The eve of Ramadan is always contentious. Debates on moon sightings, calculations, and time zones rage in nearly every household and mosque throughout the world. Yet, the trouble of settling on a precise date seems trivial in light of the fact that preparations have long been underway.
Disregarding the annual bickering between imams and sheikhs, Muslim women have already taken matters in to their own hands. For weeks, they are responsible for making lists, gathering ingredients, folding pastries, and mixing the perfect syrup-sugar ratio of Rooh-Afza. It is these duties, rather than any unified declaration, that announce the coming of Ramadan in any Muslim household.
And yet, while the fruits of their labor abound at the time of iftar, rarely do we consider these practices as central, rather than periphery, to the experience of Ramadan. To outsiders, the holy month is simply characterized by fasts lasting from sunrise to sunset. The individual act of fasting is given collective meaning only in that Muslims share the same daily practice within their given religious institution.
If we shift our gaze from a focus on individuals fasting to question what collective forces make the fast possible, our understanding of the holy month is opened to new possibilities. To engage in an unapologetically female perspective of Ramadan is, in effect, an attempt to question our assumptions about religious and social authority. To recontextualize Ramadan in this way, let me offer the example of my family:
Nearly a month before the first fast, my Nani (grandmother) takes inventory of our household items: Meat? Check. Flour? Check. Dates? Check. Samosa wrappers? Check. More meat? Check. Whatever is found to be insufficient is added to the ever-growing shopping list. Disappointed in the scarcity of ingredients in our small suburban town, she orders subsequent trips to be made to South Asian and Middle Eastern supermarkets in adjacent cities.
During the day, Nani manages to relax and gossips with my aunts in Canada on the phone. The first question on everyone’s lips: “So, how are preparations going?” There is no need to clarify what they are preparing for. The women are well aware of the time of year and their subsequent responsibilities. They eagerly share recipes, shortcuts, and worries. Each year, they express the same concern: “How will it all get done in time?” Each year, they take turns assuring each other: “Inshallah, it will happen.”
Like the home-stretch before any deadline, the week before Ramadan requires at least one all-nighter. Gathering as many workers as she can, Nani arranges my sisters, mother, and I into skilled assembly line at the kitchen table. The first separates the samosa wrappers, the next cuts them to the appropriate size, then comes the stuffing, folding, and sealing. Quietly and diligently, we work into the night as the pile of pastries grows taller and taller.
Frustrated by the tedious tasks, each year my sisters and I propose that we skip the elaborate food, keep it simple. I mean, what does a perfectly-folded samosa matter to someone who’s been fasting for over 12 hours? While my mother, tired after a long day at work, can sympathize, Nani quickly shoots down our complaints. She gives no explanation, but her silence reminds us that somehow it does matter.
As the first fast approaches and with it the annual moon sighting confusion, the women of my family pay little attention. After all, who would they be if they let a difference of one or two days derail their extensive plans?
The month progresses in a blur of fried foods, furious eating, and, of course, prayer. Yet, to keep these festivities within our household would betray the spirit of the season. Instead, my mother sends iftari to neighbors and family friends. These small packages of spring rolls, pakoras, and fruit chaat may seem modest, but they extend a sense of care and belonging outside of our individual homes.
On weekends, this sentiment is heightened when we gather at the local mosque for iftar. Surprisingly, here men are responsible for preparing and cooking the communal meal. Yet, things are far from relaxed on the women’s side. There are children to be wrangled, plates waiting to be distributed, and food to be judged. Though not immediately responsible for feeding those gathered, it is the women’s opinions that will decide the iftar’s success.
After all, women and children often form the majority of the congregation. As a result, although women relinquish the formative responsibility they possess in the domestic space, they remain a central component of mosque life. However, given their physical, social and political marginalization in religious and domestic spaces, it is easy to forget the way in which women continue to impact them through informal interactions.
The productive capacity of women is largely overlooked in attempts to locate nodes of formal authority, such as representation on the mosque board, economic success, or political leadership. While the acts of preparing, cooking, and building community for the holy month may seem negligible, they are the integral to creating the experience of Ramadan. This is not to overlook the misogyny prevalent in this division of labor. Rather, by making women’s labor visible and centering it in our perspective of the holy month, we can attempt to elevate it to the same level of male institutional authority.
This discussion is not limited to Muslim women, but countless marginalized people whose productive labor is rendered invisible by hegemonic forces.
As Muslims worldwide welcome Ramadan’s arrival, it is important to consider whose silent, strained, and principled efforts makes such celebrations possible. Whether we know it or not, our experiences of Ramadan begin and end with an awareness of the hands that feed us.
Rather than khutbahs and moon sighting councils, it is their practices of care that define Ramadan. That is not to say that we should respect our grandmothers, mothers, aunts, and sisters simply because they do this work.
Instead, we should highlight their work because they, too, are deserving of our respect as people.
Salwa Tareen is a graduate student at Harvard Divinity School.
