Ramadan

This month is Ramadan. For those of you that aren’t familiar, it is the Muslim holiday of fasting. For 30 days, from sunup until sundown you can’t eat anything or drink any water unless you are a child, sick, pregnant, or menstruating. I know what you’re thinking, it doesn’t apply to me because I’m not Muslim. But, you’re wrong. Fasting during the day means that they eat lunch at 9:30 PM so they don’t cook the meals that I am used to eating. Thankfully, I have wonderful friends and family that sent me a lot of food lately, so I have been managing to eat a semi-balanced diet.

Of course, everyone in my village asks if I am fasting—multiple times each day. I think they ask me repeatedly because they don’t really have anything else to talk to me about besides telling me that it is hot outside, that Ramadan is difficult and, am I well? One day last week, frustrated by people constantly making fun of me for not fasting, I told them that I was indeed fasting. Now, I understand that this was not the morally correct thing to do, but I just thought I would see their reaction. Unfortunately, it was not what I had hoped for. They seemed impressed at first, but then asked if I was going to pray with them. (Muslims are supposed to pray five times a day at various times.) When I told them that I couldn’t because I was a Christian, they asked, “Then why are you fasting? You should pray if you are going to fast.” I had been using my Catholic upbringing as an excuse for me not fasting in the first place—they didn’t buy into that tactic either. In the end, I found out that I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I’m ok with that because instead of being lethargic, grouchy and irritable all day, I get to eat granola bars, applesauce, and drink Propel water.

So, until Ramadan is over, my work will be limited. That just means I have an entire month to plan my next steps in Gudude Diopbe.