Beckoning
The earliest Ramadhan I can remember being fully acquainted with involved the discomfort of the call for lunch time. In standardized American elementary school fashion, that involved lining up at the front of the class when it was our turn and marching together to the cafeteria where the lunch ladies would serve the menu of the day (unless you brought your own lunch). As the only Muslim in that good old Kentucky school class, Ramadhan meant that I would have nothing to do at the cafeteria, and as a kid it was rather off-putting to watch other people eat while I had to fast. So the school’s solution was to take the muslim kids (of which there were four or five, two of which being me and my brother) to this other class where we could hang around and wait until lunch was over.
It instilled to me the potent reminder that I was different.
Back then, I remember once being somewhat shy — ashamed even, when a friend commented rather harshly about the odd things I was reciting to myself (it was Surah ‘Abasa, and from there I rarely brought up anything Quran-ish when I went to school). And it felt like there was an entire dimension of my identity that I couldn’t really explain to other people.
“You pray five times a day? How come?”
“Why do you fast during Ramadhan? You can just drink a little bit, I won’t tell anyone!”
“Why does your mom wear that scarf thing?”
But Ramadhan always offered a different kind of joy that swept away all notions of discomfort involved with my minority identity — and that was when we congregated. In a hadith from Muslim, Rasulullah shalallahu ‘alaihi wasallam said, “There are two joys for the fasting person: the joy when he breaks his fast, and the joy of when he meets his Lord.” I think I felt both at Masjid Bilal.
While my earlier childhood obviously involved the Ramadhan-in-America-experience as well, the most potent memories came from when Ramadhan was in the summer. At that point, we lived in Lexington, Kentucky, and I was old enough to start fasting the whole month. That was quite the ordeal considering that maghrib hovered around 8 to 9 PM every day.
But each maghrib, after an exhausting day, my family would drive half the city over just to go to Masjid Bilal, where each ethnicity took turns in providing a massive communal ifthar for the entire muslim community of Lexington. One day it would be Egyptian food, the next Indian, the next some amalgamation of Mediterranean, and at some point my family and our friends would be super hectic preparing the best Indonesian cuisine in Lexington. I remember the super long cloth spread out in the mosque hallway, lined with cups of water and dates, where us kids and parents chattered while waiting for the adzan. And after the prayer we would line up in the huge tent on the grass field for a lavish ifthar meal.
As a kid, I never finished the super long 23-rakaat tarawih that was lead by a native speaking imam, and instead built friendships at the playroom with the other muslim kids. We bonded over our shared experience as minorities in a state that was generally unfriendly to our kind.
So yeah. I’ve always associated joyous memories with Ramadhan since then. Aside from Bilal, there was the Ramadhan tree decoration my parents hung up at home, the snacks we would get if we fasted the day, the friendly uncle at the halal meat store that gave us tickets to Six Flags when we told him honestly that we fasted the whole month, and the guy who brought goodie bags for the kids at the Eid prayer in Rupp Arena.
Upon heading back to Indonesia, my participation in Masjid Salman’s Ramadhan activities year after year also hammered in this spirit of Ramadhan. I became a regular visitor. And this would go on to change my life forever.
Distraught and lost, I was a final year middle schooler confused with my future. For some reason, this coincided with the first time my parents let me stay at Salman for 10 days straight during the i’tikaf. Coupled with some trusty Islamic books from my grandfather, those blessed nights opened my eyes to Islam. While my minority days hammered in my Muslim identity quite deeply, my readings and listenings on Salman’s wooden floor was what made me realize it was much more than that. Islam was comprehensive, it was all-encompassing, it was harmony itself.
This was the first time I cried during prayer. This was the first time I routinely joined a kajian series. This was the first time I started to understand the meanings behind prayer (thanks for the book, Aki!). This was the first time I really started diving into the deen. And that started with Ramadhan.
I honestly do not think I would have signed up for any Muslim youth group had I not been deeply touched by that fateful Ramadhan. And these activities would eventually shape me today.
The point of this piece is just to list off a few significant Ramadhan memories as far as my memory can reach back. And I’ve come to realize that it would be tiring and rather endless to name each and every single significant finding from each of these months, because there are genuinely so many.
What’s clear is that each Ramadhan thus far has come as the perfect response to whatever situation I was in. It was a communal celebration of identity for Rakean-the-minority-child. It was a hijrah point for Rakean-the-adolescent. It was a devastatingly humbling leadership experience for Rakean-the-big-headed-sophomore (ahem P3RI ahem). It was a lesson on independence for Rakean-after-returning-from-Penn (who was also brokenhearted lol).
As my friend Rajji likes to say, Ramadhan always comes with the perfect lesson for the perfect timing. It never misses. And it’s proper that we should each see it as such. We should try and find the traces of Allah’s mercy within the nooks and crannies of this Ramadhan, too. And I know I’ll end up connecting the dots later on, just like each past one.
Each Ramadhan has been, is, and will be a personal beckoning with different Grand Intentions. It is a gift from the Best of Planners.
So receive that gift with honor, as properly as you can.
Ramadhan kareem guys!
