously across homes, streets and mosques.

Mosques sit at the centre of the Ramadan experience. Worshippers return to the same local mosques night after night for Taraweeh, recognising familiar faces, exchanging brief greetings, standing shoulder to shoulder in the same rows.

There is comfort in that repetition — the same voices, the same rhythm, the same quiet sense of belonging.

Some moments are remembered with particular affection. Stories are still told of leaders or senior figures arriving without notice, joining prayer or iftar quietly, indistinguishable from those around them. In those moments, Ramadan’s message feels tangible: humility, equality before God, and the fading of social distance.

At home, iftar unfolds simply. Older generations often speak of how little was needed to make the meal feel complete. Dates and water come first, followed by harees, thareed or rice dishes prepared earlier in the afternoon.

Food is shared from large communal platters. Cooking is collective. The focus is not on variety or presentation, but on being together.

Neighbours exchange plates without notice — a knock on the door, warm greetings, quiet gratitude. Giving feels natural, personal and unrecorded.

For many, Ramadan is inseparable from childhood.

Helping set the table. Waiting impatiently for the adhan. Watching adults move more gently as sunset approaches. Children accompany parents to Taraweeh prayers, sometimes fighting sleep, sometimes proud to stay awake.

Staying up late, waking early for suhoor, sensing that ordinary rules have shifted — Ramadan feels special long before its deeper meaning is fully understood.

In older neighbourhoods, some still remember the musaharati, or Abu Tabaila, walking the streets before dawn, his voice drifting through the quiet night as he gently woke households for suhoor.

After iftar and prayers, evenings stretch out. Families walk through neighbourhoods, sit outside homes, and talk late into the night. Children play nearby, their laughter carrying through the warm air.

Television becomes part of the ritual too. Ramadan dramas and comedy shows are watched together, discussed the next day, and remembered years later as markers of time.

Daytime streets grow quieter. Workdays shorten. Afternoons are shaped by brief naps. Ramadan subtly reshapes the city itself.

There is nostalgia for how charity feels during Ramadan — direct and unmediated. Donation boxes in mosques, school collections and local food drives make giving tangible.

Acts of generosity are often quiet: a meal shared, a contribution slipped discreetly into a box, help offered without attention or record. Giving becomes part of the rhythm of the month, not a separate act.

As the final ten nights approach, a heightened awareness settles in. Routines shift again. Nights feel heavier with meaning. Preparations for Eid begin early. Clothes are bought weeks in advance. Homes are readied.

Alongside excitement sits a quiet sense of loss — the knowledge that Ramadan is already nearing its end.

Perhaps this is why Ramadan always feels so fleeting.

It is dense with meaning, shaped by ritual rather than repetition, defined by moments rather than milestones. When it ends, people struggle to explain how it passed so quickly — only that it did.