In which I try to understand Ramadan

MANILA, Philippines - Ironically, fasting for Ramadan is a slow process.

The fast begins before sunrise with breakfast and the first prayer. For the rest of the day, Muslims are prohibited from eating, drinking and indulging in other worldly pleasures (as to what that is, just use your imagination). Imagine being unable to ingest anything — not even water — for more than 12 hours while you’re expected to go through the motions of everyday living. Oh, and you’ll have to do that every day for an entire month.

At first, I couldn’t imagine it. My concept of fasting had been firmly rooted in the kind that one undertakes during Lenten season where Christians are encouraged to eat less, make a small sacrifice (i.e. giving up chocolate or cyberstalking your high school crush), and to abstain from meat on Fridays. The Lenten fast isn’t even obligatory. I’ve been a Catholic all my life yet I’ve certainly never fasted.

So when it was suggested that I do a weeklong fast for Ramadan, I was initially conflicted. As excited as I was about embarking on a personal adventure, I was also hesitant because I knew that I was taking a nosedive into something I had no experience with. But I did anyway, mostly because I wanted to understand why Muslims subject themselves to it every year for most of their lives.

The first day wasn’t so tough. I had just been at home, and staying in bed for most of the day to Google cute dog photos took my mind off the thought of food. It was only around dinnertime (I woke up late so I started and ended the fast late) that I began to feel frustrated.

I was already eyeing what I was going to eat when I broke the fast, wondering how many ways I could demolish the chicken burger patties on the table without giving myself indigestion. But I didn’t touch anything, and even went so far as to ask if the evening’s dinner was Halal. (At this point, my mom thought I was converting.)

While I may have survived my first day of Ramadan with ease, I did not expect that venturing out into the world would amplify the pangs of my stomach. I would encounter people who, after finding out that I couldn’t eat because of Ramadan, immediately assumed that I’m a Muslim and seemed to act differently around me.

It was very subtle, but I swear I could see it in their eyes. They seemed unable to react openly with their assumptions, perhaps afraid to offend me by blurting out a stereotype.

It made me wonder what it must feel like to be a Muslim living in a society that has known Islam for more than half a century but is still uncomfortable about assimilating it. If the sight of other people’s unease already upset me, what more for someone who might have to face it every day?

That’s what I found myself asking 22-year-old Ahmad Alonto. Called Waki by his friends, he tells me that being a young Muslim in the Philippines yields a particularly interesting experience.

He refers the fact that Ramadan in the Philippines coincides with the school term, when it conveniently occurs during the summer holiday in other countries. He says that the stress of school and his relationships with other people really tests his patience during the period of fasting.

“The physical part (of Ramadan) is actually the easiest to overcome,” he tells me. “The hardest is the mental challenges. Technically, you’re not allowed to get mad. On normal days, umiinit na nga ulo mo, what more if you’re fasting?”

Waki also acknowledges that living in Manila will always “be an obstacle,” especially when compared to residing in the ARMM where Muslims are not only a majority, they are also able to declare their own holidays due to their regional autonomy. This isn’t because he’d like to spend less time in school, but because he believes that it deviates from the spirit of Ramadan, which is supposed to be an opportunity to reflect and recollect on what it really means to be a Muslim.

It’s not that Waki is proposing to radicalize the Catholic-heavy North, but he is aware that there’s still some room to better accommodate Muslims into the fabric of Filipino society by discouraging any biases based on religious difference. He believes that declaring Eid-ul Fitr, the feast that follows the end of Ramadan, as a non-working holiday is just one of the many things we can do to make this happen.

And he isn’t just talking about what he calls “a Muslim outcry for understanding.” Considering the dearth of government-sanctioned classes on the history and culture of Mindanao and acts of prejudice against the believers of Islam, Waki also notes that there is a need for some young Muslims to reframe their anti-Christian mindset in order to hasten the peace process on the continuing conflict in the South.

“Some Muslims in the South, especially young Muslims, think in terms of ‘Ay si ganyan, Kristiyano yan eh’ instead of saying that he’s Bisaya or Ilonggo. It’s troubling,” Waki says.

The end of my brief fast has afforded me a deeper sense of appreciation and respect for what Muslims do. The steady burn of keeping hunger at bay to achieve enlightenment is a discipline of its own kind.

It’s a stretch, but perhaps if more young people bother to understand the trappings of Ramadan and the Muslim identity, we’ll be able resolve the rudimentary problems that have been plaguing our country for centuries.

It may take a while. Much like Ramadan, the peace process can seem slow and most of the time, it really is. But considering what comes in the end? It may just be worth the trouble.