Celebrating an age-old tradition in uncertain times
“Imagine a Ramadan without food.”
These are Hassan’s opening words, as he walks ahead of me into the construction site. I try to conjure up an image, but nothing comes up. I am unfamiliar with Islamic traditions, and he knows it. I’m not in a position to imagine what a Ramadan without food looks like. Although his back is turned to me, I feel the knowing smile that sneaks into his round, cheeky face.
We enter the construction site that. Once completed, it will be the Masjid Abdulrahman & His Wife in Korogocho, one of the largest informal settlements in Nairobi. The new structure is replacing a smaller, very unstable one which has seen better times.
Nevertheless, it has severed as a mosque for generations of Muslim faithful. The building of this new mosque has been funded by a Muslim woman in memory of her late husband. My host, a former high school mate, is one of the site engineers.
In the face of Covid-19, work goes on, but with additional safety measures. Face masks have joined an assortment of overalls, hard caps, and safety boots. There are fewer workers, who are more sparsely distributed than usual. We walk past them, and head to a white tent stationed beside a pile of brownish riverine sand. They work on.
“Please, take a seat,”says my host, and points at a plastic chair on one side of a wooden table filled with technical drawings. He takes his seat, directly opposite mine. This is our first time meeting in years, and both our faces are hidden behind blue face masks. Still, I can see a smile of friendship and shared history in his eyes.
It is reassuring.
“Make yourself comfortable, old friend. Allow me to tell you what a Ramadhan without food is.”
I lean back, as he starts his narration:
“Far beyond nutrition, food has cultural value. Regardless of where one comes from, the types of food you consume, and the manner of consumption, is closely tied to your culture. Oftentimes, religious beliefs play a major role in shaping these food cultures. In Islam, fasting during Ramadan is one of the religious practices closely tied to consumption.”
New religious traditions?
“We are currently in Ramadan, the holiest month in the Islamic calendar. Not even in my wildest dreams, have I ever dreamt of a Ramadan with empty mosques. But that is the case. Even Mecca itself is free of pilgrims. It is just unimaginable, but such is life. And it is all thanks to the Covid-19…”
Drrrrrrr! Drrrrrrrrr! Drrrrrrrr!
An electric cutting tool cuts him off. The machine produces brilliant sparks behind him. He turns around to check the source, possibly out of curiosity or irritation. Left with nothing to hold onto but my thoughts, I can’t help but think about his last statement: It is true, religion has been of the biggest casualties of the virus.
Being largely communal, religious gatherings are perfect breeding grounds for Covid-19. Around the world, religious assemblies were among the first things to be banned, as countries enforce strict social distancing rules. Unbelievably, the Vatican’s iconic St. Peter’s Square was empty during one of the most important events on the Christian calendar, Easter. Jerusalem is closed, to followers of all the three Abrahamic religions. The Hajj has been put on hold. Hindu devotees are conspicuously absent from the banks of the holy Ganges River.
All major religions are finally united, in the war against this deadly virus.
“Fasting…”
Hassan’s voice pulls me away from these thoughts. The machine has stopped running. A construction worker in grey overalls and brown cap walks away, carrying an iron bar. He is facing me now, and picks up from where left off:
“…Fasting is the cornerstone of Ramadhan. Muslim faithful fast for the entire month, eating only two meals a day: Suhur before daybreak and Iftar just before sunset. These meals, especially Iftar, are normally taken in communal gatherings either at home or in mosques. Usually, wealthier Muslims purchase more food and share with the less fortunate members of our community. Like the construction of this mosque, it is an act of charity”.
“For many poor households, access to food during this Ramadan has been made more difficult by the coronavirus.”
He then launches into an insightful explanation of the current situation:
In the words of the Chief Kadhi, he starts by acknowledging that the government’s issuing of a 5 AM- 7 PM countrywide curfew, and banning of communal gatherings, is the right thing to do. Just a few days ago, more stringent movement restrictions were placed on Nairobi’s Eastleigh neighbourhood, and Mombasa’s Old Town — both with predominantly Muslim populations — due to their alarming infection rates.
The majority of people in these neighbourhoods, like most Kenyans, are poor. They have no, or limited, sources of income, and the mosques are closed. They’re now faced with the stark reality of having to fulfil their religious duties, while not being able to access food as readily as before. They are caught up in what you would call a rock and a hard place.
Unfortunately, this reality is also echoed nationwide, irrespective of religious affiliation. Hundreds of thousands of households have also lost their sources of income due to the economic downturn. Across the country, almost 150,000 jobs have already been lost, with the most vulnerable being poor people.
Is there hope?
Vroooom! Vroooom! Vrrrooooom!
As if calling for a break to this depressing analysis, our conversation is disrupted once more. A huge truck full of ballast reverses into the site and stops near the pile of sand. We wait. The driver raises its yellow bed, and the cargo comes tumbling down. We wait, as a ton of dust strikes our faces. We wait. The dust settles. The dust clears away, like all dark clouds eventually do.
“Of course, we have not been sleeping,” Hassan continues. He outlines the efforts that Muslims around the country are making to come together to ensure that the most vulnerable among them are catered for in these difficult times.
“Different organizations and individuals are holding food drives. These efforts are good, and hopefully all that are in need will be reached. Ramadhan goes on for another fortnight and with coronavirus showing no signs of slowing down, the effects are bound to get worse. We will work harder to provide for the needy.”
“What are you praying for, Hassan?” I ask.
He answers immediately, as if it was the question he had been waiting for all along:
“I am praying for our health workers. I am praying that they may continue having the courage, strength and knowledge they need to fight the virus. I am praying for the sick brothers and sisters. I wish them quick recovery. I am praying for solace, for the bereaved. It must be tough for them. I remain hopeful that the virus will be contained soon.”
His thoughts seem to wander away. He recovers, and points towards a pair of freshly cast concrete pillars.
“I also pray that by this time next year, this structure will be complete. I pray that by then, normalcy will have resumed and the mosque shall be filled to capacity. We shall pray under its domes, and give thanks to the gift of life. We shall share meals right here, during Ramadan. We shall eat, and commune together.”
He takes a deep breath, then asks:
“That is my prayer, old friend. What’s yours?”
Written by Atula Owade.
This article is part of Covid-19 Food/Future, an initiative under TMG ThinkTank for Sustainability’s SEWOH Lab project (https://www.tmg-thinktank.com/sewoh-lab). It aims at providing a unique and direct insight into the impacts of the Covid-19 pandemic on national and local food systems. Also follow @CovidFoodFuture, our Video Diaries From Nairobi, and @TMG_think on Twitter. Funding for this initiative is provided by BMZ, the German Federal Ministry for Economic Cooperation and Development.
