The Hunger Games: Ruwaida Abela Northen Reflects On Ramadan
Ruwaida Abela Northen notes how her observance – and interpretation– of Ramadan has evolved into something more forgiving
The Ramadan of my childhood still sits so vividly in my mind. It was a month baked in anticipation. Back then, long before streaming platforms, new TV shows aired mostly during the Holy Month. We gathered around the screen after fasting like it was an annual festival of storytelling. The kitchen became the heart of the home, though I did everything in my power to avoid being trapped in it. I refused to cook simply because I was expected to learn; the unspoken logic being that culinary skills improved one’s marriage prospects. As a lifelong rebel, I intentionally ruined dishes so no one would invite me back in. Ironically, when I left home, cooking became one of the great joys of my adulthood.
Even as a child, I noticed an imbalance. The women in the family carried the month. They did it with grace, yes, but also with a weight that seemed unfair even to my young eyes. They fasted like everyone else, but they also spent hours preparing meals, smoothing tensions, orchestrating gatherings and absorbing the emotional shifts of an entire household running on hunger and expectation while trying to be spiritually elevated – simultaneously calculating whether the rice will finish on time. And of course, they weren’t allowed to complain because it’s Ramadan and complaining is frowned upon. Our mothers didn’t question any of this. They passed down the rituals, the scents, the songs, the recipes, but also the pressure, the guilt, and the unspoken rule that the woman of the house must be the one who keeps the atmosphere from cracking. The serenity everyone remembers was built on their exhaustion. Our generation, in all our modern enlightenment, thought we would revolutionise the month. We told ourselves we would choose ease. We would prioritise reflection. We would be present. We would not tolerate emotional gymnastics disguised as ‘family duty.’
I want my children to remember the magic of Ramadan without inheriting the weight. A gentler Ramadan. In my home, Ramadan has an extra layer: my husband is a British convert who has embraced the Holy Month with such earnest devotion that it still disarms me. He fasts with a sense of humility and gratitude that reminds me of what the month is supposed to feel like. He loves the ritual, the stillness, the collective sense of purpose. Perhaps it takes someone who didn’t grow up with it to see its beauty so clearly.
Our children have carved their own paths. My 11-year-old daughter decided, on her own, to fast aged nine. There’s a quiet discipline in her that I admire. Her twin brother, meanwhile, remains loyal to ‘stitch fasting’; a few hours here and there. My five-year-old waits for the cannon to sound on TV, announcing, “You may now eat.” Every night we promise him that tomorrow we’ll go watch the cannon live and every night, life gets in the way. The cannon has become our family’s mythical creature: often discussed, never actually seen. As for my three-year-old, it is far too early for him, but I doubt he will ever voluntarily stop serially eating snacks. In all seriousness, nothing fills me with more pride than when one of them asks me to make the Libyan dishes I grew up with – sharba [soup], mbaten [potato wedges filled with mince] and egg borek [pastries] – the flavours of my childhood folded into their own Ramadan memories. It feels like there’s a beautiful thread connecting who I was to who they’re becoming. I feel pride in creating a home where tradition feels alive rather than imposed.
And maybe that’s where the transformation begins, in small, intentional shifts. Letting the children participate at their own pace. Because perhaps the quiet revolution of our generation is this: we want to experience the month rather than produce it. We want to sit at the table with full hearts, not empty batteries. We want Ramadan to feel like a homecoming for everyone – and that includes us.
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From Harper’s Bazaar Arabia 2026 February Issue