The First Ramadan Away From Home: A South Asian Woman’s Nostalgic Reflection On Missing Familiar Traditions
The faint glow of city lights filtered through the small apartment window as Zoya sat on the floor, her fingers tracing the rim of a cup of chai that had long gone cold. It was her first Ramadan away from home—thousands of miles away from the laughter, the familiar scents, and the warmth of family gatherings.
Back in Karachi, Ramadan had always been a time of togetherness. The house would come alive with the sounds of her Ammi bustling in the kitchen, the chatter of siblings setting the table, and the occasional scolding from Abba when someone tried to sneak a samosa before Maghrib. But here, in a quiet apartment in London, Ramadan felt different.
She glanced at her phone—messages from home flooded in. A picture of the iftar spread, a voice note from Ammi reminding her to eat well, a video of her younger brother teasing her cousins as they waited for the azaan. Zoya smiled, but the ache in her chest deepened.
The Absence of Familiar Rituals
“Ramadan just isn’t the same here,” she sighed, speaking to herself as she scrolled through the messages.
Back home, suhoor was a lively affair. Ammi would wake everyone up with soft pats on their arms, her voice gentle but firm. The kitchen would be filled with the aroma of parathas, anda bhurji, and steaming cups of doodh patti. Her siblings would complain about being too sleepy to eat, while Abba would remind them, “Beta, you’ll regret it later if you don’t eat properly.”
But here, suhoor was lonely. A silent apartment, a rushed meal of cereal and tea, the occasional sound of a car passing outside. No one to nudge her awake, no shared laughter over groggy eyes and half-eaten meals.
She longed for the loud iftar calls of the street vendors back home, selling pakoras and jalebis. For the way the entire city seemed to pause as the adhan echoed through the air, signaling the moment they had all been waiting for. For the way her mother’s hands would pass her a date, saying, “Bismillah, Zoya,” just as she had done since she was a child.
Finding Comfort in Small Rituals
She sighed, shaking away the loneliness, and stood up to prepare iftar. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t let the distance take away the spirit of Ramadan. She opened the small container of chana chaat she had prepared earlier, set out a few dates, and poured herself a glass of rooh afza—a small attempt to recreate the familiar comforts of home.
As she waited for the azaan, she called her younger sister, Aaliya. The screen flickered, and soon, Aaliya’s bright face appeared.
“Zoya! You missed Ammi’s dahi baray today. They were so good!” Aaliya teased, showing her a blurry plate of food.
Zoya laughed, despite the lump in her throat. “Don’t remind me. I’d give anything for one bite of Ammi’s cooking.”
“We miss you, too,” Aaliya said softly, her voice losing its playful tone. “It feels weird not having you here, fighting for the last samosa.”
Zoya smiled, feeling the familiar sting of homesickness. “Next year, insha’Allah, I’ll be home for Ramadan.”
Carrying Home in the Heart
The azaan echoed from her phone, and both sisters instinctively reached for a date. Even though she was miles away, in that moment, she was connected to her family, to her traditions, to the Ramadan she had always known.
As she whispered Bismillah and took her first bite, she realized that home wasn’t just a place. It was in the rituals, the memories, the love that spanned across oceans. And even in the quiet of her small apartment, Ramadan still held its magic.