Feeling Ramadan

Editor's Note : This is the second in a four-part series following Hadi and his family's Ramadan experiences in a Muslim country, comparing it to their Ramadan experiences U.S. Read part one here .

Every year, Ramadan presents a dilemma of guilt. In Sha'ban, the preceding month before Ramadan, the lessons, sermons and discussions at Islamic centers and mosques become Ramadan-centric. Though these lessons and talks are meant to put us in the right frame of mind, the pre-Ramadan prep feels a heavy sack being hung around my neck, and in that sack is how my Ramadan is going to turn out—how much of a spiritual awakening I am going to feel.

I certainly realize that the Qur'anic verses, hadith (verified sayings and stories of the Prophet Muhammad), and Islamic stories about how others have experienced Ramadan are in fact mile markers for one's journey in Ramadan. But I cannot help but feel guilty for falling short of those mile markers each year.

These thoughts were on my mind as I came to Riyadh with my family for Ramadan this year. There is quite a difference between mosques here versus the U.S.: the majority of mosques here are like ant colonies. People enter, pray and leave. It is automatic. For those of us accustomed to the Islamic center-style mosques in the US, where people linger and enjoy community events and family oriented activities, it can feel like a letdown—and some might even say flat-out depressing. However, by chance I came upon a mosque that struck me as different.

It is a quaint mosque situated on the grounds of the Saudi National Museum. The famous Riyadh Water Tower looms not too far in the distance. According to local reports, this was the mosque that the late King Faisal attended. The interior of this mosque has pillars and archways similar to mosques in Granada.

The first night we attended this mosque, we were visiting a family friend. I begrudgingly went to the mosque to do the routine, not wanting to leave a very intense game of monopoly. But seeing the families, the young people and kids playing on the grounds of the masjid was refreshing, not to mention surprising. The mosque itself further got my attention due to the amazing sense of tranquility I felt during the taraweeh prayers.

There were no fancy chandeliers or windows with marble trim. It was the simplicity that struck me. This was also the first mosque that I had seen packed for taraweeh prayers. I felt something here. When I have these personal mile markers, I try and capture and stay in the moment as long as possible. I cannot remember the surah or ayah that was being recited. I just recall having this overwhelming sense that I am standing in front of my Creator to whom I owe such gratitude. It felt like I was slowly falling back off of a cliff into something wonderful, like in a dream, except there was no fear and no bottom.

I continued to go back to that mosque, hoping for a return to that moment.

I wish I could say that all of my experiences in Riyadh were as beautiful. But I will say that they have all been memorable.

A Ramadan Waterloo Moment My best childhood memories are from Ramadan and Thanksgiving. My parents were not your pushy religious parents who forced us to practice Islam. They took us to religious schools on the weekends, practiced openly in the house and were often times the only ones in their social circles who proudly defended Islam against the horrific practices of some so-called Muslims. Ramadan for me, my brother and sister, was a time for family.

This year, for the first time since moving from California to Virginia (where neither me nor my wife have any family), this Ramadan has brought back so many of my childhood memories. Just yesterday, I picked up a packet of crème-filled biscuits from the local baqalah (shop), and with one bite I was transported to our house in Shiraz. They had the exact same taste as when I was 10. As a child, purchasing fresh-baked bread after taraweeh prayers was almost as mandatory for me as were the five daily prayers.

The smell of fresh baked bread here in Riyadh was reminiscent of my much younger self sitting at the feet of my paternal grandmother and watching her bake bread. I was amazed then, as I am now, as to how the baker sticks his hand into the tanoor (oven). And, it was while I was waiting for my two large rounds flat loaves of bread that I witnessed something that made both of my kids cry.

We drove up to my father in-law's favorite bread baker. He got out first and placed his order, and while I was negotiating a parking spot between the two cars next to me, a can of soda flew through his legs. My father-in-law jumped to the side, and within a few seconds a toddler with cheeks chubbier than the Gerber baby waddled by and picked up the can.

"Look at the cutie baby," my wife told our kids.

As my son and daughter turned their heads, they saw the toddler throwing the can at one of the many stray cats roaming around the streets and neighborhoods. The can hit the cat straight in the stomach.

"Oh my God, Baba, he's hitting that cat," my daughter said. She began crying.

