Every year since I was seven, fasting the month of Ramadan was like a rite of passage. My friends and I would mercilessly tease one another and mock fellow classmates who gobbled down a Mars bar or surreptitiously slurped a Sun Top at lunchtime. "Ya fater Ramadan, ya khaser deenak!" we would sing to those sneaking a snack (meaning "You who are breaking the fast, the one who lost his religion"). Fasting in those tender years was no easy task. We would have to wake early to have the pre-dawn suhoor or, more often than not, wake up late and eat a hearty breakfast before leaving the house.
Even at that age I understood that if I showed up at school with my lunch bag, I would be the victim of mocking and teasing. The "Ya fater Ramadan" rhyme would be sung to you all day. I always befriended classmates of other religions and stuck close to them. It gave me the chance to secretively eat a chocolate or a sandwich, away from the eyes of my Muslim friends. Fortunately for me, my record improved year after year. By the time I reached the age of 11, I managed to fast a good 10 days of the month - honestly.
Then, on my 12th birthday, everything changed. While on a family holiday in London I fell terribly ill - vomiting continuously and dropping weight rapidly. I was diagnosed with diabetes mellitus. Although Ramadan was not my immediate concern, the reality struck home in February 1994. I had gone from being one of the big boys who sang the rhyme to others to one of the boys the rhyme was sung to. Even now, as I'm 29, those words are etched in my mind.
Being diabetic did not stop me from trying to fast though, even after my specialist warned me of the potential side-effects: low blood sugar and passing out. I decided to take the challenge anyway. In February 1995 I was 13 (and a half, as we used to say) and had kept a strong regimen of waking up for suhoor, taking my insulin shot, and holding on with tooth and nail for the maghrib prayers. The days got longer and longer, until one fine day my blood glucose levels led me to devour a box of cake rolls in the school canteen.
The punishment did not come in the form of personal guilt, but rather due to the fact that my classmates had seen me do it. They sang the "fater" rhyme to me for the rest of the day. Being 13 and mocked in that way sent me into a spiral of self-doubt: how can I be a good Muslim and not be able to complete a basic ritual? How can I fix this problem? What can I do to make up for it? My mother provided the answers I was looking for. She told me something my peers clearly didn't know: Islam says if a person cannot fast for whatever reason, he or she should provide iftar for a less fortunate person every day.
Since then, every year, that has been my mission. I hope it's the mission of every fater like me. @Email:amustafa@thenational.ae
