Reconciling Identities: “Why I Fasted For Ramadan For The First Time”

I remember when I realised there were only two ‘acceptable’ religions. I was about my daughter’s age, upside down on the playground bars with my friend Eliza, our hair skimming the floor like brooms, when she asked me: “Are you Jewish or Christian?” Her question remained suspended in the air, just like us, until I flipped upright and said: “Neither, I’m Muslim.”

“What’s that?’ she asked earnestly, in a way only a child can. “I don’t know,” I responded. This is a conversation I am still having with myself in midlife.  

I grew up with Egyptian parents in Los Angeles, where I longed above all else to be as American as possible. Every morning, my mum would do her best to pack me a lunch and, every afternoon, I would ditch all the elements that signalled ‘un-American’ – starting with the foil-wrapped pita sandwich. She thought I was joking when I asked for matzah, so I could be like my friends.  

This would reach a breaking point during the holidays each December, where you were either team red and green (Christmas), or team blue and gold (Hanukkah). While my parents were relaxed about me joining in on friends’ celebrations – my mum even let me decorate our Ficus in the living room once because I so badly wanted a Christmas tree – without the community that make those traditions special, I still felt like an outsider.

I asked my dad what the Muslim equivalent was, and that’s when he told me about Ramadan and Eid. My parents, though committed to their Muslim faith, hadn’t practised their religion since emigrating to Los Angeles. So when they finally explained Ramadan to me – the holy month of fasting in the Islamic calendar – I was… unimpressed. No tree, no menorah, no Santa. Just deprivation and early mornings. Since it followed the Lunar calendar, it wasn’t even in December. To me, Ramadan didn’t seem to fit in with everyone else’s celebrations.

Adolescence only heightened these insecurities – about all aspects of my difference, from my full lips to my curly hair and, yes, my religion – and a deep-rooted desire to be something else took hold. As I tried to blend in with my appearance, blow-drying my hair into submission, I distanced myself from my religion, too. It wasn’t hard to do. It felt foreign to me as well.

Then 9/11 happened and what had been a quiet private struggle was suddenly playing out on a global stage, with devastating consequences. The parts of my identity I once found inconvenient or embarrassing suddenly became toxic and dangerous. It felt impossible to reconcile these two cultures within myself. At times, I thought I was being a bridge – trying to explain the culture, religion and history of Egypt to my friends and colleagues. Looking back, I realise I was still actively erasing myself. I’d fold into friends’ traditions, attending Shabbat dinners and Easter services, while highlighting and whitewashing parts of my own culture to make it more accessible for them. Later, I’d realise my curiosity and respect for their religions and cultures was not reciprocated. So here I am now, trying to fill in the blanks, and what started as a curiosity towards my own faith has this time become an act of reclamation. I am fasting for Ramadan for the first time.

Living in Italy, a neutral third country that has few cultural expectations of me, has given me the space and time to finally explore all parts of myself and my heritage. I moved here 10 years ago, soon after meeting my husband while working as a news producer in Doha. In Florence, we have built a family and a home together.

Raising children here has its obvious advantages. They are growing up in a culture obsessed with bambini; their school lunch menu reads like the contents page of a cookbook. So I don’t blame them for going all in on the Italian way of life, despite us being immigrants here. Dominant cultures tend to have that effect – something I know from my own childhood. What I never considered was how Catholicism would be casually woven into our daily lives. There is a crucifix above the chalkboard in every classroom. My oldest son learned to count by listening to the church bells ring in the piazza. Not too long ago, my daughter turned to me and casually said, “Mummy, did you know Gesù [Jesus] is the son of God?”  

“Astaghfirullah al azeem,” I whispered under my breath in response, asking for God’s forgiveness, almost as a reflex. Because, despite a lifetime of turning away and trying to hide my foreignness, I am Muslim.  

Perhaps it was seeing my daughter flirt with Catholicism that planted the seed. Or maybe it was the Instagram Reels that pitched fasting as a chance to regulate my glucose levels. Most likely, it was the ache in my soul that remains after watching the people in Gaza resist through faith a punishing hunger and relentless, obscene violence that called to me. Whatever it was, a week before it began, I told my white, American husband: “I think I want to try fasting for Ramadan this year.”  

I expected his support, but not his solidarity. Over that week, anxiety began to creep in: Can I really do this? A whole month? Without even water? And yet, here we are, almost a month later, already exhausted by parenting, up before dawn, working out what suhoor looks like for us. So far, it’s been mostly hard-boiled eggs alongside ricotta and olive oil on toast. Without a call to prayer or nightly dinners with friends and family, it’s just us with dates in our pockets, having iftar al bar, ordering our coveted morning espresso at aperitivo hour while others sip their Aperol spritzes.  

It has been an adjustment, but what keeps me going is that my kids are watching. They may have questions – mainly on how I can go so long without eating or drinking – but what they don’t have is shame. That is my biggest ‘why’ for doing this.

When asked about his masterpiece, David – which is housed in the Galleria dell'Accademia di Firenze in the city I now call home – Michelangelo said, “I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” My childhood involved carving away essential parts of myself to fit in. Ramadan, on the other hand, has me carving away everything that isn’t me. It has been a month-long deep reflection on my true needs versus the habits and addictions that have hardened over time but aren’t, in fact, the sculpture. It has left me feeling empowered and liberated as the author of my own life.

It has also been a first step to connecting me back to Islam. When I was a kid, I had an uncle in Egypt tell me: “Islam isn’t a buffet you can just pick and choose from.” This one sentence played a huge role in isolating me from exploring my faith. Because I felt like I couldn’t do it all, I abandoned everything. By choosing to fast this year, I am embracing my spirituality as a personal, evolving experience that doesn’t require perfection.

Ramadan has been a month-long deep reflection on my true needs versus the habits and addictions that have hardened over time

I am still trying to understand why it hasn’t been as hard as I expected. There have been plenty of times when I have told myself, “OK, starting tomorrow, no carbs after 6pm,” or “I am going to eliminate sugar for one month,” and fail within three days. It hasn’t been like that with Ramadan. Even though I have plenty of doubt around my faith, there are times when I wonder if an invisible hand is carrying me through this challenge. Or is it the confirmation that I can do hard things that is making me feel connected to the divine?  

The most surprising part so far is how many times during the day I find myself looking at the clock, counting down to iftar, only to get there, have my dates and water, take a few bites of dinner, and then immediately feel full. A metaphor for how so much of our obsessive consumption is just an unconscious, hollow pursuit.

It has been truly touching to hear the surprise and pride from my extended family in Egypt. My mum thought I was joking and didn’t believe me for the first few days. Through social media, I now feel part of a renaissance of hyphenated Arabs embracing our heritage through a non-Western lens. I also feel a solidarity with other visibly Muslim passersby on the street, overwhelmed by the scale of almost two billion people around the globe participating in the same observance at the exact same time.

As Ramadan comes to a close, I can already feel I am going to miss it. Through active practice, I feel a sense of belonging to a community that I wasn’t ever sure would have me. Instead of waiting for permission, I have chosen my point of entry.  

I’m leaving the door wide open for my children, too. During another of our conversations, my daughter was shocked to find out that Gesù and Maria [Jesus and Mary] weren’t, in fact, Italian. “Their names in Arabic are Isa and Mariam, and they were born in Bethlehem,” I said. “That’s right next door to where our family in Egypt is.” You could see her mind working, her worldview expanding as she began unlearning, even at her young age, the idea that one culture is the centre and another the satellite. And that one part of you doesn’t have to cancel out the other.