The First Ramadan in Oxford
Ramadan in Oxford brings with it a peculiar atmosphere. This city breathes within an ancient scholarly air: the old university buildings that seem to bear witness to centuries of learning; the cobbled pathways that awaken to the echo of footsteps; the quiet currents of the River Thames holding the sky’s reflection like a mirror; and faces immersed in books, absorbed day and night in thought and research. Yet when the crescent of Ramadan rises, a spiritual illumination begins to spread through these very academic lanes. It feels as though, between the stone walls, a stream has begun to flow from the heart itself, and into the quiet air of scholarship a gentle call to worship has been added — as if knowledge and devotion have merged into a single breath.
My first Ramadan in Oxford came in March/April 1991, and it marked a unique and decisive chapter in my life. I had no family with me then, nor the familiar warmth of home. I was residing in a student hostel where Muslims were almost non-existent. The surrounding environment felt foreign, and the hours of Ramadan passed in solitude — like a lamp burning alone in a vast field, its light standing silently yet steadfast against the darkness. There was no companion, no fellow traveller — only a fine thread of faith holding the heart together.
There was no one to wake me for suḥūr, no streets alive with poetic calls before dawn, no mosque loudspeakers raising tasbīḥ and takbīr to stir people from heedlessness, no household scene of women preparing fresh suḥūr meals with scarves tied over their heads.
Nearly half the month passed without suḥūr. Sometimes I would not wake from deep sleep; sometimes I simply misjudged the time. Some days began like a traveller setting out on a long journey without provisions. The days felt long, especially as hunger gradually intensified and thirst descended into the throat like sand. That year I lost weight, as though the body had quietly accepted the discipline of fasting — like a tree shedding its leaves in autumn in preparation for the next season. Yet remarkably, within that weakness, an inner strength was also being born: the strength of patience, slowly taking root in the soil of the heart, like hidden seeds beneath the earth stretching towards the light.
The wait until ifṭār was a long yet beautiful journey. Oxford evenings are particularly still. Rows of trees stand as though verses of poetry have frozen into shadow; the stone bridges and the gentle flow of the Thames seem to slow the pace of time, as if the evening itself holds its breath awaiting a sacred moment. As sunset approached, a subtle tremor stirred within the heart — a knock of hope. The first date tasted like the sweetness of mercy after prolonged anticipation, and the first sip of water felt like rain falling upon parched earth, softening the harshness of thirst. In that moment, it seemed as though the fatigue of the entire day was washed away in a single drink.
For tarāwīḥ, I would walk to Madinah Mosque, about forty minutes on foot from my hostel. That route was not merely a road; it was a spiritual passage. Sometimes there was light rain, sometimes a cool breeze. I would walk alone through the city’s quiet streets, my footsteps sounding as though they too were engaged in remembrance. In the darkness of night, the mosque’s light appearing from a distance resembled a traveller glimpsing a tent in the desert — a promise, a refuge, a hope.
Inside the mosque, the sense of foreignness diminished. People from Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Arab lands stood shoulder to shoulder in a single row, like waves of the sea moving in one direction. When the recitation of the Qur’an resonated through the space, even the stone walls seemed to soften. At times exhaustion would overtake me, yet there was an inner tranquillity that prevailed over physical weakness — like a flame that grows brighter instead of extinguishing in the face of wind.
Occasionally, Muslim families would invite me for ifṭār. Those invitations were not merely meals but blossoms of compassion. Plates of colourful food — samosas, kebabs, biryani — were laid out on simple yet sincere tablecloths as though spring had suddenly arrived in a cold English evening. In those moments, I realised that Ramadan is not only worship but also brotherhood, love, and shared experience. It connects hearts and transforms unfamiliarity into belonging.
Once, an English convert friend hosted an ifṭār gathering at his home, inviting other Muslim research fellows along with me. The atmosphere was a blend of East and West. He himself led the Maghrib prayer; his recitation was strong, and he adhered meticulously to the Mālikī school, following later juristic opinions with marked strictness in detailed matters. Watching him reminded me of the Deobandis of India. He had placed the prayer mat upside down; when I turned it around, he disliked that and asked whether prayer could not be performed on an inverted mat. Naturally, I had no answer to offer, and the others present preferred silence for the sake of harmony.
During that first Ramadan, I deeply missed my family. The Ramadans of Jaunpur, Lucknow, and Rae Bareli would return vividly to mind — the liveliness of home, shared suḥūrs, the collective joy at ifṭār, the voices of relatives. Memories surfaced like old photographs illuminating one by one upon the mirror of the heart. At times, a gentle wave of sadness would arise, yet alongside it came the realisation that the true test of faith lies precisely in such solitude. Loneliness softened the heart and strengthened it at once. I learned that the beauty of Ramadan does not reside merely in environment but in intention and sincerity — just as the true beauty of poetry lies not in its words but in its meaning.
With time, Ramadan in Oxford no longer felt foreign. What began as isolation gradually transformed into devotional seclusion. The hardship of fasting became habit; the path to tarāwīḥ grew familiar; even the city’s silent nights became spiritual companions. Like a traveller who initially loses his way in a new city but later comes to call those same streets home, Ramadan in Oxford became my own lived experience. The same stone roads began to feel like pathways of supplication; the same river seemed to bear silent witness to worship.
Looking back today, I feel that first Ramadan marked the beginning of my spiritual formation. Solitude drew me closer to Allah; hardship taught patience; unfamiliarity expanded the heart. Amid Oxford’s cold bricks and silent trees, Ramadan opened for me a door of light that has never since closed — as though a new line of faith had been inscribed into the city’s ancient atmosphere, a line that still shines upon the pages of the heart.
Ramadan in Oxford is not merely a month; it is a renewal of faith. It softens hearts even within stone buildings, plants the sound of worship within the city’s silence, and colours the land of knowledge with spirituality. And when the month departs, it leaves behind a tranquil light and hope — like the promise of dawn after night, like a new morning hidden within every ending.
