Reminiscing Ramadan

So here I am jumping on the Ramadan post bandwagon, like any good blogger would do. In the few years I have been blogging I don’t think I ever posted something longer than a Happy Ramadan post. I think it’s because I’m never really that excited about the month, except for the odd Syrian drama that I look forward to.

My memories of Ramadan are from the time I lived back in Syria. Ramadan then came during the winter time, and this is the only way I can picture it. I remember going to school early in the morning with my friends, in the school yard we would all ask each other if we were fasting or not. The litmus test, if you will, to determine whether someone was lying is in the colour of their tongue. If it was white than you passed the test, otherwise you were taunted. Although there was always one annoying kid who related the white tongue to eating labneh (dried yogurt) in the morning.

At the time my grandparents lived one floor above us, and we would often join them along with my aunts and uncles to break the fast. We would have salads, soup, and all kind of delicacies just waiting to be devoured. The TV would be set to Syria Channel 1, and we would wait for the official call of prayer from the Omayad Mosque, and at that very moment you could hear the call of prayer from the myriad of mosques dotting Damascus. Usually my grandmother would be still busy in the kitchen even after the iftar, working on every last detail of the meal. On occasion, when I got back from school, I would be sent to the neighbourhood grocer, or produce shop to buy this or that. I would ride my bike, fully knowing that I’m going to have a few kilos hanging on each side of the handle bar. On the way I would see tens of other boys, and men running around from shop to another arranging those last minute details.

After Iftar the family would gather to watch a musalsal (Syrian drama), accompanied of course with a cup of hot tea, and any number of great deserts like knafeh, mshabbak, or bakalawa. The streets after Iftar are usually busy with people, some there simply to get out, others to shop for Eid. The atmosphere is more festive than I have ever experienced.

At night, about an hour before the break of dawn, I would get a call from my grandfather to go upstairs and join them for suhoor, the meal that’s supposed to give you that last push for the tough day ahead. On our street one man had stuck to old tradition and went through the alleys of the neighbourhood at night, repeating traditional phrases, while knocking on people’s doors, trying to wake them up for the all too important meal. Ramadan to me was the best time of the year, as I’m sure it is for most people in Syria.

Here in Canada the story is different as you can imagine. Celebrating Ramadan in Canada is like celebrating Christmas in Qatar. You might find people who follow traditions, people who are excited about the month, but the one thing you will never find is the atmosphere. I think this is why I love Christmas time so much. In a way it’s a replacement of the atmosphere I miss.

But I’m excited. Next year Ramadan will creep even closer into summer, and in a few years I will be able to experience the great atmosphere all over again during summer vacation. I will be experience Ramadan during the summer for the first time, and hopefully create great memories of a brand new Ramadan.