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For many Muslim families, Ramadan is one of the most social months of the year.
In the United States, mosques offer hearty meals, either served by local restaurants or prepared by members of the community. In households, extended families come together (grandparents, grandchildren, aunts, and cousins) and add all the additional sheets to expand their tables. Friends gather to pray, share, savor. It’s a month of food eaten with intention, ending in a joyous celebration: Eid al-Fitr, which begins on the night of May 23.
During the pandemic, suhoor pre-dawn meals and nocturnal iftars that break the all-day fast have taken on a new cast. Families sometimes eat together through video calls with family members. The celebration can feel more intimate, more immediate. The 30 meals eaten night after night become opportunities for private reflection on faith and history.
Across the country, shared food is a source of comfort and continuity in a time of breakup. We checked in with eight people about meals and moments that have felt especially significant this year.
Nieda Abbas in New Haven, Connecticut.
Nieda Abbas has seen difficult Ramadan before. He fasted in his hometown of Baghdad during the American occupation. He fasted when Iraq split into sectarianism.
He fasted for seven years in Syria, as an immigrant learning the new culture. After fleeing that civil war, she spent four Ramadan in a refugee camp in Turkey, where she had to stretch small portions to feed her six children. When she arrived in New Haven as a refugee in 2014, she did not speak English.
“But this is the most difficult Ramadan I have ever had,” he said, speaking in Arabic through a translator. “The food and the schedule are all the same, but when we sit down there is a feeling of anxiety and fear.”
“Even in the worst moments, like in Syria or Turkey, we can always go and go to a park,” he said. “This year, there is a fear every time I go out. I leave in horror. When I return, the horror is still there.”
But Ms. Abbas, 44, is working to help. Every morning she cooks for Havenly Treats, a non-profit organization that helps refugee chefs sell food. From her job as a baker in Iraq, she cooks around 200 meals for people in need. Makes cheese and za’atar fatayer, elegant spiced cucumber salads and homemade sauce.
“We want to make them feel that they are worthy of a meal like that,” he said. “I don’t want them to fall short of what I would cook for my own children.”
Throughout the afternoon, she prepares her family iftar, cooking for her seven children and her husband, Tareq Al-Mashhadany. She is anxious, but she doesn’t let her fear show. “I want to give strength to my children,” he said. “Because of this current pandemic, I no longer feel like I can give them that courage.”
But she cooks anyway. She cuts her homemade baklava into small pieces for her younger children, bits of sweetness so they can get through.
Imam Amr Dabour in Sacramento
In the first days of the outbreak, Imam Amr Dabour, director of religious and social services at the The Islamic Center Salam started streaming videos of the prayers online for the community. People could pray together with him, instead of just listening to the recitation.
“I am transforming from being an imam, who is a religious leader, into a technical programmer,” he said wryly. Connect Zoom to Facebook, but you still need to learn how to stream to YouTube.
Imam Harbor, 40, He knows how much his community misses the communal aspect of Ramadan prayer and socialization. Children cannot see their friends; older people cannot see their families. I wanted to find a way to connect.
Traditionally, the center has offered food for people who need to drink. This year, it has become a self-service donation site where volunteers fill the trunks with non-perishable items.
Imam Dabour, who was born in Egypt, and the Salam team also developed iftars drive-through on Friday nights. Some are sponsored by community members, others by local churches. Families drive and volunteers fill their trunks with hot food, attended by local restaurants.
“It was very, very, very close to a typical drive-through,” Imam Dabour said.
Dr. Zafar Shamoon in Dearborn, Mich.
During Ramadan, Dr. Zafar Shamoon, head of emergency services at Beaumont Hospital, Dearborn, makes a point to check on his staff more than usual. Many are fasting, as are some patients: The Dearborn area is home to one of the country’s largest concentrations of Muslims and one of its largest mosques – the Islamic Center of America.
“Seeing them work alongside me, fasting with me, motivates me,” said Dr. Shamoon, 45, whose parents emigrated from Pakistan in 1973. “We are doing this together.”
