A Ramadan and Eid in Isolation

In a month largely spent not eating, we end up thinking a lot about food, so that’s where I started. I’m not as gifted in the kitchen as my mother is, but I know that the beauty of this month comes from making an extra effort. My husband and I take turns cooking dinner, while my sons assemble fruit salad or fry samosas. Sometimes I’ll make chana, spicy chickpeas, or haleem, a savory lentil-and-meat stew, if we’re feeling fancy. Afterward, we all clean up together and discuss the next day’s menu.

Because we’re in isolation, my husband, sons, and I have started to pray the five daily prayers together, whereas before we would have observed them separately. Because we can’t go to the mosque, we’ve started listening to and watching online spiritual lectures and programs, usually together in the half hour before we break our fast. After dinner, we congregate for the nightly prayer, and then get ready to repeat the routine the next day, and the next, and the next, for the whole month.

In this way, the days have passed, but I still haven’t let go of my dread, because I know my family will feel the disruption of this pandemic most acutely on Eid, the end-of-Ramadan celebration. Usually, we would all head to the mosque, dressed in our finest, for prayer and socializing. Afterward, we would enjoy lunch at my parents’ home—a meal of khichdi (lentils mixed with rice), meat curry, sesame-coconut chutney, and crispy papadum (spicy lentil chips). For dessert: sheer khurma, a traditional pudding made with vermicelli, nuts, and milk. Following the customary Eid nap, we would make our way to a large family party, where my kids would be showered with gifts and enough money to line their pockets for the next six months.

Read: My family needed a reset. Quarantine gave us one.

I’ve been trying to imagine what Eid will look like this year. Maybe I will be adventurous and attempt to make my mom’s traditional lunch. Perhaps we will visit my parents and talk with them from the driveway for a few minutes. If my kids are very lucky, envelopes full of cash might be paper-airplaned into their grasping hands. But the day won’t be the same. I know the uncertainty that has dogged us all month will be our companion on Eid too.

Still, this month has seen a few positive developments. My mango-milkshake game has never been stronger, though admittedly my pakoras still need work. Because we are all stuck at home and we can’t eat food to distract ourselves during the day, my husband, sons, and I are taking a more active role in the rituals of Ramadan. My 15-year-old has started waking the rest of the family for the early-morning suhoor meal, and both of my sons are taking turns leading prayers out loud, their confidence growing with every recitation.

Although I don’t want to go through another Ramadan like this one, the lockdown has helped me concentrate on the purpose of this month, which can get buried beneath the deep-fried food and constant socializing. At its heart, Ramadan is meant to interrupt daily life. We wake before the sun and refrain from food and drink until evening. Many people stay up late in prayer or use the spirit of Ramadan to try to give up bad habits and start better ones. As much as I enjoy the social aspect of the month, the quiet has made personal reflection easier. Many Muslims understand fasting as an act of radical empathy, our experience of hunger and thirst and fatigue a way to honor our blessings while acknowledging the plight of others less fortunate. And I’m acutely aware of the struggles of others now, during a pandemic.