The City of Love

Toasted Walnuts, Wise Cats, and Ramadan Reflections

My favourite time of the year has gone as quickly as it arrived. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t ‘love’ Ramadan as a kid. I hated missing out on school lunches and having to pray on an empty, growling stomach. Of course, once the Athan went off, I was fine and realised how dramatic I had been, but I didn’t really fall in love with Ramadan until a couple of years ago, when I really needed it. Although I always looked forward to the cosy haze over the month, it was the only time of year my family all got together, and my mum cooked the best food every day. The recent years allowed me to fall in love with fully immersing myself in the discipline.

We’ve always heard that ‘Ramadan comes when you need it most’, and this year was exactly that for me. The past 12 months have been a slow yet fast blur, like a calendar montage. Things are passing so quickly around me, and I’m stagnant, trying to keep up and hold on. This Ramadan, I felt every minute and the potential within those 60 seconds. Fajr felt like I had plans every morning waiting for me, not a rushed, grouchy prayer but an appointment with my Creator. This Ramadan, I felt so much solitude alone because I wasn’t truly alone. Yes, I was around family and my husband, but in the moments I was alone on my prayer mat, I felt connected and as passionate as ever. I wrote to Allah (SWT) in my diary, unpacking all the thoughts I would have had to seek validation from others for. I spoke to Him about instead. Shopping at my local Middle Eastern grocer in an abaya, awaiting the next prayer, became a daily routine I knew I would miss— not vanity or desire driving me, just safety and peace in the mundane and quiet noise Ramadan creates.

One night, I was invited to pray Tahajjud. It was before Fajr and obviously after Isha. I woke up at 3 am and knew that instead of going back to sleep until Fajr, I should pray. I opened my phone to search ‘how to pray Tahajjud’ to make sure I did it properly, and I prayed, made dua, did dhikr, and went back to bed. I knew with the blur in my brain and the heaviness in my heart I had been carrying, I needed to explore all avenues of relief, and Tahajjud felt like a little reminder that as it is written for us, ‘so surely, with hardship comes ease’.

Now, I’ve definitely gone on a tangent, but I really wanted to express how this Ramadan felt for me before I tell you how my Ramadan ended. One morning after Fajr, I got an email notification inviting me to experience Ramadan in Istanbul. Knowing it was a brand trip, and to be honest, even if it wasn’t, I said yes without knowing the full details. I have no ‘coolness’ about me when it’s an opportunity I know I would love. I no joke replied seconds after. After less than three days of coordination and back-and-forth emails, my mum and I were off to Istanbul.

This would be my mum’s first time in Istanbul and my third. She’s always wanted to go, and what a privilege it was to have her come along with me, especially during Ramadan. Both of us would see what it’s like to practise our faith in a holy month in a Muslim-majority country.

When we landed and hopped in the taxi, I, of course, smelled cigarettes and kolonya, a great pairing. Although this was a tailored experience with chauffeurs and tour guides, it didn’t really matter as I was as curious as ever. The company, the time of year, and the intentions were all new to me. The cats were plump and wise, the coffee strong and mystical, and everything felt poetic.

I do think Istanbul is the city of love for a few reasons. At 16, I was there alone in a new country, and I learned a form of self-love. To find solace in the unknown and how my stomach confuses fear with excitement. I was the only Muslim-Arab girl in a sea of 100 white students from the northern beaches and rural towns. I was flown there on behalf of a government scheme to commemorate 100 years of ANZAC. Although the ‘war’ had no direct affiliation with me, I was a diversity token who thought I would end up in Turkey feeling ‘at home’ but instead still felt different in a Muslim country where there were plenty of Muslim ‘hijabi’ women like me. At 16, I was overcompensating for their lack of education and willingness to learn. Having to explain to adults why Islam is inclusive outside of a renowned mosque, explaining to other kids what’s on my head, and asking if I could pray at a holy site in a country that mostly practises the same faith as me.

The second time I was there, it was my honeymoon and i had five weeks of exploration with my husband in his home country. Crystal-clear beaches, busy cities, and humble koys (villages), I was really living. Late-night walks on the Bosphorus bridge reminiscing about our wedding, coffee in one hand and each other’s hand in the other. Swimming in the ocean, laughing, and being overly optimistic about the life we would live out together. Driving through unfamiliar roads, uneasy with how other people drive, and simultaneously planning our future. I met his distant family and realised I had married a boy. Next thing I knew, I was in central Turkey watching him chat away in a language I didn’t understand. Drinking mulberry juice in summer and karniyarik on a red plaid tablecloth in the village again, all because I loved a boy.

Now, I’ve returned with my mum in a holy month that saved me. Maybe a reward, or maybe a test. A test to see if a change of routine or environment would shift my focus. Will I loosen my hijab? Miss a prayer? Is that a test? A reward? For my internal battles and external ones too?

Although I enjoyed so many things on this trip, it did give me a third reason to call Istanbul ‘the city of love’. Its historic warmth, charm, and Islamic traditions reminded me of why I love being a Muslim: community, the Athan, and my mother. The uniformed lines in the masjid during Taraweeh. The cats and their home in the masjid too. The fact that my mother, who birthed me, was able to live out an experience she never expected for herself. We both, in unison, thank our Creator.

On the last night in Istanbul, we prayed Taraweeh in the Hagia Sophia. It was that time of the month for me, so I missed out on some of the core benefits of the night, though I still sat aside, content and thankful. I listened to the imam recite Quran and lead the prayer in a captivating way. The echo of ‘Ameen’ bounced off the walls and into my head and heart. Alone and sitting there, a cat walked up to me and crawled into my lap for a nap. I couldn’t help but be emotional and, as always, see the poetry in it. Proof I’m alone but never really alone. How I am worthy of a cat’s love, and I can provide warmth and comfort. Maybe the cat didn’t need the warmth, maybe I did? We both sat there, me listening to the prayers continue for 8 more rakats, and the cat purring away in a deep slumber.

Outside the masjid was the smell of roasted walnuts and corn, large fairy lights reading ‘La ilaha illallah’. Young children running around, laughing, and playing with their toys. Young parents admiring their children with chai in hand. It felt warm and calm. As if this is pure joy, this is life. Routine consumes us, capitalism and materialism absorb us. Social media poisons us, but in that moment, I understood life outside of all that. That warmth comes from company, community, and intention. Chai and roasted walnuts help, but ultimately it’s about the small things and the small moments that really make things okay. There is joy to be found in the mundane, the fruit shops, the lazy days, and the hard days. Joy and love are attainable. This trip with my mother by my side showed me that we are all trying. We all want love, we all worship the same Creator, the masjid is our home. There is no race, there is no rush. Pray and have a coffee. Go outside and listen. Read a book and laugh. Love is around us all. I know sometimes it’s hard to see and feel, but I really felt it.

Travelling is a privilege I don’t take for granted. The stories and feelings that you never forget are priceless; they change you and shape you. It’s a gift to be able to see life and the world from a new lens and location.

The city of love has taught me a lot and shown me a lot too, good and bad. But the warm hug of Ramadan that Istanbul helped me feel is something I’ll never forget. Alhamdulilah, and Inshallah, I can experience the next one.