Ramadan at Camp Munda

Ramadan greetings, and may the strength of this holy month bring us close to the Creator, and close to those who struggle against oppression the world over. In particular, this Ramadan, please join me in praying for the people of Iraq, against whom the U.S. government has instigated a criminal policy of submit or starve. The courage of the people of Iraq brings to mind my experiences in Afghanistan and in the Afghan refugee camps on the Pakistan border....
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I remember one Ramadan spent in the Afghan refugee camp of Munda Pul. Afghan mujahideen moved in and out of the camps, where their families lived, with regularity, their movements dictated by the timing and direction of the various guerrilla offensives. It was the night before Ramadan, and I, filled with an immense energy and excitement, which I could only attribute to the power of the Holy Month, could scarcely sleep as I lay on my matt outside the single-room mud dwelling which my hosts called home. I awoke to the sounds of people talking in muted tones, and others crouching a distance away, washing arms, legs, feet, etc. with water from ancient-looking ceramic urns, in preparation for prayer. To my surprise, it was still dark; in fact, it seemed, it was still the dead of night, and not the pre-dawn hour when I would expect to awake in my suburban Maryland house back in the States, to rapidly microwave and consume food cooked and refrigerated for a week (with my busy student schedule). What are they doing up this early, I wondered. As I washed up, I noticed the children already moving about. One little boy chased a chicken around the compound. The women waited to pull water from the well in aluminum buckets just outside the single mud wall of the compound. Soon tea was boiling merrily in a heavy black cauldron over an open (cow pie) fire. As we sat cross-legged on a sheet which had been spread across the floor, and ate delicious, fresh, Afghan bread with a bit of jam which my muj hosts had somehow managed to acquire in my honor (peanut butter, jam, and other spreads are extremely expensive and difficult to obtain in the refugee camps) and cups of green tea, I reflected on how little the people had in terms of material wealth, and yet how much at peace they seemed with themselves, particularly surrounded by constant reminders of the war as they were.

A beautiful young Afghan woman sat a short distance away from me, breast-feeding her wide-eyed infant. Even the infant seemed aware that this was a special morning, the first morning of the most powerful month, in which forces of good are at their strongest, and the forces of evil can and must be challenged. Through the doorway of the single enclosed room, a gangly boy of six or seven, named Bilal, sat reading his Qur’an, in preparation for his morning lesson; his mother, Qanita, sweetly kept offering me more bread and jam. We finished our suhoor with a simple du’ah, common to most of the poor Dari-speaking Afghan mujahideen and their families, in whose homes I was a visitor—a prayer which seemed to reflect their attitude toward the incredible sacrifices they had made in leaving their homes and their beloved land:

Alhamdulillah-e-lazii
ataman-nah
wa sakanah
wa ja ulna minul muslimeen

(We give thanks, o Allah, for giving us food, for giving us shelter, and for placing us on the Path of Islam.)

A short while later, the relative silence of the camp was broken by the powerful and awe-inspiring azaan. Quickly and quietly, the mujahideen filed out of the compound in the direction of the mosque. As if heading to battle.