Dates, Duas, and Existential Dread by Lubna Hassan
Ramadan is the Muslim version of "New Year, New Me" —except instead of failed resolutions and gym memberships, we promise ourselves we will read more Quran, give more charity, and wake up for suhoor with more than five minutes left for morning prayer. And, every year without fail, someone declares this Ramadan to be ‘unprecedented.
But as the years pass and we break our fast with dates and the latest Muslim ban, I can’t help but wonder—what exactly is unprecedented about it?
The phrase has become a smokescreen for worsening human rights violations with a fresh rebrand. With each sighting of the crescent moon, we’re met with new rhetoric, recycled rationalizations, and the same cycles of violence and oppression, repackaged for public consumption. Whether it’s the U.S.'s continued military interference abroad—almost always resulting in death and destruction—or systemic discrimination at home, most recently seen in the removal of DEI programs, the pattern remains unchanged. It’s as if there’s an unspoken race to see just how far our rights can be violated under the guise of policy, security, or progress.
As I collect these strange Ramadans like postcards, I find myself asking: when exactly do the promised golden years of my twenties start? Were the Golden Twenties just another marketing ploy? I long for the time when the toughest challenges were making it through all eight raka’at of taraweeh and skillfully dodging questions about marriage at iftar gatherings. Most of my memories of those nightly prayers are stitched together with the loving image of my older sister standing beside me at the masjid. I’d beg her to let me sit when my legs gave out, tugging at her sleeve as she ignored me, eyes fixed forward in quiet defiance. Those nights were followed by evenings at home, filled with dessert and copious amounts of Egyptian tea.
A few years later came Ramadan under COVID—a time of isolation and makeshift prayer spaces. It marked the rise—and what I believe should have been the fall—of the word 'unprecedented.' That year, I spent every night of taraweeh behind my father at home, watching the slight tremor in his hands as he raised them in supplication. Night after night, his duaas stretched longer, his voice cracked more, and suddenly, he was whispering prayers not just for our family, but for Sudan, for Palestine, and for his own strength to endure another year of declining health and the unrelenting weight of political and societal burdens.
Ramadan under COVID exposed and exacerbated the very inequalities already embedded in our healthcare system. These were not mere missteps—they were direct consequences of structural discrimination, disproportionately harming the same communities already burdened by systemic injustice. That year marked the first of many reality checks for me when the 'Muslim-American Experience' stopped being a vague buzzword and became a series of ICE raids, First Amendment violations, and iftar panels where local officials assured us they 'stood with the community' —before promptly voting for more defense spending.
Just last year, I had the unprecedented opportunity to help host an iftar with staffers and colleagues on the Hill during Ramadan. I saw it as a small act of resistance—showing up fully present as a Muslim woman in a space where I’ve often struggled to feel seen. At the time, I felt a certain beauty in praying in spaces that, historically, have not always represented my community. Yet, shortly after, I left our nation’s capital feeling disillusioned—not just with politics, but with identity politics and the exploitation of spaces and organizations that profit from words of liberation while actively engaging in discriminatory practices.
Now, we witness the federal termination of DEI policies, a move that will only deepen existing disparities. Black Muslims, for example, face compounded discrimination at the intersection of race, faith, and gender. As the illusion of progress continues to unravel, the DEI ventriloquists who once championed social justice in these spaces are nowhere to be found—leaving us with the harsh reality that this was the truth all along.
Every Ramadan feels like a marker of what we’ve lost and what we’re desperately clinging onto. We’re back in masjids that feel like home, but are now equipped with security cameras and “Know Your Rights” campaigns. The community iftar is bigger than ever—but now sponsored by organizations reminding us that our existence in this country might be, at best, conditional.
And just like that…Ramadan is done. The decorations come down. The prayer apps go dormant. And the Muslim marriage apps light back up. The world remains unchanged, except that our bodies have memorized hunger, our hearts have memorized grief, and we brace ourselves for yet another ‘unprecedented’ Ramadan.
I miss when Ramadan was simple—when it was just dates, duaas, and my baba’s steady voice leading the prayer. But maybe that’s what growing up means: realizing that faith was never supposed to be easy. Yet, we keep coming back to it because that’s the only way to win the fight.
Here’s to another ‘unprecedented’ Ramadan.
English Translations of Arabic phrases:
Raka’at - The set cycles of movements and recitations in Muslim prayers.
Taraweeh - Extra prayers performed by Sunni Muslims at night in the month of Ramadan.
Iftar - The meal eaten by Muslims to break their fast at sunset during Ramadan.
Duaas - Plural of du'a, meaning personal supplications or prayers for specific needs.
A Note from the Author
Lubna Hassan Heikal is an Egyptian-American writer exploring the intersections of public policy and health, with a focus on equity and community-driven change.
About the ‘Muslim Women For Community Blog’
Muslim Women For regularly publishes submissions to the blog. We encourage submissions from community members. To learn more, visit our submission criteria page. The views and opinions expressed in these posts do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of the organization, ‘Muslim Women For.'
