By Nada Onsy, Assistant Account Executive

Ramadan is usually my favourite time of the year. It’s a month of giving back, self-reflection, and self-control. It’s about resetting, realigning, and reconnecting, not just with faith but with yourself, your family, and your community. There’s something so special about knowing that for 30 days straight, millions of people around the world are aiming to be the best versions of themselves. It’s not just about fasting from food and water– it’s about being more patient, more mindful, more giving. It’s a month where small acts of kindness feel bigger, faith feels deeper, and life slows down in the best way possible.

Back home, Ramadan is synonymous with family, community, and collective goals. The entire atmosphere shifts, streets are decorated, iftar gatherings become the highlight of the day, and the nightly prayers bring people together like nothing else. There’s an unspoken bond between everyone fasting; whether it’s the cashier at the supermarket, the Uber driver, or the neighbour down the street, there’s this mutual understanding that we’re all in this together.

But experiencing Ramadan in a society that doesn’t practise it? It’s a completely different reality. Here, the world doesn’t pause or shift to accommodate the month. Work schedules stay the same, social events revolve around food as usual, and the wider community often has little understanding of what Ramadan actually means. Beyond the inevitable "Not even water?" conversation that happens every time you mention you’re fasting. (Yes, not even water. Yes, for the whole day. No, I won’t die–though by 3 PM, it definitely feels like I might.) You’re still expected to show up, be fully productive, and sit through lunch meetings while your stomach growls. And while people might be curious or supportive, it’s not the same as being surrounded by an entire society that just gets it.

One of the hardest parts is the lack of that Ramadan atmosphere. There are no bustling streets filled with people buying dates and desserts, no special Ramadan TV shows playing in the background while you wait for iftar, and no sense of collective excitement as the sun sets. Instead, you break your fast alone, maybe in the office, maybe on the train home, or maybe with a small group of friends who are also fasting. It’s not necessarily bad, it just feels different.

And then there’s the family aspect. In many Muslim countries, Ramadan is a family affair. The whole household wakes up for suhoor together, the iftar table is always full, and there’s this warmth that comes from knowing you’re sharing the experience with the people closest to you. In the Western world, iftar is often a rushed moment rather than a celebration.

But despite the challenges, there’s something incredibly rewarding about fasting in a place where it isn’t the norm. It forces you to be more intentional with your worship, to seek out community in different ways, and to find your own rhythm in a world that doesn’t pause for Ramadan. It’s a test of discipline, patience, and resilience because here, no one is adjusting the world for you. It’s a bittersweet ‘forced’ independence.

And maybe that’s what makes Ramadan in the Western world so unique. It’s not about external reminders or societal support; it’s about the personal effort you put in. It’s about carving out time for spirituality in a fast-paced world, about finding moments of connection even when the environment doesn’t naturally foster them. It’s tough, yes. But in its own way, it makes the rewards of Ramadan feel even more personal, even more meaningful.