I
live in Actonville, a suburb of the South African city of Benoni that is rich in
cultural diversity. Large numbers of refugees from various African countries,
and a steadily proliferating number of immigrants from the Indo-Pak subcontinent
mingle with the local population on overcrowded sidewalks where dingy-looking
shops, dark and dusty, vie with one another for prominence. The shops sell
everything—from aromatic spices to hardware—from fresh vegetables and fruit
to traditional Eastern wear.
Islam
has been here since the earliest days, with the oldest of the three mosques
being more than 60 years old. My mother grew up here some 50 years ago, and she
fondly recalls the close-knit community that peopled the town. Khaalas (aunties)
visiting one another on hot summer afternoons, with long ornis (headscarfs)
trailing in the breeze and sitting at one another’s homes helping out with the
kids or cleaning the vegetables. Children playing in the streets with stones and
sticks, many too poor to afford toys, their immigrant parents working long hours
to put food on the table.
For
a recipe of a delicious South-African Almond Strawberry Pavlova,
traditionally prepared in Ramadan, click here
|
|
They
have come a long way since those early days. Most of the children of those
uneducated immigrant parents are business owners or professionals today, and
with the abolishment of the Group Areas Act, a good number of them have moved to
more upmarket, formerly “whites only” areas. Those that remain have
somehow retained the spirit of community that epitomized Actonville in the early
days.
Although
there is a sizeable Hindu and Tamil community, the Muslims are the majority.
From each of the three mosques, the Adhan resonates five times a day and the
sight of the faithful entering and leaving the mosques is a common one. Come
Ramadan, and the normally vibrant atmosphere at the prayer houses goes into
“overdrive.”
Activity
begins at around three each morning, when families awaken for sehri (sahur).
By the time the Adhan of Fajr is called out from the loudspeakers, many of the
men can be found making their way to the masjid. I have to rely on my
husband’s reports regarding the activities at the masjid, because sadly none
of them have facilities for women. He tells me that it is encouraging to see the
sleepy-eyed children, some as young as 5, join their fathers for the dawn
prayer, all of them having made the intention to fast for the day (or half a
day).
The
downside of South Africa not being a Muslim country is that while we make
adjustments to our routine, no one else does. The shops still work 9 to 6,
schools still dismiss after 2 p.m. and madrasah (afternoon Islamic school) does
not finish until 5 p.m. The real Ramadan feel comes after `Asr. Men, tired from
the day at work, stand outside while the children play in the streets to pass
the time. The smell of food painstakingly prepared for hungry mouths wafts out
of every kitchen. Plates filled with spicy foods make their way from one home to
the other. As the time draws closer, savories are packed into lunchboxes, dates
are wrapped and taken to the masjid. The take-aways come to life again as youths
buy chips, viennas, and russians to share with one another in the masjid.
And
then … the Adhan. Allahumma laka sumtu wa bika aamantu wa alayka tawakkaltu
wa alaa rizqika aftartu fa taqabbal minni. O Allah, for Your pleasure have I
fasted, in You have I believed, upon You have I placed my trust, and with
sustenance provided by You do I break my fast, so do accept it from me.
The
cold falooda (rose-flavored milk drink) and milkshake disappear, as do
the savories, the preparation of which began even before the commencement of the
month. And all too soon, it is time for Tarawih. The men make their way to the
mosque once more and the women pray at home, and a peaceful silence settles over
the town.
The
tempo changes again during the last 10 days of the month, as many men take up
residence in the masjid for the i`tikaf. The women begin spring cleaning
in earnest—windows, curtains, walls—everything needs washing. The domestic
helpers have their work cut out for them. The shops announce `Eid specials, and punjabis,
gararas (traditional Indian wear), and elegant beaded and
embroidered cloaks and abayas grace their windows.
Upon
completion of the Qur’an during the Tarawih, children get excited as boxes of
chocolates make their appearance in the masjid, courtesy of a few generous
brothers. By this time, I know that my baking must commence. Sweetmeats are
prepared, as are biscuits, pastries, and cakes. In The Big House
(grandparents’ homes) preparations for the `Eid meal begin. Biryani
(traditional Indian rice dish), roast chicken, lamb, and badam (almond)
milk. This will be where everyone converges for a day of togetherness and
celebration and giving thanks to Allah for having allowed us the opportunity of
experiencing yet another blessed month of Ramadan.
On
the eve of `Eid, I will survey my house, ensure that my work is done, and sigh,
regretful, that as usual, I allowed my preparations to run away with
me—regretful that I didn’t complete one more Qur’an for the month, perform
a few extra rak`ahs of Tahajjud. I, like so many others, will have
forgotten that just down the road, across the railway line that divides us, live
thousands of people in the sprawling settlement of Wattville. Many of them live
in shacks, many of them sleep on the floor, and when they do sleep, many of them
are hungry. Was this really in the spirit of Ramadan?