This year, you are controlling both your physical and mental health. Dr. Shamoon and colleagues have seen more than 2,000 coronavirus patients, of whom 140 died, he said. Throughout the day, he and his team wear personal protective equipment, which is heavy, restricts movement, and can be loaded. He doesn’t eat or drink during the day, and he finds himself missing the coffee more than anything.
“I am more tired than ever,” he said. “It’s not the physical exertion of the 12-hour day. I don’t think it’s even the fast. I think it’s the mental aspects of what we’ve been doing this last month or so.”
Some non-Muslim doctors help him and other staff members on an empty stomach, covering themselves so they can rest and pray. At the end of his shifts, Dr. Shamoon drives home to break the fast with his family.
There, he immediately takes off his clothes and takes a shower to protect his two young children and his pregnant wife, Dr. Nadia Yusaf, from any drops that can adhere to their clothes or hair. Sometimes he controls his mother, who is also fasting.
One night, his 6-year-old daughter prepared a special table for him, hung with a sign: Ramadan Mubarak, which roughly translates to “Happy Ramadan.” She brought him dates, a staple food from the Middle East, and water. Prophet Muhammad consumed break your own fasts.
“I’m glad I can do it at home,” said Dr. Shamoon. “All that stress I had that day, one patient with a heart rate of 30, eight Covid patients, intubation patients, at the time, I forgot.”
Shawn and Samah Grant in Berlin, Connecticut.
Last year, when they just got married, Shawn Grant and his wife, Samah, tried to make a different kind of video for their respective YouTube channels. They sat at a well-set table, enjoying their iftar like a Ramadan mukbang, a filmed meal.
They usually post skits, teasing each other with playful pranks and teasing. But their faith is a central part of their life, and they try to explain it to their followers during Ramadan.
Grant, 25, was born in Algeria and raised in France. A month after she met Mr. Grant, 26, at a Los Angeles shopping mall, she stopped eating pork. It was converted two years ago. “I wanted to learn more and I wanted to be right where she is,” Grant said. “I wanted to comfort her, because she is away from her family.”
This year, they recorded another mukbang on their channel. She made North African food special for Ramadan: Harira, a tasty Moroccan soup, along with a spicy sauce and homemade bread. He folded the bourek by hand, pies filled with ground beef with spices, cheese, and eggs.
Mrs. Grant eats her childhood foods to feel more at home, and she knows that many other people are far from their families. Mukbangs, she hopes, can make fasting Muslims feel like they’re eating with friends.
“Some people feel very lonely and just decide to eat and watch a video at the same time,” she said. “It makes me feel like we still have hope, because people still follow their religion.”
Zaheer Maskatia in Washington, D.C.
When Zaheer Maskatia was a teenager in the Bay Area, his friends ate their hours at an IHOP. I was looking forward to these breakfasts (pancake houses often stay open all day) and their usual order: chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream and a cherry.
Now a lawyer, Mr. Maskatia, 37, lives far from his parents. Normally, he is almost every Ramadan night with friends, visiting mosques and various Muslim groups.
This year, he’s been cooking for himself, but one night he ordered a curry from Duke’s Grocery. The restaurant participates in the Dine After Dark initiative, which encourages restaurants in the Washington area to serve halal food after sunset during Ramadan.
“It was delicious. They marketed it as a Philippine curry, but it tasted like my mother’s goat curry,” Maskatia said. “South Asian food is one thing I don’t cook. I can’t live up to my mother.”
She was born in India and her father in Pakistan, where she broke her fast with fried samosas. So they bring something for Mr. Maskatia every time they visit him. Her mother makes the filling, and her father folds the wrappers.
“For me, it’s partly physiological, I just crave it when I’m fasting, and it’s partly sentimental,” Maskatia said. “It is part of my childhood.”
This year, he only has 10 left from his mother’s last visit, so he’s rationing them: He has some every Friday, to commemorate the community prayer on Friday and the end of the work week.
Hassen Mostafa Hassen in Arlington, Virginia.
