Memories of Ramadan

As I hear the Adhan, I turn on the water and begin my wudu. The ice cold water that washes my face, hands and feet have cleansed me. My sajjadat as-salat (prayer rug) perfectly placed on the wooden floor as I cover myself from head to toe and face the direction of the Kaaba. Right then and there I say the words that have been bestowed upon me during this lifetime; Allahu-Akbar (God is the Greatest) and just like that, I begin my prayer.

This has been my routine, 5 times a day, everyday.

The beauty of this time is that it is always my alone time (mentally). A time where I can stop my thoughts and recite the words of my creator. Of course, the beauty of prayer for me has always been the communal aspect.

I miss bumping into my friends as we all head to prayer. I miss being able to call a friend to come and prayer besides me. I miss having someone lead a prayer. Yet, I have seen the same wall that surrounds my room. No one to enter it.

All that I have left during my prayers are just the memories. The memories of hugging my friends after we have finished, the memories of the life talks, as we sit in a masjid or a prayer room and only so much more. We’re all left with memories from a time that was once part of a routine.

This year, Ramadan was filled of memories of what once was. Planning iftar with friends, going to the masjid after hours for taraweeh, drinking hot tea and enjoying the night, only until it’s time to fast again. Now we enter Eid Al-Fitar, putting a close to the Holy month of Ramadan. This year, we’re filled with the memories of the large gatherings at the masjid, wearing our best “Eid outfits”, making a large meal to share with friends and family, and my all-time favorite, the Eid prayer.

Yet, for me, the memories have always been a part of my routine.

The summers, up to 2011, were where my favorite memories come from: Damascus, Syria.

The Umayyad Mosque, probably one of the largest Mosque in the old, beautiful City of Damascus. There was excitement that came over me each time I knew where we were going. My favorite part of the mosque was the huge opening that exposed the tile floors to the blazing hot sun. In the middle of the whole tile floor was this beautiful fountain. As I take off my shoes, I run by the other children around me, the sound of the Adhan as loud as it can be, with the bottom of my feet exposed to the heat of the blazing hot tile floor, to only reach the fountain with the ice cold water. And I would do it again, and again and again because all my eyes could see was the fountain. Now the fountain and the tile floors of the Mosque are just a memory of what was once part of a routine.

We’re now all surrounded with memories, memories that become bittersweet, memories of routines that we only can hope we can recreate soon. Maybe for me, the fountain was something to look forward to. It was an attachment that I had, because the same fountain I ran to, was the same fountain that my Father once ran to. His memories of a Ramadan that once was, all came from Al-Umayyad Mosque. A place where after Maghrib, my father would go, to listen to a Sheikh tell stories about Hajj and the Islamic Faith. His memories only to embrace mine. To remember a time of what once was.

We may be hurting, we may be adjusting, but think of the memories of what once was and hopefully the ones that will be.

Remember: “We made the [Kaaba] a place of return for the people and a place of security.” (Quran 2:125)

Maxine Lahoumh, SFC '20

Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, Syria