Ramadan

The most beautiful Ramadan I have ever spent was in Tanzania, and it was before I converted to my faith. I had experienced this holy month many times before, and had observed it while in Yemen for two years, and a few other times when in the company of Muslim friends. In 1999, Ramadan occurred between December and early January 2000. It was a magical time - Ramadan, Eid, Christmas, Chanukkah, and the new Millennium were all overlapping - nearly everyone was excited about something.
It was a bitter sweet time in my life, and in the lives of all Tanzanians. They had lost their father, their first president Julius Nyerere a few months before. Baba Wa Taifa, Mwalimu Nyerere (Father of our nation, our teacher). I also counted him as a teacher, for when I was learning my trade in Jamaica (adult literacy), I had three books that I read constantly, one of them was "We Must Run While Others Walk" a biography about the great teacher. It had inspired me, and it taught me about many of the complicated issues involved in development work. I was so thrilled almost fifteen years later when I found out I would be supervising Peace Corps Volunteers in Tanzania. I would be doing development work in his country - education, girls' empowerment, and HIV/AIDs awareness. Life's inscrutable ironies have often shined on me.
By October of that year, I had been without my daughters for nearly three months, and I was depressed. While trekking through a very remote area one day, my driver abruptly stopped the car, and I looked up to see two women in the middle of the road on their knees wailing hysterically. The driver got out, and I intuitively stayed behind. I saw him gently put his hand on one of their shoulders, and I could tell he was trying to console them while figuring out what had happened. In the middle of a sentence, I saw his body stiffen, and for a moment I thought he was going to collapse, joining them in their misery. After a few more moments that seemed like hours, he turned and came back to the Landrover. He was crying, and as he opened his door to climb in, he uttered "Baba Taifa amekufa." He started the vehicle, and we drove in silence.
I knew the tremendous impact Nyerere had on the people of his country, but I did not expect to see level of mourning that occurred after his death.
The country shut down for a month, not as some sort of symbolic gesture, but because it would have been futile to do otherwise. Bars and discos closed that month, vagabond bootleggers who sold pirated cassettes on street corners played no music other than solemn hymns. The people reached out to each other, and the country grieved their loss. It was a very moving experience for me, and in a way, helped me cope with my daughters absence.
Now, just a few months later, the Abrahamic faiths were realigning, and I could feel the spiritual energy everywhere. The nation was waking from its grief, and most everyone had special reasons to celebrate their blessings. Me, I enjoyed Ramadan, as I loved the discipline of fasting, and respecting the world around me. That world was alive with joy and I was at the epicenter.
I did not get to go home for Christmas, but my daughters spent the holiday with their mother and my sister's family. They made a video of the day, and I watched it over and over gain the following week, and I was able to go back and visit a month later.
Midway through the month, I got to go to Zanzibar for a week. The population of the two islands is 99% Muslim. I was vising schools like the one above, seeing thousands of beautiful faces, all excited by the season. As I mentioned, I observed the fast during Ramadan, and it was particularly magical on that island (technically, I was on the island of Unguja, which paired with the second island, Pemba, to make the place we call Zanzibar). I would be out in the schools during the day, and return to the capital, Stone Town, at night. I would usually arrive at the time for Maghrib prayer and the breaking of the day's fast. The beautiful Adhan (call to prayer) echoed softly through the streets, and there was positive energy everywhere.
I would go down to the port to break my fast, choosing to ignore the restaurants and heading straight to the seafood barbecue set up on dozens of tables at the seafront. Each table had its own barker, usually a smiling native calling you to the table, extolling the virtue of his servings above all others. Beside him was the chef, who would collect the fish, octopi, vegetables, or meat, skewer the concoction and place it on a little grill. In five minutes I would walk away with a wonderful pile of food and sauces wrapped in a pita-like roll. I would then stroll up and down the beach enjoying the most beautiful sunsets I had ever seen.
It was also very nice, for in general, it was very rude to walk and eat publicly, probably a prohibition meant to spare those less fortunate.
I loved the week I spent there during that holy time, and I believed it relit the inner spark that would eventually lead me to Islam.