Local [Ramadan]

I've had the good fortune (on top of my generally good fortune) of being invited this past weekend by a Malaysian family to spend a (half) day of Ramadan the way the local Muslim Malays do. It was the first time I've had a good look inside their ecosystem, and therefore it fascinated me.

An 'open house,' they call it, when they invite people into their homes to break fast. My host family knew my background, courtesy of the mom's very short but apparently very impactful friendship with my mother in Jeddah when she was there for an 3mrah visit a few months ago.

An aside before I continue: I've always contemplated the difference between my mother's generation and mine when it comes to forging friendships. For me now in my 30s, getting new friends is a great bonus that comes with striking out on my own career-wise. I no longer look for friends to be my posse and support group – I already have that from my 20s, and they're all in different countries now boxed in WhatsApp groups updated daily. Back then, we were brought together by proximity, but what cemented the friendships were common discontent as much as common interests, and a good shared-language base.

My mother, on the other hand, had 'best friends' of various nationalities, women she met through her religious studies mostly. Theirs are deep friendships anchored in what seemed to me like superficial meetings – luncheons and high-teas where the conversations stayed on the lighter side of housewife life. And yet these women treated me and my siblings like we were their own, even more so than our own relatives, who were for the most part like strangers to us. I have "aunts" and "uncles" and "cousins" from everywhere – South Africa, France, Singapore, Nigeria, the US, Ethiopia, the UK, Yemen.

And now, my Malaysian Aunt Faridah, who drives 60 km back-and-forth from her house in Setia Alam to my neighborhood every now and then to quickly check up on me and give me little gifts. This past weekend, against my fervent pleas that I could find my way to her place in a cab, she drove all the way to my place again with her grandson in tow to pick me up, insisting that there was no way she would allow me such discomfort as a cab ride. (After a few years of "real living" outside my Saudi comfort zone, I find that these moments of spoiling embarrass me, and I no longer know how to bask in it.)

Back to my Ramadan special:

It felt lovely to be in the midst of a family iftar again after a long time. This is my 3rd Ramadan away from my own family, and I've grown used to having meals by myself or with friends, without the heartiness and propriety of mingling with fathers and mothers and elders.

In their house, I offered to help Aunt Faridah prepare the food or set the table, and I was promptly shoo-ed back to the living room where the 4-year-old grandson Mateen regaled and entertained me with his Star Wars obsession. I marvelled at this – how insanely smart the smart kids are nowadays. Thanks to my countless forays into the internet, I could hold my own against this little boy who quizzed me on my knowledge of Luke Skywalker's affairs. Phew.

My little friend Mateen, who attends age-appropriate conventions
like the "I am Your Father's Day" at the mall. Start them young! 

When it was finally sunset and time to eat, I partook in this delicious spread that consisted of Malay, western, Algerian and (halal) Chinese food. Aunt Faridah delighted in my street-urchin-esque delight at having so much to eat in one sitting, all homemade, with an extra helping of family stories and inter-cultural exchange. They are a well-traveled family, which made them accessible to me (and my company palatable to them).

After breakfast, at around 8.30pm, we rushed around to get dressed for the surao (a little mosque or Muslim praying area) where we prayed tarawee7 until 10pm. They all knew each other, the people who went there to pray – they were a community, living in the residences nearby. I took in the colorful prayer garb of the women, so different from the blackness of the Saudi 3baya. I also observed that during the witr prayer, they didn't remain standing for the long du3a2 prayers we used to have in the mosques in Jeddah. My knees and legs were glad.

Outside the "modern" mosque.

After each of the 2-rak3at prayer, they'd do about a minute of collective takbeer out loud, which I wasn't used to. They'd also shake hands with the persons to their left and right (in the beginning I thought "in congratulations?" but now I suppose it was just their way of expressing a sense of accomplishment and oneness).

At the end of the prayers, the whole lot (about 50 or so people) went to the backyard of the mosque, where there was set up more food – another full-on meal! They call this the moreh; members of the community take turns every day "sponsoring" a supper for everyone, not just for the prayer attendees, but for anyone else who needed sustenance. Soon after this, some of the attendees stayed back with the imam to have a group discussion and to read some Qur'an. My host family told me this lasts about an hour.

In general, it's very similar to what Jeddawis and Maranaos do during Ramadan, except for a few small details here and there, and they all share that same feelz of unity and general kindness to humans and living creatures – the very best of religion.

I went home feeling refreshed and charitable towards my friends, a very not bad feeling at all.