Cynthia Thanda
On 19th February 2026, I embarked on a personal journey of fasting alongside some of my Muslim colleagues. As I sat on my bed before sunrise, the quiet hum of anticipation settled around me.
I didn’t know what or how the month would reshape me – my habits, patience, and spiritual welfare, but I felt a spark of belonging, as though I was about to be spiritually awakened.
As a Christian, I was not unfamiliar with fasting. I had practised three, seven or fourteen-day fasts before, but a full month was uncharted territory. For me, fasting is a way of connecting with God, a time to focus on my spirit.
So when Ramadan arrived, it felt less like deprivation and more like an exciting spiritual journey. The first day was surprisingly easy, and as the rhythm of the days unfolded, I found myself feeling more alive, mentally, physically, and spiritually.
Each morning began in the quiet hours of dawn when the world was still asleep, around 4 a.m., and as the days progressed, it would drop by a minute, with Suhoor– the pre-fast meal.
I quickly learned that Suhoor was more than nourishment; it was a ritual of preparation, a reminder that the day ahead would demand patience and restraint.
Soon after came the Azan, the call to prayer, which resonated with me as not so different from my own Christian practice of waking early to pray for the Holy Spirit’s strength and presence.
The contrasts between Christian and Islamic fasting became clearer as the days passed. In Christianity, fasting often varies by denomination and can be deeply personal, sometimes a partial fast, sometimes abstaining from specific habits, and sometimes a complete dry fast.
In Islam, however, Ramadan is a collective experience: abstinence from food, drink, and distractions, with national schedules even adjusted in Muslim-majority countries.
As the day unfolded, fasting added a new layer of awareness to ordinary tasks. Work meetings, errands, and conversations carried a subtle undercurrent of discipline. Hunger was present, yes, but I felt a sense of spiritual awareness.
I began to see time differently, measuring the hours not by meals but by moments of reflection. Furthermore, fasting meant abstaining not only from food and water but also from habits that distract from mindfulness, such as idle talk or impatience.
This helped me cultivate self-control and spiritual awareness. I noticed how often I even tried to stay away from social media, which was a struggle, and this has really opened my eyes to the fact that I’m so enslaved by my devices, and I have lost focus.
As sunset approached, the anticipation of iftar grew. Traditionally, Muslims break the fast with dates and water, following the example of the Prophet Muhammad, before moving on to a fuller meal.
When I compare it to when I am fasting as a Christian, I normally pray and just drink water before moving on to prepare dinner. Nonetheless, that first sip of water after a long day felt profoundly refreshing.
On 13th March, I was invited to a Bangladeshi iftar. The table overflowed with samosas, pakoras, beguni, sliced fruits, and drinks. Just days later, on 16th March, I joined an Algerian iftar with my sister and cousin, where we shared chorba frik, bourek, and leben.
These communal meals highlighted one of Ramadan’s most beautiful aspects: the spirit of sharing and togetherness.
The hardest part of my first Ramadan wasn’t the hunger; it was the quiet moments when I was alone with my thoughts. By mid-afternoon, the fatigue would settle in, and I’d catch myself counting the hours until sunset.
There were days when I felt irritable, when the world seemed heavier and chaotic, and I wondered if I could keep going. Yet, those struggles became the very heart of the journey.
Each hunger pang reminded me of those who live with it daily, not by choice but by circumstance, those who live with nothing but hope and faith that tomorrow will bring something different.
Each wave of tiredness taught me patience and to listen to myself. It reminded me of my strength and resilience. Ramadan reminded me of the biblical verse: “Man shall not live by bread alone.”
It showed me that, despite our differences in faith, we share a common pursuit: discipline, reflection, and closeness to God.
As Ramadan drew to an end, I was struck by the similarities between Islam and Christianity. Both traditions, though distinct in practice, share the same purpose: to draw believers nearer to God through sacrifice, patience, and spiritual renewal.
