Ramadan

The teachers are playing football, running and kicking their new red and white ball. They haven’t eaten since four in the morning, have refused water; have even refused to swallow their own saliva, sending streams of liquid between parched lips. It’s Ramadan, and all but the smallest children spend the sunlit hours abstaining.

Jeff observed Ramadan. He was a college football player, and would pride himself on returning to his playing weight. He could still work, and well, running after angry kids despite occasionally going pale with the effort. It’s good to remember that all over the world, this community is tied into a greater community of Muslims fasting for their faith.

Still, children with arms thin as sticks and hanging from shirts that are always too big, regardless the size, they make me pause, just a little. So, when an old mother tells me she doesn’t fast because she is breastfeeding, well, I could kiss her.

I walk a fine line. Being an unmarried lesbian without a recognizable faith, a lot of what I do is smoothing out my rough edges with small white lies, which have the cumbersome habit of growing and turning grey.

Choosing not to fast is something I know I have to do, both for my physical and mental health. Explaining that not drinking water will make me sick lengthens the distance between me and the community, which wasn’t initially small.

Telling nursing mothers and small children its ok to eat may have consequences. Maybe next year. Maybe after they stop asking why I have no photos of my husband. Maybe when I’ve established praying in the mosque as a nice gesture, and not a sign of coming conversion.

The men on the field have muscles lit with sweat in the dripping sun. Their veins protrude, their lips are dry, but I hear no complaining; even children have lined up to chase the ball, kicking shoes from hard feet. There are cries of “mani! Mani!” on the field, each player vying for the ball, with thrilled laughter at each success and rambunctiousness and each missed kick. The women are pounding corn, cooking the meal they will end their fast on, and gossiping sweetly from house to house over short walls.

Rain is moving in quickly from the south. If I look left, the sky is an endless sweltering blue, but to the right are thunder clouds, dark as night with rain. The wind kicks up, pressing fear and excitement into my pores, drying the sweat I’ve spent the day accruing. Tonight I don’t want to sleep. I want to sit up while the teachers cook and eat the meal they’ve planned all day, and let the whole world melt away in a storm, rebirth disguised as annihilation.