BC True Life: I'm celebrating Ramadan

I scramble toward the window in the semi-dark, tripping over a pair of jeans, as I desperately attempt to escape the zombie horde at my heels.

"Shut it off," my roommate mumbles.

What?

Oh. The alarm clock. Of course. It's 4:45 a.m. I swallow, trying to ease the dryness in my throat and stumble with eyes only half-open into my suite's kitchen. Easy Mac? Granola bar? Hell, I think, why not go all out? It's Ramadan, the holy month of fasting for Muslims, and I won't be eating or drinking from dawn until sunset. I glance at the clock and eat quickly - dawn's approaching, and with it, the time to set aside my utensils and pray.

Hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, head, ears, feet - that's how the Muslim cleaning ritual goes. I've been performing it since kindergarten and my hands move automatically, wiping away my sins with tap water, purifying myself for my meeting with God.

There is nothing especially sacred-seeming or even dignified about standing in a dimly lit dorm common room wearing maroon Boston College Eagle sweatpants, a baby-blue bathrobe, and a messy green and gold scarf wrapped around my head. But, gazing at the prayer rug before me, I feel the familiar sense of belonging, that this is exactly where I need to be. My breathing slows, I set my feet shoulder width apart, and lift my hands to my ears.

"Allahu Akbar," I say, into the quiet to begin the prayer. For this brief period, every moment is worship, whether I'm standing still or bowing, silent or murmuring prayers. I finish sitting on my knees after saying peace to the angels on my shoulders. All praise and thanks are due to God, the traditional Arabic phrase rises in my mind spontaneously. It's a phrase that to me now only has meaning in the moments it describes; moments like these, where a new day is beginning and I'm unprepared, reluctant, but content. All right, Allah, I think, Wherever you want to take me. I look at the neat pile of books I piled up the night before on our little coffee table, all the work I was too tired or unfocused to do yesterday. I take a deep breath, snuggle into our God-sent bowl-chair, and slog my way through my never-ending pile of reading.

I've spent most of my Ramadans in Islamic school, where homework was assigned with the two-hour late-night prayers in mind and, at 2 p.m., when I was staring glassy-eyed at my math teacher, she completely understood. All our teachers did, since they fasted with us, prayed with us, struggled as we did for self-betterment and nearness to God. It is a unique feeling to see your teacher as your sister, or to be standing in prayer late at night in the mosque, exhausted and maybe a little back-sore, and have one of your peers suddenly appear by your side, shoulder to shoulder with you.

"Did you study for the bio test?" I would ask afterward.

"You kidding me? I fell asleep as soon as I got home."

Admittedly, classes at BC are somewhat different. They lack the spiritual component I'm used to in Ramadan, and I struggle with ordering my priorities. Acquiring knowledge, applying oneself, that's a religious duty - but duties only go so far in the heart, and I find myself torn.

Most times, though, sheer physical exhaustion usually kicks in, and I'm saved any decision. After classes, I get back to my room, force myself to pray the second prayer of the day, and then collapse onto my bed. Sometimes I manage to get work done, but usually I'm simply too tired or hungry to focus. All attempts at reading find me asleep on my bed surrounded by books that are mostly academic, some clothes, loose paper, and a frustratingly uncomfortable Rubik's Cube that manages to get jammed in there somehow. Come sunset, I'm usually woken up by a friend to pray and eat.

Breaking fast at sunset is usually cause for celebration, and Muslims have a long tradition of throwing dinners, called iftars, for fellow community members to enjoy. When I was living at home, it felt like there was a party every day. If we weren't visiting family or friends, we broke fast at the mosque, and if we were at home, that was fine, too; my mom or one of my grandmothers, maybe even a cousin or an aunt, would whip up something appetizing, and the entire family would drop whatever they were doing to eat. In my family, this meant the boys dragged themselves away from their video games, my father left his cell phone in his home office, I shut off the computer, and my mom and grandparents finally got the satisfaction of a family meal.

Breaking fast at BC, while at times a bit dubious in the food department, is still very much a bonding experience. Every year, one or two of my non-Muslim friends decides to fast the month with me, and we make a point of breaking fast together. Even the friends that don't fast make sure to hold off on dinner until the rest of us can eat. For me, this is an unprecedented show of solidarity; I never expected my friends to give up eating during the day for a month, despite school, despite socializing with friends, despite the lure of adequate sleep, simply to show me their support or try out something new. Ramadan, it seems, keeps surprising me.

And I think that's perfect. To me, Ramadan is the month of possibilities. Sure, once I left Islamic school for secular institutions, the holy month became more of a burden. An entire month of no eating, of forcing myself to concentrate in classes designed not around the individual student, but around the amount of students that need to get through the system (an unfortunate reality). But the month is still not devoid of merit. In fasting with my friends, I feel closer to them. We grow together, and I get to see sides of them I never would have expected.

In the BC Muslim community, too, there's growth and challenges, like trying to establish the two-hour evening prayers on campus, since it's usually too much of a hassle to trek over to BU every night. This year, that fell through. But that's fine, too, because Ramadan isn't about how much I necessarily accomplish - at least, not for me. It's about the struggle. It's about the moments where I think I'm going to break, but don't, because I've decided not to, because I've got a greater purpose. More than family and community, it's about pushing myself personally, about disciplining my desires.