Ramadhan, with a dh.

Posting to: The Black Keys, Magic Potion and Rubber Factory

Transliterating the ninth month of the Islamic calendar as 'Ramadhan' may look silly (I think it does, but I'm notoriously snooty about my transliterations), but it's the closet that this, the glorious Latin alphabet, can come to ض, or the letter dhad.

The dhad, my friends, is the most unique letter in the Arabic language. Some may credit the 'ain (looks like ع and it's the letter that starts the word Eid - you see some people represent with a 3), and others, the ghain (looks like غ and it's the bane of any Arabic-learning Anglo-speaker's existence), but they're wrong. This little letter - close to the retroflexed D present in many Indian languages - is the most unique and interesting letter in the Arabic language, and even the known linguistic world.

You see, friends, the Arabic language is the only codified language on earth to utilize the dhad. Mm-hmm, that's right.

(It's okay if you don't find that interesting. I love stuff like this, but I'm pretty nerdy.)

I thought that'd be a nice introduction to Ramadan. I've thought a lot about Ramadan since it ended ten (or so) days ago, and there are a few key elements of the season that I'd like to highlight.

It's written.
Fasting during the month of Ramadan is one of the pillars, or key tenants, of Islam. The other four include the proclamation of faith (declaring your belief that God is a single entity and that Muhammad was his messenger), prayer (performing the obligatory five daily prayers), giving alms (technically, 2.5% of your yearly income, though I'm not sure how stricly this is followed), and making the pilgrammage to Mecca (providing you're physically and financially capable).

Blash: going without.
Some people are forced, through circumstance, to go without food or water for more than just sunrise to sunset. It's not fair, but no one ever told you that life was going to be fair. While Islam doesn't provide a plan to solve world hunger (actually, it seems to be quite the opposite: Islam is fatalistic by design), the Ramadan fast is a reminder of how lucky we are to be able to afford food and drink whenever we want it.

Self-discipline.
Fasting is not easy at any time of year. The weather could be a pleasant 72/23 degrees with a slight breeze, and you'd still be hungry by the time l-mghrb (the sunset, fast-breaking prayer) comes around. Ramadan's a time to check yourself and your habits, and to prod you in the direction of the 'straight path.' What's even more of a test of your discipline, friends, is making up the days that you didn't fast, after Ramadan and Eid is over. I've got six more days to go. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Contrast.
The Ramadan season contrasts the cycle of daily life in about every way possible. Virtually everyone becomes an early riser, to partake in one last pre-dawn meal before fasting officially begins for the day. Then, the standard daily trips to the store, to see the neighbors or to romp around town in your newest amelhaf drops off dramatically, and people either grumble about their offices at work or putz around the house (we'll get into just how much putzing took place in my house in a bit) without any extraneous errands, visiting of the neighbors or... well, anything extraneous at all. Even those morally opposed to napping seem to succumb to mid-afternoon slumber during this time of year, and everyone makes it a point to be home in time for the breaking of the fast at sundown. While during other times of the year sundown is the most hopping time of day for socializing and being outside to greet the world, Ramadan puts everyone (and I mean everyone) in a house and out of the street at sundown (which is called tiwooch in my dialect of Berber).

Okay, so that's what Ramadan meant to me, in a nutshell. Very romantic, I know. Now, allow me to share with you my daily Ramadan schedule. This wasn't every single day during the month, but this schedule dominated my Ramadan experience. It was still averaging 110/44+ degrees everyday at the beginning of Ramadan this year, and I didn't want to even put clothes on, let alone exert the energy needed to put on sunscreen and go outside. With that in mind, keep your judging minimal (or at least... keep it to yourself):

3:45a - wake up and eat one more meal, consisting usually a frozen yogurt with cut-up fruit and museli, water and iced tea.
4:45a - chug the last of my water, brush my teeth and then head back to bed after the first call to prayer.
8:00a - wake up again, and do the daily chores: sweeping the house, doing dishes or laundry and generally tidying up. I'd then hop back in bed and read the day's portion of the Qur'an and either reflect on it, or listen to music. I'd then head to my sitting room where I'd boot up my computer, pop in the ol' external hard drive and pick out a movie.
After the first movie - I'd get up (to avoid ponj-sores), wash my face and grab my journal, and then write for a bit. I'd also use this time to decide where I was going to break the fast: in my house, with a home-cooked meal, or at someone else's house, Moroccan-style.
Around 2:00p - time for a second movie. I'd pick one that I'd seen recently or didn't really care about, because I was really just looking for white-noise to lull me into an afternoon nap (as if I'm not already an expert napper).
4:30p - a knock on my door would wake me up from my heat/hunger-induced slumber, and I'd throw on a scarf and grumble to myself in Tashlenglish as I answer the door. The same two little girls, every day, bless their bored, not-fasting little hearts. I'd hand over my tagrtilt (the woven mat that I use for sitting on the roof) to them, tell them that I'd join them once I woke up, and then I'd sit upstairs with them until it was time to run over to someone's house, or to prepare my own break-fast table of fruit juice, Berber coffee, iced tea, water, and assorted treats like dates, hard-boiled eggs, cinammon toast, soup, pasta, fruit, etc.
7:00p - time to break the fast!
Midnight-ish - drink my last sips of water and head to bed, with the alarm set for 3:45a.

Eid l-fitur, or Leid Saghir/Leid Imziy here in Morocco, is fitting for its name, which translates to small celebration. I went to host family's house and sat around for a little while, and then went to another friend's house and sat around for a while there, too. I hear that it's tradition to get up early and go to the houses of the poor families in the community offering them either flour or money as your yearly zakat (giving alms is one of the pillars of Islam, remember), but I didn't partake in that tradition for personal reasons.

(If you must know, everyone already asks me for money. And as I learned in grade school, if I give to one person, I have to give to everyone... for the next nineteen months. Without making that Greg Mortenson reference that would be totally appropriate here, let's just say that I don't get paid enough for that.)

And there you have it, folks. رمضان. Ramadan. I can't wait to see how next year goes!