Ramadan this year in Singapore felt like a gentle hug and a surprise party at the same time. I want to share a few memories as a little ode to this island that has shared its land and air with me for the past ten years. Feels like I just blinked and here I am, still figuring out how to eat with chopstick properly.
The month kicked off with a bang. Or should I say, a bazaar. Singapore does not wait for the moon sighting to get festive. The moment you whisper “Ramadan,” boom, Geylang Serai and Kampong Glam light up like they’re competing in a friendly glow-off. Food, clothes, fairy lights, and the smell of grilled satay calling your soul. We even broke our fast there a few times, surrounded by friends.
Now let’s talk breakfasting. Or as the cool kids say, iftar. Many mosques in Singapore open their doors wide and serve up a big warm plate of nasi briyani, usually with rendang so good it could solve world problems. Sitting knee to knee with people you just met five seconds ago? Feels like family. Strangers become table-mates, then somehow, rendangmates.
And of course, the nightly prayers. Taraweeh hits different when you hop from one masjid to another. I made it a mission this year. Surprise me, dear Imam. What will you recite tonight? Some nights it felt like the verses were speaking directly to my tiny anxious heart.
The last ten nights? Masjid sleepover mode. The vibe switches from community joy to quiet surrender. I stayed overnight, whispering du’as while the world slept, forehead to the prayer mat, heart wide open.
Funny thing is, I never planned to get this close to Islam when I first moved here. But Singapore made it gentle. No pressure. Just warmth, space, and a whole lot of kindness. It eased me closer to Him.
Alhamdulillah for this place, this path, this peace.
