On the eve of Ramadan, we would go to Tekke Hill, where the city’s largest cemetery was located, and on the way back, we would burst into the neighborhood shouting, “I saw the moon, Allah, I believe in Allah!” This time, everyone left, but I dragged my feet, saying, “I’ll catch up with you!” and parted from my peers. At the beginning of the path, someone appeared with the slender figure of a freshly born crescent moon. I should have been scared of this person, unlike anyone I had ever seen in this secluded place, but as he approached, all my fears vanished. He greeted me, his breath caressed my hair:
“How old are you, child?”
“Seven… And you?”
“I came to the world with Adam.”
“Which Adam?”
“The first human and Prophet.”
“How old does that make you!”
“I don’t know the count; I’m only sent to the world once a year, I travel through all the cities. I’m telling you so you understand.”
The idea that someone so young could be of an incalculable age was beyond my comprehension. But someone of his grace and stature wouldn’t lie.”
“I was there in Noah’s time, in Abraham’s time, I knew every nation, entered every city. With the arrival of the last Prophet, I reached maturity; since I’m one of the people of paradise, I always appear to be thirty-three years old. The Ummah of Muhammad knows me by the name of Ramadan. I travel from city to city, cleansing the ledgers of deeds, and then I return. I’ve never seen such beauty in the world, I’ve never known such a pure friend. In the homes, there’s a rush of welcoming Ramadan, the ladies of the house are fasting in preparation. Most men are not inclined towards the supererogatory.”
“Mom, I saw Ramadan.”
“Of course, son, children can see it.”
We’re at the Friday Prayer of the week before Ramadan. The imam is delivering the sermon, “The month (shahr) of Ramadan in which…” I only understood that much of the verse. Until I grew tall enough to reach the Qur’an without help, I took it to mean a compound noun referring to a “şehir” (city). I still like this association; it fits the extraordinary state the city enters. By God, if Ramadan did not come, these cities would completely forget humanity, make it forgotten. Thanks to a month of Divine grace, cities stop being cities of waste and sin and become the month of Ramadan. Dawn sweats like a rose, water flows from the fountains like silver, birds chirp sweetly as if their tongues were made of sugar… The first sahur…
“Rinse your mouth, son!”
“Okay.”
It’s noon. I’m terribly hungry.
“Time to eat, children, half a day of fasting is enough for you.”
Then and in the years that followed, we were promoted to full-day fasting. The day was complete, but what of the essence of fasting; ours was to lock our mouths and, by immersing ourselves in the Scripture, retreat into seclusion as much as possible, waiting for iftar without hurting or offending anyone… The layman’s fast! Until the fourteenth day of the fast, my moon-faced friend appeared every day, each day more beautiful than the last. He had become a full moon, smiling, satisfied:
“Child! I’ve cleansed the ledgers of deeds for almost the entire city!”
“Really!”
“Yes.”
“And mine?”
“You’re still a child.”
The next day and the days after, the atmosphere of “Farewell, O month of Ramadan” began. Homes buzz with the cleaning of the festival, rooms smell of lime.
The Friday before the festival. The imam speaks of Zakat al-Fitr. Everyone should make peace, he says. Well, we already know that; maybe you could also mention something about being generous with pocket money, would that diminish the weight of the pulpit?
The day before the festival… I’m no longer that child whose ledger doesn’t need to be looked at.
I’m leaving the path we first met on forty years ago, ostensibly to visit the cemetery, but really to see Ramadan. Decades have passed since then, I’ve always gone to Tekke Hill hoping to see that most beautiful friend, in vain. Now I’m again watching the roads with the hope he’ll come… No, no, no.
It was him. He was coming, rather, he was leaving. He greeted me first, but I started the conversation,
“You look tired.”
“You’ve aged.”
“You” he said. He spoke to me as an equal, what joy, he hadn’t forgotten me.
“Did you cleanse the ledgers of deeds again?”
“Yes.”
“And mine?”
Instead of answering, he smiled like the white seed inside a pomegranate grain…
“That’s beyond me.”
Wait, don’t go, stay, I know it would be useless to say; Joy comes to the world once in eleven months and leaves. He slowly crossed the hill and vanished gradually into the clouds. Farewell, my friend. I love you, I love you so much. You love those who love you, and I hope by the next festival, if not this one, you will have turned my ledger of deeds back to the purity of a seven-year-old child.
Farewell, O month of Ramadan!
Source: Berat Demirci, “Şehr-i Ramazan”, Yağmur, Issue: 33, 2006.
