Gone are the days when Ramadan arrived with an air of festivity, woven into the very fabric of our childhood. Back then, we didn’t need reminders or official announcements—the signs were everywhere. The streets buzzed with excitement, and children’s eager preparations were enough to signal the approach of the sacred month.
Among the most iconic sights were the young “civil engineers” who dedicated entire days to constructing miniature clay mosques. These little masterpieces sprang up in every available space, forming an unspoken competition among us. Each child strove to build the most magnificent mosque, pushing us to refine our craft with remarkable dedication. Long before we studied governance in school, we had already mastered leadership, teamwork, delegation, and conflict resolution. We appointed imams, treasurers, minstrels, and mission board members, and even sought the guidance of a patron—usually an elder—who helped mediate the inevitable disputes.
Another cherished tradition was the making of moimoi moulds for our mothers. This was a sacred duty, never to be shirked. We diligently scraped evaporated milk tins against the ground, hollowing them out until they were ready to cradle the seasoned bean paste. The rules were simple yet profound: those who fasted received two moimoi, while those who didn’t had to settle for one. It was a subtle but effective encouragement to embrace the spiritual discipline of the season.
Then, there were the music makers—the talented children who filled the nights with the rhythm of “were” songs. These melodies entertained the weary night market vendors and became so ingrained in Ramadan that one might have mistaken them for an Islamic tradition. To ensure our performances were complete, we crafted drums from scraps—metal bowls, cups, and animal hides—an activity that, in itself, marked the arrival of the holy month.
And, of course, no R