An Unlikely, Enduring Friendship: What Ramadan Means to Me
Here in the United States, Holy Week is dominated by the Christian and Jewish faiths, and because our country has a long Judeo-Christian history, the Holy Week traditions are visible to all, whether one practices those religions or not.
This year, Holy Week falls smack dab in the middle of the month of Ramadan, one of the holiest times on the Muslim calendar. The foundational pillar of Ramadan is fasting, which is considered an act of worship. The objective of fasting is to purify the soul, inspire self-reflection, and increase empathy. In short, to become a better person.
In my seventeen years of teaching at one of the most diverse college campuses in the world, I learned about so many traditions from different countries, religions, ethnic groups, and more.
But it never became personal to me until I became best friends with Ali (not his real name), a neighbor of mine in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, an area with a sizeable Arabic-speaking population.
Ali is from Iraq, though, which has a surprisingly low number of immigrants to the United States. In the last twenty years — even after the devastating war we waged in their country — only about 33,000 Iraqis have gained legal entry to the United States (Ali is one and became a citizen in 2016). Overall, there are about 400,000 citizens of Iraqi descent in the U.S., and most are in the Chicago area.
Recently, I viewed the stunning 18-minute documentary, The Army We Had (directed by Peter Eppertein and Michael Tucker), put out by The New York Times. The film has interviews of a half dozen American soldiers who fought in the Iraq War, which this year marks the 20th anniversary of our involvement there. Not one soldier in the film could articulate today what the mission was or what was accomplished. Many had regrets about actions they took in Baghdad. Over 4,000 American soldiers and over 400,000 Iraqis (the average estimate) were killed in the war.
Now that I have a best friend from Iraq, Iraqis are no longer “the other.” This is personal for me. I cannot forgive the Bush administration for the war they waged on my friend’s homeland, based on either faulty information or an outright lie. It turns out we were the weapons of mass destruction.
Ali and I met in 2018. We had seen each other often in passing and we finally started a conversation when in line at a grocery store. Even with his heavily accented English and poor syntax, I immediately gravitated toward his wicked sense of humor and big heart.
The friendship grew during the pandemic in 2020. Nobody was traveling to the office or school and the streets were empty. Social events were rare and frightening. But Ali and I had each other. He was a much better cook, so he invited me over for lavish dinners of huge salads, rice, eggplant, some kind of chicken dish, and, of course, desserts and more desserts. We got fat that summer.
Since then, I left New York and bought a small fixer-upper on a lake in New England. We made a deal that if I needed to go to New York, I could stay at his place. If he needed to get away, he could come to the lake. He gets the best deal in the summertime, but it is such a joy to watch him splash in the water like a dolphin all afternoon as he slowly learns how to swim.
Many, including my own family, have mistaken us for a romantic couple. Nah. He’s quite a bit younger, we don’t really have a physical attraction for each other, and, although his gayness is fairly obvious to most observers, he carries within him deep shame and fear around it — grooming from a brutal homeland that he still loves. He stays off all social media, in terror that someone back home will find out. It is truly a matter of life and death.
I have seen his bottles of medication that help him with his depression, anxiety, PTSD, ADHD, and more. He works sporadically and is an off-and-on college student, studying fashion. He is trying so hard to overcome his trauma. And yet he had the strength to leave his parents and eleven siblings behind and come to America on his own, barely knowing the English language.
My family has grown to love him also. My friends tell me I am doing so much for him, but he has helped me so much, in both tangible and intangible ways.
Last year, he was hospitalized and one day I got a text message on WhatsApp from his niece back in Baghdad, the relative that could best write and speak English. I guess he had given her my number at some point. She was reaching across continents and oceans to find out where he was and what was wrong. What a privilege to be that beacon for them!
Earlier this winter, Ali was able to return to Iraq for a month to see his family for the first time in five years. They treated him like a prince and celebrated with parties and lots of food. (Ali doesn’t eat red meat, but it is tradition to offer a feast of lamb to celebrate the arrival of a distant relative. When he arrived, lamb it was! He told his sister, “But you know I don’t eat meat.” She said, “We know, but this is for us!” They, too, wanted to celebrate!)
When he returned, I met him at JFK Airport. He looked so refreshed when he walked toward me and gave me a long embrace. When we got back to his place and unpacked, he gave me a gift, from his mother. I got teary-eyed before I even opened the package.
When I opened it, I unfolded a beautiful black robe that is traditional in his country. Months have passed and Ali asks me if I have worn the robe. I have not. It is so meaningful and beautiful, I don’t dare wear it. It is holy to me.
Over the last five years, I’ve tried to piece together the puzzle that was his life in Iraq, and have wondered about his war experiences. (Much of the trauma may have come from his childhood during the war with Kuwait, when his older sister hurried them under the dining room table during the bombings). I’ve heard a couple of the horrors, but they are mentioned and not often elaborated on. I wonder how much he tells his therapist. I tell him he should write a book. He does have ideas, but he’s more interested in writing a big, garish, funny musical. An escape.
Somewhere, somehow, across time and space, the two of us met and our lives have been changed forever.
I spend a lot of time worrying about my career and bemoaning past choices I’ve made that didn’t pan out. As time passes, these things become less important.
In the end, it is our relationships that matter. I’ve failed at many things, but I’m proud of myself for having the courage to open my heart to the other, the lonely, the broken. And to allow him to give to me — also often the other, the lonely, the broken.
In the spirit of Ramadan, it makes us both better people.