Feeling like I was having a Waterloo moment, I looked at my wife, who was already getting ready to jump out of the car. I hurried over towards the child to say something to his father. As I made my way over, to my horror I saw the father handing the child the can and smiling at him as he aimed again for the poor creature, who was clearly just trying to get some sleep.

This time the child missed, and I looked at both the father and child with a stern look and said the only two Arabic words I could put together in that moment: " Haram , haram...'Aib," as I shook my finger disapprovingly ( haram meaning forbidden). The child looked bewildered, and the father begrudgingly hauled his son off. The cat went back to his spot to take a nap.

If this were the only time we had witnessed such cruel treatment of these strays, I wouldn't have wasted your time with this story. But the frequency of it is quite shocking here in the Kingdom. It is as if no one has a clue about the tradition of the Prophet Muhammad ( pbuh ) where he warned that cruelty towards animals could land you in Hellfire, and compassion towards them could open doors to Paradise.

Scathing Saudi Attitudes I met a local Saudi here who will soon be attending the same graduate program that I went through in Washington D.C. I was introduced to him by the program's director and was asked to serve as his mentor while he is going through the program. In return, he would be a contact for me while in Riyadh. He is on a scholarship from the Saudi government, in which he gets a $1600 stipend in addition to having his tuition, room and board covered. Not a bad way to spend your time in graduate school, I must say. To protect myself, I will call him Kareem.

Kareem is from the generation of Saudis who have not worked a day in their life and are riding the backs of those who built Saudi Arabia into what it is today. I evaded his offers of eating together in Ramadan as long as possible without seeming offensive to him. The last three days in which I hung out with him and ate suhoor (the morning meal before starting the day's fast) answered a lot of questions for me about the mentality of a large segment of the young and affluent population here.

Kareem picked me up for late night coffee the other night, and we ended up at a gas station that was almost closing. I did not understand their conversation, but within minutes of stepping out of the car Kareem was yelling at the top of his lungs at the gas station attendant. The gas station attendant walked away from him, but Kareem was not relenting. After 15 minutes, a second attendant came out and tried to reason with Kareem.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the problem was. It was almost 2 a.m., and dawn was less than two hours away. Finally, I got out of the car to see if my presence would alter the situation in any way. As the attendants walked away from Kareem, he turned to them and said "' abd, 'abd " while motioning with his hand that he needed gas.

I was shocked. I had heard the term used one other time when playing basketball with a few Palestinians, who yelled it out at an African American walking by. I felt like punching Kareem in the mouth. As he drove away, I asked why he used the term, and he "swore by God" that he did not use that term.

The literal meaning of 'abd is servant. The religious meaning of 'abd is slave or servant in the service of God. But the context in which Kareem uttered the word means "nigger." Believe it or not, it actually gets worse.

It is customary here for a certain sector of Saudis to refer to the laborers, working class and those with dark skin, as Mohammad. Please do not be fooled into thinking that this is a sign of respect to refer to someone as Mohammad. No, in fact it is used as a derogatory term when they are speaking to someone whom they believe is beneath them. Essentially, instead of learning their name, they classify them as a random "Joe." You can witness this at any counter in any mall when they are ordering something.

Now before some of you conclude that my anecdote is just one more vitriolic critique of the Kingdom, let me explain what was running through my mind after this experience. Here I was, rather depressed and concerned about my degree of spirituality, i.e. my level of interaction with The Creator from a purely ritualistic standpoint, and yet I ended up with a great revelation.

The world over, Muslims are focused on reciting from the Qur'an, saying extra prayers and even pleading with God for forgiveness and mercy during Ramadan. But how many Muslims can truly say they show in practical ways that very same forgiveness, mercy and kindness they want from God towards their fellow humans and creatures on this planet? How many can say they practice the forbidding of wrongdoing and enjoining of good on a daily basis? How many are merciful enough towards even their own family members by actually spending quality time with their children, spouses and other relatives during this holy month?

Maybe the ritualistic routines we are caught up in are not the key towards increasing each person's spirituality. Maybe actions work harder for some of us in this realm than thoughts and words alone.

I am happy to say that my children will remember last week as the week that a cat was hit with a can and we saved it, when we played UNO and monopoly with their cousins, aunts and grandparents, when they did the Ramadan version of trick-or-treating at the compound their mother and aunts grew up in and brought home bags of goodies. And I will remember it as the week that reminded me that increasing spirituality in this holy month can come from the simple pleasures of family, friends, mosques with subtle splendor and just being kind to those around you even when they least expect it.