The night Jas came home from Bosnia after burying his father Akif, he informed me that Ramadan had begun and that he was going to begin the thirty-day fast in the morning. When I asked for specifics about Ramadan, which Jas has never observed or even indicated the smallest desire to observe, he told me: “I can’t eat or drink from sunrise to sundown for thirty days. At the end, there’s a big feast.”
Now, this is a typical response following my questions about the meaning of Muslim practices, holidays and observances. I’m given a clear explanation of the type of celebration or manner of observation (“we get dressed up and visit neighbors” or “children get money”) but never the meaning or reasoning behind it. When I’ve asked for further explanation in the past from Jas or any of my in-laws I’d only get blank stares. This can be attributed to growing up and living in a formerly communist country which doesn’t leave much space for religious practice. While Tito didn’t outright ban religion in Soviet-style, he didn’t encourage it either. For many Bosnians, religion was/is part of their heritage over anything else. Ethnically, Jas is a Muslim. Religiously? Spiritually? Not interested. Even Akif who devoutly fasted on Ramadan only began doing so after the war, as did other Bosnian Muslims who had previously not been so inclined.
A little research gave me further understanding of Ramadan which is observed during the ninth month each year of the Muslim calendar. Muslims must not only abstain from food and drink but impurities of all kinds including thoughts and actions. The goal is to cleanse the body and soul and focus your attentions on your connection to and worship of Allah. In the weeks before he died, Akif expressed his sadness over not being able to fast during Ramadan. He wouldn’t be able to get through a day with no food or drink in his condition. This is where Jas has found meaning; the fast is his mourning song. “I’m going to do it for my dad,” he said. “He’d be fasting now, so I’ll do it for him.”
Less than a week away from the end of Ramadan, Jas has shown remarkable resilience . After the first two days he adjusted his daily fast duration a bit. He’d come home from work, watch me and Cookie eating our first few mouthfuls of dinner with a pitiful look on his face and then do some chores around the house or turn on the television until sundown. On day two, I (gently) suggested he join us for dinner.
“Your dad would love that you’re doing this for him. I don’t think he’d mind if you chose to eat dinner with your girls,” I said.
He ignored me. On day three, he grumbled something about me having a point and sat down to dinner with us. Weekends have been the most difficult. It’s easy to distract yourself at work but when you’re home and relaxing and food’s being cooked and consumed, it can be downright torture. Or at least that’s what Jas’s face looks like when he pokes his head in the kitchen and asks what time dinner is.
Now he is counting the days and we’ve started planning the Bajram celebration that follows Ramadan this Sunday. How will we bring this tradition to America?
“It’s a big feast” Jas says.
“Yes, but what is served at this feast?” I ask.
It seems I have a bit more research to do.