Ramadan in the Old Country: South Asian Women’s Memories of Celebrating the Holy Month Before Migrating
The scent of freshly fried pakoras and simmering dates in milk filled the air, blending with the sound of the Maghrib adhan echoing through the narrow streets. It was a scent, a sound, a moment forever etched in the hearts of those who once called the old country home.
For Meerab, Shibra, and Alizeh, three women from different backgrounds, Ramadan was more than just a holy month—it was a time of togetherness, of quiet reflections beneath the moonlit sky, of whispered duas that seemed to rise effortlessly toward the heavens.
Meerab’s Story: The Lanterns of Lahore
Meerab grew up in the heart of Lahore, where the streets would come alive in Ramadan. Every evening, she would accompany her father to the neighborhood masjid, where the imam’s recitation of the Quran during Taraweeh prayers would make her heart swell with peace.
But her favorite memory was the night before Eid, when the women in her household would gather in the courtyard, laughing as they applied henna on each other’s hands. The electricity would flicker, as it often did, but it didn’t matter—because the glow of the lanterns and the warmth of their shared traditions were more than enough to light up the night.
Now, living in a distant land, where Eid nights were quieter and the call to prayer was replaced by phone alarms, Meerab often longed for those flickering lanterns, those moments of uninhibited joy.
Shibra’s Story: The Kitchen That Never Slept
Shibra’s home in Karachi was always busy during Ramadan. The kitchen, the heart of their house, never rested. Her mother would wake before dawn to knead fresh dough for parathas, while Shibra and her sisters set the table for Sehri, sneaking extra sugar into their chai when Ammi wasn’t looking.
The best part of the day, though, was Iftar. The anticipation, the clatter of plates, the way everyone’s hands reached for dates at the same time. And of course, the communal iftars in the mohalla, where neighbors would exchange dishes, turning a simple meal into a grand feast.
Now, in a country where neighbors seldom knew each other’s names, Shibra missed those iftars. She tried to recreate them, inviting friends and coworkers, but something was always missing—the unspoken understanding, the shared sense of belonging.
Alizeh’s Story: The First Fast
Alizeh was only ten when she kept her first fast in Islamabad. The day had felt impossibly long, and by noon, she was convinced she wouldn’t make it till sunset. But her grandmother, wise and patient, sat her down and told her stories—of prophets, of miracles, of the blessings hidden in patience.
That evening, as she took her first sip of rose sherbet, she realized Ramadan wasn’t just about hunger—it was about endurance, about faith, about holding onto something greater than oneself.
Years later, sitting alone in her apartment in a foreign land, she thought of her grandmother’s words. Ramadan in this new place was different, lonelier. But as she lit a small candle near the window, she whispered the same stories to herself, carrying the old country within her heart.
Holding On to Home
For Meerab, Shibra, and Alizeh, Ramadan in the old country wasn’t just a memory—it was a feeling, a piece of home they carried wherever they went. And so, even in a foreign land, they found ways to hold onto those traditions: hosting henna nights, making extra food to share with colleagues, telling stories to the next generation.
Because home isn’t just a place. Sometimes, it’s the way the adhan still lingers in your mind. Sometimes, it’s the scent of chai at dawn. And sometimes, it’s in the simple act of breaking fast, knowing that somewhere, across oceans and time zones, someone from the old country is doing the exact same thing.
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