The time I fell in love with my religion (again)

A reflection on this year’s Ramadan

مَا شَاءَ ٱللَّٰهُ

A few months ago, Alhamdulillah, I spent a week in Mecca and Medina with my family. Unlike my past trips, I realized even more how rare this moment was. I lived every single day as if it was my last. It was the true definition of living in a city that never sleeps; people would spend their days and nights praying.

Photo of Masjid Al-Haram by Author

The peacefulness I felt was indescribable.

There were so many people from different countries and ethnicities, but once the call to prayer started, everyone stood in an organized line, performed the same movements, and dressed in similar throbes or prayer gowns. Everyone was perceived as equals, no matter where they came from or what their socioeconomic status was. Although we didn’t speak each other’s language, we communicated in hand gestures.

I would hear people around me speaking in Arabic, the language of my religion, yet I had no idea what they were talking about. Or I’d pass by the signs on the walls, but I didn’t know what they meant.

It was like wanting to love someone but not understanding how they want to be loved; something that was supposed to feel familiar felt foreign to me.

At that moment, I realized that one of the reasons it was difficult for me to stay committed to reading the Quran was that I didn’t understand the Arabic language. Coming home from the trip, it made sense to me to be more serious about learning it.

I learned that Arabic is a very complex language, and it’s beautiful. There were so many rules to the choice of words, depending on the nature of the subject or object, whether feminine or masculine, and how it changes based on how many people you are talking to. Some words could not be merely translated into one word in other languages, too. Reading the Quran felt like reading the highest level of poetry, where simply reading the translations would not be enough to comprehend it — watching videos of Islamic scholars dissecting it based on the hadiths (a collection of sayings from the Prophet ﷺ) and their history made it easier for me to understand the context and meaning of these verses. Even after thousands of years since it was written, I still find them very relevant to my life; I find comfort in having guidance.

This year’s Ramadan, the holy month for Muslims, felt extra special.

My family and I attended Qiyamul Lail, a midnight prayer at a mosque just a 15-minute drive away from my house. It was one in the morning, and the streets were empty. I loved looking over the car window and seeing how the roads that used to be packed with traffic were quiet and serene.

As I entered the door to the Mosque, I whiffed a scent of perfume; it smelled like roses and wood, which brought me back to my time in Saudi Arabia. The mosque felt familiar: white walls with subtle yellow lights, clean carpeted floors with Middle Eastern borders, and air conditioners that made the room extra cold. You’d see little children sleeping peacefully in their blankets and pillows with their mothers reciting the Quran beside them.

I felt a mixture of emotions — I was in awe at how devoted they were, but I was also embarrassed because I didn’t think I had done enough this month. When the prayer started, the lights were dimmed, everyone was silent, and we could only hear the Imam’s recitation and, sometimes, the voices of children playing around in the back of the room. I only understood very few words from the recitations from my weekly Arabic lessons. Words like the oceans, mountains, birds, and several conjunctions were among the very few I remembered. It wasn’t enough to fully understand what they meant, but it was progress for me.

I found a silver lining in being in places that humbled me and made me feel like I hadn’t done enough. It’s always better to feel like you lack in something instead of feeling like you’re the smartest person in the room because that’s when you find the motivation for growth.

I also love the sense of community Ramadan brings. After the prayers, there was always a charity box with wheels passed on from the left to right side of the row, strangers beside you who’d share their praying mat when you didn’t bring yours, and neighbors and extended family members who’d send you baskets of food. At the end of the month, we’d also pay Zakat, where we give a specific portion of our wealth to those in need.

I’m beginning to openly embrace my faith without feeling the need to compromise my beliefs just to fit in with other people.

I spent years struggling with navigating my identity, where I would tone down my beliefs with the fear of not being accepted among my friends or acquaintances. Recently, instead of feeling like I’d be judged for what I wear or that I’d miss out on invitations to hang out at places I don’t feel comfortable with and lose friends who struggled to understand what my faith meant to me, I thought of it as a filter. The people who genuinely respect and love you for being yourself will stay, and those who can’t accept your changes will eventually leave.

I don’t think most people realize how much work it takes to maintain faith. It takes patience, consistency, and commitment. Faith is not something you wait for to happen miraculously; it’s something we should actively search for.

Similarly, to some extent, I would consider myself a high achiever. I’d go the extra mile to get the highest scores in school or to get into the most competitive places. But eventually, I wondered why I had sacrificed so much of my time and energy for something that had an ending. Why did I live my life feeling like I had to compete for something finite?

Airport photo by Author

I found contentment and peace in holding onto Islam because, to me, it has always provided an answer that made the most sense to my questions in life — and I hope you find faith that does the same for you, too.

Allahumma baarik

اللّهُـمَّ بارِكْ