Day 27: What Kind of Ramadan will it be?
Day 27: April 22, 2020
Global cases: 2,635,716; Deaths: 184,086
Egypt cases: 3,659; Deaths: 276
Nada Wahba
Multimedia Journalism senior
It’s nearly the end of the week and it’s been announced Friday is the first day of Ramadan. What I’m currently mourning, however, is the loss of the way we know Ramadan and traditionally experience it. The loss of celebrating this month with my friends and families, the loss of the endless gatherings and late night suhoor.
The loss of walking down the decorated streets at three in the morning and seeing them as busy as ever.
It’s the loss of the little things that always hits home.
I woke up today with a huge headache.
I winced my eyes open and cupped my head in an attempt to contain the pain, but to no avail. I sat up in bed and stayed there for a couple of minutes, taking in the past month or so.
For almost a month, I’ve done the same thing over and over again. I get out of bed, have breakfast, prepare myself to get work done and go to bed, that is if I ever manage to get any sleep.
Rinse and repeat.
I had coffee, knowing well enough I don’t drink it for the caffeine anymore, kudos to the tolerance I’ve built over the years.
I started catching up on the work I have for next week, excited to get through the day so I can finally order takeout, something I haven’t done in almost a month. I Pavloved myself to get work done since I need all the motivation I can get to do the minimum.
Around noon, I received my order.
If you know me, you know I’m a bit obsessive when it comes to hygiene. I had a whole plan set out when I’d receive my order; wear a mask and gloves, make sure to check the “deliver from a distance” box, and reheat the food.
For The Caravan‘s previous diary entries in Arabic and English go to our COVID-19 Special Coverage page.
Strike one, the delivery guy came up to my doorstep and delivered the food, transcending any distance.
Strike two, he wasn’t wearing a mask.
Strike three, it took me half an hour to unbox the food, reheat it using the oven and the microwave because for some reason I didn’t think the 200-degree heat was enough. By the time I was done, I was out of breath.
I started thinking about how something as simple as ordering takeout now became a chore.
Even though I was very excited to break my routine, I struggled to find comfort in doing so.
It wasn’t about the takeout, it wasn’t about the food, it was about longing for something familiar, something I used to do without giving it a second thought.
I no longer enjoy the little things because nothing is the same, which is nothing new to realize but it’s always a harsh reminder.
Instead of getting frustrated and beating myself up about the lack of energy I’ve been feeling, I succumbed to it. What I’m going through right now is part of a collective experience. Everyone is enduring this.
A week ago, I stumbled upon a Facebook post about how some people on social media are shaming those who haven’t been productive at a time when they supposedly have more free time on their plate.
This post triggered me in a way I didn’t think it would. Everyone is expected to get something done in quarantine since they’re not doing anything else – the hustle never stops despite the current state of international emergency.
People are expected to put in the same effort in the mundane things they used to do on the daily, despite the collective trauma everyone is going through.
And this is despite mourning all the plans that have been derailed among other things they won’t get to do this year or until further notice; despite feeling helpless and overwhelmed, and despite re-experiencing other pre-existing traumas. Shall I go on?