Hassen Mostafa Hassen, 32, grew up in Saudi Arabia with his Eritrean parents. This is the second year that he has observed Ramadan from the Arlington County Detention Center.
Last year, he ate with other Muslim prisoners. Now he eats alone, but there is an important addition to the menu: the dates. “It connects me a lot with my childhood memories,” he said. “I’m in a bad situation, but this is a sweet thing.”
Muslims make up about 9 percent of state prisoners, although they only make up about 1 percent of the US population. USA, According a 2019 report from the civil rights organization Muslim Advocates. Born to Muslim parents, Mr. Hassen has practiced Islam his entire life. It helps the many inmates who convert to Islam while incarcerated to deal with the rigors of fasting.
“It gives you time to stop your life and worldly affairs, just to take your time and worship your creator,” he said. “It is a very spiritual thing. You have to be 100 percent inside.”
Hassen is serving 16 months in an eight-year sentence on drug and weapons charges, and has been working to reflect on his life and prepare for his return to society. He is learning American Sign Language, although he has no one to practice with. He keeps a journal and helps to clean and disinfect the prison to try to protect prisoners and workers from the virus.
“What keeps me very sane,” he said, “even despite the time I have, is prayer.”
Yazan Natsheh in Plano, Texas
Yazan Natsheh, 19, was born in Hebron, in the West Bank, and was brought to the United States as a baby. The family moved to their father’s career in information technology, spending only a year or two in each city. The Palestinian flavors from her mother’s kitchen were the only constant.
In his first year at the University of Texas at Dallas, he joined the founding chapter of Alpha Lambda Mu, The first Muslim brotherhood in the country. It is named after three letters beginning various chapters of the Quran: Alif, Laam, Meem.
His social and spiritual life became richer. He leaned on his fraternity brothers to help him remember to pray five times a day. The fraternity does not have a home, but the brothers remain close, sharing activities and meals. Now, when Mr. Natsheh is unable to invite them to iftar at his parents’ home in Plano, north of Dallas, he is sending them chat photos of his meals with his mother.
“It is a way for her and I to bond,” she said.
One night Mr. Natsheh did maqluba, a Palestinian meat and rice dish that is turned upside down, and wants to learn how to make idreh, a special lamb dish from Hebron.
“When I prepare Palestinian food, I continue with the legacy that my ancestors have given me,” he said. “I want to teach it to my children, here in the United States. We are the only things that carry it forward. If we lose it, it will be gone. “
A housekeeper in New York City
When the pandemic worsened, a mother of three in Manhattan took time off from her cleaning job. But in April, his boss asked him to go back to work.
Housewives are not considered essential workers, but she helps support her young children and family in Indonesia. Although her husband is employed, she cannot afford to lose her job. And she asked not to be identified in this article, for fear of losing her job.
Now three times a week she takes the bus from her Alphabet City home to clean an apartment on the Lower East Side. “When the bus is full, it is very concerning to me,” he said. “I don’t want to get too close to people.”
But her family makes her smile, even when the days are tough. She woke up at 3:30 a.m. to prepare breakfast for your children. “I am a mother,” he said, laughing. “We are always the first person.”
After arriving home in the afternoon and showering, he calms down preparing the iftar food. The familiar smells of kentang ballade, potatoes in a spicy red sauce, and ikan acar kuning, yellow fish, remind him of Indonesia.
Before Ramadan, she bought a 25 pound tapioca bag to make her own bubble tea. Her three children wanted some, and childbirth seemed expensive. “But, oh, it’s a lot of work,” he said.
One night, he used some of that tapioca to make his favorite food, the bakso dumplings. Put ground beef, tapioca, and egg whites in a food processor with garlic, salt, and white pepper. His children devoured him. He loves to pray with them and appreciates the meals they share.
He has not spent Ramadan with his family in Indonesia for many years because school holidays do not always coincide with holidays. Sometimes she cries when she reads the Koran. One year, before her children grow up, she hopes they celebrate with their grandparents again.
Havenus Treats volunteer Qusay Omran translated from Arabic to English for Nieda Abbas. Sheelagh McNeill contributed to the investigation.
